Page 23 of Torn
She’s slamming one of the kitchen cabinets open and closed while I’m trying to read a magazine. Babysitting on a Friday night isn’t exactly my idea of fun, but Ash and Ember wanted to get away for a night to see a movie. So Uncle Tor said yes and stayed home. As usual.
Slam. Slam.
“Kenzi,” I warn. “You better stop slamming that door.”
She looks over at me, giggles, and slams it again. Harder.
“I mean it, I’m gonna put you to bed early if you don’t stop.”
She looks at me, then the cabinet, then at me again.
Slam.
Pushing the chair back, I stand and she tries to toddle off, falls, and starts to cry. I kneel down and pick her up.
“Where does it hurt, Angel?” I ask, knowing she didn’t get hurt.
She holds out her palm, sniffling. “Here…”
“Should I kiss it and make it better? Do you think that’ll work?”
She nods, her hair falling over her eyes. I grab her hand and plant a big noisy kiss on her palm.
“All better now?”
Nodding, she wraps her little arms around my neck and rests her head against mine.
“Uh-huh.”
All she wanted was for me to chase her and hug her. It’s what she does.
And I melt every time.
TOR
As I drive to the shop, I’m still exhausted and pissed off from the night before. Sleep never came last night, fury racing through my veins for hours, along with something else I can’t find the words to explain.
That asshole put his hands on her and had the nerve to call her a cock tease. He ruined a night that was supposed to be special and memorable, and now I want to wring his skinny neck. He’s an idiot for even thinking he could ever have a girl like her, and I’m proud of her for saying no to him. If I ever cross paths with Jason again, I’m going to beat some respect into him. He’ll be wearing the imprint of my silver skull rings on his pretty-boy face for a long time.
I tell myself my rage stems from some punk pawing my niece like a twenty-buck whore. I’d feel the same way if someone treated my little sister like that and my reaction would be the same.
But not quite the same, right, Tor?
The feelings that surfaced later, when her hands slowly crept down my shoulders to my chest and her eyes fixated on my mouth, her own lips parting and practically begging… I don’t know what the fuck that was.
I tell myself the way our bodies melted perfectly into each other for what could only have been mere seconds, and how her voice took on a sweet, sensual wistfulness when she told me she wanted to hide me away in her box of cherished possessions, all meant nothing and were due to exhaustion.
I lie.
I’d live in that box for the rest of my life just to make her happy.
At the next stoplight, I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, then pull back slightly and bang my head against it. Hard. And again. And again. And again. Until blood trickles down my face.
I didnotjust think that. I didnotfeelanyof that. I didnotpull her closer. I didnotsilently beg her to never take her hands off me. I didnotwant to touch her face and promise her the world. I didnotlove seeing her in nothing but my shirt in the middle of my kitchen.
I will never, ever let my mind wander to her again.
I will never, ever wish for what I can never have.