Oh, no.
My eyes shot to his. “Did something happen today?” My pulse pounded in worry.
Gil stiffened and stood from the table. “Can I talk to you, please?”
I looked up, frowning. “Sure...please tell me—”
“Not here.” He arched his chin at my bedroom. “In there.”
I instantly shook my head.
Him and me in a room with a closed door?
No way.
I wouldn’t have the strength to stop whatever would happen.
And it would happen.
Each stare was a touch.
Each word was a lick.
Living together and not acknowledging the flying, raging need between us had ensured we’d been pouring gunpowder directly onto open wounds. If we had a single opportunity to even say a fraction of something that wasn’t controlled and civil, I didn’t know what would happen.
You do know.
You know exactly what would happen.
The rough, quick sex we’d had in my kitchen would be nothing compared to the explosive aggression we’d indulge in.
“It’s probably best if we stay—”
“It’s important.” His head tipped down, shadowing his gaze. “Please?”
Olive giggled at something Justin said.
He beamed as if he’d solved complex math.
Just because Olive was distracted didn’t mean we were free to become animals behind my bedroom door. The walls were paper thin. Justin was right there. There was safety in that—knowing we still had boundaries and rules in place.
“Okay.” Brushing off pizza crumbs, I didn’t say a word as I followed Gil through the small living room and entered my bedroom.
The moment we were inside, he closed the door.
He took a deep breath.
I spun to face him, crossing my arms, doing my best to hold myself together. “What is it? What’s happened?”
He rubbed his face with both hands, the mask he’d kept in place the past few days slipping to the floor. “Fuck, do you know how hard it is not to kiss you? It’s all I ever fucking think about.” He moved toward me, only to pace away before he could touch me. “Fuck, if I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop.”
He headed to my window, raking hands through his hair. “Night after night, I battle myself not to come in here and take you. To see if there’s any way we can fix us. To stop our inevitable separation.”
“Gil, don’t—”
He held up a hand. “It’s okay, O. I’m not going to force myself on you. I’m not going to kiss you. I’m not going to do anything apart from say...it’s all too fucking late.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I stepped toward him instead of away. “What do you mean, too late?”
“I had a phone call today.”
“From who?”
“The lawyer who’s been put in charge of my case.” He pinched the bridge of his nose before looking up. “I’ll be sentenced in six days.”
My heart stopped beating. “What? That’s so soon. How can they—?”
“Six days before I have to say goodbye to Olive for who knows how long. Six days to make sure she’s comfortable with living with Justin, even though she’s fallen madly in love with you. Six fucking days to find some way of making even the smallest amount of money so she’s not destitute like me.” His voice cracked with rage and impotency. “Fuck!”
His shout was heartfelt and passionate, but also quiet, staying below the decibel guaranteed to reach Olive’s small ears.
I didn’t know what to say or how to comfort him.
I was petrified for him. I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to know your freedom was about to be stolen, and there was nothing you could do about it.
He’d committed the crime.
He wouldn’t run.
He wouldn’t lie.
Whatever sentence he was given would be served with honour, and his daughter would miss him every day of her life without him.
The urge to hug him overwhelmed me. I moved toward him. “What can I do?”
He held up his hand, his eyes flashing with a mixture of helplessness and violence. “Don’t touch me, O. Not when I’m like this.” His voice turned dangerously dark. “You touch me and I’m inside you. I won’t be able to stop myself.”
I stopped.
Pain crashed over his features.
“Tell me what you need,” I whispered.
“I owe you so much already.”
“Tell me what you need, Gil.”
He glowered at my carpet, unable to meet my eyes. “I need money. To pay you for the days we’ve stayed here. To pay Justin for Olive’s upkeep. To give Olive some pocket money for while I’m gone.”
“I don’t see how I can—”
His head tipped up, the heat and hardness back in his stare. “Be my canvas. Let me paint you...one last time.”
I stumbled backward. “Excuse me?”
What about the petitions online chanting for his business closure and death?
What about the absolute hate bleeding through the keyboard?
“I know my business is dead. No one wants to be associated with a murderer. My visibility and ratings are in the gutter. I have no new content to share, which means algorithms aren’t delivering to new people.” He paced again, driving yet another hand into his hair. “I’m aware it probably won’t work. I know what I’m asking. It’s a huge gamble that any commissions will arrive in time before my court date, but...I have to try.”
He chuckled blackly. “I’ve really fucked up this time, O. I should never have killed him. I should’ve let the police deal with him. But...I did it and I won’t apologise for it nor regret it; he needed to die. I’m okay paying that price. I just don’t want Olive to pay with me.”
Old habits were so hard to break.
I wanted to grab him close and tell him that yes, I would be his canvas. That I had the strength to help him all over again after I’d used up every ounce of help I had to give.
I was so close to doing exactly that.
So reckless to touch him, knowing what would happen if I did.
His warning was real.
The desire rampant between us.
One touch would lead to him attacking me, taking me, destroying the final weak pieces of me.
I was prepared to do all that...but one thing stopped me.
A single memory.
A tiny piece of the past.
I swallowed hard and prepared to say the hardest thing in my life. “I can’t help you, Gil. I’m so sorry.”
He locked in place. His urgency slipped into despondency. His need into acceptance. “I understand.”
“I’ll help you find money some other way, but...I can’t let you paint me again.”
He froze. His nostrils flared. He slouched with self-hatred. “Of course. What a fucking arsehole thing to even ask.” He paced again, shaking his head as if he could punch himself for being so clueless. “The last time I painted you, I drugged you and—”
“I know what you did.” I held up my hand, trying to figure out how to say what was needed. “Gil, the fact that you’re asking for help is...healing. You didn’t lock things inside this time and make mistakes because it.” I licked my lips, stalling for a second. “I don’t want you to take my refusal as a sign to never ask for help again. You should be able to trust that sharing your burdens with others is beneficial...for everyone involved. I’m honoured. Truly. I’m grateful you came to me. And I’m eternally sorry that I have to say no.”