Chapter Sixteen #2
“It makes me feel too.” Even at eight years old, it had made him feel.
He watches me with a curiosity that should make me uncomfortable, stares like he’s trying to see something more than I want to show, but I don’t turn away.
“I went to my first symphony at the same age that you killed your first man. That makes me so sad for that boy all over again.”
People don’t often feel sad for me. They fear me, hate me, envy me, but don’t feel sad for me. At least, no one other than my friends when I lost Moira.
“Is it weird, Rian? That we share this? Our love of classical music and symphonies?”
“No,” I lie, forcing myself to turn away, trying to snap this hold he has on me like a twig, but it doesn’t break. “It doesn’t mean anything.” Another lie. But then I ask, “What are some of your favorites?”
Abbott doesn’t hesitate as he launches into his list. We talk music and composers while preparing chicken and baked potatoes to go into the oven.
Once it’s inside, Abbott makes us each a drink.
After another, “No bourbon,” from him—something he has said to me more than once over the last few days—we take our lemonade outside to sit on the porch.
Abbott talks about how much he loves string-led pieces and how the second movement of Gorecki’s “Number Three” is his favorite.
“It breaks your heart,” I tell him.
“Yes, it does,” Abbott replies after we fall into a few minutes of silence. “Am I supposed to still be here right now?”
He’s in a chair beside me, and I manage not to react to his question. As a whole, I’m very good at hiding my feelings, masking and not letting anyone know what I’m thinking, but I’ve found it’s hard with him.
“No,” I answer honestly.
“Will Conan kill me?”
“You shouldn’t know his name,” I say, even if it’s just a way to delay my response.
“You told me about Cillian and the others.”
“Because you won’t hurt my son,” I admit, not realizing how much I believed that until this moment. Abbott is a lot of things, but to him, he’ll think about Cillian being a child, raised in this violent world I’ve brought him into, and he won’t hurt him.
“No. I won’t.”
“And Conan won’t kill you. It’ll be me. I promise you that. And I’ll make it quick.”
I take a drink, waiting for him to tell me I don’t have to, that just like he won’t give them anything on Cillian, he won’t tell the authorities about me, or Conan. I wait for him to make promises and barter for his life, but Abbott doesn’t do that.
“Why don’t you ask me not to kill you?” I find myself saying when he doesn’t do what anyone else would do in his situation.
“Will it do any good?”
“No.”
“Then why waste my breath?”
He turns away, then drops his head back, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight filtering through the trees above.
“That’s not why.” I don’t know how I know it, but I do. It’s just another thing about Abbott, about my reaction to him—and hell, his reaction to me—that doesn’t make any sense.
“You can read my mind now?” Abbott cocks a brow.
“Maybe.”
“I don’t want to do this with you, Rian.” He closes his eyes, tilting his head back up to the sun again. Shafts of light splay across his face, his mouth slack and relaxed in a way it absolutely shouldn’t be.
His lips look so soft, plump. His jaw is so strong and cut, his lashes resting against his face in a way I’m surprised to notice.
My pulse thuds against my neck, like it’s too full, too quick, and could explode.
“Has anyone reported me missing yet?”
And by anyone, he means his father. How can the man not care about his son? Not care about Abbott? And what has he done to Abbott that he hasn’t shared with me?
“No.”
He’s quiet again, but his eyes are open now. He’s blinking up at the sky, maybe watching the clouds move by, or the trees move with the slight brush of wind.
“I’m thirty-eight years old. I’m a surgeon.
I’ve spent my life trying to heal people, and all I can think about is that I’ve been missing for over a week, and no one except my cheating ex-boyfriend has even noticed.
I don’t take time off work, yet they didn’t blink twice about my strange request for a leave of absence…
I have no real friends. Acquaintances, yes, but not friends.
I’ve been so wrapped up in my career and trying to be a better man than my father that I can go missing for over a week and no one notices or cares.
” He turns his head to the side, eyes pinched, a sad curve playing at his pretty lips.
“It’s a shitty realization to have right now. Who will even miss me when I’m gone?”
This might be the only time in my life that I’ve ever been speechless. Words refuse to come, my thoughts a chaos of fragments and fractured words and sentences that I can’t make sense of.
The one that keeps trying to break through, the one that I don’t want to face, is there, an echo getting louder and louder… I’ll miss you.
How can I miss a man I don’t know? Not really.
And why do I care about him, when I haven’t cared about someone new in so very long?
Not like this. Not for me. I care about Ollie because my son loves him.
I care about Dean because my nephew loves him.
Zuri, because of my niece, and Shai because of Rory.
I care about my family, but that’s it. No one has been able to break through the fortified exterior that formed around me when Moira died.
Why does he?
“I’m sorry. This isn’t like me—feeling sorry for myself this way. I don’t know what—”
“Shut up,” I say, then look down at my hands that are shaking. Why in the fuck are my hands shaking?
They’re shaking because I have to kill him.
I don’t want to kill him.
I’ll miss him.
I…want him, something else I haven’t done in so fucking long, I thought I’d forgotten how. Fucking isn’t the same as wanting, and it is want sprinting through my veins right now, that’s making my heart race and every fucking thing I’ve known about myself, thought about myself, splinter like wood.
“I—”
“Shut up,” I say again, shoving to my feet, unable to stop myself, not wanting to stop myself. “I’ll miss you.” The words are so soft, I’m unsure if I even spoke them out loud.
Before my brain catches up with the rest of me, I grab Abbott’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Tell me not to kiss you,” rushes past my lips.
“I…what?”
“Fucking tell me,” I grit out again. He needs to tell me. If he does, I won’t. I’ll walk away. I won’t do this unless he wants it too.
Abbott’s pupils blow wide before coming down to some conclusion I don’t know, not until he opens his mouth and says, “No.” I immediately deflate before he adds, “I’m not telling you no.”
Before either of us can acknowledge how bad of an idea this is, how fucked up the whole damn situation is, my mouth crashes down on his.
Abbott’s lips are firm at first, then just a second later, they soften, move against mine, and open when my tongue lashes against them, begging for entry.
I nearly sag in relief that he’s giving it to me, that this man who should hate me, and in some ways does hate me, is giving me this, wants to give me this.
He’s letting me taste him, moving his tongue against mine, slipping into my mouth too, in this sort of give and take—a dance we’re having together.
Kissing him feels different than anyone else I’ve had my mouth on before—the rasp of his stubble against my face, the masculine scent of him, the way his strong hands hold my waist, squeezing tightly.
I haven’t enjoyed a kiss since…I don’t want to think about that—not here, not now. Not with him. For this moment, I just want to feel and enjoy anything and everything Abbott will give me.