40. LINC
FORTY
LINC
“Maybe you guys should watch a movie.”
The suggestion lingers in the air, running alongside all the other information Paige and Ellis just talked about—but the fact sticking to the front of my mind is that Paige is planning to leave.
Which of course was always going to happen —needs to happen— but I’m not ready yet.
Her wide blue eyes finally leave Ellis’s exit route and drift back over to me. We stand for a few seconds, just staring. Talking may still be a struggle, but staring at her is easy. Always has been.
The blue waves of her hair are billowing around her pretty face. The icy color of the strands look brighter against the oversized dark blue flannel she’s still wearing.
My eyes drift to her wrists again—the bracelets and lace peeking out from the bottom of the sleeve.
A flash of raw cuts along her skin, her small wrists bound with blood running down her arm, hits me suddenly and I wince.
“I guess I should—” she starts to say, but I cut her off.
“Do you w-wanna watch a movie?” I blurt out, still tensing from the vision.
But disturbing images aside, I’m not ready for her to leave yet. The room. The house. I just want to be near her for as long as I can.
As long as I can, I reaffirm silently.
She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, but then her mouth lifts —almost a smile. A moment passes before she says, “Sure.”
Okay. So. I panicked.
Paige went to the kitchen to make us each a drink—apparently she wasn’t partaking in a dry night like Ellis, and I sure as fuck needed a drink. Especially since the movie I picked is over three hours long.
Yep. In a brain spasm, I found the first movie title I recognized —one I knew she liked— and clicked on it.
And that movie is fucking Titanic.
But she smiled when it started to play, so . . . it was worth it.
I remind myself of this again, as I’m acutely aware of any movement she makes on the other side of the couch. I can’t be certain how far into the movie we are, because I’ve pretty much been watching her from the corner of my eye since we started it. I’ve even found a backup route to look at her if I feel like I’m being too obvious.
The big windows to the night sky are on the other side of me, so even when I turn my face away, I can still see her just behind me in the reflection of the window, the moon in front of me.
My eyes bulge when I see her face turn toward mine in the reflection. “Are you okay?” she asks quietly and my chin whips back over in her direction.
Did she notice me watching her?
Jesus. Not creepy at all.
But she doesn’t look freaked out—in fact, she’s closer than she was before and the realization starts a fierce rush through my veins.
Before— she was fully on the right-most cushion and now she’s sitting on the cushion directly next to me.
Thankfully, I had the foresight to keep one hand in my pocket.
I take a breath as I fiddle the penny between my fingers, trying to reel myself back in. I’ve long since finished my drink, but the urge to get up and make another one is strong.
But God, fuck, her smell. It captures me in its cloud once again. The spice to her scent is extra strong, making me wonder if she put on some of that cinnamon chapstick she used to wear.
Her lips.
That’s definitely the wrong thing to be thinking about, but of course, my eyes fucking linger on her plump rosy lips. My thumb runs over the penny in my pocket—dissatisfied with the bumpy outline of Abraham. My fingers twitch with a need to reach out and cradle the soft skin along her jaw, brush her bottom lip with my thumb—maybe even run the pad along her lower row of teeth.
Feel her.
But her soft smile steals my eyes from the more carnal thoughts when she says, “It’s about to be the best part.”
I blink, my mind zooms back out—away from her lips.
The movie. She’s talking about the movie.
Reluctantly, I pull my eyes from her, and aim them up at the screen instead. The tension I’ve been holding releases a bit, loosening my shoulders, as I see what part of the movie she’s talking about. My lips twitch and then stretch up my cheeks.
The third class party. Where Jack attends a dinner in first class, then invites Rose to the “real party” below deck.
It was our favorite part.
Paige and I saw this when we were young, but we always recognized that if we had been on the Titanic, we likely would have been down in third class. And their parties were infinitely cooler. Pissed Ellis right the fuck off.
An amused huff pushes through my nose. I focus on the screen, allowing myself to get used to her proximity, the familiarity of the movie, and slowly, I feel myself settling in.
We’re watching Titanic. That’s it.
And if we’ve made it to this part of the movie, then we’re at least an hour into it.
A pang strikes in my chest, and my fists tighten at my sides. It’s a good thing, I remind myself. Just two more hours. I’m already dancing with disaster just like Kate and Leo on the screen.
I sigh heavily, watching. I’ve been playing too heavily with my delusions—reckless territory. I know well and good that I won’t be ready for her to leave two hours from now, when the movie ends. I won’t be ready tomorrow, two days —two years.
I wasn’t ready to leave her the first time.
The thought twists in my stomach, and my weight shifts. Paige fidgets a bit too, and my brain becomes hyper-aware of how easily I can feel her weight adjusting on the cushion next to me.
She’s so fucking close and I’m literally trying to trick my brain —pretend that I have anchors holding my arms. But nothing can make it past the fucking need I have to pull her into me—onto my lap.
Hold her so tight she embeds herself into the emptiness her absence left. My key.
She’s in a slightly curled position next to me on the couch. It would take almost nothing to . . .
