Page 44 of Whiskey Throttle
“I like watching them. Studying what makes them tick, what they’re trying to hide, what they hope no one sees.”
That’s not the answer I expected.
“And sometimes, you can see more in a smirk or a nose than in a whole damn portrait. A caricature doesn’t lie. It’s loud and messy and honest. Like people really are.”
I study him, staring into glasses that reflect me.
“You don’t seem like someone who gravitates toward loud and messy.”
“Maybe not.”
He looks away, his mouth biting his lower lip in thought, before those mirrored glasses look at me.
“But I’ve always been good at drawing the things I’m not allowed to say. Or shouldn’t see.”
There’s something about the way he says it, almost offhand, but not quite, that lands in my chest with weight. I curl my legs back into the shade, feeling suddenly more exposed at what he’s seen of me and not said.
“And mine? What would it say?”
I’m almost afraid to ask. He doesn’t answer right away. Just pushes his sunglasses down and looks at me without flinching.
“They say everything you won’t.”
My gaze moves from his, needing to hide from his scrutiny as it feels very much like the stares I get at the club, charity events, and most everywhere I attend.
“What have I not told you, Hollister?”
He shifts beside me, one foot flat against the lounge chair, the other dangling lazily over the side. He moves his hand to adjust his cock, his hand lingering on it for a moment, appearing casual, but it’s a lie. His body is still. Coiled. Like he knows this is a turning point, and he’s not sure if he’s supposed to leap my defense or stay put.
“You haven’t told me why you still wear that necklace.”
My hand lifts before I can stop it, grazing the familiar weight at my collarbone. Pearls, elegant and old, a gift from a man who left my life. Left me.
“It matches everything,” I say. Deflecting. They are expensive. A reminder of what we once had. Now, a slap in his damn face every time that weasel sees them.
The wind picks up, stirring the edge of the linen shirt I’m swimming in. The heat from the day is unable to penetrate the chill he’s stirred inside me.
“You haven’t told me why you look so bored at every party. Or why you always show up alone, even though everyone assumes you could have anyone. Not one date. Not even a dance at all those galas.”
His eyes hold mine now.
“You haven’t told me what you want, Babs. Not once. Not in words. But your body and your mouth?” He exhales and murmurs, “They never lie.”
Heat blooms down my spine, slow and steady, as his words wrap around me. He leans closer in his lounger.
“And maybe you haven’t told me because you’re afraid to admit it to yourself. I think you’re scared to live. Scared to make a mistake and live with the consequences or regrets. I don’t know which. But honestly, you’re not living at all, and I hate that for you.”
I can’t move.
Can’t breathe because everything he’s saying is true. The smooth, cultured pearls underneath my fingertips have been a comfort and a reminder. Of who I am and how strong I’ve had to be. Untouchable. Unflappable. Like a keepsake from a battle I survived but haven’t quite walked away from.
“Today is how I want to see you. Happy, laughing, and fun. Not as an exaggerated caricature but as someone real, open, and free to live again.
His elbow moves to the arm. His head tilts while studying me as I take in all the truths he sees so clearly. That I thought I had hidden very well from the world.
“I . . . I don’t know how.”
“Then let me help you figure it out.”
