14. Ephemeral
Chapter fourteen
Ephemeral
“T hanks for the ride, Mary Beth.”
“For sure. Anytime.”
“Are you positive I can’t give you money for gas?”
“No way, man.” Mary Beth adjusts her long blonde braids. They’re shot through with pink for the recent festival she attended just outside of Vegas a few weeks ago. “Just hit me up sometime with some of those pumpkin spice muffins. ‘Tis the season, and thank goodness. They’re my favorite, but the ones you make are off-the-hook delish.”
As per usual, any amount of praise makes my face go hot. She waves me off, though, as soon as I pull my two reusable totes filled with groceries out of the backseat. It’s the right time of year, indeed, and not just for pumpkin. Here in Tucson, it’s crazy how much fruit people grow year-round. They set up at the end of driveways, selling garden vegetables, apples, oranges, and even lemons and grapefruits. But you can also get all that homemade stuff at farmer’s markets, flea markets, and at the gas stations along the road.
We’re not really in Tucson. We’re fifteen minutes outside the city, actually. Someone decided to take all their land and turn it into a year-round sort of camping area for RVs. Busses and tiny houses are also welcome. There are people who have lived here for years.
I stumbled upon it by accident. I was looking for a permanent space with lower rent for the whole year. I couldn’t find anything in my budget in Florida, so I expanded my search to the other warm states that came to mind.
Mary Beth is one of the many who have helped make this a more permanent home. She knows all the local stops and where to go for the best deals no matter what you’re buying. On my first night here, when I was feeling more than a little lost and unsure, she came and knocked on the bus door with a great big basket of fresh orchard apples to welcome me. Then, she insisted I join her and her fiancé for a campfire and singing. They’re both incredible musicians. They both work part-time jobs so that they have time to travel and record their music.
I set my bags on the ground so I could wave her off. The place is huge, and she’s on the other side in Row B. I’m in Row M. They’re campground-style names, but this place doesn’t have that feel at all. So many people have set up porches and yards. I guess some camp like that at seasonal spots too, but this place even has a school bus that stops in the morning and everything.
Mary Beth dropped me off right at the bus before her old pickup lumbered off. The thing is ancient and a standard. I have no idea how she drives it. She says the same thing about the bus, though. That she’d be terrified to get behind the wheel of something so huge.
I was once the same way, but it’s crazy how quickly you get used to something once you build up the confidence to just go ahead and do it.
Like this place.
I was terrified of the way my life was changing, but now that I’ve been here for a few months, it’s starting to feel more like home.
We went to a local flea market this morning. I resisted the antiques and other treasures since I didn’t have a lot of extra money or room, but I picked up locally made jams and preserves, all my produce for the week, and some frozen steaks, sausages, and pork. I’m now fully stocked on cat food, treats, and cat nip for months as a few kind souls still send me things from Peach Lips’ wishlist.
“Ephemeral?”
“Oh my god!” I drop both totes and slap my hands over my mouth to smother the scream that barrels up and out of my lungs. There’s no stopping it, but at least it’s more of a muffled yelp.
My heart races sixty thousand times faster than should be humanly possible as I take in the man I never expected to see again. Honestly, I thought he’d be mad at me, but even if he wasn’t, he had better things to do than come to bumdum nowhere to see me .
He looks…good.
Fuck it, he looks amazing .
He’s wearing his usual boots and black fatigues that indicate he’s working, but the T-shirt is just a regular charcoal grey without any writing on it. I say it’s regular, but with the way it’s stretched tight across his broad, muscled chest, as if the seams are going to pop and unravel at any second, it’s anything but bland. As is the forearm porn he has going on.
It has been two months, and his hair has grown out a little, but it’s just that. Either it’s styled like he has a great barber who works miracles with low-maintenance perfection, or he’s been finger-raking it for the past hour. His skin is also a few shades darker than I remember, but the tan suits him. He’s got a golden glow that fits well with his dark stubble, and it frames his eyes.
I have a moment of internal meltdown before I pick the totes back up and make like I want to get on my bus.
Because I do.
“Can I…” I indicate the door with a nod.
“Yes. Sure.” He steps aside, but not far enough that I can shut the door in his face. Not that I will, but he’s clearly not taking any chances.
