I can't go on. I can't go there. I just can't.
I'm up again, walking. Running, really, back to my truck. I feel him behind me, but I ignore Lock, ignore Utah, ignore the stares. It's all too much. I'm sobbing openly, running. I reach my truck, throw myself in. Fumble my key into the ignition. Twist it, shove the gearshift into reverse. Back out way too fast, nearly hit Lock, hit the brakes. He slides in, Utah leaping easily into the bed. He's watching me, eyes worried, brows drawn. I hate the look on his face, the pity, the compassion. The understanding.
I'm home and in my driveway without any memory of driving there. Just sitting in the silence, breathing, crying. Windows down, a hot Oklahoma wind blowing dust across my face.
And that's when it hits me: the silence.
The radio is off. The radio is never off.
Lock is in the passenger seat, and Utah is the truck bed.
"God, why can't you leave me alone?" I snarl.
"Because you don't want to be left alone." His voice is low, almost inaudible. Soft, compassionate. Fucking compassion. Makes me shaky, angry, and weak. "You don't run away if you don't want to be chased."
"Oh, yeah? How the hell would you know?"
"Babe, I've made an art form out of running away from problems. You're talking to a bona fide expert."
I jab at the radio. "Did you turn this off?"
"Yeah. I can't stand that twangy, honky-tonk bullshit country. Newer stuff is okay, but that?" He gestures at the radio, which is now blaring an old Hank Williams Jr. song. "I can't stand it. Not my thing."
"Don't touch the radio. Don't ever fucking touch it." I adjust the volume to where it belongs: audible, but not too loud. Where Ollie had it.
"Um, all right. Sorry?" Poor bastard sounds genuinely baffled, and with reason. I'm a volatile disaster.
I breathe out a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, Lock. I'm being a bitch, and you don't deserve it."
"I don't know about that." My left hand is on the steering wheel and he, brazen as you please, reaches up and takes it in his hand, twists the diamond on my finger. "I don't think you've ever really dealt with any of this."
I want to curse him out, want to shout at him, want to hit him. Because he's right, and I hate him for it. He has no business knowing anything about me, about my life, about my emotionally fragile state. So instead of doing any of those things, I shut off the truck and lurch out, walk past my house and into the endless acres of rolling field that is my backyard.
I don't know where I'm going or what I intend to accomplish, and I don't care. I don't know if Lock and Utah are following me, and I don't care. Mainly because he's fucking right again, in that I run because I want to be chased. And I don't want to want that. I want to be content alone. I want to be stable and strong and fine, and I'm not.
I'm lonely.
My hormones are a raging, boiling maelstrom. I've always revved high in that area. I hadn't exactly been a nun before I met Ollie, and after we finally admitted our feelings for each other and started getting it on, we went at it a lot. Like, crazy rabid bunny fucking, as often as we could. And then one day Ollie died, and I've been alone ever since. Utterly alone. And my emotions have been such a delicate, porcelain thing that even taking care of myself has been hard. I couldn't. It felt like a betrayal of Ollie to touch myself, just to alleviate the pressure of built-up need. Everything is a betrayal, and that's the problem. Breathing, living, existing, wanting, needing--everything is a betrayal of what I had with Ollie.
It's too much.
I can't hold everything in anymore.
I can't tread water anymore, can't flail half-drowning in stagnancy anymore.
I collapse, suddenly.
The grass is knee-high, and when I collapse, it covers me. Buries me. Tickles my neck and my nose, and the stalk-tips wave in the breeze. Blue above me--endless blue dotted with shreds of white.
I feel Lock lie down in the grass beside me, and I hear Utah leaping and prancing around somewhere, barking.
"What do you want from me, Lock?" My voice trembles, because I'm approximately sixty seconds from total meltdown.
"I plead the Fifth."
"You keep following me. And I don't know what you want from me."
A sigh. "I don't know, Niall. I just...I can't leave you alone, not when you're obviously--"
"A fucking disaster?"
"Yeah, basically."
"Thanks," I laugh, bitterly.
But the bitter laugh turns into a hiccup, which turns into a sob, and then the floodgates are opened. And I can't stop it. It's all coming out. The loneliness, the missing Ollie, the self-recrimination. I can't express it except to cry.
When a long arm reaches toward me, I don't even think about it. I roll into him, bury my face against his shirt. "I miss him," I mumble, between sobs. "I miss him so fucking much."
"Hell yeah, you do. How could you not?"
"And I'm lonely. I want him back, but I'm also just...lonely. But I don't know how to do anything but what I'm doing. I can't go back to MSF, and I just--I want to be near him. I moved down here because this is where he grew up. That truck is his truck. I wear his T-shirts to bed, just--just to be closer to him. To feel him. Because...because I don't. I don't feel him anymore. And I don't know what to do. I don't know--I don't know anything."
"You don't have to know anything." His words are puffed against my hair.
So close. Too close. Too right.
I'm lying against his left side, and I hear his heart thumping. It's a steady, familiar, reassuring beat, a rhythm down deep in his chest just under my ear.
