Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(64)

He looked at me hard, the muscle in his jaw clenching, and I thought he might speak, call me something insulting. What I didn’t expect was for his temper to tamper down or for him to look crestfallen, and apologetic. But silent.

“Whatever,” I finally said, tired of looking up at him expecting a response I knew wouldn’t come. “Just…whatever.”

My place was neat but confining with him standing behind me, watching as I threw my bag on my bed and fiddled with my stereo. Ransom’s angry panting had slowed, but I was still aware of his breaths and his movements as he lowered himself back down onto the sofa. I needed a distraction, something that would keep me from lashing out again, so I chose Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic” because that voice, that song always settled my simmering temper.

Outside my window, Metairie was a bustle of activity, with cars shifting on the Interstate, drivers eager to hit the city, and I had a fleeting notion to follow them. I still had to work at the diner tonight, after all. But I wasn’t needed for another couple of hours and being around customers and Carl’s nagging wouldn’t do me any good. So instead I closed my eyes and let the music roll over me like a balm, easing away my anger.

I’d almost forgotten that I wasn’t alone when Ransom cleared his throat behind me. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”

His voice was quiet, as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted me to hear him. Now this – this was Ransom being honest, not pretending like he had all the answers, or that he knew exactly what he needed. None of us did. I was grateful that he’d finally admitted to being as clueless as the rest of us.

I turned, shuffling to stand in front of the sofa and extended my hand to him. “Dance with me,” I said. He only stared up at me blankly.

“I don’t feel like practicing.”

“I’m not asking you to practice. I’m asking you to dance.”

Ransom’s body stiffened when I picked up his hand, but he didn’t fight me. “Just be here with me. Me and you and the music.”

We came together in the center of my living room with that slow, soothing music wrapping around us. There was no Kizomba, no prequel to a seduction we both wanted to avoid. There was just Ransom bending low, arms around me, hand taking mine to hold against his chest. After a few seconds, the tension lessened, and his body did not feel as rigid. It felt peaceful, and safe, and simple—just two people, holding each other, swaying to the music.

His mouth hovered near my forehead and as we moved together with no form or practiced steps, Ransom’s grip on my waist got tighter. “I wish I could breathe again. I want that so bad.” The words were whispered, low.

I closed my eyes, reminding myself that I couldn’t touch him.

“Ransom. You can.”

He looked down at me and right then I saw just how lost he was. This realization didn’t come from flippant comments he made to me or desperate excuses I overheard him make. It was all there right in his eyes—the loneliness, the pain, as though each mistake he’d made was etched into the rise of his cheekbones and the worried, faint lines on his forehead. He was still drifting; he had been drifting for so damn long.

The pain in his eyes drew me in. There was nothing I could say that would make his hurt lessen. There was nothing that would take him from the lingering sorrow he’d created for himself. So I didn’t speak, didn’t give him advice I knew he’d never take. I just watched Ransom’s eyes, and felt the slow way he moved. And then with my hand on the back of his neck, I pulled his face towards me, I took his lips, kissing him, pouring into that kiss everything I’d held back from him since we first met.

This is who I am. This is what I want. That voice came from someplace hidden and secret inside me.

It was minutes, minutes of nothing but my mouth on his, nothing but two people finding solace in each other, before I realized I’d messed up.

He didn’t seem to want me to pull away, but didn’t stop me when I did. Shaking my head, I smoothed the collar on his shirt, unable to look at him. “I’m…modi, Ransom, I’m sorry.”

Ransom pulled my chin up and smoothed his thumb over my cheek, down the slope of my chin before he returned his attention to my eyes. “I don’t think I am.”

It was a moment I thought I’d always wanted. Him looking at me like I was real, like he saw me, finally saw me. I’d seen that look once before, just as Ransom whispered my name and kissed me over and over the first time. It wasn’t the look of someone hopeless. It was open and raw and I realized right then that I’d give anything for Ransom to never stop looking at me.

But this was against our rules. This wasn’t how we were supposed to be. I took his hand, thought of pulling it away from my face but didn’t have the strength, liked how it felt on my face too much. “Friends don’t kiss, Ransom.”

A small nod, and his eyes narrowed. His grip around me tightened. The music around us swelled. “No, they don’t,” he said, still touching my face, inching closer and I knew, right then, he was definitely not my friend.





15





Everything felt wrong. I knew that the moment I stepped inside Summerland’s and Ironside ushered me into the dressing room. He didn’t threaten me, but there was a hint of warning in his voice. He wanted me to make Ransom happy.