He lets me step on and then turn around. I could tell him that I didn’t want to talk. That we said everything that could be said two months ago. That orgasms are just meh and entirely overrated, but I wouldn’t mind if he gave me another entirely overrated one to the tune of holy meh, that was the best meh moment I’ve ever had in my life.
Of course I won’t say that.
Or that my pussy misses him.
Or that I still dream and think about him.
Or that I’ve tried to minimize regret and damage by moving forward, and I hope he’s done the same.
That would be crazy talk, and crazy talk should be reserved for full moon energy. We’re not nearly there yet. It’s half-full at best.
I’m not going to invite Thorn onto the bus, but I can’t just leave him out there. Should I be a good host and offer him a drink? Should I make him stand outside the door while he drinks it, and I sit on the stairs like a guard dog?
Peach Lips jumps off her cat post and meows at me. She threads herself through my ankles, jumps onto the driver seat, and swipes her paw in the air, reaching for me. I scratch her head and chin and then duck down so I’m at eye level with Thorn.
“What are you doing here?”
“I brought you something.” He takes an envelope out of his pocket, hesitates for a second, and sets it on the bottom step of the bus.
“What is it?”
“A check for one million dollars.”
“Oh my god!” I nearly fall over. Sitting down would be a good idea. I park it right on the stairs, glaring at him. “Why on earth would you come here with that?”
“I thought if I mailed it, you’d tear it up.”
“You thought right. Ugh, you can’t just buy someone.” He remains impassive—damn him and his perfect nothing resting face. It makes my frown get frownier. “Why would you want to buy me anyway?”
“It’s compensation. I calculated what Peach Lips is worth, what those shows would have brought in, and the revenue you’ve had to give up since Pissgate and the tasing incident that was never going to happen. It would very likely be a million dollars for the year or the next year, so I want to give that to you.”
I don’t want to get mad about this, but it’s hard. The shows are going to be a sore spot for a long time, but not because of this man. “You didn’t do anything to wreck anything. And I can’t believe you named it Pissgate, by the way.”
“It seemed to be the most fitting name right from the start.”
“We both know you were never going to do anything except stop the kids from wrecking the booth. Whatever else people have assumed, it’s because they’re mean, and going online gives them a platform to get some satisfaction out of doing that. The rescue community, unfortunately, isn’t always a great place. People don’t support each other the way they should. You’d think it would be the opposite, but that’s a fantasy, and it’s so freaking unfortunate that it is. The shows didn’t want me back, and it’s not your fault. People ganged up on me and said I was trying to pull a fast one or disappear and come back like everything was okay, and changing my image wasn’t going to cause anyone to forget the truth that I have bad judgment and that Peach Lips deserves better. It’s just meanness.
“Unfortunately, it was infectious. I was super hurt and sad and angry about it for a week, and then I realized people can say what they feel they need to say, but it doesn’t make it true, and it’s not an accurate reflection of who I am. It’s not on you either. You tried your best. Your marketing team made the most beautiful profiles and changes and a new website, and all the free merch they gave me…it was all so beautiful.” I watch him carefully as I empty out all the air in my lungs with that epic monologue. “Long story short, I’m okay. If you want to get rid of a million for compensation, then compensate the people who are missing the money. The animal charities that Peach Lips donated to.”
“I’m already donating a hundred thousand a year.”
“Well, the million will just be a bonus,” I say.
“If I made it two, would you take it?”
“That’s doubly as bad.”
“What about five hundred thousand?” he asks.
“Anything more than a dollar would be just as bad.”
He digs in his back pocket for his wallet and pulls out the crispest one-dollar bill I’ve ever seen. Then, he sets it on the bus step, right on top of the envelope.
I roll my eyes, but god. I’ve kind of missed this. The sparring, the arguing, the weird tenderness and connection that underrides all of it.
“Just because you have money doesn’t mean you should spend it. Lavish gifts are never going to mean more than you yourself do. You can spend all the time in the world building an empire, but it’s not going to make you or anyone else happy.”
“I think I’ve made many people happy. At least those who work for me. They’re well paid and top of the industry, but they’re never going to be rich, so quite possibly, that doesn’t apply. You were quite happy when your debt was paid. Or at least relieved. And you were pleased with the hundred thousand going to charity.”
