Page 60 of Unhinged Cravings
I recognized the sensation in my chest, the bellowing emotion that demanded I acknowledge it, but I kept it silent, kissing Ava like she was the last breath of air that would fill my lungs. That kiss washed over every other, drowning them in a sea of oblivion to never return to my memory again. Leaving only Ava in their place.
Lips separating so slowly they seemed to cling, I rested my head against hers, moving my fingers further into her curls. It was too soon for this to be something definitive, yet it was. I wouldn’t voice it, and I doubted she would, but the knowledge was there in the power of that kiss, in how her hands clung to my open shirt, its buttons still on the floor of my kitchen.
Giving her forehead a kiss, I looked down at her, seeing it there. The same understanding I carried and with it, the danger of voicing that truth.
“What happens in five days, Emerson?”
A jolt of uncomfortable currents hit my chest. Five days until I traded her for my brother. Sent her home to the other side of the country to resume her life. I didn’t want to think about it and so I didn’t answer her.
“Let’s go out on the deck like you wanted.”
Her eyes flitted between mine and she gave me a quick nod before taking my hand and leading me out. The moon was high and full, its beams lighting the beach below, its body leaving a warped mirror image on the water. Ava leaned over the rail, her sight on the moon, but a shape on the table caught my attention. Dropping her hand, I headed to it and picked up the notebook.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” she said as I flipped through it.
Even in the moonlight, I could see the talent on the pages.
“Should I punish you for going through my desk, or failing to tell me how talented you are?”
“I guess it depends on the punishment,” she teased.
I glanced from the sketch of a man who looked too much like me to think it was anyone else.
“I would have gotten you art supplies if you’d asked,” I told her. It bothered me that she’d gone through my drawers, but I kept the valuable information locked away and I knew her intentions had been innocent.
She gave me a shrug. “I haven’t drawn in years.”
Scrunching my brow, I asked, “Why? And why go back to school for art history when you’re this good?”
The scratching at her arm gave me insight into her vulnerable side, a side she kept hidden below confidence and a bubbly demeanor.
“The art world is competitive. I tried after school but having to sell myself, to market pieces of myself as if I was selling stolen watches on a street corner, got to me. I started working more at all those odd jobs and when Uncle Den offered me the chance to go to grad school for the fiftieth time, I took it with the goal of enjoying other people’s art. I left that part of me behind.”
“You ran away from it.” I closed the distance between us, keeping the journal in my hand. “Ava Shelton, who never runs from anything but an unhinged mob boss she thinks is going to kill her, ran.”
“I didn’t run. I just woke up. They were dreams of a little girl who wanted an escape from her cruel life. That’s all they were.”
I took her chin between my fingers. “You ran and from the looks of it,” I shook the notebook, “you decided to stop running.”
She looked away from me, and I tossed the book on the table. “You don’t run, wildcat. From anything.” Her sight shot back to me. “Remember that because it’s one of the things I…” I caught myself before the wrong word shed the locks I had on it. “…adore about you.”
Neck tipping, she studied me, and I knew she could see what I didn’t want her to.
“I want to go to the beach,” she said, surprising me with the change of subject.
“Running from the truth?” I asked.
“As much as you are,” she retorted, and I snapped my mouth shut, hating how she was calling me out, although, if I was reading her right, she was calling herself out as well.
“It’s too dark to go down to the beach.”
“Ha, are you kidding me? The ruthless boss is afraid of going to the beach at night?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I said, stepping back from her. A small voice in the back of my head told me I was afraid of one thing now—losing her. “I’m older?—”
“Pfft, that’s an excuse. You’re how old, Emerson?”
“Forty-five, Ava.”