For a moment, just a moment, I let myself just...feel it. Pretend this is okay. Pretend I'm allowed to have this, enjoy this.
I even tilt my face up, look into his eyes. He has his other arm propped under his head, and he's looking down at me. There's a kind of shocked expression on his face, as if he can't believe I'm here, in his arms.
I can't believe it either.
It feels right.
It feels okay.
His beard tickles my face, so I move up a little.
And then--Jesus, I don't know what's coming over me, what's devouring me, taking me over. Something hot and more volatile than anything I've ever felt, this sense of need, this hunger, this raw urgency.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know who I am, what fucked up puppeteer is manipulating my strings.
I kiss him.
I lift up, grab a fistful of his thick beard and tug his face down to mine and I kiss him.
And for a split second, less than a heartbeat-- my lips on his is the entirety of everything, it's life and breath and the sky above and the earth beneath and the wind all around--but then his palm comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb nudges my chin and his tongue flicks against my lips and his hands grip my hips and bring me up to lay on top of him.
And that breaks the spell.
"Fuck!" I roll off him, crawl away literally on all fours through the grass. "What the hell am I doing?"
"Niall, hold on a second--" he says, coming after me.
I whirl on him, slam my fists into his chest. "NO! You need to leave me the fuck alone! Just leave me alone. You mix me up, you confuse me, you make everything--seem too easy. Nothing makes sense when you're around."
He grabs my wrists in gentle fingers. "You mean everything makes too much sense when I'm around."
I rip my hands away and push past him. "Don't follow me. Just leave me alone."
I stalk through the grass back toward home. I can't help looking back, though. To make sure he's not following me, I tell myself. But it's not. Not really.
And when I look back, he's just standing there, watching me. Fingers against his lips, where our lips met. Rubbing, as if--I don't even know.
I feel the tingle of the kiss on my lips, and I have to fight the urge to touch my mouth, where his lips touched mine.
I lock myself in my house. Stand at my sink and resist the need to pour a bottle of wine into a mas
on jar.
After a few minutes, Utah trots past my window, her leash leading back to Lock. Tall and gorgeous, one hand in his hip pocket, the other gripping the leash. Not in any hurry, as if he doesn't care it's five-plus miles back to town.
I should give him a ride, but I don't dare.
The tingle on my lips is still too potent.
The need for more is too potent.
And I don't know if I have the will to fight that. I don't even know why I should fight that.
It'd be too easy to just give in, to just let myself have it.
Have him.
Have a few moments not being lonely.
I watch him walk away, admiring his ass as he walks. Man's got a nice ass.
A nice everything, really.
Jesus, what's wrong with me?
He kissed me like he meant it, that's what. He kissed me like it meant something to him. Not like some jack-hole hoping for a quick lay from the lonely widow. As if he was kissing me the way I was kissing him: surprised breathless by the wild intensity and wonder of it.
I want more.
That's what's wrong with me.
You make me better than I was before
Five miles, and I barely remember walking them.
I had a hard-on for the first few miles, thinking of Niall's lips on mine, her hips in my hands, her breasts against my chest.
But then I thought of her ear against my chest, listening to my heartbeat. I know she was listening to it, too; I don't think she's aware of it, but she was tapping me with her finger in time with the rhythm--taptap--taptap--taptap.
She doesn't know. She doesn't know whose heart thumps in my chest. Whose heart that was slamming a mile a minute after she walked away, whose heart sent my pulse thundering in my ears.
To her, this is all chance. A chance meeting turned into potential romance. She doesn't know I came down here specifically to look for her. It was a chance meeting, though, and that's what's crazy to me.
At some point I reach my truck, unlock it, pat the seat so Utah will hop in. Drive to the pet-friendly hotel I'm staying in, give Utah a bowl of water and some food. I collapse on my bed.
I'm dizzy.
Not from the heat, not from the walk.
She kissed me.
She kissed me.
I should leave.
She told me to leave.
Only a complete jackass would stay. It's courting disaster, and it's unfair to her. She has no idea who she's getting tangled up with.
But...I want her.
Fuck, do I want her. I mean, I'm no stranger to desire, and I'm not used to self-restraint. I'm not used to telling myself no. The problem in this situation is that I shouldn't have her. I shouldn't give in. I owe it to the previous owner of the heart in my chest to walk away and leave this woman to heal on her own terms, not fuck things up for her any more than I already have.
God, the way she cried, it was goddamned heartbreaking.
I couldn't help but pull her close, because when a woman cries like that, you comfort her. You have to. That's not me, either. I'm not the shoulder to cry on sort. I'm the one you hook up with after your heart's been broken. They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else? I'm the one you get under.
I'm good at that. I can help you forget for a while, and then when shit has run its course, you go back to your life.
I don't comfort.
I don't listen compassionately.
I don't just hold you, and let you cry.
But that's what I did.
