Page 72 of One Kiss Isn't Enough
Nothing can ever change what happened, but we have a choice about how we handle it. I’m starting to think I made the wrong one.
That’s why I hold his hand longer than he holds mine. That’s why I stand there watching him leave when he tells me he’s getting the rest of what’s on the list and says for me to just get the bread. I don’t miss the depth in his eyes, the distance that lingers. Every day, he’s farther away from me. He knows. He can feel it too. It’s like the slow unraveling of thick twine. It’s obvious and torturous to watch.
It wasn’t this way when we were just teenagers. It wasn’t like this at all.
The power he and his brothers now have comes with violence I’ve never seen before and a harshness that’s required to survive. Shopping for fucking groceries is his way of showing me it’s normal, it’s okay, that life is more than that brutal side of the Cross brothers and what they do.
I can’t look past the darkness though. It’s never going to feel “okay.” This sense of danger that lingers in my blood is always going to be there.
I have to find my place with it. That’s not something he can help me with. I have tried. I thought I was there. I was wrong.
It’s caused damage I can’t take back. That’s what hurts the most. I can’t take this last month back.
“You all right?” A deep baritone voice from behind me startles me. With a quick intake of breath and my hand reaching up to my rapidly beating heart, I turn around to see a man standing there. He’s older, maybe in his late forties. Kind eyes with gentle lines surrounding them meet mine.
It takes me a moment to realize when he arches his brow that he’s waiting for my response.
With a few blinks to bring my mind back to the present and a shake of my head, I tell him, “Fine, sorry.”
I push my cart forward thinking I’m blocking his path, but he doesn’t have a cart and he doesn’t seem to have any intention to move either. His boot-clad feet are firmly planted and my eyes move from them, up his dark-wash jeans and button-down white shirt to his questioning gaze.
“I’m fine.” My voice is stern and carries a harshness I don’t like to use with strangers when I repeat myself; this guy needs to stay the hell out of my business.
When he crosses his arms, I can tell he has some muscle to him. The cotton fabric tightens around his biceps, just as my hands do on the handle of the cart. There’s an air to him that changes, a knowingness about him that sends a chill down my spine.
It’s a look I recognize. It’s a look I don’t like. The type of look that makes me want to run.
“I don’t think you are fine,” he challenges and the bitterness of having this man judge me creeps into the snide response I’m ready to spit out at him. He continues, stopping my words and any breath I was daring to take. “I know he’s a murderer. I know he killed your foster father. And it looks like you’re having a difficult time dealing with things… just from my perspective, Miss Fawn.”
That prick that has crawled slowly down my spine flows over my body in a single wave, nearly buckling my knees. I can feel the color drain from my face. Slowly, just like the twine fraying and unraveling. I don’t know who this man is, but I know damn well I shouldn’t be talking to him.
I have to concentrate on keeping my breathing steady — in and out — and focus on not reacting.
Murderer.
My foster father.
Daniel didn’t kill him.
My eyes dart to the man and I try to hold his prying gaze.
My head wants to shake just slightly, it wants to deny what he’s saying, but it can’t. I can’t react. I can’t show him a damn thing.
Daniel didn’t murder him though. That happened years ago. Before I ever even thought of leaving this place, before everything else happened. I want to speak the words, the need to defend Daniel pushing the words toward the tip of my tongue.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek instead, screaming in my head to stay silent. But silence brings questions. Not just mine but also this man’s.
I’ve never questioned my foster father’s death. It was a burglary. That’s what the news said.
The Cross brothers are good at covering things up. I’ve heard and seen things though. Especially recently.
I know what Daniel’s capable of and what he’ll do out of anger. I know he loved me back then. What my foster father did… That’s the second reason I stay bitterly quiet, even as the questions choke me. I hate even thinking of that man. I was only a child and he was a predator. I’d rather spit on his gravestone than mention his name.
The third reason I keep biting the inside of my cheek until I taste a tinge of blood is the most important. The man who stands silent in front of me knows more than I do. I may be the sorry excuse for a woman Daniel’s chosen to be his wife, but I’m not stupid. I’m smart enough to know when to keep my mouth shut. So I do. I stand there, waiting to see if a threat comes.
Near silence reigns with only the steady hum of the coolers behind us as I stare back at him.
After a moment, his lips kick up into an asymmetric smile. “Did you not know?” he questions but doesn’t wait for a response. “Maybe you didn’t know then, but you know now.” His eyes narrow as he nods, persuading me to believe him.