“That’s not the same.” I’m getting all twisted up here. “It did make me relieved that the debt was paid because it opened up so many opportunities for me. I never would have asked for it, and certainly, between choosing the money over friendship, I never would have picked the former.”
He stares at me without blinking, his dark eyes scalding my face as they search. “Friendship with me?”
I’m damp all over while standing in the AC. “Friendship can be complicated.”
“Many people out there would rather have the money. It can’t make you happy, but it allows you to do fun things.”
“I suppose that’s true, and fun things can amount to great memories. It can ease the stress and burdens of living and allow for more time with loved ones, but I don’t know if many people would choose that path. If they’re building an empire, it’s for another reason entirely. Although, you’re the least rich-acting person I know. You didn’t have anyone cleaning and cooking at your house.”
“I called them off when you were there. I didn’t want to upset Peach Lips or make you nervous.”
“Liar,” I accuse. “You did not.”
“I do have a cleaner come once a week, and I make heavy use of the dry cleaners, but as for the rest, I personally don’t like anyone in my space, and the day I need someone to cook my meals…I just hope that day never comes unless I’m eating at a restaurant somewhere.”
Thorn says all these things, and I know he means them, but he told me about how he tried to buy his family’s forgiveness. True, that was in the past, and when he paid my loan off, he wasn’t expecting anything in return. I can see the pattern in his mind as to why he’s here. He’s not trying to buy me, and he doesn’t expect anything in return, but he does think throwing money at a problem is the way to fix something. He feels obligated. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, and I’m not sure it’s just business.
Just trying to unravel all of that makes my head hurt.
Something weird catches my eye when Thorn bends to put the dollar bill further up on the stairs where it won’t blow away. He straightens strangely like someone just stuck him right in the side with a cactus aimed from a giant slingshot. A dark spot on his shirt grows larger. “What the hell? What is that?” It doesn’t appear to be motor oil. I’m in the small camp of unpopular opinion that knows he’s not a robot.
His fingers shoot down, and he can’t quite control the wince when they come away scarlet.
Holy. Fucking. Shittttt.
“Thorn!”
“Oh. This. Uh, on the way here, I might have got shanked a little.”
“What the actual hairy cat drumsticks! How do you get shanked just a little , let alone at all?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal that he’s bleeding from a knife wound in his side . “Do you happen to have a first aid kit?”
“Gah! Do I happen to have a what? You need a hospital, not a few bandages and some iodine.”
“And yet, if you have them, I’d rather make good use of them instead of going to the hospital. There’s nothing they can do to me that I can’t take care of myself,” he grunts.
“Uhh, they could give you a Tetanus shot.”
“I already have one.”
“They could file a police report.”
He waves his hand in the air, then gasps and drops it down to the injury like he’s holding himself together as it pulls at his side. “Already taken care of.”
“You need the hospital,” I insist.
“Just because you have money doesn’t mean you should throw it around.”
I gape at him, two seconds away from losing my shit, and that’s why I’m still absent-mindedly stroking Peach Lips at the same time, which I’ve been doing during this whole conversation. Petting her lowers blood pressure, and it’s probably the only thing keeping me standing at this point.
Never mind me, what about Thorn?
“What do you mean you were stabbed and that it’s taken care of?”
I didn’t think twice. I just hop off the bus.
“Lift your shirt up,” I command, though I’m not sure it’s a good idea. What if that’s the only thing holding him together? That’s silly. He’s not a rotting zombie.
He edges the cotton up slowly, the damp fabric sucking away from his skin. The blood doesn’t shoot like a geyser at me, but it does bubble up and dribble over an aggressive-looking cut that wraps around his whole side.
“Ahh!” Do not pass out. Do not pass out. The sight of blood doesn’t even bother me, but that? That’s a gash right across Thorn’s whole side. A few inches over, and I think he’d have had some serious problems. It makes my side sympathy ache to the tune of burning, stabbing pressure. “Don’t you dare tell me it’s just a scratch. That needs stitches.”
“Normally, I have a field dressing kit, but I must have left it on the jet. I don’t normally get a rental.” He frowns, studying his side, but I don’t think he’s making faces at the wound. “I don’t normally do any of this, actually.”
