Chapter 62
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
It’s been a few days since our conversation in the car, and we haven’t done anything past making out in the springy hotel bed.
I haven’t pushed it past that. Not because I don’t want to; I’ve been painfully hard every time.
But every time I get hard, I remember my anger.
It makes me feel like Arthur, and it ruins the mood every time.
I don’t want to be angry with Micah. That’s not the game I want to play.
Plus, this tiny hotel room, no matter how much I try, is still driving me nuts. I feel like a caged animal.
So, I’ve come up with a plan.
I light a match, and Princess opens his eyes from the bed, giving me a judgmental look.
“I know, I know, but it’s only for dinner; I can’t light the place on fire if I’m standing right here.” I light the candle I found at the dollar store; it’s a saddlewood scent that reminds me of Micah.
We need a house. We, I say as if I’ve fully bought into the fact that we could be a TV couple. Micah needs a house. He hasn’t brought it up again, but I’m ready to push. I’ve been thinking about the property we went to see.
Ronan is Logan’s boyfriend. Logan is the dude Micah called to get rid of Arthur…or what was left of him.
When it settled in that Micah and I could never outrun the cops or the people who knew what we did, I spent a few days losing my shit.
I’m not gonna lie, I did my research on them.
Them and the guys who picked up the body–Cal, Ryan, and Vox.
I found jack shit, which is awfully suspicious.
You mean to tell me that I can’t find shit on six dudes in today’s day and age?
Sure, maybe one of them, but six? All I could find is that Dakota is a cop and Ryan runs a funeral home.
Which explains a lot and nothing all at the same time.
But slowly it sank in that we have no choice. And ultimately, it’s Micah’s decision what house he buys, and Micah seems to operate more along the lines of ‘keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.’ Like in-your-murder-circle close.
And unfortunately, despite all my extensive game planning, there’s no way to really get rid of them. Except…of course…the final kind of way.
And I’m not doing that again.
So I crash out about the fact there’s nothing I can do.
First the anger hits, then the rage, then the helplessness, and finally a numb sort of acceptance that wars with terror.
Micah and I will always be vulnerable unless we go on a murdering spree.
Which is the kind of thing Arthur would do. Fuck that.
So now, I’m preparing dinner for Micah, and I plan to tell him I want him to move forward. It feels less like a dinner and more like a funeral though. I have no money and almost nothing to give, but something needs to give.
And yet, I’m terrified. Scared shitless, actually. Because if Micah invites me to join him, which I suspect he might, there’s a part of me that really, really wants to. That part has been trying to take over my entire way of thinking. The part that’s envisioning a happy future with Micah and me.
My therapist says I deserve happiness. Says I blamed myself for Arthur’s choices when none of them were my fault.
I can’t say I believe that I deserve to be happy, but it sounds nice.
Really fucking nice.
Fuck. Going to therapy might have been the riskiest thing I’ve done because now I have all these wild thoughts in my head. Wild thoughts that make me think my life could be closer to the TV couple version than I ever thought.
So here I am, standing in front of the small desk that I’ve pulled into the center of the room, willing my gut to stop rumbling.
I wrangled a chair from the room across the hall when the cleaning staff wasn’t looking, so now I have the world’s most stupid dinner table, topped with flowers I got from the side of the road and paper plates.
Like I said. Funeral vibes.
Ryan would be right at home.
My gut rumbles again, and I suck in a breath. I can’t have the nervous shits now; it’ll stink up the whole room. I already ran down to the lobby to take a giant dump. I can’t do it again.
Damn this hotel! I want to be able to shit without the entire household knowing about it.
I stare at the microwave cake I’ve made in mugs, topped with M I just need him. Them.
My heart races with the realization. Home. I’ve found the home I’ve always wanted.
And immediately after that realization comes the fear. It’s a huge rush of fear, cold and chilling. Because what if I lose this? Right after I found it?