“Stop it,” she yelled. “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

He strode past her, out of the closet, and stopped in front of her dresser. He began yanking open drawers and grabbed handfuls of colorful lace. “This”—he shook a hot-pink bra at her—“this is who you are. Colorful and sexy and whimsical.”

Monica marched forward and jerked the scanties from his hands. “What the hell’s gotten into you this morning?” She shoved them back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “When I let you give me a ride home, that wasn’t an invitation to insult me or paw through my personal shit.”

He slowly walked toward her, and Monica skirted around the dresser, retreating until her shoulders hit the wall. Her wide eyes registered shock, but it quickly turned to anger as he kept stalking toward her.

“I’ve tasted and touched every single part of your body,” he said. “But you don’t want me looking in your bedroom, your closet. There’s not one personal item in this entire god-awful little house. Why are you hiding?”

Monica shoved at his chest with both hands, but he didn’t move. Wouldn’t move, not until he had an answer.

“Why are you doing this? I’m not hiding. This is me. This is the real me.” She sounded desperate, as if she were trying to convince herself as well as him.

“Are you really that thick?” He studied her, puzzled by her implausible assertion that this Spartan room, these dull colors, were a reflection of her true spirit. They were just the opposite. Camouflage. “You’re living a lie. I don’t know if it’s for Allie’s benefit or your own. Like that fake Statue of Liberty on the Strip, this character you’re playing is a cheap imitation of the real thing. And the real Monica is brilliant.”

“Shut up.” She shoved at his chest again, harder this time. “Don’t criticize me for being a responsible adult, something you could never manage. And don’t talk to me about living a lie, because when life gets tough, Cal, you run in the opposite direction. You don’t exactly confront things head-on—you haven’t talked to your mom in weeks. So who’s the one hiding, you or me?”

Cal’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I never claimed to be something I’m not.”

“Fuck. You. I don’t owe you any explanations.” Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared up at him. Twin pops of color brightened her cheeks.

“The hell you don’t. You act like one person when you’re in my bed, and another person when you’re out of it. Will the real Monica Campbell please stand up?”

“There’s an easy solution. I’ll never be in your bed again.”

“Really? Are you having me on right now? You want me every bit as much as I want you.” Now he was breathing heavily, as if his lungs couldn’t take in enough air. He and Monica simply stared at each other, the anger palpable between them.

Then they lunged at each other. Monica threw herself at Cal, ripping at his shirt. He returned the favor, grabbing her blouse and tearing at the buttons. Red-and-white polka dots trimmed in white frills. That’s what she wore beneath the bland gray costume.

She leaped into his arms, and he caught her, stumbling backward until the mattress hit his calves, then he tumbled down and rolled over, pinning Monica beneath him.

Angrily, he kissed her as he yanked her shirt from her trousers in quick, impatient movements and finished ripping open her blouse.

Monica fumbled with the hook on her slacks, and Cal lifted his head. Nudging her hands aside, he helped her lower them down her hips.

She pulled on his collar, scraping his neck with her nails in the process, and jerked at his T-shirt. “Take it off.”

Cal sat up and stripped out of the shirt—she’d ripped the neckline, but the rest remained intact. After dropping it on the floor, he moved back on top of her.

Things often got frenzied between them, but this felt different. Raw and primal. Monica dug her nails into his sides. Cal kissed her too hard and grabbed fistfuls of her hair.

Curving her body around him, she wiggled her fingers into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Condom,” she said, gasping for breath.

“Get one, and hurry up.” He didn’t want protracted foreplay. He wanted to fuck. Hard. Take every bit of his frustration out on her. Unzipping his pants, he wrenched them low enough to free his cock.

In seconds, he had the condom on and placed himself at her entrance. In one powerful stroke, Cal rammed inside her. As he moved, his eyes met hers. Her light blue irises appeared glassy, and her pupils dilated. Cal held her gaze as he pounded in and out of her.

Biting her lip, Monica lowered her eyes until they drifted shut.

Cal stopped moving. “Look at me.” He waited until she complied. This time, her eyes weren’t unfocused—they were full of rage. “Say my name.”

Her lips pinched together. “Asshole.”

He gritted his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “Almost. Try it again.”

She hesitated. “Calum.”

“Again,” he grated, pulling out of her, then driving back inside.

“Calum.”

He continued, bucking his hips over and over. She felt so good, so tight.

Monica reached down to rub her clit. Every time her eyes would start to close, he’d stop moving. After the fourth time, her gaze never wavered.

For once, he came first. Burying his head in the crook of her neck, he continued thrusting until his balls emptied. Monica came then, shuddering beneath him. Her legs twisted against his, her trousers bunched at the ankles.

Afterward, he didn’t move, but kept his full weight on top of her. When his heart resumed its normal pace, Cal rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Neither spoke for several minutes.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Cal,” she finally said. “But I’m not going to turn myself inside out for you. You’re not worth it.”

“No, I’m not. But you are.” He turned his head to look at her. Her hair, so perfect a few minutes ago, had become mussed again. He shifted to the side, propped his weight on one elbow, and stared down at her. “I’ve seen a lot of terrible shit in this world, Monica. Truly heartbreaking stuff that I can’t banish from my head, no matter how many beaches I see or how many ruins I visit. Beauty and ugliness go hand in hand. Pleasure and pain coexist, and it all seems so fucking random. But you…you’ve buried the best part of yourself in this life that you hate, and it’s unnecessary. It guts me.”

“Okay.” She sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed before standing. “We’ve dissected me. Now it’s your turn.” She tugged up her pants, jerked at the zipper, and pulled together the tattered edges of her blouse. “You think if you keep moving, never settling in one place, nothing can hurt you. So you wander around without any purpose, without putting any thought into your life at all. And you throw money at people in order to feel better about it. Except it doesn’t work, Cal. Because you can’t outrun all the shit you feel inside, all the isolation and pain. And by the way, I’m not one of your cars. I don’t need fixing or restoring or whatever the hell you do. I’m not broken. Now get out.”

Chapter 18

How dare he? Monica stood in front of the bathroom mirror, attempting to untangle the knots from her hair. How dare he accuse her of living a lie? She was living like a responsible, rational human being. She had an important job. She had a home, a family. What did Cal have?

He wandered around, looking at the world but never being a part of it. He never talked about friends, he didn’t like to discuss his mom, he hadn’t seen Trevor in years. Cal was a loner. Monica dragged the brush through a snarl near her scalp and flinched.

Why did he care how she lived? Their relationship was all about the sex. In six months, he probably wouldn’t even remember her.

All right, she didn’t believe that, not exactly. After all, Cal remembered everything about their first meeting, down to the color of her dress.