Chapter 20 #3
I have seen the way people attempt to control both life and death. I have seen them bargain and beg and cry when it comes to the end of their lives. I have seen them justify their misdeeds and try to convince my brothers that their sentence is unworthy.
But death is an inevitability. There is no escaping it, just as we have no control over our own birth.
I like things that are sure. That are ordered. I like things that don’t have gray areas and wiggle room. And that is probably why I like Denver so much. I know that sometimes he feels he is not enough, but the problem is he’s surrounded by people who are trying to be too much.
They’re running from who they are.
Denver has embraced himself for exactly who he is. He is a teacher. He is a man who wears feminine clothing and likes to perform as an alter ego. He is Deaf.
The fact that anyone ever made him feel like he was too little or too small makes me want to rage. To draw blood. To create physical scars to match the invisible ones they left behind on him.
Falling to my knees, I push my hands into the soil to make little holes for the runner beans and peppers that are ready to be planted.
I don’t like the feeling of dirt on my skin or under my nails, but for the moment, I want to feel connected to my task, and it’s easy to distract myself with how my little garden will look when it’s fully green and sprouting all the vegetables I have planted.
It helps that this is something I’ve always wanted and never had time for before we came here. We didn’t have the space, and my father thought it was best if I never had time to rest. I think he was always afraid of me when I was idle.
A lot of people see me as a loose cannon. I’ve heard him call me that more than once. He thinks I don’t have control of my impulses because I have meltdowns and because I don’t find it logical to hide the way I’m feeling.
“What are you planting?”
I startle at the sound of Denver’s voice. He steps up beside me and lays a hand on my upper back as he peers over my shoulder at the work I’ve done.
“Peppers,” I tell him and point to the row I just planted. “Bell peppers. Jalapenos. Serrano.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him cock his head as he observes.
“Runner beans.” I point to the other row. “And right here will be radishes.”
“In coffins.” It’s not really a question, but I can’t tell by his tone if it’s a statement.
I turn to study his expression. His cheeks are flushed and pretty, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue, but he looks happier. He looks less afraid than he has in the weeks that I’ve been watching.
“Are you surprised?” I ask.
“No,” he says, then bursts into laughter, covering his mouth with one hand. His eyes are bright, and it makes me feel happy and horny, and I want to pin him right here against the coffin garden and fuck him limp and breathless.
But I’m not sure he’s strong enough for that yet.
The last rays of the setting sun catch on the bruises marring his cheek, and I feel both turned on and furious at the hands that left them there. If anyone is going to mark his skin, it will be me.
He tilts his head again. “What are you thinking about?”
“Marking you,” I tell him. I brush my hands off on my jeans as I stand, but they don’t feel clean, which starts to bother me. I want to go wash off, but I also don’t want this moment to end. Reaching out, I draw a line over the bruising on his throat. “I want my marks on you. Not his.”
Denver takes a moment, and I’m not sure if maybe he didn’t catch what I said or if he’s processing. The right corner of his lips tilts up in a half smile. “It’s not the worst idea.”
I know that means he likes the thought. I step forward, and he backs up, one step after another after another, until his back is against the shed. I wonder if maybe he hates it. It is, after all, a place of violence.
But he doesn’t seem to care. His hands lift and press to my chest as he meets my gaze. Cupping his cheek, I let my fingers tap against his bruises, and then I drag them lower to the side of his neck where his skin is unblemished.
“Here.”
“A bite?”
I grin and nod. He knows me already. Leaning in, I lick a stripe over that spot, then use my teeth to tug on his ear. “Little rabbit, you make me want to chase you.”
“After my head feels better,” he whispers. “Maybe in the big cemetery. With the older headstones. You can fuck me over a grave and make up for leaving me.”
I shiver, knowing his words are meant to entice me and not make me feel guilty, which is good, because I don’t. Turning his head by the chin, I kiss him slowly and deeply, finding streaks of dirt on his jawline when I pull back. “Shower,” I tell him.
“And then home.”
I stare. “We are home.”
