There is a long pause.
Silence is never nice when sharing a room with the charismatic Bronson Butcher. A man who loves to tease and play and- “Need me to kill him?”
I burst into laughter even though I shouldn’t, the endorphins and adrenaline skipping through my veins like a drug. As he chuckles softly with me, he reaches up both hands to cup the sides of my face. Feeding his big palms down my hair, he slides his fingers through the soft strands, forcing me to close my eyes and enjoy his crazies. Mine too.
But I have to go.
“I have to go.” I rush towards the door, but Bronson grabs my hand. Pulling it up to his lips, he kisses my knuckles, and I close my eyes and breathe in the sensation of his lips, trying to stop the thin tethers of my resolve from snapping, from throwing me into his arms. I don’t have time to indulge in this anymore. Can’t let it consume me. I won’t. “I have to go.”
“Your ring, baby.”
I pause, looking at his silhouette.
There are too many emotions swarming through me. I’m too confused. My head hurts. My heart aches. My body hums. I want to talk to him. We need closure, need to say all the things we never did. We need to. . .
“Okay. I’ll come see you,” I say, barely recognising the voice attached because it’s breathy and shaky. My mind swarms with guilt, but it doesn’t seem strong enough to control my actions. “What room?”
“You know the number.”
I do.
Twenty-three.
I turn my back to him, my fingers slowing slipping from his. The feel of his eyes on me is almost painful and piercing. Glancing at the black shape in the corner, at his trembling back, I nearly laugh again.Absolute nutcase.“What about him?”
“Sorry, mate,” Bronson says with a little laugh. “Won’t be long now. You can leave after we do.”
And so I walk away from him and out into the bright lights of the hotel, more confused than when I was dragged in. More confused, yeah, but also content and excited.
Avoiding my reflection as it follows me down the corridor, I smooth my clothes down. Make my way back to my fiancé.
And prepare to feign nausea.
Shoshanna
Sixteen years old
Carried across the ocean,the warm breeze sweeps sand up and lightly taps it against my cheeks. I catch sight of the moon as it peeks from behind a low-lying cloud. It’s a beautiful pink hue. The sun’s descent slowly dips below the horizon.
It’s pretty.
Wrapping my hands around the balcony balustrade, I daydream about owning a house like this one day.
On the beach.
With a boat and a big peppy tree that has a resident possum we have named.
With Bronson.
Maybe he can feel peace alongside the ocean - something as deep and mysterious as him. Maybe he’ll let it sweep his demons out to sea, drag them clawing from his body and into its depths, swallowing them forever. The ocean has that kind of effect on people.
“Hey?” A young guy approaches me, leaning next to me with his back to the ocean. I glance at him sideways, noting the hubris slant to his lips. He clearly thinks a lot of himself with his neatly swept sandy-brown hair and confident posture. He eyes me. “How do you know the birthday girl?”
Unwavering from the glistening water ahead, I mutter, “Why are you looking at me when you could be looking at the ocean?”
“Why would I want to look at the ocean when I could look at you?”
“Flattery will only get you a broken nose.”