Wrath (Sinful Secrets 4)

"Chapter meeting room," he said, and then unlocked a door and led me out into a shadowed corner of the lawn.

I let him lead. It feels good to let his big hand grip mine, let him guide me around the house and to the front. As we approach the kegs, his grip loosens on mine, and he says, "You want me to let go?" It’s the softest whisper.

I tighten my hold on his hand. I catch a glimpse of his face in the house's porch light, finding he looks surprised.

I just found you. I'm not letting go yet.

We walk around the pond's far side, sheltered by the tall pines. Under our shoes, the ground is damp and soggy. Mills is wearing a gray fleece and jeans and a red pair of Chucks. Every time I catch his eye, I find his face a shock of feeling. His eyes are somber, and he’s chewing on his lower lip like he’s in some distress.

I want to kiss it. I'd like to unzip the fleece and reach inside it, run my hands over his ribs. I can tell he's dropped weight since last time I saw him on his Insta stories. His jaw is sharper and his dark hair longer.

I feel shivery, my chest heavy as he leads us toward the cement driveway, then across it. His eyes meet mine, and he steps between the wall of trees first, guiding me through to the other side, a parking lot and a building I think is his place.

I look at Miller, and he's looking at me, his brows furrowed, and then he smooths his face out.

"What?" I whisper.

His mouth opens, his lips moving without words. His eyes widen as he rasps, "Do I seem like a stranger to you?"

"No." The word is too loud, surer than I really feel. "I don't really know you." I shut my eyes and open them again, apologizing with my face and begging him with everything I am to understand this weird shit. "I don’t know you, but…I feel like I can't live without you,” I say, and my voice shakes. “As soon as I found you on social media, I started watching every day. I found your Snapchat. Friended you." My heart pounds as I remember waking up at all hours to watch his stories, pour over his snaps. Tears sting my eyes again, at how pathetic this all is. At how he's looking at me—sad and maybe pitying.

"It's hard to explain," I manage.

"It's okay." His hand re-grips mine.

Miller leads me between parked cars, toward the iron stairs I think will lead up to his second-story unit. I feel sick as I follow. What does he want with me? Will he want me at all? I’m not who he needs me to be.

I stop walking in the gold glow of a streetlamp. Maybe if I show him—

"Miller?” I say. “Look at this."

I pull my sweatshirt and my shirt up, showing him the tattoo just above my pec. His eyes widen and his jaw drops open. There's something strange on his face—something that’s a lot like anger.

"Did you—" draw it, I start to ask him.

He grabs my hand—a little hard this time—and tugs me toward the stairs, then up. He walks three doors down, and when he stops, his eyes find mine. "You knew you were leaving," he says. "It had faded. But before you went to bed that night, you had me re-draw it."

His words drift through my mind like a lazy river, but there's nothing in it. I just...don't remember.

"You don't know what that means, do you?" he asks, his voice gentler now.

I can feel my hand in his tremble. My body tensing and then going hazy. I try to draw my hand away from his, but he holds tight as he unlocks his front door.

Then he turns toward me. He turns my right hand over and starts to massage all around the base of my palm, in between my thumb and pointer finger. The pressure is so focused, the massage so sudden, that my legs go weak, my face too warm.

"It gets sore, right?" he asks, husky. "Muscles tight?"

I don't expect the tears that well in my eyes. Once they start to fall, they won’t stop. "Yes," I whisper.

He nudges his front door open, leads me into a small studio apartment. "Do you still love Icees?"

"Did you give me Icees?"

He smiles, small and smug and wistful with his sad eyes. "I gave you everything I thought you wanted.”

I think again of myself sleeping with my phone against my pecs. I think of that awful, tight-chest feeling. How I wanted him but didn't know. Miller loved me and I didn't know.

And I start sobbing. It's not like at the frat house. I end up on his floor because my legs won't hold me, holding my head because I feel so dizzy I’m afraid I’ll black out. Josh is right behind me, pulling me into his arms, urging my back against his chest. I try to focus on that; he seems like he cares about me. Try to stop the fucking crying. My body trembles—out of control. A humiliating whimper comes from my throat.