“Any of this?”
“I took some time off. I want to visit my family.”
“Oh!” Okay, priorities. Hospital first, talk later. “Give me your keys. I’m taking you straight to the hospital,” I say firmly.
“That will take hours. You’re on the edge of Tucson. Do you know how long it took me to get here from the airport, even if I hadn’t stopped?”
“My first aid kit doesn’t involve stitching materials. It just has some basic gauze, bandages, and rubbing alcohol. Not triage for bullet wounds and knife fights.”
“Good.” He sets his jaw and pulls down his shirt. “I’ll bandage myself up, and then we’ll go.”
I give him a major stink eye. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Serious?”
“No. I’m not going to inconvenience you. I’ll make some calls and have a private surgeon come to the bus.”
“Ugh.” I don’t think I’m going to get better than that. Thorn might have an aversion to hospitals. Goodness knows I sure do. I’m not above going if I need to go, but the PTSD from my mom’s appointments and all her medications is real. “You’d better come up before you bleed out.”
That doesn’t exactly sound welcoming. My heart is fluttering all over the place. I’m breathing like it’s Thanksgiving and as though I overdid it on everything and then attempted to run one of those impossible obstacle courses that is designed to kill you in eighty different and hilarious ways. Thorn is here . Ostensibly, it’s to pay for damages, but I’m having a hard time believing that’s the real reason.
I don’t want it to be the only reason.
So why am I gatekeeping the bus like I don’t want him to be here and like my insides aren’t doing fifty thousand backflips while he’s bleeding?
“I’m sorry!” I’m not a nervous hair raker, but I give my long strands a good finger combing with both hands. “Get on the bus. Now. Please. I’ll get my first aid kit, and if you need help patching yourself up, you better believe I’m here for it.” I bend down and snatch up the dollar bill. “Make calls and get someone here. Anyone. Or let me take you, please. Losing this much blood isn’t okay.”
He grins. Grins . “Are you worried about me?”
“How is that even a question?!” I exclaim.
Having him step on the bus ratches my breath into impossible territory. An invisible giant fist just shot out of the wall of the obstacle course and knocked me off an already greased pedestal kind of territory.
I’d almost forgotten how he’s so big that he takes up all the space. Bus-sized humans don’t happen to come along every day.
“Hey, Peach Lips,” he says, his deep voice echoing through the place like we’ve just stepped into a cave.
“Sit.” I pat the bench slash couch, point a threatening finger at it, then fill a cold glass of water out of the fridge and reach under the sink for the first aid kit.
Thorn sits. He doesn’t even grimace. If I was slashed six ways to Sunday, I think I’d be making a fuss about it. God, I’m more of a baby when it comes to a paper cut than he is about having half his side carved out like he’s a hunk of beef.
“Relax.” He takes the kit from me, and my hands are the ones doing the shaking. “It’ll be fine.”
I pull out the sliding, folding table and snap it open, then step back so he has space to move and air to breathe. I can’t go sucking up all the oxygen in here. I need to think of something to say to distract him from the pain and distract myself from…from realizing how very easily things can happen to people all over again.
I thought I was over that, but when you lose someone you love at a young age, do you ever get over it? Do you get over it at any age?
“I…uh…I should be better with this,” I mutter.
Thorn’s head snaps up, and I’m bathed in the warm glow of his soft, velvet gaze. Honey and melted chocolate. Peanuts and caramel. Gooey fudge on ice cream. “I can tell you that it’s going to be fine, but you aren’t going to believe it until it is. Just know that I’ve been through this a time or two in the past. I know what I’m doing. I’m not in any serious harm here, or I would have called someone immediately and got my ass straight into surgery if I needed it. Breathe, Effy. Two sharp breaths through your nose and then let it out slowly through your mouth.”
“Is that some kind of military breathing?”
“It’s called two-to-one breathing. It’s supposed to facilitate relaxation.”
“Facilitate not bleeding to death, please.”
He grins again. “As you wish, my lady.”
I frown. “I’m not your lady. And you’re breaking the rules by calling me Effy.”
“I thought that was just until our work relationship was concluded.”
