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Maybe because he meant something, because he was something special. And because I felt that way, I wanted it to be something special.
We'd done other things.
That night on the beach being the first, the first time I felt my body explode with pleasure like that, given so selflessly.
There had been other times as well.
My body, once awoken, was needy all the time. And Charlie's fingers were all too eager to bring me to climax time and time and time again.
I'd returned the favor, learning how to use my hand how he liked, bringing him even a portion of the pleasure he gave me.
But that was it so far.
He was staying at a crummy roadside motel despite having been in town for months, and making good money because all of my father's men made good money.
It was like a part of him knew from the beginning that his stay in town would be temporary, and he saw no point in putting down roots, in signing leases.
I pulled up to number four, remembering how I had been excited when he told me it because it was my favorite number. Such a stupid, silly thing to think.
Barely remembering to slam my car door, I ran up to it, slamming my fist into the door until it rattled the window to the left.
But nothing.
No answer.
Heart in my throat, his name ripped from somewhere deep inside me, pained, raw.
"Charlie!"
"Darlin'," a deep, rough voice said, making my head shoot over to find a man standing in the doorway of room number five with long, stringy hair and a hangover of a waistline, watching me with lowered brows. "He ain't here. Took off an hour ago."
"Was he okay?" I asked, desperate, too needy for answers to care how I sounded.
There was no use pretending I was whole when I was just crumbling pieces inside.
"He wasn't great. Had his ass handed to him, that was for sure. Could barely load his shit into his car."
His car.
Of course.
I was so frantic that I hadn't even noticed it wasn't here.
But if he wasn't here...
"Took everything," he added, giving me a knowing look as I stood there, heart dissolving in my chest.
He was gone.
Gone.
And he had left no way for me to get in touch with him, to see if he was okay.
To go with him.
I hadn't even gotten the chance to suggest that.
See, he still made comments all the time about how I needed to go, make plans, stick with them, follow through, even though I knew how half-hearted his words were.
He didn't want me to go.
Not really.
He wanted me too.
He felt for me too, damnit.
And I had been meaning to bring it up to him, what I had been thinking about.
Us running away together.
We could go.
Take our money, pool it, and start somewhere new.
It would be better with someone else. Safer. We would have each other to rely on.
We could start a new life together.
He wouldn't have to be under my father's thumb.
And neither would I.
And now he was gone.
Without me.
Hurt.
Bleeding.
Broken.
I barely remembered getting back in my car, backing it out of the slot, driving down the highway toward my house.
At some point, it must have started raining, and my clueless brain hadn't even processed it enough to roll up the windows, because when I stepped out onto the driveway, half of my hair and the side of my face and shirt were drenched.
As I stood there looking at the house that had been nothing but a prison to me my entire life, everything within me went hard.
Stone fucking cold.
Whatever fear I still had, embedded in my marrow from a lifetime of learning there was good reason for it, got ripped out, a white-hot pain that made me stumble back a step before charging forward, whipping my hair out of my face.
I went in through the kitchen, expecting to see Helga, but finding no one as I charged up the stairs, digging in my closet for some clothes, keepsakes, overturning my dresser drawer to pull up the false bottom, grabbing the stacks of cash, and throwing them into a bag along with everything else.
I was going to leave.
There was no doubt in that.
I was going to leave.
I was going to track down Charlie somehow.
And we would start over together.
Nurse our wounds - both physical and emotional - together.
But not before I had the last word.
It was foolhardy of me.
But I couldn't seem to locate the logical part of my brain, only the sections lit up with ideas of revenge.
Let him try to stop me, try to tell me I had to marry some old bastard who wanted to rape me until I was no longer young and pretty.
Let him fucking try.
"Figured you would show up eventually," Michael greeted me, voice slick, as I moved into the study to find them waiting for me.
