Page 35 of The Broken Places

They spent long minutes just breathing together, as she ran her fingernails over his back and he feathered his lips along her shoulder. When he leaned back to look at her, he appeared just a little bit drunk, and she breathed out a short laugh. He kissed her lips and then rolled to the side, gathering her in his arms, her cheek pressed against his warm skin.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but the next time she woke, a slip of gray was showing around the blind. She extricated herself from Ambrose’s arms and scooted to the other side of the bed, grabbing her discarded robe as she stood.

She used the bathroom, and when she came back out into the bedroom, Ambrose was sitting on the side of the bed, fully dressed, his features shadowy in the low light of dawn. “I should go,” he said softly. He looked up at her, and she detected the uncertainty in his expression, and perhaps just a bit of regret. He stood, running his hand through his tousled hair as she fumbled to pull her robe all the way closed to her neck, disappointment and a drip of embarrassment making her feel slow and gawky. She wasn’t sure what to say, didn’t know if she should ask him to stay. He’d obviously wanted to be with her—she knew she hadn’t imagined his response. But she’d also begged him at a certain point.

“Okay,” she said. What else could she say? And whether he’d responded to her or not, he’d only come over here to make sure she was okay and that she wasn’t alone. She felt slightly rejected, and a little embarrassed, but she was also still exhausted. And however this had ended, hehadmade her feel better. Talking had helped. The rush of lust had helped, too, and so had the orgasm. Her muscles felt lax, her emotions settled. She’d slept like a rock in his arms for several hours, and she knew she’d have no problem going back to sleep. And truthfully, he was probably right to leave now rather than stay longer. What happened had shaken her, and she hadn’t had much time at all to process it. She needed to sleep as long as her body told her to, and she needed to find her own equilibrium.

He paused, his heavy gaze moving over her face, cataloging. He gave a succinct nod.

God, this was awkward. And yet, she still couldn’t bring herself to regret it. She was halfway back to sleep already, and she wanted nothing more than to fall back into bed.

She walked him to the door, and when he got there, he turned back around quickly, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and then leaned forward and kissed her softly on her mouth. It looked like he was having an internal argument with himself, but finally he said, “Get some more sleep, Lennon. Goodbye.” And then he turned and walked away, and she closed the door behind him, confused about why his goodbye had sounded permanent.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The elevator came to a bumpy halt as it stopped on the third floor of the hotel Ambrose was currently staying in. He stepped out, adjusting the grocery bags in his hands and heading down the long carpeted hallway toward his room, around a corner and down another short hall. He’d asked for something as far from the elevator as possible, though, and they’d certainly honored his request.

His mind was filled with Lennon, with the way she’d felt beneath him the night before, the memory of her quiet moans, the echoes of which still made heat flare through his veins. It wasn’t only attraction he felt for her—if he hadn’t known that before, he knew it now. He could fall for her so easily. He probably already had.

The way he’d felt when he’d realized she was being attacked by the man in the tent dispelled any notion that what he felt for her was the same concern he’d feel for anyone else being victimized in front of him. No, what he’d felt when he’d come upon the sight of Lennon fighting for her life was a primal response, the depth of which he hadn’t even known he possessed.

He switched the bags from one hand to the other. He’d reacted in rage at the man hurting Lennon, but he’d pulled back before going too far. In a way it was a test that he’d have never confronted if not for this particular circumstance. And he’d passed. He’d been angry—rageful, even—and terrified, too, that she was injured beyond repair. And yes, he’d expressed that using violence because it’d been the only choice. Buthe’d remained in control of his mind and his body, pulling back when he’d overcome the threat. And he hadn’t hesitated in responding, not even for a fraction of a second. A gust of cool relief was still blowing through him, along with the concern for Lennon and all the other feelings she stirred in him. He’d wanted to stay in that bed of hers, Lennon wrapped in his arms, more than anything he could remember wanting in a very long time. But it wasn’t right for so many reasons, and so he’d gone.

A shadow moved, and Ambrose halted, his pulse jumping as he reached for his gun. The shadow stepped from the turn in the hallway, becoming a man. Ambrose let out a slow hiss of breath, dropping his hand from the holster at his waist. “For the love of Christ, Finch. I might have shot you.”

The man grinned as he approached. “You can’t kill me, Ambrose. Don’t you know I’ve got nine lives?”

Ambrose grinned back and then pulled Finch into a hug as they both laughed. “Yeah, I know, but I don’t want to take any of your last remaining ones. You’ve got a fight on your hands, and we’re all counting on you to win it.”

At the mention of his current fight, Finch removed the beanie he was wearing and ran a hand over what had once been a close-cropped Afro and was now a shiny bald head. “This cancer might take my hair, brother, but it won’t take me.”

Ambrose smiled, and he felt the relief of Finch’s optimism, a necessary ingredient if he was going to win. “Come on in,” he said, using the key card to open the door. The room smelled stale, the lingering scent of a time when smoking was allowed still ingrained in the walls and the furniture. This place definitely wasn’t anything fancy, but it wasn’t the worst place he’d ever stayed, either, not by a long shot. Ambrose set the grocery bags down on the desk and closed the curtains. “I met your son the other day. He seems like a good guy.”

Finch pulled out the desk chair, flipped it around, and sat down backward. “He told me. I mean, he told me a cop and an FBI agentstopped by the center. I got this address from Doc. And Darius is a good guy. The kid has my fire and his mother’s heart. He’s a work of art, man, he really is. A human Da Vinci. I could stare at that dude all day.” He laughed. “Is that weird? Eh, wait until you have kids, you’ll get it.”

Ambrose smiled but shook his head. “No kids for me.”

“You might change your mind.”

He wouldn’t. Not on that. “Anyway, I wouldn’t expect anything less than a human work of art, with a dad like you.”

Finch ran his hand over his head again. “Thankfully the kid was so young when I got clean. If not ...”

“Hey, no reason for regrets, Finch. You cleaned up, and you raised a great kid. That alternate life is somewhere twisting in the mist, unattached to you.”

Finch smiled. “You always did have a way with words. All that reading. Twisting in the mist. Yeah, you’re right, I know. It’s easy to get lost in the what-ifs sometimes, you know? Sitting in that chair every week while they pump chemicals into my body gives me all kinds of time to consider an alternate life, the one I was heading toward.” He paused for a minute. “Mostly, I like thinking about it. It makes me proud that I changed paths. But other times, it gives me the damn chills, you know? That kid ... that kid would have been an entirely different person if I hadn’t gotten my shit together.”

“A lot of people would be entirely different people if not for you.”

“Nah. I only helped a few people on the final steps of their journey.”

“Bullshit.”

Finch laughed and then squinted one eye. “You still box?”

“Hell yes, I still box.” Ambrose ducked his head and did a few jabs into the air. “Do you wanna go a few rounds for old times’ sake? Think you can take me?”

Finch laughed. “Probably not. You look cut. Good for you.”

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