Chapter 63 Talking Spaghetti
talking spaghetti
Liam
Three nights later, I lie in bed with my wife, wishing like hell I could be inside her. Glad as fuck she’s alive for me to have that dream fulfilled, though it’ll be weeks, according to the doctor.
She has two broken ribs, bruises covering her torso, and nightmares that don’t involve ponies or unicorns or talking spaghetti. She whines and whimpers most nights, calling out in fear and moaning in pain.
I’m not much better. My shoulder is ruined and will require surgery, but the swelling needs to come down first. My knees are doing an ice pack rotation, and my finger is in a splint.
Between us, we have two black eyes, a litany of diagnoses, a small pharmacy, and can barely walk.
I trail my fingers down her arm until hers capture mine. “Need anything, baby?”
“My bones to be where they belong and to not wheeze when I breathe. Can you do that?” Her head turns to mine.
“I can do a lot of things, but neither of those are in my arsenal.”
“You saved me.” Her eyes are open and honest. She’s said this more than once each day since.
“Of course I did.”
Instinctively, she tries to roll but stops quickly on a groan. “Three days. It’s been three days. How can it hurt just as much at three days?”
“Your mom said the same, and that was before her procedure.”
Her mom came through with flying colors. Lorien called to check, not mentioning her own foray into broken bones and pain management.
“But they could set hers. And do a nerve block.”
“I wish I could have saved you from all of it. I’m sorry I was too late. And I’m sorry you thought, even for a minute, that you killed Barnett. But I’ll say it again, I’m proud as fuck for how you handled yourself.” I squeeze her hand and bring it to my lips to kiss her knuckles.
We’ve had more heart-to-hearts in the last seventy-two hours than I thought possible. My wife is smart, funny, brave, and her brain is wild in how it connects thoughts and ideas. She’s also clinical in how she thinks about the situation, when she can keep emotion out of it.
She thought she killed Briggs… Roger. Whoever the fuck he was. She assumed his leg blowing out caused him to fall and the pen drove in and through.
Her relief was overwhelmed with panic and the idea that she did what even my father could not, take a life, when he fell from my shot. By the time the adrenaline receded, she was filled with worry and regret.
I don’t regret it. I won’t regret it. I protected my wife. I saved my own heart with that move. And it’s just one more black hash mark of lives I’ve taken for the family I love.
“I was scared.” She squeezes my hand back.
“I know. But you kept your wits about you. You thought shit through and bought yourself enough time…” I let the thought drift away.
Anywhere past Woodland Park and the fire department wouldn’t have been able to block the road “to service their pumper.” Any later, and I would’ve been too late. I would’ve lost her.
And props to my brother-in-law who straight up disregarded my ask for an APB.
Yes, my father broke the protective order.
He knows we can use the video footage if needed, but it also ties Lorien to Briggs in a manner I don’t want officially connected.
Her kidnapping and his dead body could be attributed to Seamus—and it will if it comes to it—but implicating my wife is a non-starter, and the two are too closely linked for prying eyes.
Fitz returned to our vehicle, frog marching the man himself and tossing him in the trunk, alongside the corpse of the man who played a role in trying to kill me, long before I knew he was the enemy. I hate that he got one over on me. It will never happen again.
After examining the body, he left us again for damn near an hour.
An hour where I held my wife, enraged at her pain, mourning the loss of her innocence, and plotting vengeance against everyone involved.
I was this close to telling him I was fucking done and it was time to get Lorien to the hospital when a text came through.
Fitz: Both wounds were through-and-throughs.
Fitz: I found one bullet. Searching for the other. Leave no trace.
I told him later he was a better friend than I deserved. He agreed and unintentionally slapped me on the back, in a spot that had me seeing stars.
That was our delay. He needed to find both projectiles. And he did.
Then he took Lorien to the hospital. We fought. I wanted to be there. But with my knee, my fist, my face, not to mention the bullet wound in my shoulder, every suspicion would lead to me beating my wife. And she deserved better than to have those questions with all that was going on in her head.
While she was being treated, she decided that Fitzgerald was the name of an obscure elf, one with farsight and impeccable aim, who would’ve been a protector of the woods of Lothlórien. Therefore, he was an honorary brother and forever in our family.
Fantasy and make-believe from the woman who deals in facts and data. Only my wife.
I never asked what became of Briggs’ body. I don’t want to know. I know his death was more generous than he deserved and far less painful. I wanted him riddled with fear and praying for death before I finally gave in. In the end, it was unfulfilling, but at least it’s done.
“William?”
“What?”
“I’ve been talking to you and you’ve been… Did you fall asleep?”
Which is better? That I was ignoring her or that what she said wasn’t compelling? Shit. I grab my beard and pull it to a point.
“I’m safe. I’m here and so are you. And your dad—”
“Don’t call him that.” I gentle my voice and add, “Please.”
“He won’t get away with it.”
“He has for nearly two years.”
“It’s almost over. And you’ll still be standing.”
“We,” I correct. “We’ll still be standing.”
Poe purrs from her place on my chest, still not a fan of Lorien, but tolerating her more than she had on Monday.
She spends much of her time rubbing her head against my beard or chest. I swear she does it more so after Lorien touches me.
She claims me constantly and seems to want to wipe away Lorien’s scent.
I have news for her… that scent is permanent.
