Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Gaines
I read over the text I just typed out and then press send.
Gaines: Her eyes are the color of the sky when the clouds have cleared.
Her response is almost instant.
Eloise: But it was her lips. Oh, those red-stained lips. They charmed him so.
I step onto the subway platform a block from Eloise’s apartment with her poetry book tucked under my arm.
I didn’t have to look at it to know what poem I’d find on page forty-two or the first line of it, which I sent to her just now.
I own this book too, although mine isn’t a first edition, and I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the poet whose name I’ve adopted for what I do in the dark and the burgeoning light of the day as I did this morning with my lamb.
I toss my head back to chase away the lingering image of that picture tucked in Eloise’s nightstand.
She didn’t have time to hide it after I arrived at her place in the middle of the night, so that offers a small degree of comfort. It was stuck in that drawer before that.
Still, I have no claim to her, and as angry as I was when I fucked her, it was incredible. It was so goddamn intense that my legs are still shaking.
She makes me weak in a way I can’t afford to be, but the thought of never touching her again makes me fear I’ll collapse.
As the train approaches, my phone chimes.
I drop my gaze to it and chuckle.
Eloise: Be honest. Did you have to look in the book to recite the first line of the poem? No judgment here, sir.
My reply is on its way to her before the train slows to a stop.
Gaines: You know I didn’t. I should punish you for questioning my love of Garin’s work.
By the time I’ve settled on a torn leather seat amid a crowd of New Yorkers all rushing somewhere, her response has hit my phone.
Eloise: Or I could just keep questioning it and make you ANGRY because that fuck was out of this world.
My cock stirs inside my jeans as I read it once and then again.
I was angry when I fucked her, and I sure as hell hate that whoever the guy is in that photo likely has had his hands on her, too.
“Oh, my,” a woman says from my left. “You must be a lot of fun.”
“Jesus,” I whisper.
People in this city need to keep their eyes to themselves and off of other people’s phones.
I finally glance at her. She’s blonde with a low cut blouse on and a leather briefcase sitting on her lap. She holds out a business card. “I don’t know if this is classified as a meet cute, but I’m game to see where it goes.”
I laugh that off as I wave a hand in refusal. “I’m good.”
“Judging from that text, you’re better than good, and I can be bad if it involves the right punishment.”
I turn my phone screen toward my lap even though it’s gone dark. “I’m not looking for anything.”
She nods. “Fair enough, but do you have a brother?”
I let out a chuckle. “No brothers.”
“My loss.” She flashes me a smile. “I hope the rest of your day is as good as last night was.”
Last night was shit. Mr. Brokenshire’s heart stopped beating twice, and that meant I had to scrub in and stand watch while Logan operated on his burns.
I witnessed a man I hate save a life, and then I walked away without a word of thanks to him.
The train slows as we approach the next stop.
“This is me,” the blonde announces. “Last chance to take your anger out on me, Garin.”
My head snaps to the left to look at her. “What?”
Have I fucked her? Does she somehow recognize me from the club?
“It’s that book in your hand.” She laughs. “That name sort of suits you and you look like you could be a poet. The messy hair, the scruffy jaw, swollen lip, and those tattoos. It’s a look. It’s a damn hot look.”
I rub a finger over my bruised lip. “My name’s not Garin.”
It is, but only to one woman. I never want to hear another utter that name to me again.
She exits the train without another word or another glance from me, and I continue to the stop closest to my apartment so I can shower and get to doing what I do best – burying the unspeakable pain from my past beneath my profession.