Page 43 of Tormented
“Makin’ even the toughest asshole regret the stupid shit he’s done.” He places both palms to his neck and stretches out his shoulders. “I’m a killer, Abbey, a fuckin’ good one. And you know why? Because the things that make an ordinary man cringe don’t even faze me. Somethin’ upstairs is broken.” He pauses. “And it’s that inability to feel bad for what I’ve done that sets me apart.”
I sigh, flopping back into my chair also. “Even so, it doesn’t change my mind, Sawyer.”
“Because there’s something else holdin’ you back,” he says dryly.
“How do you mean?” I turn my head slightly to study him.
“Your concern for my welfare is cute, Abbey, but it ain’t the reason you don’t want to tell me any more than you already did.” He turns his head, his eyes hard as they meet mine.
Damn, he’s good. “Are you sure your gift isn’t reading people?”
“It comes a close second,” he teases. “So what is it? What’s your reservation?”
I look over at him as he stares out at the back fence. He’s classically handsome, with that strong bodybuilder-style edge. Muscles or not, he’d be a good-looking guy, but with all that added bulk, that added power, it makes him what he is, even before you hear the stories. He exudes control, arrogance, and a certain entitledness in his attitude.
He believes he has a right to everything he wants, and so, he gets it.
Usually.
“I guess . . .” I sigh, letting my gaze drift over his bare arms as he fists his hands on his thighs; it causes his biceps and forearms to twitch and flex. “I guess I don’t understand why you want any of this.”
“This?”
Flex.
Twitch.
“Closeness . . . with me.”
He grumbles, laying his hands flat on his legs as though the fidgeting annoyed him. “You think my interest in you isn’t legit?”
“Is it?” I ask. “I mean, you’ve never cared before, so why now?”
His chin lifts slightly as he swallows hard. “I don’t know why ‘now,’ but I do know why.” He glances down to his lap before turning in his chair to face me. “Do you see what’s goin’ on here?” His thick finger waves between us.
“We’re talking?”
“More than that. We’re comfortable talking. We’re just sittin’ here in each other’s company, chewin’ the fat, and neither one of us is bein’ an asshole to the other or tryin’ to get away.”
I look down at the casual way I have my legs, one tucked up on the seat, and pay close attention to what my body tells me. It says he’s right. My heart rate is slow and measured, my palms aren’t slick with sweat, and there isn’t a single muscle in my body that feels tense, on edge, or ready to run.
I’m comfortable with him.
Relaxed.
At ease.
“You feel it, Abbey-girl?” he asks, sliding off the seat so he kneels before me.
My previously calm heart picks up the pace, but for once it’s not from fear or anxiety.
“I do.”
“That,” he says with conviction, “the feeling of bein’ where you’re supposed to be, is the reason why.”
“I still can’t do it,” I say. “I can’t unload everything I’ve kept shoved down on you like it’s easy to, because it’s not. And no matter how much you ‘get’ me, or how at ease you make me feel, it still doesn’t change one thing.”
“What?” He reaches out slowly, my gaze tracking his hand until I lose sight of it as he slides it under my jaw and just holds me.