Page 43 of First Touch

I contemplate what he said as he dishes up our breakfast. If Jesse has had a hard life, then I want to be the one to make it happier. I want to be the one to put him first but I’m afraid that I’m not enough.

I might not even deserve him but the thought of not taking this chance with him, only for him to meet someone else someday… That kills me. My chest is tight, aching to be with him. To be normal…

For the rest of the day on Sunday, I replay the conversation with Nathan and all the ones with Jesse these last few weeks. All the little glimpses of his real self that he gave me before he had come clean about who he was seem more special now. He was trying to connect with me and I didn’t realize how hard that was for him.

Then the truth came out and he made his intentions clear. He wants this. He wants to give this a chance despite all of the reasons we probably shouldn’t.

I have tried to get over my issues in the past, but maybe I’m more ready now. I’ve never felt the desire to touch anyone like I do with Jesse. Never trusted anyone like him. I know he’s what I want, but he might also be what I need, and the prospect excites me.

I think about sex, often. Maybe more so than the average woman because I’ve been deprived for so long. I want the passion, the lust, I want to be wanted.

The relationships I had in undergrad were casual, immature even. My hookups entailed drunken quickies in dorm rooms and college houses, nothing of real merit.

I’ve had almost six long years to think about all the ways I’d want to be touched by a man. Hypothetically at least. No one in my real life ever seemed worth fantasizing about. Until now. Now, I want to try. With Jesse.

By Monday, the doubts start creeping in. I still haven’t heard from him and my hope starts to dwindle. Other than the one text telling me he’d see me soon, I haven’t heard a peep. No unexpected visits and no truck parked on the curb in front of my house. I checked.

Tuesday, I’d considered that I was dumb to get my hopes up. The conversation Saturday night could have sunk in and he might’ve taken it as a sign to stop things between us. Thinking that he isn’t willing to put up with my problems makes me sick to my stomach for most of the day.

Luckily, storytime with the kids served to be a good distraction, helping me smile and laugh for the first time since the weekend.

As I log onto my computer to wrap up a few things before I leave, I sense him before I see him. My eyes snap right to his as he approaches me at the island and to the fresh stitches spanning down his right temple, through the corner of his eyebrow.

The tiny white skin tape keeping it covered is like a beacon even under the brim of his hat. “What happened?” My concern instantly erases all of the doubts I’ve had the past two days. None of my problems matter. Only he does.

“It’s a long story, but I’m okay. I promise.” His eyes burn into mine, both of us relaying the emotions that neither of us can put into words in a room full of people.

I stare at him, the man before me that I want so desperately, realizing that I’ll do whatever it takes for a chance with him. I have to.

He checks his watch quickly, blowing out a deep breath when he realizes what time it is. “Will you still be here after the meeting is done?” He asks with clear desperation in his voice.

I’m supposed to leave soon. I usually leave before it’s over, but it doesn’t matter.

“Yeah. I’ll be here.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Jesse

Acluster fuck. That’s what the last few days have been. Once the ball started rolling, it didn’t seem like it would ever stop. After Sunday’s radical “church” service, I walked into a second barn on the property with my fellow Jameson followers, only to find tables full of what could only be bomb-making material. The amount of materials laid out would have made my jaw drop if not for my need to remain neutral.

The low-level equipment wouldn’t be concerning if it weren’t for the amount. There is enough product to demo the barn itself if that’s what they were going for.

Household chemicals. Metal pipes. Wires. Containers of screws and other shrapnel. All from the boxes I’d been helping bring in for weeks. I had no idea and it makes my skin crawl. It’s the exact reason I’m here in New Hope, but to see it was uncanny. I never would have guessed they’d be into explosives.

However, the hushed conversations throughout the day had alluded that no one actually has any bomb-making experience. All the supplies were gathered in an attempt to “figure it out.” Which is incredibly stupid and dangerous.

I watched men fiddle with materials until my back was locked with stress. These guys are going to kill themselves before they can even attempt to “stick it to the man,” but good riddance.

Sunday night, I heard whispers that one of Jameson’s right-hand men had assembled a “test bomb” and they wanted to experiment. Unfortunately, the followers weren’t invited to partake, so without the rest of the group I had to sneak back onto the property after everyone had left to see if their attempt was successful.

I hoped that they were too dumb to figure it out, that all of this material would go to waste and they’d give up their endeavors. Maybe try protesting with picket signs like normal enraged Americans have been doing for decades.

That hope was quickly squashed once the bomb went off in the field behind his farmhouse. I underestimated their determination. I also underestimated my safe cover, because the blast sent shrapnel flying in my direction and right at my face. The resulting wound was pouring blood and obscuring the vision in my right eye. I had to do everything I could to get back to my truck unnoticed.

All of Monday was spent in the hospital getting stitched up and checked for a concussion. Worse than that, reporting what happened to my command. Filling out paperwork, sending emails, and more paperwork.

By the time I left that hospital the superiors over my unit demanded my presence at the closest military hospital to get rechecked by their doctors and cleared for duty. Then more paperwork.

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