Page 47 of Conquering Conner

Twenty-four

Conner

I still can’t decide if this is really happening or

not but I’ve decided it doesn’t really matter. She’s here. Even if she’s just a figment of my imagination, I’ll take it.

Right now, she’s sitting on the lowered lid of my toilet, knees pressed together, hands clasped on top, her eyes wheeling around the bathroom, taking it all in. The way she’s inspecting the place makes me glad for the obsessive need to clean that hit me around day eight. I spent four days scrubbing every square inch of this apartment.

Good to know it wasn’t for nothing.

Looking away from her, I focus on my hands. Scrubbing each cuticle, each knuckle with degreaser and a stiff-bristle brush. I could scrub my hands for hours. Until my knuckles are raw and my cuticles are bleeding. I’ve done it before. That’s why I set the egg timer next to the sink before I started. Five minutes. That’s all I give myself.

“You re-did the bathroom?”

Still scrubbing, I cut her a look before letting my gaze roam the room. I ripped out the tub and tiled in a large, standing shower stall. Double shower heads. Dual, extra-large water heaters. New vanity and sink. Heated floors. Water efficient toilet. My cousin and brother aren’t the only Gilroys who know how to swing a hammer.

“I spend a lot of time in here,” I tell her without offering further explanation.

The timer goes off. I force myself to put the brush down and rinse my hands before shutting off the water.

As soon as I’m finished, Henley stands. I think she’s going to leave me to it so when she starts unbuttoning her blouse, I’m caught off guard.

Tongue-tied, I watch silk slide off her shoulders, revealing one of her delicate lace bras. The constellation of freckles that covers her chest. Spills down to scatter down her arms. Disappears into the waistband of her skirt.

“You stopped bleaching your freckles.”

“You asked me to.” She sounds confused. Unsure. Slightly defensive. A little angry. She sounds like Henley.

My Henley.

And just like that, I’m so fucking hard it hurts, blood flooding away from my brain so fast I feel dizzy. My cock practically pounding against the front of my pants. It that fucker had teeth, it’d have chewed its way out by now.

Shirt discarded, she starts on her skirt, slowly unzipping it so she doesn’t snag its designer fabric.

“What are you doing?” My voice sounds weird again, that fucked-up animal rearing its ugly head.

Wiggling her hips, she works herself free of her skirt and it pools at her feet. “I’m taking off my clothes,” she says it gently, her tone totally void of sarcasm. It’s like she knows I’m struggling to figure out what’s real and what isn’t.

Like she feels sorry for me.

“Don’t do that.” I shake my head, taking a step in her direction. “Don’t you fucking feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t.” She reaches around and unhooks her bra to pull it down her arms. Breasts bared, she drops it on the floor. “I just want to help you.” When I don’t move, she hooks her thumbs into the wide band of lace circling her hips. “Let me help you.” She tugs them down her thighs, past her knees before letting them drop to her feet.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real…

I snag the hem of my T-shirt and pull it up over my head before dropping it on the floor. I’ve lost weight over the last few weeks. I’m not sure how much but it’s enough that she goes a little pale when she sees the shape I’m in.

“I forget to eat when…” When what? When I’m like this? When I lose my fucking marbles? When I can’t drink enough or fuck enough or get hit hard enough to numb myself out? I don’t even know why I’m trying to explain. Henley isn’t here.

This isn’t real.

I close my eyes, because real or not, I don’t like the way she’s looking at me. “Anyway, this is the worst it’s ever been. I usually don’t go more than a week between…”

I didn’t hear her move, but she must’ve because I can suddenly feel her fingers skate along the contours of my stomach and my muscles contract in response. I feel the press of her lips against the tattoo on my throat, making me wonder if she recognizes it. If she remembers where it’s from.

“I’m sorry.” She says it softly, her hands slipping lower to push the tongue of my belt from its buckle, loosening it so she can work the front of my pants open. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve—”

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