He stared at those sheets, knowing he wasn’t finished. That more arrows needed to be drawn. But he couldn’t.
He fucking couldn’t. Instead, he took the pen and scribbled angrily over the names until the pen snapped and ink began to leak. “Fuckin’ motherfucker!” He threw the pen across the room and surged from the chair, forcing Reilly to her feet so she wouldn’t tumble to the carpet.
With his back turned to her and the counter, he scrubbed at his forehead.
Seeing it laid out before him didn’t make it better, it made it so much fucking worse. It was impossible to straighten out a crooked branch without breaking it.
And he was about to break.
“Grab your lighter,” she suggested from behind him.
Yeah, good idea since he really needed to get baked. He strode over to the nightstand, snagged his tin, pipe and lighter and when he turned, he saw her gathering the slips of paper from wherever they landed and stacking them together neatly.
She tipped her head toward the door. “Outside. Just bring the lighter.”
She headed out the door, leaving it open with an obvious expectation for him to follow. A few seconds later he forced himself outside, not bothering to close the door behind him. Most likely because she wasn’t wearing any shoes, she only went as far as the edge of the concrete sidewalk, where she squatted down and crumpled up the sheets of paper. Once it was in a ball, she held her hand up, not bothering to look behind her.
Once he placed the lighter in her hand, she flicked it until a flame ignited and she held it to one edge of the crumpled ball. A few second later it caught and began to burn.
When she rose, he stepped up to her and she moved to stand next to him, snaked an arm around his waist and leaned her head into his side. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
She had been his rock these last few days. Solid and supportive. Understanding and, for the most part, patient. Having her lean against him while he held her felt… right. Like they did it all the time and it was normal between them.
He couldn’t imagine anyone else but her coming along on this trip.
Thank fuck she had insisted on coming along.
Thank fuck she was a pushy, stubborn smart-ass.
Thank fuck she understood how fucked up parents could be.
They stood watching the tiny fire until it burned out and nothing but ashes remained. A light April breeze eventually blew the flaky ash away and they watched it disappear.
“There,” she finally whispered. “Gone for good. Both of our evil pasts are now reduced to ashes. Never to be thought about again. Deal?”
Never to be thought about again.
Once again, she was right.
He needed to forget what he heard and never think about it again.
He needed to move forward and leave this all fucking behind him and never look back again. Never return. Whether physically or mentally.
None of those people who used to be family were worth one more fucking moment of his time or effort.
Unlike the woman pinned to his side.
He turned her in his arms and tipped his head down to her. “Fuckin’ love you, woman.”
Whoa.
He blinked and his heart began to thump.
What the fuck did he just say? Was he that drunk already? Did that really come out of his mouth?
For a moment, he thought—and hoped—she would act like he never said it. That she would ignore how fucking asinine that unexpected declaration was.
Unfortunately, she didn’t ignore it. Instead, she sighed softly, patted his stomach in a patronizing way, and said, “That’s just the whiskey and messed-up emotions talking, Rev. You don’t mean that.”
Fuck him, she didn’t ignore it but blew it off, instead.
As she headed back into the room, he stood frozen on the spot and watched her disappear inside.
It hit him right then and there like a two-by-four across his forehead that she was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
What he said wasn’t because of the whiskey or his fucked-up head.
It wasn’t because of that at all.
Holy.
Fuckin’.
Shit.
Chapter Fifteen
He didn’t mean it.
He couldn’t.
They’d only spent five days in the same room, in the same bed. They’ve known each other and worked together for a year, but still…
It had to be the whiskey talking.
For the rest of the night, they both managed to ignore the words he spilled by accident and pretend it never happened.
Instead, they both shared a bowl, pigged out on delivered take-out and spent half the night naked, sweaty and writhing in the sheets. And on the sheets. And on the desk chair, that miraculously managed not to break.
During all of that, the L-word wasn’t mentioned again. By accident or on purpose.
Because it wasn’t love.
Was it?
Alcohol could act as a truth serum. When drinking heavily, sometimes things could be blurted out when least expected. Or when the timing was bad or awkward.