Atone (Recovered Innocence #2)(47)

And there’s a whole hell of a lot of seriously f*cked-up, that’s for sure.

I don’t question why we work the way we do. We just do. We’re symbiotic. I’ve never felt this way with a person before, and I can’t help but wonder if he and Cassandra were like this or if this is new for him too. I don’t know anything about relationships. Maybe this is normal and everybody who has an affair feels the same way. I don’t dare ask him, though. I’m not jealous anymore, just curious. He might not like the question or might read something else into it. Something permanent. Something I can’t give him.

We go back to my motel room and order pizza. People our age go out to the movies, parties, clubs, and friends’ houses. Not us. We’re more comfortable away from crowds. We don’t want to see or be seen. We’re not tied to social media. We don’t binge-watch TV shows. It hadn’t really occurred to me until this moment how odd we must seem to other people. How totally out of place we are in society. We don’t even talk unnecessarily to fill the void. There are no awkward silences. That’s unusual too. Over the past few years I’ve watched the interactions people have with each other to try to get a sense of what’s normal. I have no perspective on what’s customary. I’m relearning how to be a person and not doing a very good job of it.

Beau never makes me feel that way, though. It’s one of the things I like best about him. There are so many things I like about him, from the way he looks to how I feel when I’m with him.

He kicks off his shoes, lies down on the bed, stacking his hands under his head, and stares at the ceiling. His thinking pose. I lie down next to him and mimic him. Except I can’t concentrate, so I turn my head on the pillow to look at him, only to find him watching me.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re remarkable.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I think you’re remarkable.”

“Not hardly.”

I shift to my side, pillowing my head on my bent arm. “How did you keep track of time in prison?”

This time he copies my pose. “Counted the days.”

“Like with slashes on the wall or something?”

“No, in my head. I kept a running total.”

“You never forgot or lost track?”

“No. Not even once.”

“I lost track,” I say. “A lot. I think it was not knowing night from day. There was no routine either. The days just kind of blended together. Plus, I lost chunks of time f*cking. I’d zone out, then all of a sudden it was dinner or breakfast. There are no clocks in my head. I think maybe it was better that way. Made time go by faster. When I escaped, I found out how many years I’d been held—almost four.”

“Two thousand two hundred and seventy-one days for me.”

“You still remember the number of days? How long is that?”

“A little over six years.”

“Damn. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

I laugh at how ridiculous we are. “It’s kind of dumb we’re apologizing to each other, isn’t it?”

“A few people told me they were sorry for what happened to me. How many people told you?”

“You’re the only one.”

“Then it’s not so dumb, is it?”

“Maybe not.”

“I could kill him for what he did to you.”

“Please don’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “I couldn’t stand it if you spent another minute in prison. Especially if it was because of me.”

“I hate what he and Emmaline did to you.”

“Killing them wouldn’t make what I went through disappear. Please. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“I do a lot of stupid shit.”

I shake him by the arm. “You know what I mean. Stop being stubborn. Promise me you won’t do anything to get yourself locked up again. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it. Please.”

He moves closer. “Don’t you know I’d do anything for you? Haven’t I already proven you’re more than worth it?” His gaze drops to my mouth.

“When you look at me like that I start to believe all kinds of things.” He goes for a kiss, but I stop him with a finger to his lips. “Promise me.”

He licks my finger.

“Beau,” I warn.

His gaze turns wicked. He takes my finger in his mouth and sucks. Shit. That f*cking goes straight to my *. I try to pull my hand away, but he grips my wrist and holds it. Sliding my finger in and out of his mouth, he licks and sucks. There’s no doubt where he wants to put his mouth next. A knock at the door breaks the moment. Saved by the pizza delivery guy. He releases me and I go to the bathroom for a little cool-down while he answers the door.

When I come out he’s got our dinner spread out on the little table. I sit across from him and pick up a slice of pepperoni.

“You didn’t promise,” I say.

“I know I didn’t.”

“Are you f*cking kidding me?”

“Fine.” He tosses down his slice of pizza. “I promise. Happy?”

“Yes. Actually. I am.”

“It’s not like I have plans to commit murder. I just don’t know how I’ll react if I ever see them. I really f*cking hate what they did to you. I don’t think you fully get how much.”