Page 70 of Fearless

Choosing not to disturb her, I cross the room to the far wall and grab the pelmet that’s holding the drapes up. Two pulls and it comes down. Shoddy workmanship if I say so myself. I bring them back and arrange them over the sofa.

When I glance over she’s looking at me like I’m the man who hung the moon. Or pulled down the drapes. I’d like to believe that tonight they’re the same thing.

I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling like a spare prick now that I’ve finished.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally says.

I swallow, fully aware my voice is going to come out hoarse. “We both know I did.”

She gives me a weak smile. “You’re good at that.”

“What? Building forts? And to think I’ve wasted thirty years trying to be a… businessman.”

Her smile gets a little stronger, and I like it. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

I know she wasn’t.

“What were you talking about?”

She shakes her head, like it doesn’t matter.

But it does matter.

I approach the bed, and she doesn’t scarper. Which is surely a good sign. “Tell me.”

She frowns just slightly and shakes her head.

“I’m good at knowing what you want, when you don’t even know yourself?”

Her eyes flick up to my face, and then she looks back down at the fort at the end of the bed.

“I’m good at knowing what you need.” This time it’s not a question, it’s a statement. She deals with statements better than questions. Orders better than choices.

“Lie down for me, Meisie.”

She does it. But not before making sure both halves of the shirt are covering her completely.

We’ll fix that.

I lie down beside her, propping myself up on my elbow. My fingers trail a line down her body, and I don’t miss the hitch in her breath as I pass by her stomach.

I’m going to try to fix that, too.

“Do you want to know why I rebuilt it?” I ask her.

She knows what I’m talking about, but she chooses not to answer.

“Because nothing in this fucked up world that’s broken can’t be fixed. Not me, not you, not your fucking fort.”

I try my best to make her see that. I trail kisses and bites down her body while she squirms and tries to fight me.

When I get to her belly I can practically feel the panic in the room.

“Not even this,” I tell her.

I’d like to believe that. I’d like to believe that even the most messed up people, the most fucked up situations, the flimsiest little hidey-holes all have a chance at being fixed.

But she looks at me like I’m torturing her. Like me being close to whatever happened down here is just too much trauma for one person to take.

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