“Come here and let’s crack this open.” His cheek lifts, even as I can see the pain crease the corners of his eyes.
He doesn’t realize that this need growing in me is forhim.
Finding my spot at his side, he twists the top of the first jug and takes a long pull.
Wincing, he hands it to me. “Pretty stout,” he chokes. “It’s probably twenty years past prime.”
It burns my nose, but I dutifully take a matching swallow.
Fire crawls down my throat and scalds into my stomach hotter than the coals in front of me.
“Fuck,” I cough. “People drink this for fun?”
“Just wait.” He takes the bottle and tilts it to his mouth again. This time with barely a squint. “It does get easier. I just don’t know how fast you’d have to keep it going to feel the effects.”
Warmth spreads through my limbs by the second round.
“It’s kinda nice.” I’m starting to see the allure. Everything is tingly.
Needy.
“Hud?” I exhale after another draught. “I want to stop being sad.” My palms feel hot, so I press them against his thigh. “I’ve been thinking about that last night we had together.”
The whiskey pauses mid-air as he side-eyes me. “You have? I haven’t stopped.”
Has he been clinging to that moment this entire time?
From the heat in his gaze, I believe him.
Rising to my knees, I shift to straddle his lap. “I want more memories like that,” I whisper. “No more secrets.”
His jaw tics even as he rolls his bulging crotch against me. “Then I have one more to share.” He turns to take another long drink. “Here, you’ll need this.”
“Is this going to make me hate you? Because I was really hoping we couldreconciletonight.” Raising one brow, I squint trying to gauge his reaction.
His heartbeat stays steady as he shakes his head.
At least he’s telling the truth.
This time the alcohol doesn’t burn, but goes down too easily as the empty glass catches the firelight.
With a deep breath, I pitch it into the night, then lower my nose level with his. “Lay it on me, big boy.”
His fingers dig into my hips, pressing me tighter. “That footage they showed you about your son? It’s almost five years old.”
Please be a lie.
But the solid thrumming of his pulse doesn’t change.
Half a decade.
Michael could beanywhere. Or dead.
He always struggled to fit in.
Pain rushes through me.
“Hud?” I whimper, rolling my groin against his zipper. “I don’t want to hurt anymore.” My palms frame his face and my nails work into his dark hair.
