CHAPTER 4
How does one let go of the need to do unto others as they’ve done unto you?
I dig through my bag for the hotel room key, my fingers clumsy, unsteady.
When I finally get a hold of it, it slips from my grasp and clatters to the floor.
My hands are shaking as I bend down to snatch it up.
It takes three tries before I manage to jam the key card into the lock.
I push the door open and stumble inside, slamming it shut behind me.
I lean my forehead against the door, eyes squeezed tight, and let go of all the emotion I’ve caged in. I clench my fists until my nails dig painfully into my palms.
His voice— his motherfucking voice —a low tenor like a slow whirl of smoke, a velvety caress to the ear. The husky edge to each word and how it sent a kindling of warmth through me, like a finely aged Cognac after the most brutal day.
My memory of his voice didn’t do it justice.
And yet, his first words to me stabbed brutally and twisted a knife deeper, splitting old wounds wider. The poison they carry spreads like venom through my bloodstream.
“Have we met before?”
That fucking asshole.
I force down the sickening churn of nausea, trying to purge the toxic animosity clawing its way up my throat.
I need to get myself under control.
But God … I didn’t think he could hurt me more than he already had. Turns out, I was so fucking wrong.
I kick off my heels, sending them skittering across the room, and make my way to the bathroom.
My palms press into the cold marble as I lean over the sink, staring hard at my reflection in the mirror.
The lovesick teenager stares back—older now, her edges sharpened by time, yet still haunted by that same face and those old scars.
Nose. Lips. Cheeks. Chin. The beautiful shell, nothing but a winning DNA lottery ticket.
Maturity has reshaped me, but not enough to erase the girl I used to be.
The lovesick teenager who grew the hell up.
I remind myself that he’d just lost his father.
He needed comfort, someone to bear the weight of his grief with him.
And then he’d stumbled upon me, in my own dire straits—a damsel that a soldier like him probably felt compelled to help.
Sure, we’d connected. We were both going through heavy shit, probably some of the darkest moments of our lives.
But I’d always been too young for him, something he’d insisted over and over, keeping me at a safe distance for as long as his willpower held out.
Still, none of those reasons explained why he hadn’t taken the time to write a letter, why he couldn’t spare a few measly minutes to make a phone call.
Why make promises and ask me to wait, tell me we’d run together as soon as his service date ended, only to cut off all contact?
Why leave me in that dangerous situation, the one he’d stirred up, and then completely disappear?
The Finn I knew could never be that callous. That heartless.
I used to tell myself there had to be a reason. But the more I learned about him through Deeds, the more my mind ran wild with the possibilities.
Our last days together flutter through my mind. Finn standing in front of me, his thumb brushing the soft skin just under my ear, his gaze intense and unwavering. The look in his eyes—I’ll never forget it. Like he ached to kiss me, but his morals wouldn’t let him.
At first, I couldn’t stand to be touched. I flinched at even the slightest brush of his skin against mine, recoiled from any physical contact. But months later, when I wanted his hands on me—after he’d earned my trust and every part of me craved him—he kept holding himself back.
He blamed it on the age gap. Said it was wrong for him to want someone so young.
Most people would see it that way, but I didn’t.
To me, age had nothing to do with love. The way he watched over me, protected me at the risk of his own life, made me feel safe in a way I’d never known before. He loved me without words. Loved me in the face of death.
Or so I’d thought.
In the end, none of it mattered. Time dwindled, and the end of his leave loomed on the horizon.
The pull between us grew stronger with each passing day.
The clock tick, tick, ticking , and hanging over our heads.
The uncertainty, the danger we were both facing, and the fact that I might never see him again, drove everything higher.
So, if he wouldn’t cross that line, then I would.
I knew he only had so much control, and I admit, I pushed him over that line.
I wanted him. His love. His hands on my body.
I wanted to touch him, kiss him, to know how good we could be together.
I wanted his skin imprinted on mine. I wanted the memory of it to carry me forward into the unknown days ahead.
So, in the dead of night, I went to him when I knew his willpower would be at its lowest.