When she kissed me, then, it was the biggest shock I've ever felt, because everything I've gotten from her so far has been so back and forth, up and down. Curious, intrigued, but cautious. Get too close, she snaps at me, pushes me away.
I'm a jackass.
I'm not going anywhere.
But I have to tell her. I have to.
*
It's eight o'clock the next night, and I've been sitting in the bed of Niall's truck for an hour and a half, waiting.
I've got a plan: I went out and bought an actual picnic basket, filled it with fresh fruit, cheese, crackers, summer sausage, some wine for her and some Perrier for me--I'm hoping she won't ask about that. I've got a blanket. I've got a location picked out. I've got Utah at a boarding place for pets, so she'll have someone to look out for her while I'm gone; I don't dare leave her alone in the hotel room, since she might miss me and tear shit up.
This isn't about trying to woo Niall. It feels like it, but that's honestly not my intention. I'm gonna be dropping a hell of a bomb on her, and I want to be able to...set the scene, I guess.
What will I do if she kisses me again?
Kiss her back, of course.
And then tell her.
Here she comes. Small, graceful, with a juicy body not even scrubs can hide. Fuck, she's hot.
Down, boy.
I kick my feet under the tailgate, hoping I look casual and confident.
I'm not: I'm nervous, shaky, hopeful, fearful. Lots of foreign and difficult emotions for me.
She's moving slow, wiping her face with one hand, swinging her keys on the MSF lanyard with the other. Green scrubs, white lab coat, still has her stethoscope over her neck. It's a hot look, and I never thought I'd say that. I've known a lot of doctors, and I just never, ever thought I'd find the look as sexy as she makes it.
Goddamn it, Lock, get a grip. Stop thinking about her like that. This isn't about that. For once, this isn't about your out-of-control libido.
She sees me, stops a few feet away. Takes a deep breath, lets her head fall backward, lets out the breath. Reaches up, snags her stethoscope off her neck. "What do you want, Lock?"
"Hey. Had dinner?" I hop off the tailgate and move closer to her.
I don't miss the way she tenses, the way she takes a deep preparatory breath. The way her eyes flit over me, searching, seeking. For what, I don't know.
"No, but--"
I take her keys from her, wrap my hand around her back, and lead her to the passenger side of her truck. Open the door, nudge her in. She complies, but resists, turns to look at me as I close the door after her.
"Lock? What are you doing?" She demands this as I slide behind the wheel, gun the engine.
"Taking you to dinner."
She plucks at her lab coat. "I'm not dressed for dinner, for one thing. And I'm not going to dinner with you, for another. Not happening."
"We're not going to a restaurant. Won't be anyone but you and me. I promise."
"I'm not having dinner with you, Lock. Get out and go away."
I turn the radio up, roll the windows down. "It'll be fine."
She laughs. "You can't just go 'it'll be fine--'" she mimics my voice, tries to talk gruff and deep, and it's cute and makes something flip in my chest, "--over me telling you no."
But she doesn't protest any further as I continue to drive until we're already out of town, heading out into the countryside on a little two-lane road. It's summer, so it's not dark yet, but the light is fading, going just past golden. Doesn't take long and we're out in the middle of nowhere, nothing but power lines, barbed wire fences and a whole lot of not much. I just drive, letting the silence breathe around us.
"Where are we going?"
I wave a hand at the road. "Just...this way a ways. Nowhere in particular."
"Lock--Jesus, you're impossible. I'm tired. It's been a long day. I skipped lunch and didn't have much breakfast, and I just--I honestly don't have the energy to deal with you today."
Fuck. That kind of hurts. Deal with me?
Some ancient, twangy country song comes on, something heavy on slide guitar and saccharine sentiment. "Jesus, can we please listen to something else?" I snarl.
I don't even think about it, I just reach out and twist the tuner knob until something from this millennium comes on.
"NO!" The scream from Niall is sharp and sudden and distraught. "I told you! I fucking--I fucking told you, don't mess with it!
"
She twists the knob back, tunes too far back. She's crazy, desperately twisting and turning the knob, trying to find the station it was on.
"That was his station! It's never been changed, not once, ever. That's his music! Don't you understand? Fuck, I can't fucking FIND IT!" This last comes out as part scream, part sob.
I pull over, grab her wrist, and pull her hand away from the radio. "All right, all right. I'll put it back, just take a breath, okay? Just breathe."
She's hyperventilating, shaking, scrubbing her face with her palms. I scan the stations, hitting static and talk and static and hip-hop, then the newer country station I'd initially turned it to.
"Whiskey Lullaby" comes on. Brad Paisley and...what's her name? Alison Krauss. I've heard this one before, on the long cruise down here when I had nothing to do but scan the stations.
I'm about to scan past it, but she grabs my hand, stops me. "Wait."
...Couldn't ever get drunk enough...
That's the phrase that stops her.
We sit there on the side of the road, listening. God, what a fucking sad song. Haunting, gutting.
Niall is trembling all over, hands on her knees, head down, hair coming loose from the braid, wisps sticking to her cheek, the corner of her mouth, her forehead.
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