Page 11 of Grave Misgivings
“I miss you.” His voice is sad, guilty.
And very, very drunk.
Maybe he wasn’t actually trying to callme, maybe he was trying to call...
“Zeb, say something,” he pleads.
Ten years.
Ten fucking years, and I feel like I’m sixteen again, waiting, wishing for something, for someone I know I can’t have.
And just like before, I cave.
Because I can’t stand to hear him like this.
“I miss you too, G,” I reply, the words heavy in the air. Even sober, I don’t think he’d understand that the way Imisshim is not the same way he misses me.
“Where are you?” I ask, both wanting to know and also not wanting to know because I know the details will probably only hurt me.
Because they always do.
The loud bass changes to something high tempo, but I can’t make out what it is.
Geo sighs, and the sound is deep, dark.
Sexy.
I sit up in my bed, the only light the moonlight shining through my window onto the center of my bed. I swing my arms around my knees, pulling them tight to my chest.
“Sssaint & Sinner,” he slurs. “The boy angels are kind of hot. Tight shorts, prettttty wings. Bet the devils are hotter, though.”
I don’t want to take his bait.
I know he doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, but fuck.
If I believed in Heaven and Hell, Geo Graves would be my own personal devil. Tempting me, luring me into a dark pit I’d never want to leave.
“They always are,” I say with a slight smirk, even though I know he can’t see me. Part of me wishes he could, though.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror across from my bed, noticing the way my shadowed form takes up space. More space than I used to, that’s for sure.
What would he think of the way I’ve changed?
Would he even recognize me?
I’m certainly not the same person I was at nineteen when he left.
I cross my arms, letting my fingers rove over my thick arms. Nineteen year old me had no muscle at all, but at least I didn’t gain ten pounds every time I looked at a damn cheeseburger.
“I missss you,” he says again, his voice deep and sexy, then shifting gears, he sighs.
“Is this what sin feels like, Zeb?” He lets out a deep breath. His voice is some mix of sadness and wistfulness, edged with drunken frankness.
I can’t find it in my heart to answer him.
Because I don’t believe in sin.
But if I did, he would be mine.
