I moved in.
I was weak. It was either move in or run.
I wanted to run. I really did. For both our sakes. Because I was certain that this spelled disaster.
But I couldn’t.
So I moved in. Not into the spare room that he’d offered. I moved in.
“If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this,” I’d told him the day before.
He rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Fuck, babe, you sure?”
I raised a brow at him. “You’re objecting?”
He stepped forward, lightly clasping my hips. “Fuck no. I’d be jumpin’ for joy if I weren’t so fuckin’ conflicted.” He rubbed his hand on my bare hip. It was nice. Not completely, the residual dirt still lingering, but it was nice enough. “We haven’t gotten to that yet. I don’t want to push you into any shit you’re not ready for.”
“I’m not ready,” I admitted. “Not for that.” The mind-blowing, soul-destroying kiss we’d shared in my office was the first and only one we’d had. We were like two teenagers, the lust and desire hanging between us, but something heavier obstructing it. But he’d stayed over. A lot. He kept to his side and let me make the moves, which I hadn’t done much of. I curled up to him in my sleep and that was it. My unconscious mind craved his touch while my waking mind couldn’t handle it. But he’d respected the fact that just having him there, present in the dark with me, was all I could handle. “But I want to try and do this. I don’t do shit half-assed. If you don’t want me in your room if I’m not—”
He clutched my neck roughly, the first time he’d made such a sudden movement since… then. “I fuckin’ want you,” he growled. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think that. I want you any way I can have you. Always will,” he promised.
I’d nodded. “Okay” was all I’d been able to choke out.
Rosie was equal parts happy and sad about this turn of events. We’d spent the previous night having a ceremonial good-bye to being roommates. It was bittersweet. In fact, I’d had a tiny freak-out while watching a documentary about inmates on death row.
“I can’t do this,” I said suddenly.
“What? Watch this? This is like crème de la crème of our documentaries,” she replied, her eyes on the screen.
I turned to face her. “No, I can’t do this. Go and play house with a fucking biker who wants to save me. Who I want but can’t have because I can’t find a moment of fucking quiet in my head, and if I can’t find that he can’t give it to me. No one can. I’m just bringing him into my freak show. I can’t do that. I have to leave. To run. Do you ‘have a guy’ who does passports?” I asked seriously, beginning to panic.
“Of course I do,” she said. “But I’m not calling him. You don’t need to run. I won’t let you, and Lucky sure as shit won’t.”
“But I can’t. I can’t take what he’s offering.”
“It’s not him who’s offering anything,” she said. “Quiet is a gift. So is peace. And love. And salvation.” She eyed me, the glitter-rimmed lashes not hiding the wisdom behind those baby blues. “They’re all gifts you’ve gotta give yourself before anyone else can.”
“How can I find quiet when my demons scream at night? How can I find peace when chaos is all I know? How can I love myself when I can barely stand the feeling of my own skin?” I paused, sucking in a strangled breath. “How can I find salvation when I’m already damned?” I wiped away a tear angrily. Angry that I let it escape, at the vulnerability in my voice, the fact I’d just let myself be so weak. “Jesus,” I muttered. “I sound like a fucking Britney Spears song.”
She reached across the sofa to squeeze my hand. “Sweetheart, salvation only comes to the damned.” She grinned. “Hey, sometimes the best wisdom is hidden in catchy pop songs.”
So she convinced me to not flee the country.
Barely.
And I tried to give myself peace.
I got it when I moved into Gabriel’s small but warm house by the sea. It mirrored the little cabin that felt like it existed in a dream but it lacked the boho vibe of the other one. This was all rock and roll and all Gabriel.
All my fears melted away the second we got inside.
“Welcome home, baby,” he murmured quietly from behind me.
“Yeah,” I replied, looking at the ocean through his living room window. “Home.”
Then I moved my gaze to him, or more precisely, his denim-encased ass. And I got it. A flutter. A twinge that made me want to do something about it. Then came the dirt, chasing away whatever good feeling had been there.