Page 85 of The Jester and His Outlaw: Part 2

He keeps trying, and it’s tearing me apart.

“Outlaw. What do you need?” His voice is full of gravel and harsh but brings all the warmth I need to my icy heart for now. I wish I could feel his touch on my legs, feel him laying there, his hands roaming between them or the press of his shoulders when he tastes me.

But I can’t. I feel absolutely fucking nothing.

“I—I need a break.”

“A break from what?” he asks, brow furrowed, the frown he gets when he looks at me now permanently in place. That fucking frown. I’m sick of it. Everyone has it because everyone pities me and they don’t realize they’re doing it.

“From this,” I nearly shriek and gesture wildly to my lower half, to the room. “Can’t I just press pause?” His eyes turn glassy and his lips twist deeper. He runs one hand through his wild hair, then finds his hat and tugs it down over his brows. Something I’ve noticed him doing when he gets anxious and I wonder if it’s keeping him from pulling his hair.

“Outlaw,” he draws my name out as he sighs. Then he extends his arm and uses his thumb to swipe away my tears that are flowing much faster than a thumb swipe can cure. I grab his hand before he can pull it away and place his palm against my cheek. His scent fills my lungs, and I absorb the warmth and use his touch to patch the pieces of my soul that are barely holding together. It’s only been a few days, but it’s been a lifetime since we’ve had a moment that didn’t involve pain and anguish, tears and exhaustion, doctors and nurses and hospital beds. Forever since we’ve been intimate together and I’m craving his body next to mine so damn bad.

His thumb makes small back-and-forth motions as he watches me with complete adoration, sympathy, and compassion pouring from him. He tells me daily how he admires my strength, how that alone will ensure that I walk again one day.

I wish he could make me that promise, but he can’t.

“What can I do?” he asks after a few minutes of me nuzzling his hand.

“Lay with me,” I answer without looking at him because if I do, I won’t be able to handle the look of rejection on his face, even if it’s for the best. I ask anyway.

“I want to, but I can’t. Right by your side, holding you in my arms, is where I want to be, but I won’t risk prolonging your recovery by hurting you.” My nod is severe as I grit my jaw and fight another surge of tears. “Outlaw…” he breathes, his voice crumbling. I stare straight ahead as I let my emotion out, sobbing quietly. “Look at me, please.”

He’s growing desperate. He senses the shift, my decision.

I don’t. I can’t. An irrational flow of anger for him, for my situation, for everything the hit took from me, is burning through me.

It’s not fair to him in the slightest, making supporting me harder than it has to be, but I’ve had my life ripped from me.

I can’t even get close to the man I love, to my person, and I’ve got enough self pity for every person on this earth right now.

“Outlaw,” he growls. “Look at me, right now.” God, the agony he’s experiencing for what I’m about to do is so clear it’s killing me, suffocating me. I wish he didn’t know me, that I’ve shut myself off to the idea of us, to let him be in my life, to tie him down.

“Why don’t you just leave?” His tear-soaked hand flinches against my cheek, then his fingers curl into me as if to say he isn’t going anywhere.

“Wha—?”

“Why don’t you just leave?”

“I—I’m not following what you’re saying. Why would I—” Oh, he’s following alright. He just refuses to accept what’s right in front of us. We can’t be together. I can’t be responsible for bringing his life down.

“Look at me, Riggs,” I yell.

He gestures from me to him, stepping back and raising his shoulders. “I am looking at you,” he says, a little louder to match my tone. Fear weighs his words, along with something else. They’re filled with realization and understanding of the self loathing he knows I’m conjuring. It’s where he goes every time he doubts himself.

“No! Look at me!” I grind out through my tears, letting all of my emotion slip out with each drop.

“I am!” His words come out as more of a plea for me to understand that he doesn’t care about the situation I’m in. That only makes this so much worse.

“Leave. Just leave.” Lean, hard muscle goes rigid, and a tick starts in his jaw. His eyes snap to mine, begging me not to mean what I’m saying, as his hands fall to his hips.

“Outl—”

“Out! Get out!” His stare goes distant and his nostrils flare. One hand drifts toward his head but he lets fall back to land at his side, fist clenched.

“Do you need time for yourself? Have I been smothering you? Is that what this is about?” he asks, rushing to get his questions out before I cut him off and I can hear his soul cracking with his words.

Why am I doing this? Why am I pushing him away? This isn’t me, not like me at all, but I now see the need to save the one you love from yourself. I have to let him go. I can’t bring him down like this.

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