Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“It’s not your fault,” he says softly, without looking at me. He’s curled in a ball on the ground like a child, and I’m not sure my heart has ever gone out to someone more.
“It’s not yours either,” I reply, then hold my breath, waiting for the anger or some kind of explosion. Instead, it’s loud, aching sobs that break free.
“Hey…shh. You’re okay. I’m here.”
I touch him, and he doesn’t fight me, doesn’t yell or scream. He’s just crying, lost in himself, too tired to struggle.
I pull him closer, but he’s like deadweight. The best I can do is position him so his head is in my lap, my jeans getting wet from tears and snot, but I don’t care. I just sit with him, stroke his head, run my fingers through his hair. Tell him he’s not alone, that I’m right here. That I’m not going anywhere.
Easton Swift falls asleep crying, with his head in my lap. It’s a struggle, but I manage to work my cell out of my pocket without waking him.
Me: Hey…just wanted to let you know I won’t be back at the campsite tonight.
Cass: What do you mean you won’t be back? Is everything all right?
Me: Yeah, it’s fine. I ran into a friend. I can’t really say. It’s personal, but I’m good. I need you to trust me.
Cass: I don’t like this, but I trust you. You let me know if you need anything, okay?
Me: Thanks, Cass.
I set the phone down, touch his hair, see the hard set of his mouth, even in his sleep. Easton’s restless all night, whimpering, whispering, and apologizing to someone who isn’t there.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask quietly, brushing my fingertips against his temple. I’ve never been so curious about someone in my whole life, never wanted to find whatever it is that plagued them, and help fix it, the way I do right now.
I sit there, legs cramping, uncomfortable, but I’m watching him all damn night.
As the sun is rising, my eyes flutter closed, and I feel him tense, immediately sitting up and scrambling away from me, on his ass and using his hands and legs to do it.
“It’s me. Archer Thorn. You fell asleep last night. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Stay the fuck away from me.” Easton shoves to his feet, so I stand too.
“Well, that’s not what a guy hopes to hear after spending the night with someone.”
I mean it as a joke, hoping to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t laugh. He just…cocks his head, studies me, and somehow, I know the night is coming back to him: how I found him, what I said to him, how I held him.
“This is between us, Easton. I won’t be spreading your business around. I was thinking maybe we could go back to town together…get some breakfast.”
“I’m not your charity case.” He goes to his tent and begins shoving his things into a bag.
“I know that. It’s not what I’m doing.” But in some ways, it kinda is. Not in a bad way, but he’s right.
“Leave me alone. Stay away from me.” He grabs his bag, leaves his tent, and walks away.
I’m not sure if it’s the best decision, but I don’t go after him. Instead, I pack up the rest of his things, make sure the fire is out, and head back to camp.
When we get back home, it takes me no time at all to realize that last night was the anniversary of Ella’s drowning. That’s why Easton was out there alone. Where the fuck was his family? Why weren’t they with him or making sure he was okay?
The next day I drop his stuff off on the porch of his house…and a few months later, when we get a call that Easton is drunk and throwing a fit at a bar, I head down to get him. I’m the second officer on scene. He’s out of control, but for whatever reason, he calms down when I arrive.
“I got it from here. I’ll take him home to sleep it off,” I tell the other officer.
“You sure that’s a good idea, Thorn?”
“It’s all good. I got him.”
Easton doesn’t argue, lets me lead him to my patrol vehicle, lets me take him home.
The second time it happens, he’s not drunk, but he’s always getting into trouble for one thing or another—fighting, disorderly conduct. Still, he goes with me when he won’t go with anyone else. When we arrive at his place, I get out and open the back door for him.
“Why don’t you arrest me?”
“Do you want me to arrest you?”
“Do you want to fuck me? Is that what this is?”
“Jesus, Easton.” I run a hand through my hair, unsure how to respond. I’m bi, but not many people know that. I have no idea if he’s queer or not, but sex has nothing to do with this. He’s a beautiful man, but… “I’m not trying to get into your pants.”