Hadley & Grace(53)
But hell, he’s human, male human.
He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could stop thinking about it.
His mind screamed in a million different directions—worry, alarm, elation, desperation—all of him ready to explode. Then they were laughing again, her giggles running over him and making him believe it was all in good fun.
He was self-conscious and distracted, worried about her ankle, then wishing he had a blanket to put down beneath her, or better yet, a bed. Alcohol to ease the awkwardness. Air-conditioning so he wouldn’t be so aware of his smell.
All this spiraled through his head when her fingers closed around him, and then he was no longer thinking at all, his thoughts obliterated as she did things to him that had not been done in such a very long time.
His skin flames with the recollection—he’s stunned and mortified, unable to believe he allowed it to happen, unable to believe it happened at all. Terrible and astounding.
He looks down at the cut. The trickle of blood has stopped. He picks up the blade and returns to the task, sawing and trying not to slit himself again.
Women, they make men stupid. She slept with him, messed with his head, then left him tied to a desk with a bucket for a toilet. And women are considered the fairer sex.
He’s going to have a serious talk with Ben when he gets home. The kid’s only nine, but it’s never too early to learn how dangerous women can be, about the power they wield over men, how they can drive you insane and how ruthless they can be after, leaving you bewildered and broken down . . . chained to a damn desk. He won’t leave that part out, the part about how ruthless they are. Ben needs to know so he will be prepared.
He switches the grip so he’s holding the makeshift blade between his thumb and middle finger instead of his forefinger, which is now bloody and raw.
He was worried about crushing her, his arms trembling as he held himself above her, his focus split between his struggling muscles and trying to make it last, immediately wanting a redo when they were done, a chance to prove he could do better—a bed, liquor, not so much retention . . . his hands not bound together by his tie.
The blade slips again, barely missing his vein, and he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.
The after was as amazing as the sex, maybe even more so, her head on his shoulder as she ran her nails over his chest. He was staring at the ceiling. One of the fluorescent bulbs flickered, adding to the strange surrealism of the moment. He told her about his life, and she talked about hers.
I believed in love. In marriage. We were a family, and . . . I don’t know, I guess I just sort of believed in the idea that you stick it out—you know, through thick and thin—and that love is permanent, flaws and all. How those words pierced him. It’s exactly how he felt . . . feels. It’s why he would have stayed with Marcia forever, simply out of his staunch conviction that that’s what love is.
He couldn’t hold her the way he wanted, but he managed to wrap her fingers in his, his desire to help her building with each second that passed until he felt like he was going to go mad. He tried to talk sense to her, but she wouldn’t listen, shushed him each time he started.
Damn woman. He’s going to tell Ben that part also, about women not listening and not using one damn bit of common sense, how they think with their hearts instead of their heads. How does she think this is going to end? With her and Herrick riding off into the sunset with Frank’s ill-gotten millions?
Frustrated, he yanks hard on the zip tie, and it snaps.
39
GRACE
They are staying at a motel on the outskirts of Lake Tahoe. Grace’s exhaustion weighs on her like a heavy cloak, every fiber down to her fingernails done in from the day.
She gave Miles a bath, fed him and changed him, then collapsed beside him. But tired as she is, she cannot fall asleep. Each time she closes her eyes, Jimmy weaves in and out of her restless thoughts. Part of it is the changes Miles is going through and how much she wants to share them with him, knowing how much he would want to hear about it, asking her to tell him again and again and mining for details, begging her to send pictures and videos so he could brag to his buddies.
She looks at Miles sprawled on the bed, his hands above his head like a champion and his mouth hanging open, and she smiles, marveling as she always does in these moments when they are alone, stunned that she’s created something so incredibly beautiful and perfect.
Part of it is what happened between Hadley and the agent. All day Hadley has been smirking, silently reveling in a dreamy state of postcoital bliss that has caused a physical ache in Grace so intense it hurts. And now, lying here, staring at the ceiling, the feeling has grown particularly acute, making it impossible to sleep.
Jimmy has always been a snuggler—a wedger, a warmth snatcher. And when they sleep together, he is always touching her in some way, his foot tucked between her calves, his arm draped across her shoulder, his fingers entwined with hers.
It has always bugged her. “Your side, my side,” she is always telling him, drawing an imaginary line down their bed before settling on “her side.” He pretends to obey, an amused smirk on his face. Then, the moment she drifts off to sleep, he moves in—a toe, an elbow, a hip, some sort of connection somewhere. The problem is she has grown used to it, and now, whenever he goes away, she misses it, and tonight, since she lay down beside Miles two hours ago, she has tossed and turned in search of it.