For the most part, though, it had been a reliable companion on this journey through our beautiful years, and without it, there was no telling where we would have ended up—perhaps still in that deep, dark, enchanted forest.
Brando had worried, though, that whatever connected me to him would cease—along with the peculiar sense. It had been born out of my fear for him, or so he thought, when he had planned on leaving with Elliott the night he was killed.
It didn’t seem to matter when or why, though, when it pertained to him. Even if it wouldn’t have appeared hot and strong that night, I got the feeling it would have been the same, even if I would have seen him walking down the street.
It knew when to come, but regardless, it would have come.
The connection had grown even stronger, perhaps because the world seemed to be a safer place. It concentrated on him even harder, because it wasn’t constantly stealing my attention when other forces wanted to do us harm.
No confusion. No what-ifs. I felt him even deeper, on a clearer and cleaner level. All the tainted blood had been washed away, and what I was left with was brand new.
From time to time, I had to remind him of this, easing his thoughts, and when the moment became almost too muchfor me—my knees were weak from the intensity of his feelings.
“Too much,” he repeated, breathing against my pulse, then he bit. “Nowhere near enough.”
He was holding back, and I was more sensitive to him than I’d ever been. I must have made a noise that turned him on even more, and I gasped when he picked me up and set me on the bed, and in one powerful thrust, he penetrated me so deeply that I worried he’d split me in two.
He was right. I did scream, the music masking the noise.
Seven songs later, we finally made it to the concert.
* * *
It hadall started on a Wednesday, or so I had once thought. It didn’t matter what day, though, because this wasn’t our ending, just another chapter in our epic saga.
We had come a long way since I’d used the term “benign” to describe what I once assumed had just started between us.
We were walking along the train tracks after the concert. Some genius in our group—moi—had the bright idea to take our good time and drag it along to the place where all the kids used to hang back in the day.
The same place where Brando had picked me up from the dirt and muck after some jerk had knocked me down while dancing to House of Pain’s “Jump Around.” The first of many—if only they had all been just jerks. Unfortunately, it was only monsters who had followed after that.
Brando had come to my rescue even then. He had been coming to my rescue long before I realized he ever had.
My husband. My protector. My beast. The father of my children, the love of my life, for the rest of my life. No matter what.Always.
I squeezed his hand so hard that our wedding bands clanked.
Back in the day, he’d said that he was too old to be hanging out by the tracks, and his words years later were close—I’m too fucking old for this, and then he decided it was time to go.
“The last time,” he had muttered, “I expose myself to all this kiddie bullshit.”
When I put up a fight about it—Iwas having a good time—he included me in his bitter tirade.
“You’re much too old to be hanging out by the train tracks, Ballerina Girl.”
To which I replied, “Speak for yourself, old man.”
He responded by swooping me up and carrying me off, giving Mitch instructions to drive his Chevy home. We’d pick it up in the morning.
After some steps, I realized we were walking home—going down memory lane, reminiscing.
Once I’d promised not to be a flight risk,where he went, I went, he put me down.
That was how we arrived where we were, and the thought made me laugh out loud.
Brando stopped walking, and by default I did too, but he kept our hands linked. He studied my face in the darkness.
“I don’t like it,” he whispered.
