Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

She sends one back; she’s sitting on the edge of her bed in what looks like a robe.

You ok, I ask. It’s 3:30 a.m.

Just a little bathroom break. How about u?

Tired of missing u

So let’s meet up.

I type and re-type my reply five times. We shouldn’t, I try. Followed by: Probably a bad idea. I delete both. Blow my breath out.

Only if you’re sure. I send it fast, before I have a chance to rethink.

Let’s meet now. I need you. Do you want to come here?

I don’t think I should, I tell her. I’m so fucking worried Aren’s watching. We didn’t even do the last two exchanges, which is part of the reason I can’t sleep. I feel guilty—that I let it fall apart. That no one else is going to come through.

Aren’s off the deep end, though, repeatedly accusing me of ratting him out to Elise, repeatedly trying to share “evidence” that the D.A. is out to get him, and it’s somehow my fault. It makes no sense, since he’s the only one—out of the two of us—that’s been squealing to anyone.

Let’s meet on the roof of my old building. Is that too far for you, she asks.

It’s too far from your place. Let me get you. I’ll take u somewhere close. I didn’t want her to know about this flat of mine, since sometimes we use it for pink ops, but right now I don’t care.

Somehow, I manage to drive to her. My head is spinning as I idle in the cab lane, watching Elise walk out in a long black coat. Then I’m reaching over, pushing the door open, and she’s getting into the car, all perfume and gladness and her long hair falling down her shoulders. She looks so damn gorgeous, I can barely keep the car in its lane.

“Hey.” Her fingers stroke my leg, and she smiles softly at me. I grab her hand.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

I nod. I can’t speak. My throat is knotted.

She kisses my cold hand. “You need gloves.” She pulls off one of hers, stroking her warm fingertips into the cuff of my shirt sleeve. “You’ve got chills, cuore.”

“Because of you.” My throat is so damn tight now.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

I’m at a red light, and I feel like I might pass out. It’s been almost five days now—since I slept.

“Just some trouble sleeping. No big deal.”

But I can tell she sees through my lies. Her hand goes to my shoulder, rubbing gently, and I want to park the car and pull her into my lap. Somehow, despite the sleep deprivation and feeling like hell, I’m hard for her.

Finally, we’re at my building. I drop her out front, telling her, “It’s floor nine, unit 902, passcode is your birthday but my birth year.” I hesitate. “Do you remember my birthday?”

“Of course,” she says, and something in me uncoils slightly.

I watch as she walks in, telling myself Aren doesn’t even know I have a place here. Then I give the car to valet and follow her up.

When I open the door to the flat, she launches herself at me—arms around me, mouth on my mouth, her tongue slipping in as I moan.

Her fingers stroke through my hair, and she pulls my head to her chest. “I’m here now. Even if it’s only for a little bit, we’re here together.”

We drift into the bedroom and she sits on the bed. Then she peels the covers back so she can crawl under. She holds the duvet up, nodding for me to join her. I see her eyes move over a nearby dresser, where I have bottles of melatonin and a couple other things; I’ve been coming here some lately, seeing if a change of scenery might help me catch some Zs.

I lie on my back and she lies on her side, wrapping her arms around my head and pecs. “Thanks for telling me.” Her whispered words are so quiet, her breath warm near my ear.

I shut my eyes. “I didn’t.”

“Yes you did. And I could feel it—that you needed me.”

I breathe deeply as I wrap an arm around her. Why does she cure everything that hurts? Forbidden cure, my reeling mind thinks drunkenly.

She kisses my cheek, gentle. “You’re going to sleep here with me. Or at least rest.”

“I don’t want to rest.” I find her mouth with mine, needing to feel her. I want lose myself inside her—much more than I want sleep.

I make quick work of her coat’s buttons, reaching in to run my hands over her sweater-clad breasts and down her belly. She scoots back, but not fast enough. My hands brush her lower belly. When I feel it, I can’t process at first. Then I do, and it’s such a shock, and I’m so fucking strung out, black spots spray in my vision. I scramble back and nearly fall off the bed, then stand on shaky legs, gripping the headboard so I don’t fall over.