He’s going through the kit now, sorting things out. Fuck, I forgot the rubbing alcohol. I can’t imagine pouring that onto a gaping hole. Ouch city. I go to the cupboard a few feet away and snatch it down before setting it down on the table.
Thorn yanks his shirt up again and goes for the cotton balls and alcohol. I look at the angry wound—a clean slice at least—for about five point eight seconds before I feel like I’m going to pass out and turn my eyes down to the floor instead.
“I should be better with this. Now that I can qualify for student loans, I’m taking classes at the college here. I can do some of it online since it’s just first-year stuff, which is nice. I have to do the labs on campus, but I can at least throw a few electives in so I can do some online here and take the rest just two days a week.”
He stops what he’s doing and gives me his full attention.
Not good. This was supposed to distract me, not him.
“Gah, hurry!” I motion to the wound like it’s going to start spraying buckets of blood all over the bus, like in a horror movie. To be fair, it’s mostly just welling up.
“Okay.” Thorn puts the soaked wad of cotton right on the wound. He. Doesn’t. Even. Blink.
“Holy god.” I whip around so the sympathy pain dials down a notch. “I—I’m enrolled in veterinary medicine. At least the early stages of it.”
“That’s incredible. I think you’d make a great vet,” he says.
“Not if I can’t look at wounds like that, I won’t.”
“I’m sure it’s hard, treating that pain and suffering, and for all the times when you can’t do anything at all. I’ve heard there’s a lot of burnout.”
“In the rescue field too,” I point out.
“Yes. But you were more than handling it.”
“I was an advocate. I wasn’t on the ground, doing the hard work, seeing the sad cases. I know lots of people who are, and they get so overwhelmed. You can imagine the root of the problems, but people can’t spay and neuter their pets or get them medicine or be responsible owners when they don’t have access to resources in the first place.”
“It’s like this wound,” he says.
“How’s that?” I turn slightly and keep my eyes on Thorn’s face only. His lovely, rugged, beautiful manly face that I may or may not have missed so freaking much.
“I’ll answer that right away, but I want to say I’m still sorry for how things happened.”
“No. Don’t be.” I cross my arms, arching into nothing but air like it can hold me up. “It’s scary to start over, but I needed to ask myself the question I guess I was avoiding, even without really knowing I was avoiding it. What do I ultimately want to do with my life? How can I get there? I’ve always known I wanted to help, but how could I keep doing that? People do still trickle donations in, so I pass those along and make sure I’m still active. People can forget, and they can choose whether they want to forgive or not, but I’m not going away completely.”
“There are so many people who care.”
He’s one of them. A man who tries to hide the depth of himself behind hard glares and stony masks. He tries to make the world think he’s all business and that it’s the only thing that matters, but I know that’s not true. I knew it wasn’t true even before he told me that little bit about his life and family. He might be stubborn, but even that could be endearing.
That’s the problem. It could be. If I let it. If he let it.
“Yes.” That’s the truth. “Even in the rough patches and hard times,” I mumble.
He swipes the alcohol-soaked cotton over the wound and then gathers up a handful of bandages. He’s quick with everything, getting them and the gauze secured in place. He wasn’t kidding when he said he had to triage, and I don’t even want to think about the worst he’s had to do.
I watch the way his spine arches and his shoulders tense. He has blood on his hands, but he didn’t get any on the bench. He was careful, even though it would have just wiped clean. He’s also being careful not to show how much he’s hurting, but I can see the sharp glint in his eyes.
When he’s done, he pulls his shirt down, stands up, and motions to the sink. “Is it alright if I wash up before I make those calls?”
“Yes. Please!”
I step back, even though everything inside me wants to get close. I didn’t realize I was so good at running from that. I didn’t realize I was so token inside, even though I have a reason to fear getting hurt. I thought I wasn’t half as cliché as I am.
“People care about you too,” I blurt when Thorn thrusts his bloody hands under the stream of water at the small sink. “Your family. Your team.”
“Yes.” The word is thick, and I can hear the effort it takes for him to keep his tone neutral.
It makes me feel half desperate and half feral with the need to go to him and just touch him somewhere. To put my hand on his arm, even. But I don’t. My fingers prickle, and my body burns with the strain of standing in one spot.
