by Amber Morgan
“Yes.” He sighed. “I’d like to find them.”
She felt a goodbye coming like splinters in her heart. She wouldn’t ask him to stay, of course. There was always a chance, after all, that Hiram would come for him again. But a selfish part of her, a part that wanted more peaches, more love, wished he would stay. How quickly one could become addicted.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked. At the very least, she ought to help him find some clothes and shoes.
To her surprise, he kissed her, deep and tender. “Stay with me,” he said.
She fumbled her words, possibly because her heart leapt into her throat. “I…”
“Or come with me,” he said. “Don’t stay here, Thea. Come with me and find angels.” He kissed her throat, butterfly-light and achingly arousing. “Taste coffee and pancakes someone else has made,” he teased.
Leave the Old Clayton House? How could I possibly? The thought floated briefly through her head, but it dissolved like fairy gold at dawn. The Old Clayton House had a hole in the roof and all the ghosts of her dusty life within its walls. If she stayed, she’d stay until she died. If she left, she’d become a piece of local folklore. The actress’s daughter who disappeared, last seen with a naked stranger. The thought was more satisfying than she’d have guessed.
Out on the road with Turiel, there was nothing but possibility. She raised his head to return his kiss.
They stayed on the porch all night, testing the strength of the swing chair as the darkness gave way to dawn. By the time the sun rose on the Old Clayton House, oozing lazily through the hole in the roof, they were gone.
The End
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