He strokes the back of his fingersacross my face and offers me a soft kiss. As he pulls away, he asks, “Wheredoes she live?”
“Outside of Phoenix, Arizona. Hername’s Sandra Farrerah. I was figuring we’d get a flight tomorrow night andhead out to pay her a visit.”
“Well, you are my job, so I don’tthink it’ll be hard for me to make time.”
I laugh, and he kisses me again.
I allow his lips to soothe me.Offer me relief like they did when we fucked.
Fifty-Two
Bryce
I can’t sleep. The confusion of tonight—of everything thathas transpired within the past few days—is too much for me to dwell on. I headdown to the hotel bar.
Kiernan sits on a stool, sippingon a glass of what looks like Scotch, his usual drink of choice. His face iscaught in the beam of a red light behind the bar, one that makes his faceappear the same shade it gets when he is in his most furious state. I haven’t seenhim angry these past few days, though. Probably because he’s been filled withguilt over the reveal about Tad’s mother.
Kiernan’s glass clinks as he setsit on the white marble bar.
I haven’t talked to him since heand Tad had it out about us being an item. I’m sure he’s been stressing aboutit, but at this point, I figure it’s the least of his worries.
I slide onto the stool beside him.He turns to me, eyeing me with contempt. But I know he’s not just mad at me.He’s mad that everything’s gone to shit. That nothing seems like it’s been easysince the Cowboys fell out of the running for the Super Bowl.
I order a drink from thebartender, and as she prepares it, Kiernan and I sit in silence. Neither of us isin any hurry to get the other talking.
“I know what you’ve been thinking,”he says as he rubs his thumb through a chip in the edge of the bar. “That I’mjust another asshole who thinks it’s wrong for you to be the way you are.”
“You can say the wordgay.It makes it sound a little less like we’re talking about an unspeakablecatastrophe than just avoiding the word altogether.”
“I can’t just shift gears and beokay with it. I wasn’t raised like that. I was born and raised in Texas, andnot Austin, if you even know what I mean.”
“I understand the context.”
“But if you think for a second Idon’t care about my son, then fuck you.”
“I know you care about Tad.”
“Then you’re in the minority.You’d think the way he went on that he thought all I want is for him to bemiserable. I don’t want him to be miserable. I just want him to think thingsthrough. I want him to be careful. The world isn’t a forgiving place. Peopleare terrible and cruel and sick. They prey on weakness.”
“Is that what you see this as?”
He glares at me again, and withthe red light illuminating his face, he looks pissed that I’m making him questionhis preconceived notion.
“It certainly isn’t an advantage,is it?” he says.
“I consider it an advantage if Iknow from someone’s reaction to who I am if I can align with them or not. Thattells me a whole lot about a person, and most importantly, if that’s someone Ican count on.”
“That’s a lot of people you can’tcount on.”
“That’s just the way life is.”
His jaw tenses, and he glancesaround as though he’s considering his next words carefully.
“Did you know Tad had an uncle?”he asks.
I shake my head.
“We don’t talk about him much. Hepassed away when Tad was a kid. Morgan was his name. Funniest guy in the world.Could make me and my sis Kitty laugh about just about anything. One time, I wasdown about not making the football tryouts for freshman year, and I remember Ijust wanted to tear something apart. Even worse, I didn’t want to face anyonethe next day and have to admit the humiliating fact that I didn’t make the cut.Morgan came into my room, and he told me that he wasn’t going to have mestaying in there and feeling sorry for myself. So he took me out to the moviesand we had a lot of laughs…laughs that made me forget all about the stupidtryouts. And he practiced with me the rest of the year, helping me get readyfor the next, and I made the team because of him.
