Chapter 12 #2
I realize in that moment I’m simmering with some chaotic mixture of rage, resentment, sadness, and regret.
So much of this could have been solved if he’d just asked me for proof of Michael.
It wasn’t like I didn’t have a hundred fucking videos on my phone of the little monster.
I would have…well, I like to think I would have stopped in my mad chase to show Thorne that I was telling the truth.
Instead, miscommunication and secrets destroyed something that could have been so, so good. Maybe the best thing that has ever happened to me…shit. Ever.
I swallow against a thick, aching throat and fight the urge to go try to chase down Thorne and ask if we can start over. Would that be a mistake? Probably. Would he laugh in my face because what would a man like him want to do with me besides a quick fuck?
Most definitely.
But I am teetering on the edge of lunacy, so why not have a little mad hope along with the madness.
I debate going to the kitchen for coffee, but the adrenaline and betrayal zipping through me is better than any caffeine.
I take a fortifying breath and walk to the front door, yanking it open.
I need to find out where he’s gone. Maybe I’ll go ask the neighbors if they’ve seen a man in sweats wandering down the road. I’ll put up signs or—
Oh.
To my left, in the rickety, dangerously old swing, Thorne’s asleep. He’s got his legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his naked chest, head tipped so far forward his chin is resting on his sternum.
I clear my throat, but he doesn’t move, which, of course he doesn’t. His hearing aid case was on the nightstand. I stomp on the ground twice very hard, and he jolts, sitting up and almost lurching off the swing before catching himself.
When he looks up, his eyes dance back and forth, which tells me he’s probably got a little vertigo going on.
I should be happy. He should suffer. Only instead of the anger previously welling up inside of me, empathy rises in my chest, and I walk over, offering him a hand. “I didn’t know you stayed,” I say, pitching my voice a little louder than usual in hopes he can hear it.
He swallows heavily and stares at my lips. I bet he had FBI lip-reading training. He shrugs and lifts a hand to his chest, making a fist and rubbing it in a circle. ‘Sorry.’
I don’t know why he’s sorry. I have all his shit. His badge and…wait. How is he FBI if he’s losing his hearing? “I didn’t think federal agents could be deaf.”
He blinks, then sighs and shrugs, and I can see pain flare up in his eyes. Clearly, this is a tender topic. “They can’t.”
I bite my lip as I exhale. “So…?”
“It’s a long story.” His tone tells me it’s not one of the easier ones for him to tell. I do feel sorry for him. Kind of. But he also fucked me while lying to my face. I bet he was in that hotel to arrest me, which pisses me off, even though, technically, I was committing a crime.
And probably deserved to go to jail.
I can’t seem to stay angry for more than a couple of seconds. I hate that all I want is for him to pull me against his chest and kiss the absolute shit out of me. I hate that the only comfort I want is from him.
I clear my throat, asking the question that’s been burning since last night. “Why didn’t you take me in?”
He stares at me again, then glances at the door. “Can I go get my hearing aids on?”
‘We can sign,’ I offer on my hands.
He bites his lip. ‘I’m not sure I know enough to understand or answer all the questions you have. I’ve only been studying regularly for a couple years, and this is…complicated.’
He’s probably right. Besides, as pissed off as I am, he’s the one who gets to choose how we talk. What we talk about, well, I’m taking control of that shit. I’m so done being lied to.
‘Go,’ I sign, my fingers snapping in annoyance. ‘Go upstairs, then meet me in the kitchen.’
He gives me a stiff nod, and the door slams behind him when he goes inside. Accident? Or maybe he’s pissed off and in pain from having slept upright on a shitty swing all night.
Something twists in my chest at the fact that he did that. He could have demanded to come inside and get his things before he left. He could have demanded to come inside to sleep on the couch.
Instead, he respected what I asked of him, even when he knew the next day would be hell on his body.
It makes me feel things I’m not in the mood to parse out. Not right now. Not until I have all the answers.
I head inside and start the coffee maker before staring at the kitchen. There are remnants of the dinner he cooked for me, the pots in the sink, a few dishes stacked on the counter that he didn’t know where to put. The cast-iron pan is on the counter, freshly wiped down and oiled.
Everything he’s done so far contradicts everything he is.
He’s a man who was supposed to take me to jail for a crime, but instead, he stalked me, let me suck his dick several times, made me come till I saw stars, and gave me both a cock boner and a heart boner.
