Chapter 34
Dominic
We spend one more day at the dude ranch before we set off for Tombstone. Ninety minutes southeast, the Town Too Tough To Die promises a Wild West atmosphere and gunfight reenactment.
Yesterday, during some downtime between morning ax throwing and the afternoon falconry demonstration, I compiled a road trip playlist.
It was a huge miss not to have one ready for the drive down from Phoenix. No road trip is complete without a playlist.
The music is queued up and ready to go the moment we pull out of the dude ranch. My finger hovers over the play button, but I think better of it. I have an idea.
"Have you ever kept a journal?" I ask Cecily. Not gonna lie, she doesn't seem much like the journal type.
Cecily's hands clasp and she holds them next to her face, her expression taking on a dreamy quality. "Dear Diary, yesterday Satan's Errand Boy kissed me."
We're back to the original nickname. We have been since yesterday.
It doesn't take a rocket scientist, or even someone with above average intellect, to know what Cecily is doing.
Pushing me away. Because in Cecily land, anything is better than letting me get close.
Or, said better, than letting herself get close.
I deepen my voice as we return on the dirt road we traveled over two days ago. "Dear Diary, last night Chestnut moaned in relief when she took off her bra."
Cecily pokes my shoulder. "Who is Chestnut?"
"You."
"I like Menace."
"I'm sure you do. But I need another name for you."
"Cecily works just fine."
We come to a four-way stop, and since nobody else is around, I take my time, reaching over and fingering a handful of her dark, shiny hair. "Chestnut it is."
She grumbles, something that sounds like so fucking annoying, but that woman likes her new nickname. The rising corners of her lips give her away.
"I do not moan in relief when I take off my bra."
A vehicle approaches from behind, and I make my way through the stop.
"You did last night," I point out.
"I'm not positive you are right, but let's say, hypothetically speaking, you are. If I made such a noise, it was due to all the activity yesterday. Ax throwing and underwire do not go together."
"Help me understand the negative relationship between the two."
Cecily's arms cross. She stares out the window.
The moments pass, and I say, "That's what I thought."
"You didn't think anything. Your brain is too small."
For a man who had such a cutting remark tossed his way, I'm grinning broadly. Cecily doesn't mean it. "A journal"—extra emphasis on the word—"might be something you'd enjoy reading later. After the trip is over."
"After my grandma is gone, you mean."
I wince. "I was trying not to say it quite like that, but yes."
Cecily is quiet, tracing an unknown design on her thigh. "She was short of breath yesterday. Did you notice?"
"Yes." It's what prompted me to think about a journal. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. Obviously. But you're in a unique position. Even taking a note on your phone would suffice."
"True," Cecily says, a lone fingertip swirling over the fabric of her yellow pants.
They are paired with a small top, something that shows off an inch of her midsection when she's standing.
"Sometimes loved ones die suddenly, and you don't get to say goodbye.
Or I love you." Her voice softens. "Or thank you.
" She looks at me. "Has anybody you loved ever died suddenly? "
"No. I have very little experience with death.
" Other than what's happening now, anyway.
To be here, firsthand witnessing a family scrambling to get their act together as their matriarch prepares to leave them behind, is an honor.
Mostly. It's weighing on me, too, on a much lesser scale. "What about you?"
"Not really. Maybe tangentially, when I was younger. Growing up in Olive Township, a friend of Duke's lost his father. He was murdered, and the crime went unsolved until recently."
The story sounds familiar, and then I remember why.
"My parents watched the news when that happened.
It was all over every channel." Specifically, I recall sitting in the nurse's office and seeing it on the small TV that sat on the corner of her desk.
It was the first time I understood such violence could take place outside of a book, fiction or otherwise.
"I was too young to understand it, but I grew up alongside the family. I watched how it devastated them." Cecily resumes tracing her thigh. "A journal is a good idea. Thank you, Dom, for suggesting it."
My eyebrow crooks. "Are we back to Dom?"
Cecily presses her fingertips to her mouth, making an oops face. "My apologies, Satan's Errand Boy."
Two steps forward, one step back.
The last time I said that to Cecily, she informed me it meant I was still making progress. She was right.
I have never expended maximum effort for half the reward. Yet, here I am with Cecily, eager to net a single step of progress. I don't care how much work it takes. How much work she is. I want it. I want her.
