Chapter 9
Blakelyn
He doesn’t come back to bed after we get completely lost in each other… again. He got up and went outside and I said nothing, letting him have his space.
I fell asleep alone and slept fitfully, then, woke up still alone.
I stay for hours in the warm tangle of sheets that smell like river water and sweat and him, listening to every sound—each groan of the floorboards, every shift of wind through the cypress trees outside the screen window but he doesn’t come back.
Somehow, that says more than anything he’s said out loud.
He did leave a note on his pillow. Just one word.
Stay.
I did. I’m still here but not because he asked.
I stay because I need to. Because I want to believe what we just did—what we keep doing—means something to him, too… even if he can’t say it… even if he won’t say it.
I must have fallen asleep. The screaming of the kettle wakes me. The front door is wide open with only the screen door between the cabin and the woods.
Wrapping the sheet around me, I walk to the door. He’s outside, bare-chested in work-worn jeans and boots, slamming something heavy into the ground with his back to me. A post driver. The way his shoulders flex with each pound sends heat down my spine, but it’s muted now. Distant.
He left me asleep in his bed and he hasn’t looked back at me once… not even to see if I’m still here.
I pull on his t-shirt and nothing else, and step outside, barefoot, my hair still knotted from sleep, and he finally glances over.
There it is —that flicker. That something in his eyes that makes me feel like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff and doesn’t know whether to jump or run.
He doesn’t speak.
Walking to the railing, I grip it with both hands, the wood sun-warmed and splintered beneath my fingers. “I stayed.”
He nods, jerkily, only once. “I saw.”
“That’s all?” I ask, unable to conceal the hurt I’m feeling.
His jaw flexes. “What do you want me to say, Blakelyn?”
I swallow. “Something real.”
He sets the post driver down with a heavy thud. His hands are dirty, his chest coated in the sheen of sweat, and still he looks like something carved out of stone. Beautiful and completely immovable.
“I left you a fucking note.” He exhales. “ That was real.” He’s staring at me.
“If you wanted me to stay, then, why did you leave?” I demand.
He throws the post in his hand to the ground and pulls at his hair with both hands. “Because if I didn’t… I wouldn’t have.”
My breath catches, but before I can respond, he turns, stalking toward the river. I know I’m not supposed to follow him. He doesn’t want me to.
I do it anyway.
The sun is climbing fast, already turning the air into something thick, heavy, and golden. He stands at the bank, his arms crossed, his eyes locked on the current like it might say something he’s not willing to.
“You keep doing that,” I say softly, stopping just behind him.
He doesn’t look at me. “Doing what.”
“Running. Guarding. Pretending this isn’t happening.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, and releases a laugh with no humor in it. “This isn’t a love story, sunshine.”
“You sure about that?” I immediately reply.
His head turns, finally, his eyes cut to mine. “I can’t give you what you want, Blakelyn.”
“I haven’t asked you for anything, Gruene.” I say quietly.
I haven’t. I haven’t asked you for a goddamn thing.
Because the second I do, you’ll go running scared and shove me away.
“That’s the problem.” He mutters.
We stand there, not touching, not speaking, just feeling the weight of everything pressing between us.
The way my chest rises and falls as though I’m standing in hurricane wind too strong to hold me up.
His eyes drop to my bare legs and his jaw tightens. His fists clench at his hips like he wants to rip the space between us to pieces. He doesn’t touch me. Instead, he steps back. It feels like a punch to my gut.
“Last night…” I start, but my voice catches.
He closes his eyes, then opens them and says, “I’m not good for you, Blakelyn. This…” He waves between us, “This cannot happen. There is no happily ever fucking after here. You make me feel alive. You make me want things I can’t want. I never should have touched you.”
I scream, “But you did! This is happening, Gruene. It’s too late to throw on the fucking brakes. The damn locomotive is running at full speed, and I never said I wanted a happily ever after.
“I make you feel ? Good! Because you make me feel, too. You make me want, too. I didn’t ask for this shit. But here we are. I should just leave.”
“Then why are you still here?” He rages.
“Because it’s terrifying not to be. Because as terrifying as staying is, leaving is even more terrifying, you fucking obstinate, enraging asshole!” I yell.
Well, shit.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t leave.
But something breaks in his expression—some wall that’s been holding for years…
since everything happened to him. His eyes soften, his jaw tightens, but his hands…
they open. When he says my name, it’s not a curse or a warning or a plea, “Blakelyn…” It’s a confession.