How does the world see me? How do I want it to see this person I am? How do I go from here to who I want to be? That’s the question I’ve asked myself so many times. I’m sure most people do. It’s good to never stop asking. But how does Thorn see the world? How do people see him? He didn’t try to buy anything from me, and he didn’t come here with that intention. He just wanted to make things right because he has a good heart and because he can, but it’s also because he cares. There’s no denying that it’s true. Under that hard, somewhat frightening exterior is a beautiful person.
Maybe we’re both a little wounded, just waiting for the right person to see the beauty and the soul and heart that doesn’t always come in token packages.
I raise my head and find Thorn watching me. It would seem he’s ceased washing his hands a while ago. They’re not even dripping anymore.
“Can I do something for you?” I want to. I need to. And not just as a distraction. I want to because my heart is aching, and I’m terrified.
I know time can’t be taken lightly.
I wasn’t taking anything that way when I left Thorn and left behind that note for him. That wasn’t me running. It was just something practical. It was the right thing to do.
It doesn’t change the fact that I’m suffocating with dread right now. Something could have happened. Something could still happen. Because life is not a guarantee. I did the responsible, adult thing and separated a special moment and a night of desire from everything else.
But Thorn’s here.
And he’s hurt.
He wipes his hands on his pants and pulls out his phone. He makes one call, and it sounds more like it’s to a dispatcher, and I realize it probably is. Probably someone central at his company. Someone who dispatches medical personnel or finds someone. He raises a brow at me, and I nod, and he gives the address and a description of the bus. Then, he thanks whoever is on the other end and hangs up.
“It shouldn’t be more than an hour,” he says, as though I’m the one who needs reassurance.
“Can I make you a sandwich?” I have to do something. Even if he doesn’t eat it… I got some fresh tomatoes at the farmer’s market this morning. Bread too. Uh, do you eat bread? Do you like tomatoes?”
“Do I eat bread?” he scoffs. Right, I’ve witnessed him inhale sandwiches at his house before. We kind of bonded over them. “Carbs are my best friend.”
I doubt that, but I get out the homemade loaf and the cherry red tomatoes from my tote. It’s a reminder that there are other things in there that should go in the fridge, so I get them situated and pull out the ham, cheese, mayo, and hot sauce. And then some pickles for the side.
Thorn sits back down and starts packing the leftover bandages and such back into the first aid kit. It’s only a little red canvas package, no bigger than a smaller makeup bag, and he does everything meticulously. The way he puts it back together is better than a factory.
“On the way here, I saw a fight, so I stopped to break it up.”
I pause while cutting the tomatoes. “I thought you weren’t supposed to do things like that.” For the very obvious reason that you might get sliced and diced for your help.
“Never break up a fight,” he agrees. “But I’m experienced.”
“You still got hurt,” I murmur.
He doesn’t look up as his hands keep tucking the kit back together. “It’s only a scratch.”
“I told you not to say that!” I realize I’m waving a knife at him quite menacingly, so I quickly drop it, even though it’s nowhere close.
“It was two older boys. No more than thirteen or fourteen. Gang shit. I know because after they saw the blood, the one who’d done it tried to run, but I was fast. I caught him. He was very worried I was going to call the police, but I got him calmed down. He grudgingly told me that he was living in foster care, and it was not a good situation. He needs the money, so he’s doing some stuff for some unsavory people, and some other unsavory people didn’t really like it, but he was going to deal with it on his own.”
“I’m so sorry.” My heart more than hurts. It’s going to break wide open. Both for those poor kids and for this man, who was once in the position of supporting his family when he was basically a kid himself.
“The kid admitted he was hungry and afraid to go back to his foster home. He wasn’t even close to aging out. When I asked him, he said he was sixteen but then admitted he was fourteen, as I suspected. I made a few calls. My team was on it and on it fast. He’s being moved right now. I didn’t want to give him back to social services, but when a new caseworker arrived, I made sure he had my number to call if anything went wrong again. They’re going to find him an excellent and caring placement this time or have me to deal with. I know not all kids are so lucky. Most of them aren’t. I can throw money at the problem all I want, but it’s not going to change because it’s not going to fix a broken system. Regardless, I want to help where I can.”
“You did all that while you were bleeding out?” I whisper, my stomach clenched so tight that I feel like it’s been corseted from the inside out with one of those antique, serious business corsets.