Under my skin, in my nostrils. And, I so wish, on my cock. Soon. Please, Jesus, say it’ll be soon.
Lorien
“So what do you want?” It’s an odd question and one that comes out of nowhere.
I’m awake, trying not to breathe heavily from another nightmare. The clock says three twenty-three in the morning, and that tracks. I haven’t slept through the night since… Well, I don’t know when.
“What do I want what?”
“For your tattoo.”
“I’m not getting a tattoo. At least right now,” I start. “They’re permanent.”
“You don’t say.” Humor travels over his voice.
“And I change my mind enough that I’m afraid I’d want something different or regret it. Also, needles.”
He pushes up to sitting and twists toward me. His broad chest is on display with what little light comes through the blinds. Leaning down, he brushes his lips chastely over mine. “I mean here.” He takes my hand and places it on his pec, right above his heart, holding it to warm skin.
“Really?” My voice is breathy.
“You haven’t wondered why this spot isn’t tatted?”
I nod because I have. And it’s where I want to be, but I asked once—or mused once—and he didn’t respond so…
“This spot has been waiting for you.” He takes my palm, kissing the inside, holding my eyes in the dark.
Wow. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course, baby. And do I get to think of what I want on you?”
I make a scrunchy face. “The aforementioned needles, remember?”
He trails a finger down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “What if I want to be permanent on your skin like you are on mine?”
A rare moment of vulnerability from my husband. Maybe only the second one I can remember.
“I’ll consider it. You wouldn’t want a sleeve or anything right? That’s”—a shiver runs through me—“a lot.”
He dips his head and looks at me skeptically. “You know me, Wifey.”
I nod.
“Then you know it would only be visible for me. Never anyone else.”
I wave toward my intimate area. “Like down there?”
His face goes deadly serious. “If you think for one moment someone else gets to be near you there, know your smooth skin, or—” He cuts himself off mid-sentence. He’s breathing through his nostrils.
“I would never. You know that. And I don’t want anyone else”—I wave at the general area—“down there. I don’t even like the gyno.”
He settles in, facing me, looking for all the world like he plans to sit like this all night. “I know we’re new, but we’ll make it.”
I know that in my bones. And it’s not trauma or lawsuits that bind us. “Agree.”
“I want to build a family with you. The whole thing. Kids, house, another cat if you want one.”
“My track record isn’t great so far. With cats.” I think for a moment. “Or houses.”
He shrugs his good shoulder. “What do you want?”
“No clue. Affordable. Convenient. Enough for a family but not so much that we need an intercom system.”
“Are you good a little further out of town, some place we can see the stars?”
He’s serious. He’s planning. I simply nod.
“Not too, too far. Close enough where the cousins can play together and know each other, but enough that they call before they come? Make sure we’re not… interrupted.”
“Not so high that people can’t breathe when they visit.”
He nods.
“I’ll start looking. Not going to rush though, Wifey. We have two homes now.”
I don’t add, And no babies.
“I don’t love the idea of you going back to work in two weeks.”
I lift a hand, but he grabs it and plays with my fingers as he speaks.
“But your mission is important and I support that. So, we’ll make it work. I’m monitoring Troy Smith. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble from him. But I am going to chat with the head of security at Platt, seeing as how I know something he should.”
I don’t like that. I don’t like that the head of security will know about a failed bomb threat against me, much less because of a poor dating decision. I don’t want two men talking about me without being present. “I want to be there when you do.”
“Okay, Wifey. I’ll also work on the car situation, but you won’t be able to drive for a while… I don’t even think test-riding would be wise.” He looks toward my torso.
I’ve taken to wearing his tees. I don’t think he likes it. He tends to scrub a hand down his face when I do it, but my smaller things reveal too much and his eyes go hard, so he’s stuck for now.
He lifts the hem and stares at the black and blue marks above my waist. I don’t know how I’ll even wear a bra when I go to work either. Or stand, or do anything besides sit and groan. But I do the same here and at least there, my mind will stay busy. Here it runs amok.
“You were here and then gone.” He snaps his fingers.
“Oh. Yeah, I was quoting a movie in my head. Sorry.”
“So you’re good if I do the test drives or do you want to put that on hold and revisit it in the fall?”
Fall? Well, peanut butter balls. Yeah, it will be after early September before I can go.
Dang. “Sure, but there’s no rush. I can’t drive anyway.
If you want to narrow it down, though, I’m fine with that.
Though you have your own surgery stuff to worry about.
I— I want to be with you at the hospital.
” I wrap my arm over my belly. “But this complicates everything.”
He leans down and brushes his lips against mine again. “We’ll figure it out. All this is temporary. We’ll make it work.”
“Cars. Tattoos. Job security and needing security at my job. Surgery. Lying flat until I have to pee only to lie flat again. What a honeymoon, right?”
He looks struck.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” I squeeze the hand that holds mine.
“Not a honeymoon. A honeymoon is where I get to fuck you until you pass out from orgasm or I die, whichever comes first. We’ll have that. That I can guarantee, but this. This is newlywed life. We’ll get there.”
“Okay, William. We’ll get there. Now before you get spun up and can’t fall back to sleep, come lie down.
I miss your warmth.” That’s true and that’s a lie.
It’s freaking July. It’s as warm as it gets here, even if the nights are more temperate.
But I miss him at my side. He’s comforting in a way I never expected I’d ever have.