6. Flint
Six
Flint
I t takes some asking around, some raised eyebrows and pointed questions from nosy shopkeepers, but I figure out where Marigold’s staying first thing in the morning. A headache squeezes my skull as I stomp down a Starlight Ridge’s side street to her hostel, every inch of me tired from a night with no sleep.
Well, how could I ever hope to sleep after Marigold left things the way she did? She fled from me in the night with no explanation, shock and misery etched on her beautiful face. Of course I’m fucking haunted.
“Ass,” I mutter, prowling down the sidewalk. If kicking myself were an Olympic sport, this morning I’d win gold.
But I was so sure she was into it. Hell, Marigold started it all, first by licking my thumb, then by throwing herself into my lap and shivering with pleasure under my touch.
That’s what I don’t get. She unbuttoned my shirt; she ground down on my cock like she owned it—believe me, I’ve replayed the night’s events over and over in my brain, examining it from all angles, staring at the imaginary tape. Trying to figure out where exactly I went wrong.
And I can’t pinpoint the crucial moment, but either way, the guilt’s choking me alive. Because why does it matter if she started it? Somehow, I must have pushed her too far. Must have spooked Marigold so badly that she ran away from me without explanation.
Maybe she sensed the bottomless hunger I have for her, or maybe I failed to hide how badly I’ve wanted this. Maybe I was rougher than I realized, too out of practice with touching another human to know my own strength.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
A flock of crows chatter on a nearby rooftop, the only souls half awake this morning, hopping over the slate tiles while a breeze ruffles their black feathers. The skies above are clear and empty, sunny but cold, while a lone truck rumbles down the street, the driver hunched sleepily over the wheel and yawning on his way to work.
This town always slows down as the nights draw in, its energy spent once the summer tourists leave. The painted buildings hunker in the valley, sheltering from the winter chill, while cozy fires melt the early snowfall off the rooftops.
How long is Marigold gonna stay in Starlight Ridge? What if I’ve scared her off even sooner? My boots thud against the stone steps as I hurry up to her door.
“God damn it.” The handle turns easily in my grip, unlocked and unguarded, and I curse under my breath as I let myself in. Has security been this lax all summer? Can Marigold even lock her own door? What if something happened to her?
Headache pounding worse than ever, I close the door behind me—and flip the lock with a huff. Jesus Christ.
It’s dim in this narrow corridor, with noticeboards on both walls covered in laminated instructions for fire drills and rules for using the shared bathrooms and kitchen. Even covered in protective plastic, the sheets are splotchy, their corners curling with age.
This is exactly the kind of dive that I used to crash in as a young man, traveling through the country’s small towns, never staying in one place for more than a month or two. Guess Marigold and I have more in common than I realized. The smell of dust and musty carpets flings me back twenty years into my memories, back to worn hiking boots and dunking away layers of summer sweat in crystal clear rivers.
I shake the memories off and squint at a list of current occupants.
Seven. My girl’s in lucky number seven.
If I haven’t scared her clean away.
* * *
“Just a second,” Marigold calls, her soft voice floating through the door. I quit knocking, stuffing both hands in my pockets right before she tugs the door open. Her face falls when she sees me. “Oh.”
Her blonde hair is loose and rumpled, and she’s dressed in a white t-shirt and plaid shorts. Even with those tired shadows beneath her eyes, she’s even prettier than I remembered. She’s always prettier than my brain can handle.
“Marigold,” I grit out. My throat’s too tight to say much more, even though I planned out this whole speech on the walk over here—a real nice speech promising to keep my distance from now on if she’ll please, please just tell me what happened. “I… uh.”
Yeah, I’m no orator. Never have been. Tess and Jana are always teasing me for that in the bar, doing impressions of me where I just point and grunt like a caveman. And even though we chatted a bunch last night, even though things were easier with her than they’ve ever been with anyone else, now I’m back to square one with Marigold, staring helplessly at the angel I scared away without realizing.
Did I hurt her? Christ, I’ll never forgive myself if I did. But why else would she run away from me like that? Why else would she be frozen in her own doorway right now, eyes wide and cheeks pale?
“I’m not here to cause trouble.” I raise my palms. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. I just came to make sure you’re okay.”
Marigold’s throat shifts as she swallows. She’s still clutching to the door like she might slam it in my face—and I’m sure I’d deserve that, but why? God help me, why ?
A quick glance over her shoulder finds a half-packed backpack slung across a twin bed. There are piles of clothes on the mattress, and the drawers to her nightstand hang open.
She’s leaving. Because of me.
The ground cracks open beneath my boots.
“I’m okay,” Marigold murmurs, but I can’t hear her properly. Too busy staring at that half-packed bag and plummeting toward the earth’s core, down, down, down, my gut left behind like I’m on a roller coaster. “I’m sorry about last night,” she says, her voice far away to my ears. “It wasn’t anything you did, I swear.”
“You’re leaving.” My voice is choked, unrecognizable. This can’t be happening.
Marigold winces but nods. “Yeah.”
She’s not clutching the door anymore—more fiddling with the handle. The tension seeps out of her shoulders too, until she looks as tired and sad as I feel.
Something thumps behind her neighbor’s door, while the faint sound of a shower floats down the hallway. It’s dim in this corridor, but sunlight spears through the window above Marigold’s bed and makes the strands of her hair glint gold.
“Did I…” Can barely force the words out, my gut lurching and roiling. “Did I hurt you? Scare you?”
Marigold sucks in a sharp breath and shakes her head. “What? No . No , of course not.”
