Page 73 of Vicious Cycle
When it all came down to it, I was in love with a murderer. Suddenly, it became hard to breathe as I struggled to comprehend how Deacon fit into my ethically and morally sound world.
“Say something,” he commanded.
Staring down at the faded quilt, I replied, “I don’t know what to say.”
“That you can see past the blood on my hands to the real me.”
As the angel and demon on my shoulders battled in the moment, I pinched my eyes shut. When I thought about it, there was no finite moral compass that we adhered to. Every individual, every faith, every culture often picked and chose what was right and wrong in their eyes. Depending on where you looked from, light was dark and dark was light, leaving many hues of grey. Maybe everyone fought his or her own struggle to keep the dark side from overpowering them. Maybe we were allfighting a secret war within where Deacon just chose to fight his in the open battlefield without shelter.
With the feel of Deacon’s intense stare on me, I opened my eyes. His expression told me he was sorry for bringing my past into the discussion. I knew apologizing wouldn’t be easy for him. It wasn’t his style. “Maybe I need a little time to process all of this. Just like you needed time to open up to Willow and to me, I need the same when it comes to your world.”
“I get it. It’s hard imagining yourself actually caring for someone like me.”
“That’s not it.”
“Are you so sure? Have you given any thought to how you’ll explain me to your aunt and uncle? What about the teachers you work with? How will good little Alexandra be taken when she’s dating a thug?”
“Don’t presume that I’m so shallow.”
“It’s not you that you have to worry about. It’s what others think.”
Shaking my head, I countered, “The moment my parents were killed I gave up giving two shits about what people thought about me. No one wants to be labeled the orphaned freak or always have someone whispering about them. It’s the one reason I went away to college and never stepped back in my hometown. I never wanted to be a martyr to the tragedies in my life.”
Pushing myself up in the bed, I then crossed my arms over my chest. “Yes, we’re from very different worlds. Just like people might question me about my choice of you, I don’t doubt for a minute that some in the Raiders will question you as well.”
“It’s none of their fucking business.”
“You know as well as I do that they’ll make it their business. That’s what people do.” Reaching out, I took his hand in mine. “At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what anyone else says. It’s about you and me.” I stared down at his hand, running myfingers over his. It should’ve been frightening to hold the hand that dispensed malicious justice. But it was also the hand that had so gently washed me last night, the fingers that had tenderly put ointment on my wounds. Warmth pulsed through me at the thought of another talent his fingers and hand had.
Deacon brought his other hand to my cheek. “Just you and me.”
Leaning into his palm, I closed my eyes, enjoying the feel of his calloused fingers against my cheek. The brief moment of intimacy ended with a voice from out in the hallway. “Can I come back in now?” Willow asked.
At Deacon’s grunt of frustration, I giggled. There was something so endearing about seeing Mr. Rough and Tough be utterly clueless when it came to a pint-sized girl. “Yes, you can come back in now.”
Willow bounded through the open doorway, coloring book and crayons in hand. “I thought we could color together.”
“I would like that a lot.”
After placing her stuff on the nightstand, she crawled over Deacon and wedged herself between us. I grinned at the appalled look on Deacon’s face. “You know, you could have gone to the other side,” Deacon said.
“It would be harder to share crayons then.”
His brows shot up. “What?”
“Don’t you want to color with us?”
Deacon opened his mouth to protest, but I gave a quick shake of my head. “Sure he does.” When he stared at me like I had lost my mind, I said, “I need the company.”
Unable or unwilling to argue with me on that point, Deacon merely exhaled a long whoosh of air. Glancing between Willow and me, he asked, “So what are we coloring?”
“Ballerina Barbie,” Willow answered.
“I should have known,” he mumbled.
As he held up a simple, purple crayon, I knew without a shadow of a doubt, no matter what other acts that hand might have been responsible for, that I loved Deacon with all my heart.
CHAPTER NINETEEN: ALEXANDRA