Maybe it's crazy. Maybe I'm insane. What I know more than anything is that I cannot tell her, not yet. Cecily's priority must be her grandmother. Her family.
And there it is. The second reason I came on this road trip.
I knew Cecily would need a friend, even one she loathed.
What I think I hid, even from myself, was that I needed to be that friend.
I could not, would not, allow anybody else to take that spot.
I could have given her that annulment. Quite simply, I didn't want to. My heart knew what my brain did not.
I want the woman sitting beside me.
I chance a glance at her now, the dark hair that slips over her shoulders, the way her teeth strum at her lower lip.
Our eyes meet briefly before I turn back to the road. "Are you ready for that playlist I made yesterday?"
"I reserve the right to veto."
"I reserve the right to block your veto."
She huffs, pretending like this irritates her.
It doesn't, and I know it. Everything about her demeanor has shifted, even if her words are as sharp as ever.
Her arms are not crossed in front of her, a place where they were previously glued.
Her shoulders no longer hover near her ears, back muscles bunched and ready for a fight.
I hit the play button on my phone, and the first song on my carefully curated playlist fills the car. The rowdy notes bounce around, the song easy to identify.
"Viva Las Vegas" by Elvis Presley.
Cecily rolls her eyes. "Veto." She taps my phone screen, and I press my lips together because I know what's coming.
"Marry You" by Bruno Mars.
"Dom!" Cecily leans on the center console. Her face is a few inches from my arm. I can't look, I'm too busy navigating the road. I feel her eyes. Her breath. And then she bites me, teeth sinking into the outside of my bicep, not hard enough to cause real pain, but it takes me by surprise.
Bruno Mars croons about getting married, then waking up and breaking up.
Cecily isn't biting down anymore, but her lips are still on me. "I'm not sure why I did that," she murmurs against my arm. "It was"—a long pause—"Oh."
I don't have a hope of hiding it this time.
"You like being bitten?" Cecily asks. She sits back in her seat, positioning her body so she can partially face me.
"Not historically, no." Not before you. "Do you like biting?"
There's a hitch in her breath, and she says, "Not historically, no."
The car cabin is too small for me to do any effective adjusting to the front of my pants, but I give it a go.
"Oof," I grunt, when I hit my head on the hard top. "Awesome," I mutter, sulking. "I guess we're 2-0 on the physical response scale."
"We-ell, maybe not."
The exit for Tombstone comes up, and I navigate the car onto the next road in our journey. It's paved and deserted, cacti growing wild on both sides. "Keep talking," I instruct.
Cecily's lips vibrate as she blows out a reluctant breath. "I told you that you were due recompense—"
"Your exact words were 'violent lady boner'."
"Did you get that tattooed somewhere on you?"
"Keep talking, Chestnut."
"Where did Chestnut come from?"
"Your hair color. Now, stop trying to change the subject."
She's back to tracing designs on her thigh. "I currently have a violent lady boner."
I glance at the apex of her thighs. I can't help it. "Lucky for you, nobody would know."
I really should receive a commendation medal of some sort for keeping my voice steady. It's no easy task when every part of me is screaming to go on an hours-long tour of Cecily's body.
"This sucks," Cecily pouts, crossing her legs. "We're married, but we can't have sex because consummating the marriage means we can't get an annulment."
Bruno Mars stops singing about getting married. The next song begins, and now Riley Green sings about wanting someone in the worst way.
Cecily smirks. "Fitting."
"Cecily Menace Chestnut Hampton, did you just say you want to sleep with me?"
She bites down on her lower lip. "I do believe that's what I was getting at."
My heart lodges in my throat. The side of my thumb taps the steering wheel. My brain trips over itself thinking of the way she just said that, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "This is a conundrum."
"The thing is, I don't know if I'm going to survive eighteen more days of this." She motions between our bodies. "It's possible I'll spontaneously combust."
I can't imagine a person more in need of a release than Cecily. A little relief of the pressure valve inside her would be beneficial, possibly for everybody.
An idea strikes. "How about you tell me when you're nearing combustion, and I'll make sure it doesn't happen?"
"How could you possibly—"
I turn up the music. Drown her out. She bites back a smile.
I like the idea of Cecily sitting there, thinking about how I'll keep her from combusting.