Fused.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I think you’re talking too much.”
He smiles mildly, flexing his fingers more. “Are you going to gag me?” He bites down on his bottom lip. He’s close.
“I don’t think we have time.” I take our joined hands down to his stomach and hold them there, gaining memento, thrusting more. He holds his breath. My skin burns. “Go on, James. Let it bend you. Let it break you.” I’m jolted when he jerks violently, throwing his head back, his spine arching harshly, and while watching him bend and break, I come calmly on a mild tremble, my pleasure intense but calm, and mostly coming from watching James fight his way through until his body goes limp and sweat trickles down his temples, wetting his hair. He breathes heavily. Taking a moment in his darkness while I watch him. Feeling his hot essence warm my insides.
I swallow and rest my cheek on his chest, feeling his hand come to my back and hold me. I close my eyes, knowing what James is thinking in his darkness as he strokes me softly between my shoulder blades, slowly throbbing inside me, unsheathed, dripping his seed. Wondering if my body has accepted it. My guilt flames.
“What did you need to talk about?” I ask, cowardly trying to distract myself from my dishonesty.
“It can wait.”
I don’t argue. I just need to be here, quiet, still, and calm for a while.
When I wake up, I’m in bed and James isn’t, which means he’s got us off the floor at some point and put me in here. I didn’t even stir. Slightly disorientated, I sit up, glancing around our light bedroom before I get up and stretch my way to the bathroom, putting myself in front of the mirror. I tie my hair back and open the drawer of the vanity, rummaging to the bottom. I pull out the pack of pills from a cosmetic bag and pop one, pushing back the stupid guilt. Stupid because James didn’t want to try. And now, neither do I. I hide them in the drawer and leave the bathroom, pausing in the middle of the room, looking around me, my brain now more awake. My heart starts a relentless beat. Dad’s funeral.
“Shit!” I search for my phone in the bedsheets, on the nightstand, growling when I don’t find it. I throw on James’s T-shirt, pull on his sweats, and pull the door open. I nearly charge into Zinnea who’s on the other side, fist poised ready to knock. I look down her front, blinking back the blinding sparkle of her outfit. I’m surprised she’s chosen to go all out as Zinnea for Dad’s funeral, to be honest. But then again, it’s the best way to give a final fuck you to her bigoted brother, one he can’t retaliate to, since he’s dead.
“I’ll be ready in just a minute,” I say, looking back at the room. “Fuck!” I won’t because I don’t have anything to wear. I go to the closet and swing it open, rummaging through my endless pairs of jeans and shirts.
“Ready for what?” Zinnea asks from the door. I pause sliding hangers across the rail and face her, noticing, now my brain is a little more awake, that she’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday.
“What day is it?” I ask.
“The same day it was a few hours ago when we got back from our brief, rather unproductive shopping trip.”
“Oh.” My shoulders drop, and I laugh a little. “I thought today was . . .” I rub at my forehead. I must have been in a deep, deep sleep.
“Have you eaten today?” she asks, concerned.
I shake my head, my stomach rumbling in response too. “I’m starving,” I admit.
“Esther’s got a big pot on the stove.” She holds her hand out to me, and I take it, letting her lead me to the good stuff. The smell hits me as soon as I get to the top of the stairs, and the sounds from the kitchen confirm it’s as good as always. I walk in and find everyone around the table, and James drops his spoon, standing. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he says.
“Have you seen my cell?”
He holds it up. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he reiterates, pulling out the chair next to him. I go over, lowering next to Brad.
“You should be in bed,” I say softly, and he smiles, equally as softly, but he remains quiet, not like Brad at all.
I tuck in, catching Rose’s eye at the other end of the table as she butters some bread for Daniel and places it on his side plate. “Okay?” she mouths, and I nod, observing the subdued mood around the table. Everyone is quiet. Talking between themselves.
Grieving the loss of one of our own.
“Need any help?” I ask as Brad struggles to rip some bread off to dip.
“No.”
“Stop being stubborn.” I tear some off and turn into him, dipping it in his dish. “Open,” I say quietly. He scowls but humors me, opening his mouth and taking the bread. “If this isn’t a sign that you need a woman in your life—”
“I’d rather be shot again.”
“So dramatic.”
He falls quiet once again, stirring his stew, his sadness palpable. I don’t know if any of us can convince him that this isn’t his fault. I wish we could. He peeks up, but quickly looks back down again, his stirring becoming a bit heavy-handed, making his gravy splash up the side of his bowl. I look down the table and see Pearl and Anya talking to Esther, and I hum to myself, thoughtful.
I can’t ask him if he’s okay because that’s a dumb fucking question. He’s getting more worked up the longer he’s sitting here, looking like he’s having a mental row with himself. Blaming himself.
“Brad,” I say, unable to watch him slowly spiraling again. “You—”
“I have to go,” he says, standing up abruptly, grabbing the side of the table on a pained growl. Everyone at the table falls silent, or even more silent, all attention on Brad.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and it’s impulsive. I drop my spoon and rise, moving into him.
“I have to go,” he says again, keeping his eyes and face low as he turns and leaves the kitchen, everyone’s apprehensive stares following him. I glance at Doc for guidance, ready to go after him. He must read my intention because he holds up a palm, making me lower slowly to the chair.
“He’ll be okay,” James says.
“I’m not so sure.” I reclaim my spoon, but when the sound of tires screeching fills the room, I drop it, worried, and watch as Danny gets up and goes to window that looks out onto the front of the house. I stand to see, looking on as Brad drives recklessly down the driveway to the gates. He’s got the use of one arm, for God’s sake. “He’s probably going to the club.”
“He shouldn’t be going anywhere,” Danny says coldly. “And not because he’s injured.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a few calming breaths, and Rose fills his wine glass and taps Daniel’s hand, a signal that he may leave the table, before nodding to Tank and Fury, who both stand and follow him out. She thinks Danny’s going to lose his temper.
I look at James as he slowly chews and swallows, setting his spoon down and wiping his mouth, ready to pin Danny down when he explodes. But he doesn’t. He turns slowly and calmly walks back to the table, taking a seat and looking at James, who nods his acknowledgement. They will all be going to Hiatus after dinner to sort Brad out.