Page 184 of Those Who Are Bound

Elliott

Elliottwasalltoofamiliar with how people behaved when someone met with an untimely death. People didn’t make eye contact with the surviving family member, and those who’d passed weren’t mentioned—in case it caused pain, brought tears to the fore, made a situation uncomfortable. There was an entire grieving period that had to occur.

That’s how it was after she’d kicked Jonah out that night.

Lucy didn’t talk about him. She stopped referring to him altogether, as though he’d completely vanished. Killion had only shaken his head at her once, as though privy to information, disappointed in her. And, following Lucy’s lead, the name Jonah disintegrated from conscious thought or conversation.

It was worse than hearing about him.

Her Aircast was removed, she was given a clean bill of health, and she instructed Killion to burn the scooter. He’d side-eyed her and suggested donating it to the church. “Because they’re, like, the Amazon of programs and can find a good home for it.”

It was the closest anyone had gotten to mentioning Jonah. She’d countered, “Donate it to Disabled Veterans.”

But just because no one mentioned him didn’t mean she didn’t drive herself crazy thinking about him, torturing herself by replaying the look on his face when she’d kicked him out. She imagined he’d moved on, finding an appropriate girlfriend to match his lifestyle—one who went to church. One who sat in the front row and listened, smiling serenely, looking like an angel.

It stung, to think about him with someone else, touching this other woman the way he’d touched her. Laughing, licking pizza sauce off her face, giving another woman a T-shirt.

A stupid university T-shirt! Like it meant something. But did he? Did he give someone else a shirt, forgetting he’d been so excited to give one to her? Did he pin his new girlfriend, too?

As much as the thought irritated her, she still wore that T-shirt to bed. More often than not, accompanied by her phone with his picture while she touched herself, remembering his fingers, his mouth, his cock between her legs. Imagining what she’d missed out on, riding his face, how he’d have grasped her thighs and held her to him, held her in place. How he’d bite and suck, providing that heady combination of pain and pleasure he’d taught her to crave. She imagined she’d grip the top of the bed frame, her fingernails digging in and leaving marks as he licked, sucked, and nipped. His tongue would slide, thrust, suckle, and flick. She’d squirm; he’d growl in reprimand, the tone reverberating throughout her, electrifying her. She’d grasp her breast, appease her aching tip.

She wished she’d had videos—why hadn’t she thought to capture his voice? There were sermons online that he’d given, but they’d be mood-killers, for obvious reasons.

Of course, she had no indication that he was with someone, and it hadn’t been that long, but why wouldn’t he be? He was a gorgeous man; killer eyes, kind, body for days.

Getting over the heartbreak of Jonah was one thing. Getting over the accident was another. She’d kept it close, like everything else, trying to sort through it all. She hadn’t mentioned her nightmares to Becks. Of course, Becks had no sympathy for the man who died. To him, that man had written his death warrant the second he’d allowed her on his bike.

But it wasn’t that simple for her. Because she’d survived. She’d walked away with surprisingly few injuries. Thanking Jonah for that hadn’t been enough: his gear had saved her life. But it had also been his advice: to roll.

After their initial adventure, when it became clear she was going to be on his bike more, he’d gone over more safety information with her. A passenger wasn’t just along for the ride, and somehow, his lesson had stuck. Because when the bike went out from under her, she hadn’t frozen in fear. She’d rolled.

Killion knew, only because he’d heard her screaming one night and asked her about it the next day. He’d apparently been out walking the property. Her deck door had been open, and he’d heard her. Screaming. She tried to pass it off, saying it didn’t happen often, the dreams, but he’d looked at her like he knew she was lying. He didn’t press her, though.

You can’t kid a kidder, after all. There was an acronym: PTSD. Hers was different from his, but like recognized like.

He’d scratched his nose and mumbled, “Church has got a program for that, too, you know.”

Elliott had given him a hard stare until he shrugged and walked away. Then she’d reacquainted herself with her heavy bag, attacking it with a fury. She’d worn herself out the first day, falling against it with exhausted tears. Not sobs, just silent tracks, a bit of emotional release.

The truth was, her dreams weren’t only haunted by images from the wreck, but from what could have been. She and Jonah. And what would have become of him if he’d stayed. It was more frightening and made her scream harder than the other nightmares.

It was necessary. Saving him had been necessary. She was already damned.

Elliott was nervous. She kept looking around the basement of the church, expecting accusatory looks, if not fingers, to be pointed her way. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t Sunday, that it was Tuesday evening; she still felt like an intruder. This wasn’t a place she expected to be again, especially after… well…

After you broke their pastor’s heart, you Jezebel.

But this was for Killion.

Every year, a dinner was held for the program participants and their employers, highlighting the success stories. It was also an opportunity for prospective employers to vet the program. And it acted as a fundraiser.

Killion had been low-key excited to invite her. They’d been at the heavy bag, taking turns, when he’d mentioned it. She’d been taking a drink from her water bottle when he stopped in the middle of his combination and nonchalantly asked if she’d be interested in coming. He’d shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, but she could tell by his quick glance that it did.

He told her Lucy coordinated it every year, that other than the questionable fare (vegan), he’d heard the evening was well put-together. He’d ducked his head and said his mother was planning on being there.

That had sealed it for Elliott. Killion was a good son, taking care of his mother, who resided in an assisted living facility in Warrensburg. It was why he hadn’t had a place to stay for months—because he couldn’t stay with her. He wanted to show his mother that he was, indeed, doing well.

Elliott couldn’t deny him after that. She’d said of course, even if she was worried.

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