Because this night, these couple of hours—hell, even every stolen minute on the side of that dark road with Colt has made me feel alive.
Not like I’m muscling my way through life, determined to not let the world see how fucked up I am.
To not let Damon see.
He has enough guilt.
He doesn’t need me to add to the weight he carries.
Doesn’t need to see me clinging by my fingernails, forcing myself to be the person I was.
But tonight, for a little while, I was just…me.
Not a broken girl, not a victim.
Just Kylie.
Except, I can’t even kiss the man I want, the man who has been patient and sweet and clearly wants to spend time with me without having a panic attack.
“I’m so tired of this shit,” I whisper.
A pause. Then, “What shit?”
I meet his deep brown eyes. “You know,” I say softly. “You know.”
His face, fuck it’s so damned gentle that my heart squeezes, my eyes burn. “I’m coming over there.”
My lips part, ready to protest…
But I don’t want to.
So I just nod and hold my breath, waiting for the panic to rise up again as he slowly comes over.
Only it doesn’t because?—
“What are you doing?”
And now laughter is bubbling up instead of worry.
Because he’s doing the goofiest sort of half shimmy, half butt scooch until he’s facing opposite me, his back against the perimeter cabinet, his legs stretched out alongside mine.
Close.
But still giving me an exit.
Giving me laughter and safety and…fuck, now my throat is tight for a whole other reason.
“There,” he says, “that’s better, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
“Now, what shit?”
I can’t bring myself to answer…but I find I don’t have to, not with the knowledge that bleeds into his eyes. “You know,” I whisper.
He sighs and shakes his head, gaze sliding from mine, a muscle in his jaw flickering. “I know,” he eventually says. “And I wish the fucker wasn’t off playing in Europe because I’d deliver a beating far more severe than what your brother gave him.”
Maybe I should protest, should take the moral high ground.