And then, when I was spiraling worse than I had in a long time, he pulled me out of a literal hole in the ground, made me dinner, and put me to bed. I’d fallen asleep in his arms last night, comforted by the weight of him.
I thought he’d come to bed with me so he could get in my ass—which I wouldn’t have been opposed to—but he’d seen my soul-deep fatigue, and instead of taking what he wanted, he gave.
He listened. He held me. He made me feel safe and sane, and that wasn’t something I’d felt in a long, long time.
This is too complicated. I want to go back to groundhog hunting and insanity, please and thank you. It’s wild there, but it’s easier than feelings.
Pulling out a package of bread, I remember he’s filled my kitchen with groceries too. He saw this pathetic, sad sack of shit making bad choices, and instead of throwing me in cuffs, he tucked me in and made me comfort food.
Okay, yeah. I needed answers.
Did he like me, or was this just some weird fetish he had for people who have hit rock bottom, then dug themselves a few feet deeper for good measure?
“Do you want me to make you something other than toast?”
I jump at the sound of his voice and turn to find him dressed in what he’d been wearing last night. He looks way too put together for a man who slept on a porch. I hate him for it, even if I’m also wildly turned on.
“You’re not doing anything except sitting in that chair,”—I point to the one slightly pulled away from the table—“and answering every question I have.”
The coffee machine clicks, and I grab two mugs, pouring them almost all the way full. This is not a cream-and-sugar kind of talk. It’s a black-coffee interrogation. I slide a mug over to him, and he picks it up, taking a long drink and sighing happily.
I ignore the little beat of pleasure in my chest that I did something right. This is not the time, damn it. This is serious business.
I stand across from him, staring, drumming my fingers on my mug. “Why didn’t you arrest me?”
He doesn’t answer for a while. Then he takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure you were doing anything wrong. The moment I met you, I had doubts about Michael.”
“So you thought I was delusional, or—”
“Like you said, you called him a groundhog several times. My gut told me that I didn’t have all the information correct, but I wanted to make sure it was right and not reacting because I…” He stops for a beat, but when I raise my brows, he sighs and says, “Because I was attracted to you.”
I purse my lips, my fingers still thrumming an annoying rhythm on my ceramic mug.
“So you weren’t entirely convinced I was a bad man who was holding someone hostage?”
He rolls his eyes up toward the ceiling like he’s offering up a prayer. “I wasn’t sure. I had…doubts.”
Something about that pisses me off. What am I to him, really? “Do you get off on that? Is this a kink of yours?”
His eyebrows rise. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you only here because you’re into criminals? Have you done this with suspects in the past?”
He lets out a surprised laugh and then bites it back when he sees my scowling. “No. Leaf.” Fuck, I like the way he says my name, a little heavy on the tongue, thick in the back of the throat. “I’m genuinely attracted to you.”
“Oh.” Because oh. The look on his face tells me he’s being sincere, and I’m not sure I was prepared for that.
“It has nothing to do with you being a criminal.” He pauses and then sighs, realizing what he said. “Not that you’re a criminal. You’re obviously not.”
“I’m not. Michael is though. He’s a thief and a menace.”
Thorne’s eyes twinkle, and my gut swoops, blood rushing south. “And a groundhog.”
I grimace. “Yes, and a groundhog.” He won’t distract me with his sexy face, damn it. I refuse to let him. It is hard though, especially when he’s just so fucking hot all the time.
“Anyway,” I say, desperate to keep focus, “my point is, you lied to me, but I never lied to you. This entire thing is built on sinking sand.”
“Is that a bible verse?”
I blink. “I…don’t know. Maybe. All I know is you’re a liar. A very sexy one, but a liar nonetheless. And I don’t trust you.” The words don’t feel like the truth as they trip off my tongue.
His eyes soften, and he looks genuinely full of regret. “I wasn’t really lying. I was stalking you, and I do like you. But I know that me withholding the truth was the wrong move, and I am sorry.”
I blink at him, and he stares back at me. I want his words to mean something. Desperately. But my god, I feel like the wool was pulled over my eyes.
I take a deep breath. “I have more questions.”
He meets my gaze and holds it. “I can’t promise all the answers. My job is still my job, Leaf. And I’m very good at my job.”