Page 85 of Fire for Effect

She blinked, her eyes slowly registering.

“What do you see?” I asked

But she shook her head again.

“Tell me what you see!”

She kept on shaking, trying to pull away from my grasp. Fat fucking chance. She wasn’t getting away easily this time. I wouldn’t let her go, and just stand around like an asshole, hoping she’d pay attention to me. I wasn’t going to pine and crumble under the pressure of what I thought was unrequited.

“What. Do. You. See?” I asked, slowly, letting her know that I would not back away from what I needed her to see.

“Your scar.”

“That’s right, baby.” I ran a hand from her hip, up her lean, flat stomach, to a beautiful round breast, up that elegant clavicle, to her long neck. My palm itched so badly that I couldn't resist. I placed my hand against her throat, my fingers at that lovely pulse, feeling the fast thumping of her heart. “Tell me why I got those.”

She shook her head again, and I was done. I was at the end of my rope, and I was not patient enough to let her come to her own conclusions.

“I got it for you, you stubborn woman!” I tightened my hand on her throat, and far from trying to pull my hand away, her hands wrapped around my forearm, anchoring herself to that connection. “The scar on my thigh is because I took a bullet for you, and I’d do it again, and again, and again. The one on my chest, is because I was shot three months ago, and I realized that I needed you.”

She gasped, her eyes widening.

“You didn’t tell me you got shot again,” her eyes looked sad, as her fingers traced the tattoo. Not the scar. But the mark of her over my heart.

“You’re not the only one who can keep a secret.”

The only people who knew I had been shot in the chest were Sierra, Oscar, and possibly my father.

“It matches the firefly birthmark, right here,” I placed my finger on her shoulder blade, where that same shape resided. The first time I had caught a glimpse of it was at a company pool party. I became obsessed with the little wine stain, and forever associated Taz with the bright insect. A little flicker of light in the darkness.

“I almost fucking died, and do you know what I dreamt of when I was in a medically induced coma?”

She didn’t shake her head that time. She just swallowed, a tear welling up in her eyes.

I hated to see her in pain. I hated to see her cry. But in a lot of ways, saying this, even if it caused her pain, was something I needed. I was sick of her not knowing what she meant to me. I was sick and tired of her fucking Miss Independent attitude that pushed people away, and made it seem like she didn’t need anyone.

She didn’t need anyone. But I did.

I craved her so much that I would die without her. And maybe that made my love for her selfish, and needy. But I wasn’t in the mood for a lesson in semantics.

“Who do you think I dreamt of? Who do you think got me through it?” I demanded, and she clamped her mouth shut, as if to keep the words from spilling out. I ran my thumb over the ticking muscle of her jaw and chuckled. “You’re not a dumb woman, Taz. But do you need me to spell it out?”

I already knew she would, but I’d give her a chance to change her pattern, even if my hopes weren’t high.

She shook her head, but said nothing.

So I continued.

“I dreamt about you. My dreams stitched together a thousand memories all at once.” I ran the backs of my fingers over her tight jawline. “I dreamt of a thousand conversations we’d had but imagined them across a pillow in the early morning light. I dreamt about what we would have talked about if you hadn’t disappeared in the morning.”

“Stop,” she said in a quiet whisper that I chose to ignore.

“I thought about what you’d do when I woke up, and how you’d be at my bedside,” I said, remembering the clear and terrible disappointment of just seeing Sierra’s sullen face at the hospital. “How you’d hold me, and give me whatever I wanted, because you’d spend days so worried that I’d die…”

“Please, stop.”

“I dreamt about dressing you, too. Is that weird?” Yes, it was. “Helping you put a necklace on, as you hold up your hair. The way I could help you zip up your dress–”

“I don’t own any dresses.”

---