Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Raven
Declan leaves by himself after the briefing session.
Not sure how I feel about that. I’ve almost got used to him being around, and he’s still injured. Stronger, yes, but… I feel responsible for his welfare. He got shot because of me.
But as I take an Uber back to my apartment, another realization insidiously sneaks its way into my mind. He was just getting well enough to be… fully mobile again. And now he’s left me.
Why does that feel like a rejection?
Damn Declan Hale. Damn my own hangups on abandonment.
Monday, I wake up to an empty bed. Putter around the apartment a bit, feeling out of sorts.
I text him to see how he’s doing, asking if he’s all right. He is, so that’s… good, I suppose.
At least he replied.
But why isn’t he here, then?
Another text comes in from him.
Took a shower this morning, all by myself. Totally clean, all over. If you needed to lick anywhere.
I know exactly what he’s referring to.
Bastard.
Yet it makes me smile—when I think back on it. After I’ve finished blushing.
Taking a run lets me work out some sexual frustration.
That’s not something I ever had to do before Declan Hale came into my life.
It helps a bit, but when I get back his bike is there.
My heart stutters then beats more wildly, and it takes three or four seconds before I realize that of course his fucking bike is there.
He didn’t take it with him, and it was there when I left.
Stupid, stupid.
I stare at it a moment, then go up and shower, before digging out my spare chain and attaching his bike to my ground anchor. Send him a text that I did. His ‘Thanks, Hellcat’ feels good, and yet… a little neutral?
I’m reading everything into a two-word text.
What am I expecting? Little flower petals around the words? Him taking an Uber over here, showing me himself how grateful he is?
It’s a simple task. Chaining his bike to a post.
Not like I’d want him to chain me to a post.
Fuck. Why did my mind go there?
I’ve got it bad.
“Do you love him?” Tasha asked me.
No… not with all the secrets he’s still keeping from me. How can I love someone I don’t fully know?
But lust? Sure. Who wouldn’t? Especially having seen him naked so often. Knowing what he can do with his tongue… his hands… his cock.
Fuuuuuuuck. I need another shower.
Love might be a step too far, but I can’t deny I’m drawn to him.
Am I even capable of love? With my twisted religious upbringing? With one relationship after another proving to be the worst successive mistakes of my life?
It must be me that’s the problem. Declan has made it clear how he feels. He hasn’t said those three little words, but he did allude quite clearly…
“You ever been married, Mister Hale?”
“No. But… if I were to be, I could sure do a hell of a lot worse.”
I rub my hand over my face. The more I think of it, the less that sounds clear, the more it sounds like general politeness. Meaningless and throwaway.
Right?
I didn’t ask him for that reason, anyway. I asked because of the woman in Thousand Oaks.
He hasn’t been married… doesn’t mean the kid’s not his.
Fuck.
I asked him when he last had sex, and he said two years and four months. What I should’ve asked him is if he had sex… that kid was what, six years old?
Hi, Declan. Did you have sex six years and nine months ago?
Yeah. Because that wouldn’t be weird or anything.
Tuesday, Caleb calls.
It’s so unusual I answer in alarm. “What is it? What’s happened? Is Dad okay?”
“Chill, Snotnose,” he drawls. “I was calling to check in on you. See how you’re doing with that man you’re fixated on. Want to sob over the phone to me?”
I switch the phone to my other ear and roll my eyes.
“One, I’m not fixated on him.” Liar. “Two, I don’t sob when I cry.
” True. Weird, but there we go. Sob for other reasons…
Declan-related reasons. “Three, maybe I had a snotty nose when I was a child, but there’s a reason I call you asswipe, and it’s as true now as it’s always been. ”
“Be nice to me, or I’ll get Dad to invite you back for his birthday in September.”
“You wouldn’t stoop so low.”
“Want to bet?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “So spill. Have you moved on, or is he going down on you right this minute?”
I close my eyes, revolted that it’s my brother’s words putting images of Declan into my head, yet here I am, responding anyway. “You are sick. Get some help.”
“Excellent,” he replies. “That means you’re still fixated on him. When do I get to meet him?”
“Never. He has more tattoos than I do. A skull on his chest, ink on his hands. Hell, he even has some on his neck and the sides of his head. Can you imagine our dear mother covering that up when we go to church?” I pause.
“What am I thinking? I’ll ask him if he’s free next weekend. Give the old bat a heart attack.”
Caleb chuckles. “KaeLynn will want to meet him too. She hasn’t stopped talking about your tats.”
“Oh? Is she going to get some of her own?”