“But why else—?”
She turns and crosses to the bed behind her, then plucks her sketchbook from the messy piles of clothes. Eyes cast down, Marigold comes back to the doorway and holds it out to me.
“The answers are in there.”
After a moment, I take the sketchbook. It’s surprisingly heavy, pages crinkling between the covers, and Christ, I have not had enough coffee to deal with riddles. What exactly is she trying to say?
“You mean the sketches of me?”
Marigold looks miserable as she hugs herself. “Sort of. It’ll make sense when you see—but please go somewhere else first. I can’t bear to watch you look at them.”
My heart thuds, sluggish and steady. I squint at my girl, haloed with bright sunshine, as my aching brain tries to put two and two together.
“You’re talking about the secret sketches,” I say slowly. “The ones you did of me before.”
Marigold jolts, suddenly spearing me with those baby blues. Her mouth drops open. “Wait… you knew?”
Did I know about this sweet young woman’s inexplicable fixation with me? Did I see those pages and pages she filled with my face? Has it wrecked me ever since?
Yes. Holy shit, yes.
Gusting out a long sigh, I nudge Marigold into her small room and close the door behind us. When I spin the lock, it clunks into place.
Good. That’s one less thing to curse about.
“You lied,” Marigold accuses, even as she lets me walk her back toward the mess of her bed. A pink flush is climbing higher and higher up her throat, and god, I don’t think she’s wearing a bra under that white shirt. Not judging by the two hard points pressing against the thin fabric, like her tight little body is straining for me.
“Then we’re both liars.” When I toss it, the sketchbook bounces before settling on the mattress. I place my hands on Marigold’s shoulders and squeeze gently, marveling at how delicate she is beneath my hands. “Now, what will it take for you to unpack this bag?”
“I can’t believe you knew.” Marigold stares at the sketchbook, relief and unhappiness warring on her features. “You knew all along. This is so freaking embarrassing.”
I turn her chin back to face me, privately thrilling when she allows the touch. Was it really only last night that she kissed me so hungrily? Feels like a hundred years ago. “Answer the question, sweetheart.”
And maybe I should apologize more—maybe I should fall to my knees and beg forgiveness, but as far as I can see, the two of us are even now. Sweet Marigold pretended that she’d never drawn me before, and I acted like I’d never seen those sketches. A lie for a lie. We’ve both done our share of hiding things, and we’ve both been caught out, and it serves us right for being cowards.
Meanwhile, I’m still reeling with relief that I didn’t hurt my girl last night. The room’s only just stopped tilting like a ship’s cabin in a storm, and my heart is beating harder than it’s done for hours, happy and strong.
Marigold is here. I’m here.
And she’s letting me touch her again. Thank fuck.
For such a shitty morning, this day suddenly holds promise. Before, my bones felt heavier than lead, but now I’m standing straighter, breathing clear.
“What’ll it take?” I say again. “To unpack your bag?”
Marigold shivers as my thumb traces the line of her jaw. “ Flint .” She grabs onto my elbow for balance, and her bare toes scrunch into the carpet below, but she’s not moving away. No, she’s swaying closer.
“Tell me,” I coax, and after a long, dark night of doubt, I’m now cocksure and pushing my luck. Riding high on that flood of relief, on the giddy thrill of having my hands on Marigold once again.
She scowls up at me, so pretty and put out. “You know .”
Do I?
Seeing my mystified expression, Marigold repeats, “If you’ve seen those sketches, then you know.”
Christ, more riddles. Twirling a lock of her silky blonde hair around my knuckle, I wrack my tired brain. “You don’t tell me anything the straightforward way, do you sweetheart? For the record, I haven’t had coffee yet.”
Marigold rolls those big, blue eyes. A pleased laugh fills my chest but stays trapped there as I think, think, think.
What do I know?
I know that Marigold loves drawing me. For whatever strange reason, I’m the star of her summer sketchbook; the focus of her season’s work. The world’s most unlikely muse. Is that what she means?
Well, what else could it be?
“What if we make a deal?” The words come slowly, as I measure everything twice before I say it. Lord knows I don’t want to screw this up again. “You like drawing me. I like that too. How about we pack this bag up after all and move you into my cabin? Then you can draw me whenever you like.”
Marigold blinks, surprised. I gain speed, liking this plan the more I say it out loud, because what else could she possibly have meant?
If I want Marigold to stick around, I need to model for her. Well, no problem, because feeling her gaze on me is about the best thing I’ve ever felt—minus the fierce way she kissed me last night, of course.
Besides, this hostel is depressing as hell. I want Marigold away from these faded carpets and shabby walls and that unlocked front door, tucked away somewhere safe and clean and warm where I can look after her. Yeah.
“You want me to move in with you.” Her voice is faint.
“Sure. For as long as you’re in Starlight Ridge, I want you in my cabin.”
“So I can draw you,” she says.
“So you can draw me.”
“And?” Marigold raises her chin in challenge. “What else?”
I shrug, taking my hands off her body, forcing myself to act more casual than I feel. “And nothing else, if you don’t want it. I won’t touch you uninvited, Marigold.”
She takes a deep breath and steps all the way close, her bare feet nearly touching my boots. The crows flap past outside the window, squawking together as traffic rumbles down the street.
“And if I do want that?” Marigold wets her lips. “What then?”
My body flashes hot. Suddenly, I’m not tired at all, as electricity crackles through my veins.
“Then you should take what you want, sweetheart.”
Marigold flings her arms round my neck, and kisses me hard. Screwing my eyes shut, I sink into heaven.