Page 36 of Restitution
The piece of shit who could never fall out of love with her.
I nearly drop to my fucking knees, staring at her little dimple and the freckles dusting her cheeks and nose. She’s truly a work of art. A masterpiece. And I’m proud to say that I was her first love.
She turns away from me to speak to the cashier, exchanging pleasantries while she pays. I flex my fingers, roll my jaw to hype myself up to close the distance and walk towards her.
Regretfully, I need to scare Stacey again and make her hurry up and get to our meeting place. It won’t be long until Barry realises she’s gone and hunts her down. We need privacy. We need a few fucking minutes for me to get everything off my chest.
The closer I get, the more I want to drown in her. All of her. I want to wrap my arms around her and hide from this fucked-upworld. I want to say I’m sorry for everything and beg her to run away with me.
As soon as I’m behind her, I pause. Even through my helmet, I can smell her shampoo. The top of her head reaches just under my chin, and all the memories of me holding her from behind flash before my eyes.
“Thank you,” she says to the cashier, taking her change.
Fuck. Her voice sounds even better than it did on the phone. Am I so far gone that hearing her speak makes me feel like a pubescent teen? I have goosebumps, for fuck’s sake.
“Anything else?” the cashier asks, her eyes skimming me then moving back to Stacey.
“No. Thank you.”
I push myself forward despite my nerves shattering, keeping my visor down as I lean my elbows on the desk beside her. She bumps into me when she pockets the change, and my heart stops from the contact.
“Oh, sorry.”
With a deadly slowness, I turn my head to look at her. She can’t see me, but I can see her.
I can see the winter wonderland within a forest in her eyes, her long lashes touched with mascara, the lip balm coating her lips, her hair falling down her back in soft waves that make me want to brush my fingers through them.
Her skin has always had a slight tan, freckles scattered across every inch, and her lips, those full fucking lips, part as she stares at her reflection in the blacked-out visor.
My hands bunch on the counter, the leather gloves crunching, aching to push a lock of hair behind her ear, to flip up my visorand force her to accept an apology right here and now.
Not that an apology is even close to being enough, but at this point, it’s all I’ve got. I don’t have the privilege of time to do everything I can to win her back. I can’t grovel at her feet for months, years, a lifetime.
I won’t kiss her. I can’t even imagine kissing her without breaking her. The thought of touching her, making her unravel beneath me, is unrealistic. Bernadette and her team have well and truly fucked that all out of me.
I’m so sorry, Freckles, I want to say.For everything you’ve been through. By my hand and others’.
But everything I do, Bernadette can hear and see right now.
Instead, I tilt my head at her as the cashier asks me if she can help me. My stomach twists, the dire need to vomit making me dizzy, but I ignore it. Ignore the layer of sweat in my hair, the double vision. The intense feeling of needing to sit the fuck down.
Shit.
Stacey blinks with realisation, trying to take careful steps as she backs away without causing any alarm. The cashier asks me again, but I twist and lean my elbows on the counter and watch my girl turn the whitest shade of white.
She’s taken three steps from me. I can clear that distance in one.
I want her to stay, even if she’s unsure of who I am or what my true intentions might be when she meets me. Having her so close makes me want to fucking live.
I haven’t wanted to live for such a long, shitty time.
When I left for Russia a year ago, all I could think about was her. In fact, since I met her at fifteen, I’ve not had one day where she hasn’t been on my mind.
I let my impulsiveness win, and I reach forward to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, but she pulls back on a rushed breath before I make contact. Her eyes widen, and she turns and runs to the car, not bothering to pick up the shelf of fruit she knocks over in the process.
After setting notes on the counter to pay for my fuel, I follow her out with slow steps, ignoring the cashier asking if there’s a problem. Stacey hurriedly opens and locks the car door, steps on the gas and speeds out of the station.
Good girl.
