Page 100 of Wild Side
Walking down my hallway—away from me. The urge to follow him hits me the way he throws a bowling ball. Hard as hell.
But instead of following him, I just watch from the doorway, heart racing, feeling flayed open. Like each of Erika’s journal entries peeled back a strip of skin until I was left raw and messy, the air stinging me all over. Like scraped knees, but so much worse.
Then Rhys came. And when he held me, it eased the pain. He wrapped himself around me like a bandage and made all the worst parts of my night feel better.
I knew I missed him.
I just didn’t realize until now that Ineededhim.
My eyes clamp shut, and I turn away when I hear his footfalls hit the bottom of the stairs. My reasoning for any major decision is severely compromised tonight.
He kept the truth from me.
He came back for me.
He’s sacrificed for me repeatedly, and I can’t for the life of me see what I’ve done to deserve that loyalty from him.
He tells me almost nothing with his words, but everything with his actions.
I slip off my underwear and toss them into the basket before I crawl back into bed naked. I’m feeling both ashamed of myself and desperate to seek him out. I’m a little angry with him, but in a strange turn of events, I also understand his choice.
I understand it because it’s what I would have done. It’s what I’ve been doing for my family for years.
I’ve just never had anyone twist a situation to sparemyfeelings. It’s a strange sensation to be on the receiving end of that kind of selflessness. That kind of loyalty. It’s especially a mindfuck to wonder if I deserve it.
The turmoil in my mind wipes out my exhaustion. I’m well past tired—I’m delirious.
Naked in bed, I think in circles. Erika’s manipulation of me—and him—should be at the forefront, but in the shower, the realization hit me: what’s done is done. No matter how much I want to go back in time and smooth this over, it’s impossible.
I felt my hold on my idealized version of Erika slip through my fingers as I cried in Rhys’s arms. I’d been so keen to grip it hard, to make her story into something more palatable than it was. Did she hurt people? Or was she wonderful? I’d realized she could be both things at once and that my memories of her didn’t have to be all sunshine and rainbows for me to still love her.
The rush of profound relief as I accepted the situation for what it was—beyond my control—soothed me.
And I let it go.
Then all I was left with was Rhys. Undressing me. Drying me. Every touch brimming with respect and dedication that I’m not so sure I deserve from him, but crave all the same.
It’s that craving that pulls me out of bed and leads me down the darkened stairs. It stirs in my core and pebbles my nipples. But it’s more than that. I crave his heat, his bulk, just… his company.
Tonight, I would settle for just drifting off beside him.
The basement door creaks, and I stare down, remembering how I’d just finished redoing this room for him. I didn’t expect him to see it so soon.
I can hear the washing machine humming as it spins, and I can see the outline of his hulking form in the bed when I peek through the banisters below the railing. The same spot where I spied on him as he attempted to film that promo.
Light filters from behind me, just enough that I can tell he’s facing away. But he holds his shoulders just a little too rigidly to be asleep.
I don’t bother asking if I can come in, because I don’t think my heart can handle him turning me away. And in my bones, I know that he won’t.
I pad down the stairs, strumming my bottom lip between my teeth. When my feet hit the Persian rug beneath the bed, his head shifts. But I don’t stop. I follow that draw to him that I’ve felt since the first time I laid eyes on him. The one that had me glancing back over my shoulder at him as I left his house in Emerald Lake.
I couldn’t help myself then, and I can’t help myself now.
So I go straight for the bed, softly slip in behind him, wrap an arm around his bare ribs, and press my forehead to his back.
He says nothing, but he covers my arm with his own as he links his fingers with mine.
“Hi, Tabby,” he whispers in the darkened room. And I find myself wishing he’d call me baby or honey again instead. The familiarity of those names in such a vulnerable moment soothed me.
