Page 42 of A Shot in the Dark
“How many people have you dug graves for?”
“Too many.”
“Ah.” I sigh. He’s right, we come from completely different worlds. The bond? This thing that’s only supposed to be temporary feels like it’s changing, growing. Shimmering strings weave together inside of me, warp and weft both going red, and connecting me at another level to Boots. Like something between us is determined—fated. My heart stutters, knowing even that is not enough. This is only meant to be temporary. That’s what fate has in store for us. I lick my lips and glance back at him. “That wasn’t him. I’m sure now.”
His head dips down and back up in a slow nod. “Okay. And how are you sure now, princess?”
“Hmm… It sounds crazy… You’ll think I’m crazy…”
“Try me.”
I face the window again so I don’t have to see his expression when I say something so stupid. “He didn’t smell like my stalker.”
He doesn’t ask me more questions, doesn’t jab at me with “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” He’s quiet. I turn my head to look at him, ready to hear whatever he has to offer. Boots nods solemnly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and says, “Fuck.”
I’m beginning to realize that, to Boots, the word “fuck” has a million different meanings. It can mean “idiot,” or “jackass,” “we’re screwed,” or “the tire’s gone flat.” Occasionally it means the food is really good (or bad). It’s a call of welcome, a note of surprise, a thank you like no other. It can be spoken as a curse, or in reverence in the sight of such beauty which no other word can truly encapsulate the view. It’s a verb, noun, adjective, and adverb—its own little beginning and end. It sometimesaccompanies the sexy groan he gives when he comes, or his first view of me in the morning. It’s a filler word when no other word will do or easily comes to mind. “Fuck” is one of the most flexible words in the human vocabulary. It’s like Boots has said: “It’s all about the delivery.”
Right now I’m unsure of which meaning it carries.
“Why do I get the feeling that I am totally fucked?” he asks.
Ah. Context.
“How are you ‘totally fucked?’ Other than the ‘seven ways to Sunday’ that you seem to enjoy with me?” I add in a mad attempt to lighten the mood.
“Princess, princess, princess,” he muses. “You know he didn’t smell like your stalker. That’s great—actually,” he gives a brief but earnest laugh, “more than I was hoping for. It seems the wild in you is starting to work her way free. Did you notice anything else about the way he smelled?”
Staring at the road ahead, I search my mind, fumble through the memories of my senses. “No… Wait.” My heart is a rabbit racing. “He smelled…” I turn to stare at him, realization like a kick to my gut. “...kind of likeyou.”
A new red flag waves, big and bright, and dangerous.
Chapter 13
“That’s what I thought, too,” he mutters. “True androyallyfucked…” He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t volunteer any information. And honestly? I’m too tired to try and dig at whatever it is he knows or thinks he knows. I want time. Time to sleep, to rest, and reflect.
I want that for both of us, but I think we need it separately.
We have miles and hours between us and the dead man when I urge, “Pull over.”
“Why?”
“I want you.”
“You don’t.”
“Ineedyou.”
Gravel spews up from the tires as Boots pulls the car onto the shoulder. We’re barely in park and his hands are already coasting their way from my breasts to my hips. Ten minutes later, slumped in the front seat, one bare foot resting on Boots’ shoulder and the other on his knee, I bask in the afterglow, a puddle of contentment.
His bare right hand rests between my legs almost protectively, fingers mindlessly stroking me as we continue barreling forward.
“What the fuck am I going to do about you, princess?” he murmurs.
Wondering if the question is merely a hypothetical musing, I let the silence gather, enjoying the comfort of his petting, the intimacy without expectation, the calm between storms.
He turns to look at me.
This take-charge man is not speaking hypothetically but asking me what I want.