I tore down his walls, threw his objections aside, and told him, point blank, that I wanted him to make love to me. That I needed him to love me in a way that would wash away the bad memories.
“Please touch me. I never feel more real, more alive, than when you do. Please, Finn. Show me what real love looks like, help me replace these bad memories with good ones.”
He crumpled like a pyramid of stacked poker cards.
What followed was the most magical moment of my life.
Transcendent. Fucking life-altering. He’d cherished and devoured me in equal measure, with such intensity that I’d nearly glimpsed white lights and pearly gates.
I’d died a small death at the peak of the orgasm he’d wrung from me, my lungs momentarily incapable of drawing air from the pleasure of it all.
A panic attack in reverse. Something I was all too familiar with. Instead of terror starving my body of air, it was bliss.
When it was over, I thought we’d spend his last two days in New Mexico tangled in his bed, losing ourselves in each other until reality tore us apart.
But Finn had done a one-eighty. He’d acted like he’d committed some unforgivable sin, a grievous crime, like what we’d shared had been a mistake.
He bore the weight of that guilt and used it to build a wall between us that I couldn’t breach.
He’d hold my hand like it meant everything, but look at me with an expression riddled with love and shame.
Like I was his entire world and his biggest regret.
I can’t help but wonder if pushing his boundaries was what ultimately drove him away. I’d feared as much, but I had no way of knowing for sure.
I’d come here wanting answers. But the fact that he doesn’t even know who I am? Yeah, that changes things.
Unable to cope with this fresh wave of rejection, I push off the counter, fill the sink with cold water, and splash it on my face.
I take out my makeup remover and get to work.
I scrub the make-up off a little too aggressively, then strip and toss my clothes into the corner.
I crank on the hot water in the shower and step inside, hoping it’s hot enough to melt these ridiculous, weak feelings from my skin.
Later, after I’ve picked at the pasta that room service delivered, I consider the subtle differences between the old Finn and the biker he’s become.
The prominent scar on his temple cutting into his hairline.
The slight crookedness of his nose, broken at some point.
The way his dark-blue eyes carry a haunted look, shadows of trials I know nothing about.
There’s a wealth of new ink, winding over thick biceps, down his forearms, traveling onto his hands. Hands that once moved over my body like a sculpture he’d brought to life.
He was still the same man, but somehow completely changed. More serious. His voice deeper, and his words more censored, like he thinks carefully about them before he utters them.
I eventually crawl beneath the covers, switch on the bedside lamp, and grab the magazine I’d left on the table.
I continue the article about forgiveness.
The gist of it being, if we seek absolution and learn from our mistakes, then we’re worthy of forgiveness and should grant it to ourselves even if other people refuse to grant it in return.
I know I shouldn’t, but I try to foresee a day when I’ll learn Finn’s truths and tell him mine.
Could I ever forgive him for the way he left me?
The man doesn’t even know who the fuck you are.
I toss the magazine across the floor in a huff. Reaching up, I flick off the lamp.
He’s a job, nothing more.
“Fuck him.”
My fingers dig desperately into the damp, gritty soil.
Nails break as I claw at the unyielding earth.
My voice cracks as the scream rips from me.
It’s followed by hoarse sobs interspersed with hiccupping gasps.
All are audible in the cold, eerie stillness of this grey, dreary dawn. He can’t be dead. I won’t allow it.
Shadows lengthen, stretching toward the unmarked grave in front of me, as if trying to pull him down even further.
“No!” I keep clawing with frantic hands, dirt caking my skin as I try to reach him because I can’t let him go.
The very earth begins to shake, as if I’m willing it to give him back.
My eyes pry themselves open as I register the vibrations, not of the earth quaking beneath my hands and knees, but of the phone buzzing on the nightstand.
I’m drenched in sweat, chest heaving, hands clutching the sheets. They ache with stiffness as I open them and draw them up to cover the burning sensation in my chest. I struggle to swallow the tightness in my throat, forcing my mind to catch up with reality.
It was just a dream. Just another fucked-up dream.