Before I can un-melt myself, he drops back into his seat with a small frown. “I can’t bake for shit, though. But Mama makes ared velvet cake that could bring a dead man back to life. I’m sure she can handle the birthday cake.”
“Store-bought is fine too,” I mumble around a huge bite of my sandwich.
“No fucking way your first rainbow sprinkle cake is going to be store-bought. You’re getting the best there is—”
I don’t know what comes over me. Before he can finish, I toss the last of my sandwich onto the desk, jump to my feet, and plant a huge kiss on his lips.
The fact that he doesn’t think my list is silly and childish — that he’s actually willing to help, already planning it out — makes my heart do a happy dance.
His hands slide to my ass, dragging me closer, trapping me between his legs. We lose ourselves in the kiss, only snapping back when my alarm goes off, signaling the end of my break.
I pull back slowly, ending it even though I don’t want to. He looks up at me with half-lidded eyes, lips slightly parted.
“I might need to take a nap here while you work,” he says, voice low, one corner of his mouth lifting.
“All that effort from PT finally catching up with you?” I ask, tracing eights at the back of his neck.
He nods, giving my ass a light squeeze.
“Okay,” I whisper, smiling down at him. And because I know exactly who I’m dealing with, I add, “I have to go help Petunia. If you bug my office while I’m gone, I will make you regret it forever.”
A huff of laughter escapes him before he nods again.
“Got it, adorable,” he murmurs, leaning into my touch, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You can even pat me down, make sure I have no bugs on me.”
Smartass.
I make him change seats with the pomegranates before I leave. The armchair, though old, is much more comfortable than the standard office chair.
The sound of Domino and Five-Star shooting tin cans behind the clubhouse is already distant. My steps are slow but sure, dry twigs snapping under my feet. The summer heat shimmers across my skin, but inside, I feel like a sunny winter day.
The walk isn’t long, but it isn’t short either. There’s a path not far from here that I’ve been using for my morning runs these past weeks. This area is already as familiar to me as the spine of my favorite book.
A few minutes more, and I’m here —my new special place.
Is it still new if it’s held that title for over two months? I don’t have an answer, but I’m not looking for one.
I squeeze my soul and expand my lungs in preparation for this moment. The clear plastic bag filled with gray ash whispers in my arms.
The deep pit in front of me yawns open, like the inside of a maw, but it isn’t threatening. It’s already been fed. Already full.
I take a step forward and stop at the edge. My gaze drifts over the pit one last time. Over the curved walls, over the thin roots clawing through the dirt. My nose tightens at the usual smell — damp earth, piss, shit, rotten foliage and the unmistakable scent of blood.
A wet gurgle, threaded with a faint whine, interrupts my observation.
My eyes snap to the source. Someone who once thought himself human, now showing his true form.
It’s time to speak.
“Hello, Bowie.”
39. Ashes
Adora
“This is burnt,” Bowie growls, shoving my face toward the hot pan.
His breath hits the back of my neck, almost making me heave. I don’t know why my brain registers that small gust of air as more dangerous than the heat glowing against my cheek.