Holy fuck. I think I’m hallucinating.
I must be. Because without warning, Paige is climbing onto my lap. A knee on each side, facing me. Images of her in this exact position zip through my mind. In the front seat of my truck. Backstage. In her bed. In mine.
“Wh-What are you doing?”
Her mouth tilts, modestly. “You keep . . . looking. I thought I’d make it easier.” Her frosty blue waves are pulled to one shoulder, displaying the gorgeous column of her neck—my own experience knows of the hidden trove of freckles behind her ear.
But then what she said fully registers. “You keep looking.”
She noticed. I mean, I’m sure it was pretty goddamn obvious—my eyes had a backup route, for fuck’s sake.
“Do you want me to move?” she asks.
God, no. My hands latch onto her hips and a grunt pushes past my lips at the contact. Goddamn, she feels so fucking good. So warm.
“I’ll take that as a no,” she says with a small smirk and God, I want to kiss her. How is it possible that our kiss in the kitchen was just this morning?
The memory has a strange duality of feeling far and near. Her full lips took mine. Her warm mouth met and matched my greedy need with every lick and bite.
My already hardening dick becomes rock solid. I can feel it below my pants and suddenly, I’m aware she can likely feel it too since she’s on my lap.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Other than a deep inhale, she doesn’t seem to draw any attention to it, and her blue eyes have me captive, staring down at me.
The night sky out the window and the television are the only light in the room, giving her various blue hues a soft glow. “Will you talk to me?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
There’s a quiet desperation to her tone that I wasn’t expecting—a sadness—like I’ve been keeping something from her.
My subconscious barks a humorless laugh at its own stupid thought, and my eyebrows pinch, trying to think of how to respond, but then she says, “Ellis told me I have to be careful. And I want to be, I don’t wanna—” she stops herself again, shaking her head.
Ellis told her to be careful?
Of course he did. And he should. He knows what I did. Why he’s left us alone together at all is fucking bizarre, but if I had to guess I’m sure it’s because Paige told him she could handle it. Handle me.
And there was a time when I believed that to be true.
I swallow hard, outlining the words in my head, then say, “Th-There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing that will change what happened.”
Paige’s eyebrows slope and her head shakes. “Will you tell me what you remember?”
“God—” I croak out, using my grip on her waist to lift her off of me and put her down beside me as gently as I can. As soon as I let go of her I scrub my hands up and down my face.
Her question s till lingers in the air as my eyes finally peek out from behind my hands, her gaze waiting. Determined. I shake my head and my eyes fall to the floor again. “Pip, please don’t make me say it.”
The featherlight touch of her fingers on my shoulder makes me jerk and push to stand, suddenly, pacing away—farther from her, but she follows.
“Stop!” I bark and she does, but the hurt expression on her face nearly kills me. “I’m sor—I’m sorry.”
“Stop,” she says back, but unlike my desperate plea, there’s an unmistakable command to her voice, and my eyes snap to hers. Her gaze is lit with a fury I’ve only seen once and it straightens my spine. She walks toward me, slowly. “Stop apologizing and tell me what you remember,” she says, her jaw clenched.
I breathe heavily, trying to let some oxygen keep me here. Breathing the air here. But this conversation is set to completely annihilate me, and I can feel it in my spotty vision.
It’s a specific pain—one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Having to convince someone you love —the person you hurt— that you hurt them. After everything else, it’s an agony I’m unprepared for.
I shake my head, looking at the words in my mind, hating myself as I find a concise way to give her what she’s asking for.
When I see the words, my stomach rolls, and my voice punches out, “I s-snapped. I held you down, tore off your underwear, and then—” I gag. I haven’t eaten much today, so luckily it’s a dry heave because to puke in front of her after spewing that shit would really rub salt in the wound.
“No, Linc,” she says quickly. Quietly. She reaches out toward me, but she doesn’t touch me. It’s probably a good thing, but I also find myself yearning for her to close the distance.
My eyes flick to the purple lace peeking out from beneath the flannel at her wrists.
And just like that, she lifts her hand, and places it lightly on my shoulder.
Like she’s back in my head.
Not that I’m sure she ever left.
I don’t wince or flinch. I feel. I feel her.
She says, “You’re missing some parts. I . . .” She shakes her head and a sickly color takes over her face. She glances down at the floor, then looks back up at me.
My eyes search hers. She has that look I recognize. The one where she wants me to read her mind—but I can’t. I fucking can’t figure it out right now, and it only loosens the reins on my meager bit of control.
Finally, she clears her throat, but her voice still cracks as she says, “I have a copy of it. On a flash drive.”
My heart drops. Air, gone. My eyes blink rapidly.
She’s seen it?
She has it?
She’s watched it?
The questions crash with the wave of visions that rush forward of screams and moans—tears and pain. Holding her down. Hurting her.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
Blackness creeps in from the edges of my vision.
Paige, go! Go!
Did I say that out loud?
I think I tell her to run. I hope I tell her to run.
Because suddenly, I feel a cold, familiar darkness cloud my vision.