Page 37 of Bullet

“There you go! I love cats.”

Another surprise. “Better than dogs?” I splutter.

“There is no better when it comes to animals. I love all of them. A guy in the club, Crow, he got himself a dog not too long ago. She’s a good dog, her name’s Connie. A German Shepherd. She got hit by a car right in front of them.”

“Holy fuck.”

Something passes between us without any words being needed. I don’t even do that with Willa, have a silent communication where we just seem to understand each other.

He steeples his hands on the table and doesn’t even attempt to hide how vastly entertained he is. “I think that might be the first curse word I’ve ever heard you say.”

“It probably won’t be the last. You should hear what I say in my head most days.”

“It’s always so much more interesting in our heads, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes it’s dark and unpleasant.” Where the hell didthatslip out from?

His eyes darken and hold mine, shadows leaping and twisting between us. I can’t back down and he’s not going to pretend thathe didn’t hear it. If anything, I appreciate his ability to meet that head on. “Yeah? Those times are shit.”

“Theyareshit. I’ll drink to that, even if it’s just tea.” I hold my cup up and he does the same.

We drink together in silent communion. How is it that I feel as though I’ve been reborn sitting here? That after trailing down the wrong path, so blind, I’ve opened my eyes, my hands, and my heart, and let all the energy in the world flow back into me. I’m usually so far removed from emotion, so cut off from true feeling, that I don’t even remember what it’s like to allow myself those small moments and mercies.

I have to stem the swelling in my chest before it breaks over me and shatters me. I’m not ready for this yet. I can’t go from ice to fire. You can’t warm yourself that way when you’ve been deathly cold. It can actually kill you.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re doing a good job? That you’re quite amazing? That you’re straight up motherfucking inspirational?”

“Stop.” If he doesn’t, I’m going to lose it. Control. Myself. The tears burn and burn at the backs of my eyes. I study the table, tracing my finger over the rim of the mug.

“I think you need to hear it,” he insists, those dark, honest notes a melody drifting through a body that’s forgotten how to dance.

“I’m the boring one. The dry one. The strict, unfun, unpopular, humorless, stick-up-the-ass, plain sister.” I shoot up, but stand there, towering over the table. Now that the fight hasleached out, all I have left is the flight, but I can’t seem to even do that.

Bullet rises slowly and I’m transfixed by the way his huge body moves. The tension in the air between us fairly radiates through the house. It’s a wonder that the ground doesn’t shake and the windows don’t burst out at the building pressure.

When he moves towards me, I don’t move at all, missing my next step in this dance that we’ve been doing around each other. His hand closes around my wrist, but not like a manacle. His touch is as tender as the brush of morning fog, his fingers skating up my skin beneath my blazer.

My jaw clenches tightly, my mind in such turmoil that my brain can’t give proper impulses. I don’t pull away.

He circles his thumb over my pulse point. The vein is literally leaping in my wrist where my watch should be. “You’re wrong,” he practically purrs. “Definitely about one part.”

My eyes slam shut. “I hope it’s the stick in the ass bit.”

“It’s slowly working its way out.”

My eyes fly open to find him leaning even closer, his dark, blown-out gaze on my face, as seductive as black midnight, calling me to fold myself in its embrace, to lose myself where no one will ever see.

“I was talking about the plain bit.” He steps into me, nearly pressing our bodies up against each other. There’s nothing more separating us than a thin bit of air. Adrenaline creeps into my bloodstream, jacking up my heartrate. He can feel it. His thumb is still pressed to my wrist. “You couldn’t be anything less thanbeautiful if you tried. You’re gorgeous because you’re natural. You’re not pretending to be something you aren’t.”

Sensation explodes in my chest, raw energy swamping me. Combined with the adrenaline, it’s like getting into a car accident. “Yes, I am. I pretend every day. I have since my mother died,” I snap.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

I’m filled with the urge to prove him wrong. If I can’t make my body pull away, I can at least refute him. “I’ve pretended to have it all together, to have the answers, to not be scared, or sad, or worried. I hide behind a professional exterior because that’s what people want to see. I’ve been regulating my emotions and suppressing others for so long that I don’t even know what real feeling is anymore.”

His hand tightens, and for just an instant, I want him with everything that I am. I want to curl up in his arms, to be enfolded in his strength, to be supported and held up. I want to lean on him and draw from him, to not be the strong one, just for a moment.

That’s insanity. I’m wrong withanyone.

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