I turned to look at him.
“There’s no we, Jordie.”
His eyes were pleading, and his expression a combination of despair and frustration.
“Why can’t you forgive me?”
I gave it some thought.
“I guess I’m just not a forgiving man,” I mused. “Yeah, that must be it.”
Chapter 19
Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures
Jordan
The fucker! I’ve had it with him. Lately, I felt as if I had been losing my mind, but now I was just mad.
I guess I’m just not a forgiving man.
Fuck him! I didn’t deserve this. When I came to the LD, I was only doing my job, but he acted as if I’d slaughtered the entire Smitsville and burned it to the ground. He ignored the fact that I left Internal Affairs ages ago. He refused to acknowledge that I stayed in the LD only because of him, while he treated me like shit. I became his sleep token, for fuck’s sake! And yeah, getting close to him was part of the job, but from the moment I met him, I knew he wasn’t the guy we were looking for. I could feel it in my gut. He was too angry and not perfidious enough. Too reckless and not calculating enough. Too arrogant to be anyone’s puppet and ultimately, ratting out was against his moral code.
I went through all the stages of grief even before they released him from the hospital. The fear for his health. The anxiety that I felt every time I visited him in the hospital, because he looked either angry or haunted. The excitement of being alone with him and having the opportunity to beg for his forgiveness. I had it all planned out. What I hadn’t planned on was the attraction getting in the way. Even before we set foot in that fucking shower, I could feel it simmering inside me. It was hidden behind regret and fear, but it was there… all the time. During those silent, awkward dinners. During those sleepless nights when I strained to hear his breathing in the other room, to make sure he was okay. During the time that I spent at work thinking only about him.
And then that fucking erection happened, reminding me of prison. It was less embarrassing than the first time it occurred, but also harder to deal with, pun intended. When I saw the corresponding reaction between Adam’s legs, I should have felt better, but in fact, I felt worse. I still loved him. I still wanted him. I still held hope, despite him behaving as if I had cooties. Knowing that he still wanted me, if only just physically, gave me a small satisfaction, but it left me hungry. The more my hunger grew, the stupider I became. More reckless. Bolder. It started with ogling his naked body when he wasn’t looking. It continued with staring at his ass when he would pull down his boxers to wash his junk. It ended with the accidental brushing of body parts against body parts that I was ashamed of, but I couldn’t help myself. It was torture of the highest order.
After a few weeks, it seemed as if we were making progress. We started talking more… hanging out, even. He was teaching me how to cook. It gave me the courage to broach the sensitive subject and ask for his forgiveness, but when I tried to talk to him, what did he do? He walked away.
I guess I’m just not a forgiving man.
No wonder I was losing my mind. No wonder I was angry. It was when I said, fuck it. If he wanted to play dirty, I could play dirty. The day after I'd found myself sleeping on his shoulder, I came home from work itching for a fight. Adam was in the kitchen, cooking something that smelled like meat and cheese.
“Hey,” I said, walking up to him. “What are you making?”
“Lasagna. How was work?”
“Fine,” I replied, kissing him on the cheek. “How are you?”
The spoon he was stirring the sauce with paused approximately at the same time as when my lips landed on his face. But as I said, fuck it.
Adam gave me a once-over. “Are you drunk, high, or do you have a fever?”
I smiled sweetly. “No, I’m just feeling affectionate. By the way, you still owe me that one-minute cuddle.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. Judas.”
I yawned. “You’re getting boring with that ‘I’m so angy’ shtick. Also, fuck off. I was only doing my job.”
Adam threw the spoon at the wall, glaring at me.
“Don’t talk to me about the job. In fact, don’t talk to me at all!”
I wanted a fight. I got one.
“Why?” I exclaimed, raising my chin in defiance. “Are you afraid that you will say something you’ll regret?”
“You bet I am,” Adam growled. “What do you want? Rehash the subject to death or just until we say to each other every poisonous thing we have boiling inside us?”
