Total pages in book: 212
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 207966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1040(@200wpm)___ 832(@250wpm)___ 693(@300wpm)
Yeah. Time to get some things straight with her. Make sure she fully understands.
Pulling away so she doesn’t get attached. Longing looks when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I’ve watched her shake them off, read in her expression that she’s talking herself into keeping things in a certain place with me. Smelling my leather at the collar specifically tells me it isn’t about the smell of any leather, it's my leather and smells like leather and me. She was embarrassed when I caught her doing that. What else would I catch her doing when she thought no one was looking? Besides harming herself.
Yeah, I know she’s got a fuck-ton of shit on her plate, and it sounds mighty fuckin’ conceited to think I factor for her right now, but every ounce of my being tells me she wants me but is afraid to hope for anything beyond fucking. That’s why she tried to keep it light and fun at the cabin before getting the bad news.
Self-harm should probably be a deal breaker for me. But thinking on it I’m guessing it must come from self-loathing as well as from feeling attacked by a never-ending blitzkrieg of pain that makes you feel numb. That makes you crave sensation. Stopping the numbness. Feeling something. Using the pain to get your mind off the shit tormenting you. Feeling a different kind of pain. Maybe she journals to help. Plays music to help. Writes music to help. But when she really hurts, she cuts. And I don’t fuckin’ like it. Because I know that self-harm can escalate. Eventually, a person can cross a line chasing a bigger sensation. Or feel like they need all sensation to stop. They can do permanent harm beyond a scab or a scar. Yeah. Leaving scars on not only yourself but on the people who give a shit about you. It’s too easy to take it too far.
Still… I know, for some reason, that I want to know what it’s like to be with her without all this shit weighing on her. To know how she is when she feels free to be herself. Free to sing her heart out. Free to give what she’s got to give knowing it’s safe to give it. I wanna know what she’s like when she’s got wind in her hair, fire in her soul and my fingerprints on her body, marking her as mine. Just mine. Knowing she’s protected and treasured.
Can I get the pain and shame out of her eyes?
Don’t know why I can’t shake the need to be the man that accomplishes that.
***
Church was coming up soon, so I didn’t have a lot of time to fuck about. When I walked back in, seeing she was under the blankets, eyes on the television, still watching the same show … I sat on the edge of the bed with the shopping bag, pulled out a phone and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“New phone. Prepaid and I added it to my plan. I already put it on the Wi-Fi here and loaded my number.”
She sat up. “Why?”
It was a midrange prepaid but was better than the phone she already had.
“So you can call me, ya nut.” I bopped her nose with my fingertip.
She half-smiled and then immediately frowned. “I’m confused.”
“The old one is a bad idea. Got an update from the Valentines through their cop contact and her phone wasn’t on her when she was found. So, they might have her phone which’d give them access to your socials. They don’t need access to you. And the screen’s cracked, it’s ready for the trash. It’s here, though.” I dropped it on the bed. “If you’ve got pictures or numbers you need off it, grab ‘em. Be careful. Make a hundred per cent sure nobody you put on the new phone is gonna share anything about you with the Jackals. No social status check-ins. I’d like you to consider stayin’ off social media for now. Or create new profiles and make ‘em private. No updates public or private. Yeah? After you clear your pictures off, I hold this one in case any of the Jackals message you.”
She frowned. “I don’t need anything off that phone. Take it. And Kailey is the only one I knew who would’ve had ties to them. But… hostages don’t get to have phones, remember?”
“Changed my mind. My hostage does.” I dropped a peck on her mouth and pocketed the old phone.
She frowned.
“There’s more. Here.” I reached into the shopping bag and put down a couple notebooks, a coloring book, and a cylinder of colored Sharpie markers. “You left your guitar and your journals at the cabin, so here’s these in case you need an outlet tonight.”
“An outlet?”
I touched her face. “I figured out about the self-harm. All the bandage wrappers in the trash.”