Page 144 of Blindside Sinner

“I can’t make you want what I want. But I’m not going anywhere, Sloan. If you need time, take it. I’ll be waiting when you’re done sorting it all out. I’ll be here.”

Then I turn and walk away.

72

SLOAN

Things are strained.

It’s been a couple weeks now. Beck and I have stopped talking unless absolutely necessary, mostly because it hurts too much to do anything but that.

Even doing that little is overwhelming. I feel like I’m falling apart—physically, emotionally, spiritually, all the above. I’m nauseous and weak and my muscles and teeth ache all the time.

In addition to all of that, I’ve gotten three more of the black rose stalker letters in the last two weeks, and I have a Bloodhound payment coming due that I can’t afford. The only reason I could cover the last one is that I sold some blood plasma and an old necklace. I don’t think I’ll have that option this time around.

So yeah, things are going swell.

I have considered, over and over again, that I could go to Beck. He would give me the money, I know that. He wouldn’t think twice, even if it was his literal last dollar.

But I don’t want to owe him.

And I sure as hell don’t want to involve him in the bullshit with the Bloodhound.

I might not have a choice, though. Because the alternative—letting the Bloodhound “renegotiate our deal”—isn’t really an option. Not if I value my life.

I only venture downstairs when I’m sure Beck is gone. According to his schedule, he left for his morning skate a few minutes ago, and I need ginger ale and some saltine crackers. My stomach has been on edge for two days.

But when I get to the kitchen, I learn that Beck isn’t gone at all. As a matter of fact, he’s standing at the sink, rinsing off his breakfast plate. When he sees me coming, he stops the faucet, sets the plate down, and turns to look at me.

“Hey.” His voice is soft and his gaze is warm.

Something in my belly clenches, and for a second, I want to take it all back. Everything I said that brought us here. I want to be with him, be held by him, talk to him about everything, all the things I haven’t told him.

But I can’t.

I can still talk to him, though. Kind of. “Hey.”

Atta girl. Solid start.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Wonderful.”

He cocks his eyebrow like he knows I’m lying. Maybe he does. I don’t really have the energy to hide it.

“Have you been eating?”

“I’ve eaten my body weight in dry lettuce and saltines this week. Like I said, wonderful.”

He nods. “You look like sh… tired. You look tired.”

I stifle a yawn. “Maybe I am.”

“Are you not sleeping?”

I have to bite back a laugh. “Sleep” is a foreign concept these days. When night falls, I just toss and turn in bed until the worries take on the shape of nightmares, then I wrestle with those for a few hours until the sun comes up. It’s a great hobby; I recommend it to everyone.

“I sleep fine.”

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