Rough Edge (The Edge #1)(18)

The reasons she shouldn’t do too much were easily explainable, but if I explained them, she’d fight me. I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to get angry, or I’d lose it again and hurt her. I didn’t want to feel anything. I wanted this deadness, needed it to dampen the fear and anger.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Did she tell you the salary?”

“No, I mean about…” She spread her legs.

I’d made love to her two nights ago and had barely kept myself from hurting her. I’d had to keep my hands on the bed and let her ride me. The Thing had been watching. If I touched her now, I would tear her apart to get rid of it.

I ran my hand inside her thigh and stopped.

The sense I wasn’t alone was worse when I touched her.

“What?” She pouted.

“Touch yourself.”

She bit her lower lip and slid her fingers under the crotch of her underwear.

Was It watching her? Hard to tell, but the feeling wasn’t as strong.

She groaned. I was aroused, but I didn’t have an emotional response to this beautiful woman running her fingers along her seam.

“I’m so wet for you,” she said.

“Don’t stop.” Was my voice as emotionless and robotic to her as it was to me?

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Faster.” I stood over her and undid my pants. She reached for me, but I swatted her away.

“Tease,” she said when I released my dick and fisted it.

“Pick up your shirt.”

She showed me her tits. I felt the Thing stretching at the edge of my perception, trying to get in on the action, but for some reason, without a connection between Greyson and me, the circuit wasn’t closed. It could feel what was happening, but not see it, or the other way around.

Fuck you, Thing. This one’s for you.

I grunted. “Let me see you come.”

In another minute, she was pumping her hips under her fingers with heavy, wet breaths. I came over her, leaving my semen streaked over her body.

She moaned with a satisfied mmm and took her hand from between her legs. I snapped tissues out of the box and wiped her up with all the tenderness of a clinician.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “Come to bed.”

I couldn’t. I knew I couldn’t but couldn’t avoid it.

I loved her, but I felt nothing. My balls were empty and my heart was dead.

My beeper went off.

“Shit,” she said. “Ignore it.”

I picked it up, thanking God without the actual feeling of gratitude. “Hospital.”

She sighed.

“Greyson.” I was this close to telling her everything. If I didn’t have an emergency to attend to, I would have, right then. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry.”

“This is the life of a surgeon’s wife.”

I kissed her forehead and left without looking back.

This wasn’t sustainable.



* * *



I managed to stay at the hospital through the next day. I didn’t know what I hoped for except this Thing would go away if I starved it of my wife’s presence.

The surgery wasn’t done until early morning. I showered in the attending lounge and collapsed on one of the cots. The Thing missed her. Its longing whispered through the air conditioning. I could spite it indefinitely, but I didn’t know how long I could spite myself. I missed her already. We’d spent plenty of time apart, but I’d gotten spoiled. If she was next to me, she was safe. Knowing that helped me rest.

I was awake when she beeped me. I called her back, still on my back on a narrow cot.

“Hello,” I said. “What are you doing up? It’s not even six.”

“I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.” Her voice was husky and broken.

At the sound of her voice, it softened like a puppy and vibrated off the walls. It was worried about her.

“Figured I’d start working on Tina’s proposal,” she said.

“Don’t burn yourself out.”

“I won’t. Are you coming home?”

“I have to check the post-op report in a few hours.”

“Okay. I know you’re tired.”

“I am.”

“We have tickets to a play tonight.”

Shit. How long would it take to starve this Thing? The room was dark, but I covered my eyes with my wrist to block it out. “What time?”

“Seating’s at eight.”

I could fake a surgery. I could fake being tired. I could take a trip. Starve it out. I didn’t know if that was even an option, but it was the only idea I had.

Tell her you have to be in the OR.

No words came. I couldn’t lie. I could make the words in my head but couldn’t get them out.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t lie. And I knew, as sure as I knew the boundaries of the dark room I’d gotten up to pace across, that I couldn’t lie because my emotions were stuffed in a bag and sealed away. Lying meant I had to fear the truth, which I didn’t, and it meant I had to create fake vocal nuance, which I couldn’t.

Hiding my emotions had been intentional, but easier than ever. The process of detachment had become greased. Frictionless. I barely had to think about it. I wasn’t nervous. Wasn’t panicky. I was curious about my feelings, what they’d been and how they drove me to lie. Why would a person lie unless there was a reward for it?