The idea of joining her was tempting, but he didn't have the energy to stand up, much less fuck her again. “I’ll be here when you get out.”
Resting his head on the cushion behind him, Flynn scratched his belly and thought about Bristowe. She’d turned out to be everything he wanted and needed, and he didn't know how he’d gotten so lucky. But besides that, he wondered where they would go from there. If Lock was a permanent roommate, then Flynn’s life would change drastically. Obviously, his brother expected to find a place to move immediately, but that wish didn't align with reality. Not that she’d asked, but Flynn couldn't move in with Bristowe until he knew Lock had settled somewhere safe with Sterling. It wouldn't be fair for the four of them to find a bigger place; not for Bristowe, at any rate. Flynn would do it in a heartbeat if he thought he and Lock could swing the rent together and it helped Lock gain custody of Sterling faster. But he couldn't impose that type of cramped living on another person.
He was probably overthinking anyway, as he tended to do. First, he needed to acclimate to having a roommate, and then he needed to find a job in his new field of interest. Though he’d used his old social worker to help him find the right applications to fill out for financial assistance with schooling, she wasn’t aware of any entry-level openings in her office. Once he’d switched jobs and gotten a few paychecks under his belt—and who knew if it’d be a pay cut or not—then they could reevaluate their plans.
“Wanna turn?”
Jumping off the couch as though someone had shot him in the ass, Flynn stood naked across the room from Bristowe, his hands up and his chest heaving.
“Oh, God, baby, I didn't mean to startle you.” Eyes wide, Bristowe remained where she was, watching him warily.
“I was lost in thought.” Forcing himself to relax one muscle at a time, he reminded himself where he was. He was safe. She wouldn’t hurt him. “I didn't hear you coming.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Fight or flight was a tricky bitch to navigate, and most people didn't realize there was a third response; freeze. Once spiked, his adrenaline took its time returning to normal.He was safe.She wouldn't hurt him. Maybe if he kept repeating it, he could feel less like a freak. “It’s not your fault. Not at all.”
“Somewhere inside me, I understand that, but I feel at fault, regardless.”
Wet hair in a thick ponytail. Gray tank top. Red shorts. Tiny shorts. Damn, her legs were magnificent. “All I have to do is focus on the here and now. And you’re a great distraction.”
Her answering smile was weak.
“Come here.”
Hesitantly, she took a few steps in his direction. Holding out his arms, he encouraged her to keep coming. Once within reaching distance, he closed his arms around her, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. It was familiar enough that it worked.
Safe.
“Flynn.” He felt her swallow. “Were you . . . molested?”
“No.” Yet, a shudder ran through him. “B-beaten. Always running from the cops, or from drug dealers my mother had screwed over. They like to take their payment out on the children; selling them, their bodies, whatever makes the quickest buck.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“That’s what happened to Fischer. His stepfather did unspeakable things to him. All of us have had to watch our backs for one reason or another.”
“Maybe I should wear a bell around my neck.”
“I’ve never collared anyone before, but if that’s what you want—oof!” Chuckling, he stepped back, rubbing the place where she’d punched him. “Now you have to kiss that and make it better.”
Pursing her lips, she touched them to his shoulder, making loud noises as she did it. “Acceptable?”
“Mm.”
“Are you showering?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make lunch.”
It was easy, like breathing, to make himself at home. To shower in her bathroom, to use her soap and her towels. To sit down at the table and let her serve him.
“Maybe I can cook for you tonight.” Twisting his napkin in his fingers, he tried to think of what he could make that wouldn’t embarrass them both. All she’d done was slap together a few sandwiches. That was something he could do.
“You said you can’t cook.”
“No, not really. I survive by microwaving things.”