I take a step closer, he doesn’t back up.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “Not without fucking it up.”
“You’re doing a damn fine job at that.” I reply bluntly.
He flinches. Then, he steps back like I burned him.
I leave because if I stay one second longer, I’ll say things I can’t take back. I already said more than I wanted to, and I want him to want me without guilt in his eyes.
At my cabin, the message light on the landline blinks.
I play it. It’s the school. My principal.
She says someone called pretending to be my brother.
They left a message that there was a “family emergency” and needed to verify I’d be at orientation next week.
She said after our talk it raised alarm bells and that the man “sounded… off.” She wanted to notify me and to please call her back and also notify the sheriff.
My stomach twists but I call her back.
She tells me they didn’t give out details. But that I should consider updating my emergency contact list and reinforces that I need to call the sheriff.
I hang up slowly.
Tyler.
Fucking Tyler.
I sit on the edge of the bed, heart hammering, skin cold despite the heat.
Then, I pick up the phone.
And dial. The first call is short. The Sheriff says he’ll get a copy of the recording from the school and will be by after that to fill out the report.
Hanging up, I make another call. Gruene answers on the second ring.
“Yeah.”
“It’s me.”
A pause. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
Another pause. “What happened?”
“Tyler called the school.” His breath hitches, but he doesn’t interrupt. “He said he was my brother and tried to confirm I’d be there next week.”
“Did the school tell him anything?” He asks. I can hear him moving around. He’s at the shop.
“No. But it means he’s not done.”
“You’re safe here, Blakelyn.” He snaps.
“Am I?” I ask.
“You think I’d let anything touch you?”
You just told me you regretted touching me.
I close my eyes and breathe him in through the phone like it’s the only thing holding me together.
“No,” I whisper.
And I believe it. He might be all fucked up about me, but I think he’s serious about protecting me.
“Then, go to my cabin.” He says. “I’m going to tell Reece I’m leaving, and I’ll be right there.”
I walk through his front door, and sit on the couch, waiting for him. Four minutes later, he comes in. He braces his arms on the counter. His shirt is stuck to him because he clearly ran up here from the shop. And tension is rolling off him like heat off of pavement.
He watches me as he kicks his boots off and rips his drenched shirt over his head. He drops it into the hamper and reaches for a clean one.
I feel it… the shift… the weight… the choice.
I called him and he left work and ran up here… for me.
“Don’t…” He freezes and I nod at the shirt. “I need you,” I say.
Dropping it to the floor, he crosses the room. I stand.
He doesn’t stop until my back hits the wall. His mouth is on mine. His hands are in my hair, holding my face still, as his kiss tears the silence away one breath at a time.
We don’t rush. His lips cling to mine, his tongue sliding over my lips, seeking entrance.
I gasp, parting them and his tongue glides over mine.
Our kiss is an intimate dance that we never break as we strip the clothing from each other’s body.
His jeans pool on the floor, along with his boxer briefs and he kicks them off.
He gently pushes my shorts and panties over my hips, allowing them to glide down my legs, I kick them off, too.
He only breaks the kiss to lift the hem of my shirt.
My arms rise as he removes it, dropping it to the floor, too.
Every piece of clothing is a memory we’re shedding.
I unsnap my bra, and he slides it down my arms, revealing my chest to his hungry gaze.
He leans back and stares at me, his eyes feeling like a caress. Goosebumps form and I shiver.
Dropping to his knees in front of me like he’s praying, he cups my thighs. I shiver again, as he presses a kiss to the inside of my left thigh, and then, another to the inside of my right. He’s asking before he takes.
Threading my fingers into his hair, I guide him to my center. My back arches against the wall and my hips widen. Lifting my leg, he drapes it over his shoulder and when his mouth finds me—open, aching, ready —I moan like I’m breaking and pull him into my pussy.
He holds my thighs apart, groaning into me like he’s starving. His tongue moves slow and deep, licking, circling, and flicking against my clit until I’m shaking against the wall, crying his name into the room, “Gruene….” like it’s the only one I’ve ever known.
Using just his tongue on me, I come undone. His hand is on my hips. His other is holding me open for him, and his mouth is still devouring me through every wave. My orgasm coats his face as my knees wobble and my hips buck unto his tongue.