ChapterNineteen
Oliver
A few hours later, I’m sitting by the fire alone. Everyone went up to sleep.
We played cornhole. I beat Jake, and then Piper beat me with a last-minute win. I blame the general distraction of her presence.
Even now, the lingering traces of her perfume tickle my senses with the bright, floral notes. I stare at the flames, mulling over the last couple of days. I consider Archer’s revelations, Piper’s proposition, and the way she watches me like I’m an interesting predator and she doesn’t know whether to run or pounce.
Submission is inevitable. Piper Fox was inevitable. From the moment I saw Lamentation and had to make it mine, the woman was next. If she had any idea of the power she holds over me, has always held over me…
As if conjuring her with my incessant thoughts, I catch the gleam of white clothing moving toward me in the darkness beyond the light of the fire. She stops in front of me, the dancing flames flickering over her skimpy tank top and thin sleep pants. She’s like a siren or nymph.
After only a second, she sinks down on the bench seat beside me, inches away. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, her face clean and fresh. “Can’t sleep?” Her voice is low, husky.
Every conversation I’ve had with Piper is burned into my memory, especially the one we had the night we slept in each other’s arms. I hardly have to think to respond. “No. Hardly ever. You?”
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. She remembers too. “What time are we leaving in the morning?”
“I have a meeting at eleven thirty, so by eight would be ideal.”
“Okay.”
The fire pops. I soak in her presence, learning the rhythms of her inhalations and exhalations.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” I ask.
She pivots toward me. “What? No. Did you want—you don’t want me to drive back with you? Is it because of what I said the other night?”
“No. Not because of that. You seem happier here.”
She watches me like she can see into all the dark places I try to hide. “I love my family, I love being with them, but being home is hard.”
“Why?”
She crosses one leg over the other, inclined toward me, her knee an inch from mine. “It reminds me of when Dad died, and the guilt… it’s too much.”
My fingers ache to touch her, to soothe the hurt in her tone, but the movements aren’t familiar to me. “How did he die?”
“Cancer.”
I may not be able to comfort, but I can give her something. I clench my fists and open up a vein and bleed. “I never knew my father.”
She goes still as stone.
I concentrate on the flickering flames. “He died when I was five. I have vague recollections, just snapshots, really. He liked football. He took me miniature golfing to a place with a giant shoe and a waterfall. He gave me a stuffed raccoon for Christmas when I was four. Then he was gone, and my mother never spoke of him again. I only know his name because it’s on my birth certificate.”
“She didn’t tell you anything about him?” Her voice is gentle as the breeze.
“No. She didn’t do well after he died. Then she overdosed when I was eight.” The words are flat, delivered without emotion. “She had been sober for a few weeks, maybe a month, before she died. Those few weeks of sobriety were the most normal of my life. I had clean clothes, there was food on the table, and she was there. It was a home. I was too young at the time to truly understand what was going on.”
Piper rests against my arm, sharing her warmth and comfort.
“Then she used again, and it killed her. I was at school when it happened, but I heard the adults talking about it while I was waiting for social services in the administration office. It happens a lot, the school counselor said. People relapse and don’t realize their tolerance has changed. Overdose is common.”
But it felt rather uncommon to me.
I sit motionless, absorbing Piper’s care, her touch, taking whatever she’s willing to give. After a few long minutes, I break the silence, my curiosity about Piper eating at me. It’s probably wrong of me to ask about her life, knowing she’ll share anything after what I told her of myself, but I’m incapable of stopping.