Moving her braids aside, I whispered in her ear. “Babe, you need to calm down. I’m worried about you, but I’m not going to ever stop doing that.”
She shook her head against my chest. “You have to stop.”
I ran my hand down her back. Tremors shook her as my fingers made their way over her damp tank, goose bumps forming in their tracks. She sucked in a breath at my touch.
“That’s like telling my heart to stop beating. I can’t not check on you. Knowing you’re alive and surviving is oxygen to me.”
“Marta’s good. Better for you,” Lynx mumbled, placing her hand on my arm.
“She’s not. I’m not saying she isn’t a good woman and that I don’t care for her. I do. But she’s not you, and she knows that. Always knew that.”
“Why is she so nice to me? I’m nothing but garbage.”
“You’re not garbage. Don’t ever say those words again. They hurt me in a way you’ll never know. Let’s not talk about this. You’re wasted, and the alcohol is jumbling your mind.”
Her fingers lingered on my forearm, finally shoving up the sleeve of my shirt and tracing my tattoo, her red-painted nail running along the cursiveC. It was hypnotic.
“Michael,” she whispered before passing out in my arms.
That was pretty much how I spent the night, sitting up on the couch of my office as Lynx slept in my arms. It was the best night I’d had in a long fucking time.
