“Well yeah, they said it was accidental,” I replied to Jen, jerking out of those memories, the ones that should’ve been dark and painful since they took place in a hospital room after I’d almost died. But they were the complete opposite.
She turned to face me fully. “But you don’t believe them?”
I chewed my lip. “Well, they’re the professionals, so I should, and they’re right, I could’ve forgotten about my hairdryer. But I just don’t see how. I’m really particular about that kind of stuff. Like really particular. It just doesn’t seem likely that I’d forget something so obvious.”
Gage was of the same opinion. Because he knew me. And he didn’t “give a fuck what assholes with clipboards said.” Which was why, when he wasn’t with me—which was pretty much all the fricking time—he was at the club, or out “following leads.” Which he’d told me himself was literally beating up people who may have some kind of grudge with him. Enough to try to burn down my house.
But apparently that list was small.
“Anyone has a big enough grudge with me to try shit, I kill them before they get the chance to carry it out,” he’d told me.
So there was that.
Which meant we had to start to believe the impossible, since we’d ruled everything else out. That it really was just a hairdryer I’d forgotten to unplug. No late arrival of some kind of courtship drama that was somewhat of a tradition in the Sons of Templar family.
I’d expected everyone to be disappointed with all the teasing Amy had been subjecting me to before. But there had been no teasing when she came to my hospital room and yanked me into her arms.
When she’d pulled me out of her embrace, she’d wiped her eye. “Now, I’ve told Barney’s you’re a six, but you feel like a four, so I’ve got some calls to make.” She’d turned to walk out the door and paused, looking over her shoulder. “And if you ever almost die in a fire again, I’ll kill you.”
But I still had my guard while Gage was away doing Gage things. Most Gage things were him gently and maddeningly making love to me.
Not fucking.
Making love.
He had yet to handle me with that beautiful brutality that came before.
“Can’t bring myself to bruise the skin that I’ve seen burned to a crisp in my fuckin’ nightmares,” he’d rasped, slowly moving inside of me. “Need you to heal first. Need you to heal me first.”
As much as my softer and more vulnerable parts enjoyed the change of pace, the darker part of me was crying out for that roughness, relished the annoying itch in my palm.
Jen was regarding me with sympathy as I absently scratched the thin bandage. “Of course you don’t want to believe it, babe. But you’ve been kind of… distracted with your new and fabulous relationship, right? When we’re in love, all of our normal behaviors kind of fly out the window. We find ourselves stopping from doing the things we’ve always done and start doing things we thought we’d never do.”
She obviously didn’t know about the brief breakup. I thought I’d done a terrible job of hiding my sorrow. Amy certainly saw right through it, but maybe that was because Brock had likely told her something about Gage.
Jen hadn’t even met Gage, and she was busy with her own stuff, in and out of the office all week, talking about organizing the “best story of her life” and not telling anyone.
I thought on her words. On the bruises covering my body. On the handcuffs still attached to Gage’s headboard.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said finally.
Arms went around my waist and I jolted, not even realizing I was no longer alone in the guest bedroom of Gage’s house that he’d repurposed into my studio.
His house was furnished with everything from my own that we’d been able to salvage. It was more than I’d expected, since being inside the inferno had me certain it was going to engulf my entire home.
The fire crew had arrived only seconds after Gage made it to the ground with me in his arms.
Pretty much my entire living room was gone. As were all my books, carefully collated and collected over my whole life. That was what hit me. Not my expensive cushions or throws or sofas. No, the two-dollar copy of The Road that I’d bought with David when we’d skipped school and trolled the vintage shops. Or the well-weathered copy of The Bronze Horseman my grandmother had given me.
Every cover held not only the stories within the pages, but the ones attached to the books themselves. It wasn’t the things I cared about losing.
It was the memories.
I’d broken down. Once.
The first night after I’d been discharged from the hospital and Gage drove me to his place, without question. I had a hideously expensive designer suitcase full of equally hideous designer clothes that Amy had acquired for me.