Reaching her hand over, she squeezes my thigh, her fingers trembling a little with the gesture. “She taught you well.”
“She did,” I agree, massaging for several more minutes before rinsing, adding her leave-in conditioner, and combing out the strands. “I’ve never told anyone that. Not in this life.”
It’s the reason I haven’t washed her hair like this before now. I couldn’t bear to field questions, but now, I don’t want anything between us.
Tears are streaming down her cheeks when she glances over at me, her chin quivering through a strained smile. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I swipe my thumb over her cheekbone, catching the drippings of anguish that are far more restorative for me than she could fathom. “Everything I am is yours, Little Moon. I told you that. There is nothing—nothing—I won’t do for you.”
She nods, but seems to have lost her words, so I plant a peck on her temple and grant her a few minutes to herself.
“You relax a little while longer. I’m going to take a quick shower.” I strip off my clothes, pluck hers off the floor, and stash them all in the hamper.
I’m so eager for the next events that I manage to get in and out of the shower in three minutes flat. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I saunter to the sink to brush my teeth, catching sight of the note she left a few days ago above the hole I had punched in the wall.Notes.
The first reads:
You still haven’t fixed this hole. Are you expecting me to do it?
XO,
The Little Moon who has all sorts of hidden talents (Just you wait)
Followed by the next that she stuck over the duct tape she used to cover up the hole.
Done. You’re welcome.
XO,
The handy one (Cue dramatic curtsy)
A smile tickles my lips as I organize her lotionsand makeup and line my toothbrush with toothpaste, finally gazing at her in the mirror. “When we’re all done with our plans and you’re resting, snug against me, you’re going to look me in the eye and swear to me that there’s nothing more I need to know.”
Her head snaps up, her eyes locking on to me. “We already covered that.”
“We did,” I allow, brushing and spitting for a minute while she waits for me to finish. “But I need to be certain that you trust me with anything—everything. That you believe I can navigate this for us. You want to stand beside us, baby, and we all love having you there. You belong with us. But there are no secrets in that line.”
“True north, Ty,” she rasps, her voice like gravel. “I trust you more than anyone. I need you to trust my judgment too.”
She says as much between her words as Wells. There’s a confession to something mixed in there. Maybe she was instructed not to share whatever she saw on the roof. Although I can’t fathom how that could be. I suppose it does come down to trusting her. She’s been brilliant through every step of this, and she’s never given me another reason to question her.
Deciding to let it lie for now, I swagger toward the bedroom, gripping the molding and peering back at my wife before I cross the threshold. “Rena, when you come out here, I expect you to be naked and on your hands and knees for me.”
RENA
An order to be on my hands and knees, naked? Living. The fucking. Dream.
I mean, yes, if I actually take a hot minute to survey the dream, it’s a little murky. Convoluted with a bizarre brother sighting; a forced death-defying initiation process into a clandestine cabal, run by my birth father, who killed my mother and wants me and that brother I spotted dead; and some secret-keeping from my husband that I have very honorable reasons for.
My life is like a bad country song with a horror-esque vibe and some gangster hip-hop on the down beats. Guns cocking. Explosions. A side of whiskey in a truck bed. That could be a badass mashup. Well, if we survive, it’ll give me something to create with Jax. He’s got some mad DJ skills.
But back to the dirty dream because I am all too happy to seize and forget so I don’t face the music and fall apart. I’ve never hopped out of a tub so fast in my life. If this man tells me to crawl, Cash can choke on his never-profess-love-declarations-firstprecept because I’m fairly certain that I’ll be worshipping at Ty’s feet, singing my love sonnet like a seductive siren. Or a willing whore. Either will do.
Once I’m dried, lotioned, and perfumed with my wet hair swept into a messy bun, I creep to the threshold, hoping to catch a glimpse. He’s dressed again—a clear power play, and I am freaking here for it. Black button-up and jeans, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, flaunting his corded forearms, the ink on his chest peeking out above the button.
Good God, he’s delicious.
“Don’t keep me waiting, Little Moon.” His voice slices through my drooling, so I slink to the ground—shimmying forward so I’m on the wood boards of the bedroom floor rather than the tiled bathroom—and await the hopeful command, which is when I notice something in his hand.
