Page 38 of Brazen Being It

I stand there, shaking, until Little Foot pulls me into him and holds me like he’s trying to keep me from flying apart.

“You did good,” he says into my hair.

“I thought I was past it,” I whisper.

“You are.”

He pulls back, cups my face in his hands. “We’ll deal with him.”

And for the first time, I believe we will.

Together.

I feel like I can’t catch enough air.

Little Foot is watching me, leaning against his bike with that quiet patience he always wears like armor. Not saying anything, not pushing. Just waiting until I’m ready.

There’s so much I want to tell him. About Frankie. Does he know the man is a pimp?

For me, though, I have too many questions. How did Frankie find me? I didn’t even tell my mom where I am exactly. How did Frankie get such a nice car? He’s only ever driven busted up ones that don’t always crank to come see mom.

“It’s not you,” I say instead, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… sometimes it’s heavy. Everything I’ve been through. I don’t always know how to carry it.”

He steps closer, tilts his head until our eyes meet.

“Then let me help carry it,” he says. “Or… forget it. Don’t carry anything at all. Not right now. Just get lost in the night with me.”

My heart flips. That one simple sentence unknots something tight in my chest.

He kisses me then. Not hesitant or careful like before—but like he means it. Like he’s pulling me out of the wreckage of my thoughts and into something real. His lips are warm and certain, his hands framing my face like I’m breakable and strong all at once.

And suddenly, I don’t want to be in my head anymore.

“I want to go home.” I whisper. “To our home.”

We don’t speak on the ride. His hand rests on my thigh, grounding me. The world outside blurs, but in here, in this small space with him, everything sharpens.

The trailer is quiet when we arrive, all soft shadows and the scent of pine from the woods just beyond the porch. I follow him inside like I’m stepping into another life.

He turns to me once the door closes. “Cambria?—”

“I know what I’m doing,” I say before he can ask. “I know what this means.”

His eyes search mine. “I don’t want to be something you regret.

“Never.”

And just like that, the distance between us disappears.

We undress each other slowly, deliberately, like each layer is a secret we’re finally allowed to share. My hands find the hem of his shirt, soft cotton beneath my palms, and I lift it with trembling fingers. He raises his arms, making it easy, his eyes locked on mine, searching for hesitation—finding none. The shirt slips over his head and onto the floor. My breath catches at the sight of him, the way his skin glows gold in the lamplight, the curve of his shoulders, the vulnerability written in the way he lets me see him, just as he is. The way his muscles tense and flex as if he’s holding back while his body is on fire with desire.

He touches my face, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, then trails down the line of my throat. There’s a question in his touch, one I answer by reaching for his belt, undoing it with a patience I didn’t know I possessed. Every click, every whisper of fabric, is a revelation. He helps me, too, unzipping my dress slowly pausing to press a kiss to my shoulder as each patch of skin is revealed. Goosebumps rise on my arms, not from cold, but from the nearness of him, the weight of his attention.

His hands tremble just once, and so do mine. We pause, a nervous laugh escaping me, and he leans in, kissing me, steadying us both. We finish undressing each other with that same sacred slowness, as if we’re afraid to break the spell. I feel exposed, but not naked; his gaze shields me, his hands worship me. For the first time, I feel precious, chosen. Not just wanted, but seen.

He lays me down on the bed, not rushed, not frenzied, but careful, cherished. The sheets are cool beneath me. He brushes my hair away from my face, his fingers gentle, his smile soft. The emotion in his eyes is so intense, so real, that I forget what it’s like to be afraid. For years, my body felt like something borrowed, something I had to hide or defend. But here, with him, I feel safe. I feel like maybe I belong to myself again.

He settles beside me, his body warm and solid, his arm curling under my neck. He kisses me again, slower this time, lingering, as if he wants to memorize the shape of my mouth. His hand drifts over my stomach, my hip, learning the curve of my body like he’s reading a map he’s wanted to study for ages. I arch into his touch, letting myself feel—really feel—every place our skin connects.

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