Chapter 22 #3
He rakes a hand through his hair. “My mom’s sister was a good Christian woman, didn’t have any children of her own, and married well.
She believed she was being tested by God to keep me out of the foster care system and agreed to take me when they died.
The house I’d grown up in was a seven-hundred-square-foot log cabin in the woods.
Moving to a huge house in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago was a culture shock.
The first night, they told me I could stay until I was eighteen as long as I didn’t get into any trouble, and then I was on my own. ”
I flinch at the words. What kind of people say that to a child who just lost their parents, no matter how horrible they might have been? My voice is full of scorn when I say, “They sound like real gems.”
“I can’t blame them for not wanting to take in a teenager. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but I didn’t mind. Obligation was still miles better than getting the shit beat out of me.”
The fierce loyalty I have for the people I care about surges hot in my blood. I want to find his aunt and uncle and make their lives a living hell.
He trudges on in that flat tone. “I signed up for the military and shipped off to basic training three days after my eighteenth birthday. I thanked them for letting me stay, and I never saw them again.”
I want to rage and cry for him. Because I understand now that he’s never experienced love of any kind in his life. I can’t help the choked words. “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”
His spine bristles. “It’s fine.”
He doesn’t want the sympathy, but that’s too bad because he’s getting it anyway. “I’m going to find them, figure out their weaknesses, and plot their demise.”
A surprised bark of laughter erupts from his chest. “There’s my girl.”
I rub my breasts against his back. “You know there are advantages to me being on your side.”
“Remind me never to cross you.” He runs his fingers over my forearm.
“So now you know everything except for why I’m sitting here in Revival instead of Chicago.
Everyone always thinks it’s some sort of case-gone-wrong story, but it’s not that complicated.
I was good at my job, too good. I knew exactly how close I could walk the line.
Knew I was recruited specifically for that reason. I…”
He trails off, shaking his head. “I started to like it. Started to feel as if it was a part of me and that part connected me to my father. One night after closing a big case, I went out with a bunch of other agents. We were blowing off steam, trying to come down from the adrenaline high without crashing out. We were regaling one another with our war stories, and I realized I was proud of it. That it had only been a couple of hours and I was already craving the next time I got to fuck someone up. I had one of those dark nights of the soul types of moments, where I came to grips with the realization that if I continued down that road, I would become my father. Maybe it was more dressed-up and more respectable, but our motives would be the same. I walked into the office and quit the next day. So now you officially know more about me than any other person alive.”
I suspect that is the tip of the iceberg, but I can tell how hard it was for him to even tell me that.
So I don’t speak, don’t ask probing questions.
I let him process that he’s taken this monumental step.
His entire body is rigid, and the warmth of me pressed against him no longer seems to be helping.
He turns his head and glances at me. “What about now?”
My brow furrows. “What about now, what?”
“Now that you know, it’s okay to feel different.” A muscle in his jaw ticks as he swallows. “I won’t blame you. I understand.”
I blink at the words, not comprehending how he believes his past will send me running, before I realize that’s all he’s ever known. I’m the only person he’s ever opened up to.
He’s taken a huge risk. He doesn’t trust it.
The only bonds he trusts are trauma and pain, which is why he’s insulated himself from them since he escaped.
I pull away, getting up from the bed and coming to stand in front of him.
He watches me with wary, shuttered midnight eyes.
I fall to my knees, and his expression flashes with such surprise, my heart breaks. I put my hands on his thighs and peer up at him.
He seems transfixed by me.
I wet my lips. “You know what I think?”
He shakes his head. “I have no idea.”
I lever myself up, so our faces are close and slide my palms over his hair-rough skin. “That I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”
His brows draw in. “Jessica…don’t.”
“Yes.” I grip his chin and pull him to me, brushing my lips against his. “Don’t you understand how rare you are?” I thread my hands through his hair, nipping at his mouth. “What a miracle it is that you became the type of man you are?”
“I’m not—” he groans when the tip of my tongue slips along the seam of his lips, and as if he can’t help himself, he pulls me from the floor “—good.”
“That’s okay,” I whisper, straddling his hips. “I don’t need you to be good.” I rub against the length of his burgeoning erection. “I’m not good either.”
“Jessica.” My name is reverent as he slides his hands over the curve of my ass.
“Thank you for trusting me, Charlie.” I push at his chest, so he falls flat against the mattress. “Let me show you how grateful I am.”
And I do.
Until the haunted look is gone.
Until he falls into a peaceful sleep beside me.