“Bleeding out is a strong word.”
“It’s two words,” I point out.
“Very strong words, then. I was bleeding, but not a dangerous amount.”
“And then you drove yourself here? Clear across the city?”
“I did, yes. I was in no danger of passing out. If I felt lightheaded, I would have pulled over immediately. I know the limits of my body. They’ve unfortunately been tested a few times, and Pissgate has nothing on it.”
I get his sandwich assembled even though I’m sweating, my hands are shaking, and I feel like I might pass out, all while my chest is going to burst and shatter and get messy.
“Did you…did you come here just to give me that check?” I know he didn’t, but I don’t know how to ask him any other way.
I don’t know how to tell him that I want him to come back for me. That I’m sorry. That I’ve spent so much freaking time thinking about him, wanting to call him, wishing, missing, more wishing, more missing, and regretting, aching, longing, and wanting.
It’s funny how something can seem absolutely like the right move at the moment but become so fuzzy and hazy and not right in the aftermath of real life. But forcing something that might be only a fraction right at the wrong time would only ruin the beauty of it.
“No. I have a backpack in the car. Let me go and get it.”
“Are you crazy? Sit right there and don’t move. I can’t risk you bleeding out,” I exclaim.
“Not going to happen.”
I fist my hands on my hips, knowing full well how ironic it is. “Are you always this stubborn?”
“I put the pigheaded in pigheaded and the mulish in mulish.”
I barely hold it together. This is not the time to laugh. “You know that’s not how that saying works, right?”
“I’ll amend. I put the stubborn in stubborn ass.”
That does it. There’s an air explosion that sounds like a balloon deflating, and I break into giggles. “That’s not funny!” I gasp.
“Your laughter would indicate otherwise.”
“Let me go get…the backpack.” I have to gasp for breath in the middle of that sentence.
“I circled around a few times and wasn’t sure where to park, so I took up one of the guest spots at the start of the block. By the convenience store. I love this place, by the way. It has a great vibe. I’m glad you chose it.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Me too.”
The slight wrinkle in his brow would be a fallen face on anyone else. “Please don’t feel bad about what happened. When one door opens…”
“Another one closes.”
We looked at each other for a few seconds before I burst out laughing. All I get is a wobble of the lips from Thorn, but that’s more facial interaction than he usually gives, and it feels like a major triumph.
“It’s not funny,” he says, proceeding with caution.
“It’s not,” I agree. “But whoever said that if you laugh at the things you can’t control, even when they’re not funny, you’ll turn out okay in the end, was right.”
“Who said that?” Thorn asks.
“It’s more the gist of it.”
“Fake it until you make it.”
“Smile until you’re happy,” I say.
“I hate smiling.”
I nearly lose it again. “I’ve noticed.”
Thorn tosses me a set of keys. It’s a fob with a black tag, very clearly a rental. “Black sedan, tinted windows.”
I roll my eyes. “How did I know?”
I put my palm up, nearly right in Thorn’s face. “Be a good boy and stay.” Belatedly, I realize how dirty that sounds. Erotically dirty. My mind delves straight into the sexiest of places, which floods my whole body with smutty adrenaline.
Thorn has had practice at controlling his face and the rest of his body, so he’s a perfect gentleman. He doesn’t even give me a hint of a sarcastic grin, and thank fuck, he certainly doesn’t remind me that he was quite a good boy when he ate my pussy into the world’s hottest climax and never asked me to return the favor.
He cuddled after.
Listened to me.
And I left him there with a freaking note . That’s me. First. Class. Jerkhole.
I had to leave. I was afraid of how much I would have liked to stay, and it wasn’t right. We both knew that. It would have been one time, and then that one time would have been just one more time, and that would have turned into a soul-crushing, bone-deep ache for one more and one more and one more, without an end, which would have just led us both to hurt.
My mortification roots me to the spot. He’s dead serious when he leans forward half an inch, his voice rough and gravelly. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’ll try not to do that again in the future.”
I really hate doing the eyebrow trick, but I can feel them rising, and they won’t be good boys and sit down and stay. “The future?”
“The future,” he growls in his sexy, deep timber. I instantly break out in sexy goosebumps. “Go get my backpack. Please.”