Dear Enemy

And I will fight for Delilah.

Delilah

I’m pissed. Pissed at Macon and pissed at myself. This isn’t a fairy tale; this is real life. I can’t switch gears that easily. I can’t just slip from a lifetime of thinking of Macon in terms of ribald hate to . . . what? Lust? Is this simple lust or something more? And if it’s more, then what is it? A fling? Forever?

His accusations, the questions he laid forth burn through my skin and settle like a hot stone over my heart. I considered the offer I made to Macon a sacrifice for family, a necessary arrangement to protect my mother. But Macon’s confession made me wonder. He said he’d been numb until I came back into his life. I’d been numb too. So . . . dead inside. I cannot deny that from the moment I realized it was Macon texting me, something woke up and paid attention.

And I cannot deny that I like his attention. That must make me some sort of sicko to virtually enslave myself just to get more of it. I truly don’t know if I refused to end our arrangement so I wouldn’t be able to leave him, but the fact that I can’t reject the theory outright is distressing.

“Argh.” I groan into the tiled wall of my shower, the hot water pounding on my back doing little to ease my stiff body. “I’m an idiot.”

A great prideful idiot trapped in a net of my own making.

If we didn’t live together, I’d feel safer to explore this new thing between us. I’d have the ability to go to my own corner and lick my wounds if things went south. I don’t have that here. We haven’t even had sex, and it’s awkward as hell.

I hide out in my room for the rest of the day. Damn if I’m not edgy, wanting to seek out Macon’s company. I feel the pull of him as if there’s a hook attached to my breastbone that leads directly to him. I know without being told that he’s in his room just as I am in mine. The side of my body that faces his room is cold, and I find myself rubbing my arm in agitation. By the time the sun sets, I’m downright twitchy.

It’s almost a relief when he texts.

ConMan: I need you.

My stupid mind takes this the wrong way, and my insides flip. But I shake myself out of it.

FearTheTater: Clarification?

You’ll have to come to my room for that ;-)

I bite back a smile. This Macon, the side of the man I never knew before, does not hold grudges. He disarms me at every turn. This Macon is fun. I can’t help but have fun with him.

Don’t winky face me. Answer the question.

Such a hard ass. Fine. I need you to help me.

With?

His voice, sounding oddly hollow, comes from the direction of his room. “Get your peachy butt in here, Tot!”

I text him a reply.

Seriously???

“Completely serious,” he hollers. “I’m not going to shut up until you get in here.”

“Juvenile,” I shout back. Why he can’t come into my room is beyond me. And why it has to be in his room, I don’t know. But it feels like a trap.

“Nonsense,” I mutter to myself, tossing my e-reader aside and hauling my “peachy” butt off my bed.

Macon’s room is like mine on steroids. It’s bigger but still manages to be cozy. He has a fireplace, a glorious affair of cut white stone reaching up the coffered ceiling and a reclaimed-wood mantel. The gas hearth is a line of flickering flames over crushed ceramic coals.

I pointedly ignore the large Mission-style paneled bed, plump with rumpled linen covers as if he’s just rolled out of it. Macon leans against the wall by the bathroom. His skin is ashen, pinched lines framing his mouth and pulling at the corners of his eyes. He gives me a protracted smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Despite our text exchange a moment before, now that we’re facing, our awkwardness is at stellar heights. I try not to think about his mouth, how he tastes, those soft greedy noises he makes. God, I try, but it’s just there, floating over my skin and making me hot. His eyes hold the same knowledge, a flicker of lust going through them. But a shadow of pain overrides that, and I snap out of my haze.

“What’s wrong?”

A grimace tightens his mouth. “Here’s the thing. And this in no way makes you right about my going down to the beach . . .”

“Sure,” I drawl.

His nostrils flare on a shallow breath. “I might have pulled something when we fell.”

“Might have?” I notice how gingerly he’s holding himself. “Where?”

“My sides, back, shit . . . I don’t know. My torso. The whole area is not good.” He swallows thickly and closes his eyes for a second.