Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2)(70)
It’s subtle. Maybe. Probably not, but Rhyson doesn’t seem to care, reveling in the chance to be open with his affection. Arm around my shoulder and kissing my hair while we watch the kids play kickball. Showing off for me and yelling “Did you see that?” across the yard when he beats Mr. McClausky at horseshoes. Weaving our fingers together on the table while he talks football with a few of the guys. This is Georgia, where college football is a religion, and the SEC its mightiest denomination. The men’s fervor about it breeds humor in Rhyson’s eyes and around his mouth, and the more they forget he’s famous, the more he relaxes, seeming as at ease in a group of strangers as I’ve ever seen him.
“Now what’s so great about this chicken in the pot?” He holds a golden crispy drumstick poised at his mouth.
“Oh, just taste and you’ll see.” I lick my lips, eyeing the food piled high on my plate. Yams, corn pudding, black-eyed peas, potato salad, and the centerpiece, my favorite chicken fried in a big old grease-filled black cast iron pot.
To call his first bite rapturous would not be an exaggeration. I’ve seen Rhyson in orgasm, and I’m a little insulted that his response to a drumstick doesn’t look much different.
“That,” he says, pointing to the chicken he holds in a death grip. “Is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Good, huh?” I bite into the huge, crispy breast Aunt Ruthie set aside for me.
“Good is a paltry word for it.” He digs in, groaning over every morsel until his plate is nearly clean.
“Kai, will you cook chicken in the pot for me when we get back to LA?”
“What?” I laugh and scrape the last vestiges of corn pudding from my plate. “Set up a big ol’ black pot by your fancy swimming pool?”
“Why not?” He grins, reaching for his third piece of chicken. “Grip would love this.”
“How’s his project going?”
“Okay.” Rhyson shrugs, wiping his mouth with the paper napkin. “I’m supposed to be executive producing it, so I’ll have to get back to LA soon.”
I’m determined not to let my disappointment show. I shred a roll into tiny pieces on my plate, eyes glued to the remnants of my meal.
“Hey.” Rhyson cups my chin, gently tilting until our eyes connect. “Not for a few days.”
“It’s fine. I don’t want you missing commitments because of me.”
“You’re my only commitment today,” he whispers across my lips. I should be self-conscious about the eyes on us, but I can’t make myself care. We haven’t been all extreme PDA, but no one could miss that we’re together. Between the sex tape and the fallout from the public fight we had, discretion has become such a habit for me. I pull back a little, hating the heat in my cheeks under his knowing look and grin.
The day is waning into late afternoon by the time we’re all done. Stacks of Tupperware fill the small refrigerator in our kitchen once everyone has gone, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m feeling every moment of this perfect day in my aching arms and legs. In my bones.
“I don’t need you to tuck me in.” I still can’t fight back a yawn when Rhyson pulls the cover up and bends to kiss my forehead. “But you could lie down with me.”
“You’ll go to sleep quicker without my erection poking you in the back.” He laughs at the face I make. “You know it’s true and I can’t help it.”
“Rhys, you could—”
“Go to sleep, Pep.” The smile falls from his face. “I’m afraid you overdid it today. Your meds will kick in soon, and you could use a nap.”
“Okay, but don’t let me sleep too long. There’s still some day left.”
My eyelids flutter and fall. I’ll never use the word “exhaustion” carelessly again because I’ve never felt this bone-deep level of fatigue, punctuated by moments when you literally cannot fight sleep. It overtakes you. And just as I’m about to try one more time to persuade Rhyson he should lie down with me, I’m pulled under.
An hour, two—I’m not sure how much later, I wake up with the saltiness of tears on my lips. It’s been a long time since I dreamt of my father, but he was in that dark well of fatigue I fell face first into. I don’t remember all the details, but his face was clear. The day I sat in his lap, and he told me about the deepest of loves was so clear I could feel him tugging my pigtails and see my lavender tutu puffing around my little eight-year-old legs. Feel the bite of my new ballet slippers. I loved him so much, and that was the last time he held me. Why his betrayal and abandonment should still make me cry in my sleep after fifteen years, I can’t understand.
I pull the sheet up to my face, wipe away the tears and toss my legs over the side of my bed, glad to find them less weak. The nap did me good, and maybe this surge of energy I feel is a mirage, but I’m pursuing it until it fades. I need to do something, and I know exactly where I want to do it.
“I’m going out to the work shed,” I tell Rhyson and Aunt Ruthie, both huddled on the couch watching television. Rhyson never watches television unless I make him, so I’m curious to see what has him looking so enthralled.
“We’ll be fine,” he says, eyes barely leaving the screen to flick to me and then back again.