“My home,” he says.
Something ugly twists in my chest. I am not foolish enough to expect he’d want to move in with me forever.
Not yet. Though I can’t help but want to keep him all to myself, and I’m not above using dirty tactics to make that happen.
Besides, it’s far too soon for him to leave.
We’ve made no progress on finding who hurt him, and I can’t take the risk of him being on his own and left vulnerable.
His hand curls against the side of my neck. “Don’t make that face,” he whispers. I wonder if he means to be louder, but it doesn’t matter. “I’m not going to stay there. I just forgot a couple of things I need.”
“I brought everything you need.” I know I’m pouting now, but I don’t care.
He smiles and shakes his head. “Not everything.”
“I don’t want you going there.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m not afraid. And you’ll be with me. We can be quick.”
He has a point, and it does make me feel better that he doesn’t want to go by himself.
I open my mouth to agree, then close it as I become profoundly aware of the feeling of dirt on my skin and under my nails.
It’s all I can think about. It robs me of my speech for the moment, overwhelming my senses.
I usually like my brain, but sometimes it’s my own worst enemy.
‘Shower,’ I sign. ‘Need. Please.’
‘Okay,’ he signs back. ‘Go shower. Then my place.’
‘Then here-home after,’ I emphasize the sign, and he laughs softly and nods.
‘Yes. Here-home after.’
It means everything that he says it back.
After my shower, I find Denver at the table with Milo, looking over his cat portfolio. His CIs are off, so they’re using sign language, and Denver is helping him come up with bios for his new batch of strays that he’s captured.
Beside him is his go-bag—Milo’s word for it.
It’s not an actual go-bag. It’s not for him.
It’s for whoever his latest kidnapping target is.
Since we got here, it hasn’t made an appearance, but now he’s been showing interest in the veterinarian, and I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of Palmer soon.
I peer inside and find rope, duct tape, a blindfold, and what looks like several Polaroid photos of Palmer in his office. Milo’s usually a lot less subtle than I am, so getting these photos must have taken all of his concentration. I probably shouldn’t be proud of him for this, but I am.
He catches my gaze and gives me a look that tells me not to say anything, though I’m annoyed he won’t trust Denver with his plans. But I shrug and turn away, grabbing an apple from the counter and biting into it.
I’ve forgotten to eat again—a terrible habit of mine when I’m distracted, and Denver is very distracting.
I wave at him. ‘Food? You eat?’
‘Milo made me a quesadilla,’ he signs quickly.
I flush. I’m really shit at the feeding and caring of my boyfriend, and I need to make a list of things to remember because he’s not like me. And while I am profoundly aware that he has been taking care of himself just fine before we met, I want to be the one to do it now.
I walk over and hold the apple in front of his face.
He stares up at me.
‘Fiber,’ I spell. I don’t know if there’s a sign for that, but it doesn’t matter. He bursts into a gorgeous peal of laughter and puts his very polished, sharp teeth into my apple and tears off a bite.
It’s beautiful. Feral. Instinctual.
My chest puffs up as he chews, and I drag my fingers along his jawline, and his eyes start to close before Milo bangs his hand on the table, making us both jump.
I turn and narrow my eyes at him, ready to kill him for disturbing this moment.
‘We are busy,’ he says.
‘He is mine,’ I point out.
Milo puffs out his cheeks like a blowfish before letting all the air out, then stands up and slaps his hand over the cat bio book and drags it toward him. “Fine. I’m leaving.”
I start to interpret that for Denver, but it seems he caught what Milo said because he looks ashamed.
‘I told him I would help. That wasn’t very nice.’
‘Milo doesn’t deserve nice,’ I explain. ‘Trust.’
Denver stares at me, then gestures for me to finish eating the apple, so I do. I take it down in several quick bites and then take the core with me as I grab my keys and pull Denver toward the front door.
Tossing the apple, I grin as he lifts a brow at me. ‘For the other rabbits.’
His cheeks go scarlet, and I know the heat in them would taste delicious against my tongue, but there’s no time for that now.