Page 65 of His Custody

He needed to get out of here. Out of this building, off this campus, out of this godforsaken town. He needed out before he changed his mind, went back to Keyne’s room and flung her over his shoulder like some Cro-Magnon and dragged her back home and tied her to the bed, never to let her out of his sight again.

It had killed him to listen to her talk about being with someone else. In all his plotting about this, he’d never stopped to consider the very real possibility she would sleep with someone else. Every rational, responsible part of him hoped she would. But the caveman with the lizard brain, he was ripshit.

After they’d hauled her stuff up to her room, he’d had to move the car. He walked across campus to where he’d left it, but even the walk didn’t calm him enough to feel good about getting behind the wheel.

If this had been in the days before Keyne, he would’ve revved the engine, screeched off and bombed down the highway, not giving a shit if he got a speeding ticket. Not caring if he got himself killed, to be honest. He liked living, sure, but what was living without risk?

But not now. Even if he couldn’t have her right now, he was still responsible for her and if something happened to him—if his own reckless stupidity got him into an accident, got him killed, it would be as good as holding a gun to Keyne’s head. He couldn’t do it. He sat in his car, turned the key to blast the AC and the stereo, closed his eyes for a couple of minutes until he was certain he could speak without his voice shaking.

“Edwin. I’m in New Haven. I need you to pick me up.”

A few hours later, he was back at the house, holding a bottle of scotch in his hand but not drinking it.

He hadn’t missed drinking. It was easy with Keyne around. Socially, sure, he’d have a couple at a cocktail party or over a business dinner, but he didn’t remember the last time he’d gotten shitfaced or had a drink at home.

For the first time, he felt hamstrung by his responsibilities to her. If she called, he couldn’t be blitzed because she’d need him or she’d worry and come home no matter how she had to get here. He couldn’t go to the club because he’d promised not to be with anyone else.

It had seemed reasonable at the time. Of course she wanted him to be faithful. Given what they shared, it would make sense that it would be hard for her to believe some play was casual; you could do a pale echo of what they did with someone you didn’t have that bond with. The only play she’d experienced was of the most love-soaked, heart-grasping intimacy. Even when they’d been silly, it had all felt so deeply connected, like somewhere beneath the earth, their roots grew together.

When she had asked, he’d understood. He hadn’t even needed to think about his answer. He would never hurt her that way. He didn’t even want anyone else, but he had to do something about all the thoughts pinging around his skull. He couldn’t drink, he couldn’t drive, he couldn’t fuck, he couldn’t get high. What the hell was he supposed to do?

Hit something.

Beating the ever-loving crap out of something suddenly seemed appealing. He dropped the bottle to the floor, belatedly realizing that wasn’t the best idea. Luckily, the heavy glass thunked harmlessly against the hardwood and he didn’t spare it a backward glance before heading to his bedroom. He was going to pound on something until his knuckles were bruised and bloody if that was the only way to get Keyne O’Connell out of his head.

That’s what the next few weeks looked like. With one small difference.

He’d get up at the crack of dawn, go into work, throw himself into the minutiae of the business he’d extricated himself from over the past year, amazed at how much effort it took to flex those mental muscles, but grateful because it took his mind off the parts of his mind he wasn’t using. He tried not to think about her all day, every day. Where she might be, what she might be doing. Who she might be doing it with.

He’d come home from work, throw on some workout clothes and head to the gym to whale on equipment—he didn’t trust himself right now to spar with a partner—until he was so tired he could barely stand or until Ada would have dinner on the table. Whichever came first. He’d be ravenous while he showered, starving walking down the hall but when he sat down at the table, he couldn’t bring himself to eat. No matter what Ada put in front of him, it would sour his appetite.

He’d force a few bites, reminding himself he couldn’t starve to death. But he couldn’t...

It occurred to him that all of the grief he’d put away so he could care for Keyne was welling up now. The loss of his parents, Gavin, and the O’Connells hit him like a tsunami. He’d noticed their loss, been saddened, missed them. But the anguish hadn’t floated to the surface until the weight of his responsibility for Keyne had been lifted. He still felt it—his allegiance to her hadn’t shifted—but even allowing the barest gap was enough to let out the wrenching pain, the agony of loss.

What would his parents think of the man he’d become since they’d been gone? Would they be proud of him? Respect the man he’d grown into? Except for the part about fucking Keyne, he was pretty sure they’d love everything about it. They’d wanted him to settle down, back away from the dicier prospects in his business, dial back the drinking. So, he’d backslid some on the drinking since she’d left for Yale, but while she’d been with him, he’d had it under control. He had. They hadn’t even known about the coke, but that had stopped, too. He’d been responsible, supportive, and loving if he hadn’t always made the right choices as far as she was concerned.

And as far as Keyne... They had wanted him to find love. He wasn’t sure how finding it in Keyne O’Connell would’ve made them feel, but if they could get past the age difference, the fact that Keyne used to be with Gavin, and the kink... Perhaps all of that was insurmountable. Maybe they never would’ve accepted it. Them. But he had to believe they’d want him to feel this way about someone. And he’d found her, this woman who inspired feelings in him like no other.

Keyne fell into a pattern of calling him every other night: Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday. He got the feeling she’d rather call him every day, but she was trying so hard. She was trying so hard forhimand that’s what made it worse.

On the nights she didn’t call, he’d go into the library and start drinking. It wasn’t a big deal. He’d stopped drinking at home while Keyne had been here and now it was totally acceptable to have a nightcap. Or two. Just a little something to take the edge off the day. He’d play games to keep from going overboard: he’d finish reading a contract before he could pour himself another measure. Send this email before he could take another sip. It was fine. Completely under control.

The nights she did call, he’d work until the phone rang and then he’d talk to her for as long as she needed him to. He didn’t miss the scotch or the bourbon or whatever bottle he had open at the time while he was talking to her, but as soon as she was gone, their connection severed, down he’d fall, thirsting.

But the thought of her was strong enough in his memory that he’d be able to resist the siren song of alcohol, hang onto the evening’s edge of sobriety by straining fingertips. Those nights he wouldn’t drink. He’d go to bed and think of her, drown himself in memories and fantasies instead of in agonizingly doled-out booze.

He had so many images of her in his head, he had a hard time determining anymore which were real and which were Keyne-shaped figments. Had she actually worn that dress? Had she gasped that way when he’d fucked her? Did her hair feel that way when he gripped it in his fist?

One night he realized he couldn’t remember how she smelled anymore and it drove him crazy until he went to her room, and rifled through her clothes until he found a sweatshirt she must have forgotten to throw in the wash because it smelled like her. He missed her so much it was making him crazy. One more week and then she’d be home for the benefit Bunny had invited them to. Just one more week.

Chapter Twenty-five

September

She was late. She knew Jasper would be worried, but she’d rather he be worried than disappointed and he was going to be so disappointed. Last week in a fit of pique about this goddamn required rumspringa, she’d cut off all her hair. Her beautiful, down-to-her-waist, beloved terra cotta hair. She’d considered shaving it off, but before she could get that far, she’d had a panic attack. What would Jasper say? Would he still love her without her hair? Was she a suicidal Samson? Before Callie could finish the hack job, Keyne had been on the phone, calling her favorite stylist for an emergency appointment, no matter how much it cost.

She had snuck home, not telling Jasper she’d be in town and Mindy had shaped it into a full-topped pixie cut. When she was through, it wasn’t so bad. And yesterday... well, yesterday after they’d had a fight about why she had to go to the stupid benefit anyhow, she’d bleached it before laying on a side stripe of bright pink.

---