Our quick conversation in the garden after I ran away was about me dealing with the emotions of seeing my uncle, who wasn’t the same man I loved. And being made to remember my mother.
Selfish thoughts. It’s why I came over to find him this morning.
“Stop punishing yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s what you do,” he says softly.
My movements are slow as I turn and lean my hip against the counter. To say I’m feeling the aftermath of that moment with Rebel is an understatement. Not just the guilt and mild self-loathing, but the ache between my legs and the cut on my inner thigh that I had to clean up and bandage after both of them left.
I’m wearing sweatpants today because they’re loose and won’t rub against the dressing.
We were not gentle with one another, and Rebel is gifted in that department. It’s been a while and I didn’t mount cautiously. Thinking of that makes my chest tighten and heat flood my cheeks.
Oh, dear God, stop thinking about Rebel’s cock while I’m talking to my cousin. The priest.
“I know you’re a grown woman more than capable of making her own choices, just be careful. They’re not good men, Kins,” he clasps his hands together on the table. “They give a lot to the neighborhood, to the church, and they protect people, but I’m not stupid. We wouldn’t need the level of protection they provide if their clubhouse wasn’t across the street.”
“Are you in danger?” I ask.
“I don’t believe so. A lot of their members have faith, they attend church legitimately.”
“You’re rescuing their souls,” I grin.
“In the eyes of the church, the things they do could not be forgiven.”
“But you’re more progressive than most,” I tilt my head.
“I have an understanding with Nero,” he says. “It made sense when I first took over to reach out, to lay down some ground rules that we both would adhere to. We co-exist and help each other in times of need,” he lets out a deep sigh.
“They’re criminals,” I say.
“Neither one of us believe we are on the same side. The progressive part is my understanding that sometimes situations bring people to places in their lives they wouldn’t always have chosen. Mostly,” he adds with a wry smile.
“We have got to stop having these deep and meaningful conversations so early in the morning.”
Colt dips his head and his shoulders shake as he laughs. “Or ever,” he smirks.
“That too.”
“Just be careful,” he says, getting to his feet.
“You’ve said that already. I’m going to finish this coffee, then paint.”
“Good, I’m looking forward to seeing it take shape. Just don’t do it too fast,” he says, his meaning clear. He doesn’t want me to leave too soon.
I refuse to face my feelings about that. I take the coffee to my place, change into old paint-splattered clothes, comfy shoes, and wrap a bandana around my hair, tying it in a knot at the top of my head.
It’s a gorgeous day, I’m ready to lose myself in my work. The wall was cleaned, filled, and prepped yesterday, now it’s time to make it my canvas with a couple of layers of white paint and checking for any last unevenness or gaps in the masonry.
Some people might use a massive canvas and have it pinned to the wall, not me, I want this to be a part of the building and the area. The only way it can be removed is through erosion, or if some ass paints over it.
It’s time to switch off and go inwards to the parts that aren’t warring, to the part that loves the work I do.
I’m interrupted later in the day by Marisol, who has brought me food, drink, and sunscreen, which she waits for me to put on before she will leave. She is right, I tend to lose all track of time and my surroundings when I get like this.
The next interruption is surprising. At first, I barely notice him, but then a tingling awareness I’ve grown to listen to makes me turn.
