She obviously wants me to come inside, and is probably getting a little pissed off at being made to wait.
Girls will be girls, I think with a chuckle as I toss the phone back into my backpack and push the driver’s side door open. With a deep breath, I walk around the car, scoop up the package that’s been sat by the hedge for Christ knows how long with my name scrawled in the upper right hand corner, and finally head inside.
* * *
The cool sheets feel amazing against my bare skin. Bentlee’s curled up against me and I have an arm firmly tucked around her tiny frame. We didn’t fuck, but I did let her suck my dick until I came in her mouth, which always makes her happy.
The package in the living room is burning a hole through my couch and my goddamn soul since I placed it there. Even now that I can’t see it, the contents—which are still a mystery—are fucking with my head.
I have to figure out a way to get out of the bed without waking up Bentlee, but once we’re curled up together, it takes the effort of one hundred men to move me from her arms.
I still have to try.
Taking a steadying breath, I gently and slowly begin to move my arm from underneath her, doing my best not to wake her up. After what feels like a goddamn century, I’m finally free of Bentlee’s embrace and feeling like less of a man for it.
I begin to edge myself toward the side of the bed. If I can just get my feet down without the bed creaking … Ha!
I glance at her over my shoulder as I ease myself off the bed and begin walking toward the bedroom door.
The package with the big black bow is still sitting where I left it, which in a way, is a blessing as much as it is a curse.
It means that no one has come into my home while I let my girl take care of me. It means she’s still safe from any danger that she may potentially be in until I can figure out the fucking wild goose chase I’ve been sent on.
I clear my throat as I sit next to the package and give it a gentle poke. Nothing greets my ears. No sound from inside, no clue as to what could be inside, which means I just have to open the fucking thing.
I pick it up and place it on the coffee table which I pull closer to the couch and give the black bow a tug. It gives way easily enough and when I’ve undone the rest of it, I drop it on the side of the package, then flip the cardboard lids open.
I glance in quickly; like ripping a band-aid off because I’m sure whatever happens to be inside will be likened to a wound.
But when my eyes settle on the contents, my brow furrows in confusion. I reach in and pull out the clock.
We’re all there.
Tristan, Lance, Kay, Geraint, Seth, Dagger, Gawain, Dustan, Niko, Percivale, Bors, Arthur, and me. Each on a number of the clock, staring back up at me with accusing eyes, with Arthur dead center.
And across the plastic covering two simple words to let me know that my time is winding down and I have to deliver soon.
Tick, tock.
Chapter 11
The clock’s been smashed to pieces and tossed into the trash. Bentlee came out in the middle of my fit and stood by quietly, watching me with curious and cautious eyes, until I was done.
I’m leaning against the counter in the kitchen now, my knuckles white from how tightly I’m gripping the edge, and Bent comes over to put her arms around me. She doesn’t say anything, she just rests her head against my chest and holds me close.
She never knows how to calm me down and I like to let her think that her technique works. I’d never hurt her—no matter what, and having her here with me, trying to help me be myself again is more than enough, even though it’s really not.
“Is it them again?” she asks, turning her eyes up toward me. I hold her gaze for a moment, then nod once.
Bent obviously doesn’t know the extent of who we are or what we do, but she does know enough to keep her from asking questions she doesn’t have the right to ask.
“Can I do anything to help, Gareth?” she presses gently.
I let out a long-winded sigh, and just as I’m about to tell her to go back to bed, I remember something.
“Actually … I think there is,” I say, pulling her arms from around my body and walking back into the living room. I sit on the couch, Bentlee following close behind me, and hold up the box to her. “You’re a smart girl,” I begin as I pat the now empty spot on the coffee table, “look at this and tell me if you recognize the handwriting.”
Bentlee dutifully picks up the box and tilts it to the side, along with her head, narrowing her eyes, then lets out a laugh.