Page 109 of Unholy Obsession

“And yet, here you are. Enabling my bad behavior.” I poke his bicep. “That makes you my accomplice. My ride-or-die. My partner in crime.”

His sigh is long-suffering, but I see the twitch of his lips. “I am neither riding nor dying.”

“Well, you’re certainly no fun.”

He turns onto a quiet road leading to the gas station, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “And what part of this is fun, exactly?”

“The part where I get wine and we create a beautiful, spontaneous memory.” I flutter my lashes. “We arebuttertogether, Bane. Soft, rich, and sinful.”

Bane exhales hard, like he’s praying for patience. But I see the corner of his mouth tilt upward.

Inside the 7-Eleven, I make a beeline for the sad little wine selection. I grab a bottle of something that looks like it was brewed in a bathtub and possibly banned in several states. Then I hold up another, squinting at the label.

“Red or white?” I ask.

Bane, looming behind me like a very judgmental shadow, eyes the selection like he’s witnessing a crime. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” I declare, thrusting both bottles toward him. “Choose our fate.”

“I refuse.”

“Too late, you’re involved.” I shove the red at him. “This one pairs well with dreadful decisions.”

He holds it like it might explode. “It’s three-dollar wine.”

I place a hand over my heart. “I neversaidwe were going classy.”

After paying, we head back to the car. I twist off the cap before we even get the doors closed, take a long, dramatic swig, then smack my lips. “Mmm, notes of desperation and a hint of despair.”

Bane looks at me like he’s reconsidering our marriage. “Where to now?”

“Empty parking lot. We need music and ambiance.”

“Ambiance,” he repeats, deadpan.

“Exactly. We’re making memories, baby.”

He stares at me for a long moment, then—because he is, in fact, my ride-or-die—puts the car in gear and drives.

Five minutes later, we’re parked under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight in some abandoned lot. I kick my feet up on the dash again, wine bottle in my lap, and scroll through the radio until I find somethingappropriately vibey—which turns out to be an ‘90s power ballad.

“You gonna drink, or are you just my designated brooder?” I nudge Bane with the bottle.

He takes it, eyes me warily, then—shock of all shocks—he actually takes a sip. A small one. Like a man who just licked a poison dart frog.

I gasp. “Holy shit, look at you! Corrupting yourself one sip at a time.”

He hands the bottle back like it personally offended him. “It’s vile.”

“It’sfreedom.” I take another deep swig and drape myself dramatically across the seat. “You, Bane Blackwood, are experiencing amomentwith your wife.”

He shakes his head, looking at me like he can’t decide whether to put me in a straight jacket or kiss me. Probably both.

I grin, throwing my head back against the seat, letting the music wash over me. “You know,” I say, swirling the bottle in my hand like it’s a fine vintage, “I used to think happiness was this elusive, mythical thing. Like Bigfoot or a healthy relationship. But right now, sitting here with you, drinking awful wine in an even worse parking lot?” I sigh contentedly. “I think I finally get it.”

Bane doesn’t say anything, but his hand reaches out, slipping over mine. Warm. Solid. Steady.

And for the first time in forever, I feel... light.

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