My brother’s voice drops low. “What makes you think she doesn’t have some already?”
Good Mormon girl like her? That, I very much doubt. “Are you just calling for gossip?”
“Of course. That’s what siblings do.”
I wouldn’t know. We’ve spoken more in the last two weeks than in the last six years.
When I finally get Caleb off the phone, I busy myself working on my bike.
But there’s nothing that really needs doing; I did it all before the job.
Instead, I spend a little time working on his.
The front brake pads are low. Not dangerously, but in need of a change.
I send him another text, wondering if I’m pestering him too much.
His response is pointed: They might be worn, but they’re willing.
My face flames at another deliberate reference to him overhearing that conversation.
I’m never going to live it down. He’ll never let me.
Later that morning, the new mattress I’ve ordered arrives, and I have fun cutting off its compressing vacuum packing, and watching it inflate on my bed. Very cool. Small things bringing me pleasure, without needing to be pinned down. Real progress, win for me, personal growth.
I text him to let him know how much it cost and that it’s blood-free, smiling as I hit send.
His reply comes quickly. If I pay for it, I own it. And what happens on it, Hellcat.
He’s not just referring to the mattress; the implication isn’t subtle. Own it. Own me.
Or maybe that’s just my interpretation, and he meant nothing more than a playful comment.
I only glance at that text every hour or so, and it gives me tingles each time.
Tuesday evening, I’m sitting on the couch eating dinner by myself, a film on, and I can’t remember a damn thing of the last twenty minutes of it.
Why isn’t he here?
I pick up my phone, bite my lip, and send a text. Are you up to full strength yet?
For a ride you mean?
I think of the bikes at first, and the real meaning hits a second later. I start typing a response, delete it. Another, but it’s no good either. One innuendo, and my mind runs in circles. The text I settle on is simple, but effective: You’re the worst, asshole.
You can’t judge until you’ve licked it.
Utter. Bastard.
I send him a middle finger emoji, and throw my phone down on the couch.
And great, now I can’t think of anything but licking his goddamn ass.
Never done that before. Obviously.
It’s never appealed. Obviously.
He did it to me, and he does have a very nice ass. I’ve seen it naked so often that I can just picture it, imagine my hands on it, spreading it…
Fuck. Stop!
I take a shower, turning it cold for a full minute before I step out, gasping, then go to bed.
It hasn’t helped. I still lie there for far too damn long before I reach into the drawer of my nightstand for my battery-powered friend, all the wrong images filling my mind as I bring myself to a crashing release.
In post-orgasmic clarity, I know what he wants: for me to come to him.
It’s a power game.
Bastard.
Is it, though?
He did spend a week here. Maybe he needs space. No… maybe he’s giving me space. Maybe he feels he took advantage, and can’t intrude.
His voice plays in my memory. “I’ll get an uber back to my place. Give you some peace.”
So going to him isn’t a power move. I’m being stubborn unnecessarily. He’s not keeping me away, he’s keeping himself away.
With that mental gymnastics successfully achieved, sleep finally comes.
Wednesday, I’m in a good mood, feeling so alive. The day’s beautiful. I go for another run and it’s fulfilling, anticipation surging through me with everything I do.
Tonight, I’m going to see him again. And he doesn’t even know it.
This relationship may not be based on love—if it ever will be—but I see no reason not to base it on sex. Not when it’s so damn good. Not when his body is… godly.
That evening, I spend a while in the shower, using my razor blade, making sure I’m smooth everywhere. Men like that, right? Nothing says pin me down and fuck me like a nice silky pussy.
That’s a spectacularly obscene thought. Where the hell did it come from?
But the worst bit is I don’t care. Screw my stupid Mormon upbringing and my stupid past relationships. I’m embracing the new me, making it mine, making me powerful.
And that brings an idea.
Maybe I won’t turn up on my bike, in leathers that are just so damn awkward to remove in the heat of the moment. I’ll wear something else. Something sexy, something he’ll appreciate. Leaving no doubt.
I open my closet, flicking through. Jeans, tops, two spare pairs of leather riding pants.
Lingerie? None. Skirts? None. Nice dresses? Not really. Not that aren’t rimmed with virginal lace, anyway.
Yeah, because nothing says ‘fuck me now’ than looking like a walking chastity belt.
I slam the door shut in frustration. It’s already seven thirty. I don’t have time to go shopping.
Seems my go-to is my only option, and that’s a sad reflection on my life. Leather pants, leather jacket, and he’ll have to peel them off me again.