She steadies herself. Answers first, then kisses. “I got an email that said you were released hours ago. Where have you been?”
“Hmm?” he mutters, seeming more lost in the haze between them than she is.
But she’s been worrying all evening for his safety. “Where were you?”
“Oh,” he says, chuckling. “We only made it down to the SAT garage when they got called to hunt down some missing unit. They decided my defects weren’t worth the trouble after all. I came back right after they released me. Your door was locked, and you didn’t answer. I waited around for a while, then I figured your unit number would work to get me a drink.”
K8 blinks, hardly able to process what she’s hearing. His words confirm every article and everything she thinks of him. Of all the selfish people . . .
He must misinterpret her expression, because his eyes dip back and stay glued to her lips. “I’ve always been lucky.” He leans forward.
He’s going to kiss her. The part of her that craved another kiss moments before gives way to a chilling sensation. “Excuse me?”
He pauses. “Your unit number. I gave it to the bartender, and he gave me drinks.” He grins like he’s proud of his cleverness before leaning forward again.
She releases the back of his shirt, which she’s been gripping. “Get off me, you monster. Zorg, I can’t believe I almost let you kiss me again.”
He steps back as if she’s slapped him. Good. She might slap him if he doesn’t start talking. With her hands planted firmly on her hips, she levels him with a glare.
“You weren’t here. Did you want me to sit outside your door like a lost puppy? I figured after the day I’ve had, you wouldn’t mind.” He glowers down at her as if he’s the one being slighted.
Her skull might actually crack. “You figured I wouldn’t mind?!” The walls between units are thick enough that surely her neighbors can’t hear her. Even if they can, it doesn’t slow her down. “I thought the Flash News article about a runaway unit claiming to be from the past was you! While you were having a relaxing drink, Jett and Lessa spent hours helping me search for you. I thought you were dead!” Her voice rattles precariously, but she refuses to shed a single tear on his behalf. Her boiling anger is making her feel overheated and freezing at once. How could he be so stupid? And inconsiderate? How could she have even considered whatever ridiculous feelings that kiss tricked her into feeling?
James’s face becomes serious as her words seem to sober him. Is he remorseful? Or at least questioning his actions? She looks away.Back to the screens, where the articles remind her of who this man really is before sympathy can crowd out more appropriate emotions. He comes to stand behind her, taking her hair in his hands. He moves it to one side, exposing her bare shoulder.
She feels him lean down, feels his breath on her neck, and she thinks he’s going to kiss her skin again. Like this is some move calculated to calm her down. She doesn’t want him to, and she does because there is clearly something wrong with her. The conflict and anticipation prickle her skin. Didn’t she read that hate sex used to be a thing? Before she can decide if she’ll allow this or tell him to stop, he sucks in a sharp breath. She turns her head to the side. His face is so near she can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell his heady scent. See the individual hairs of his stubble.
But he isn’t staring at her. He’s staring at the screen. At the article she sent to Jett. The one with the damning headline:
The Folly of Mourning Monstrous Men.
Beneath it is a photograph labeledJames Alexander Fletcher.
19 – All the Saints You Know are Dead
James
James recognizes the journalist’s name immediately. Borne was a harsh and regular critic of his ever since he campaigned for the city to tear down that dilapidated property so his investment group could put up another tower. He doesn’t remember if the project replaced an unregistered historic site or a community center. People got so uptight about those types of things.
He has to give it to Borne, though. It is a catchy headline. Too bad Borne, the saint, is long dead, along with anyone who might have read his disparaging take on James’s life. Except Kate. She’s clearly read it and is allowing Borne’s claims to color her judgment of him. James, the sinner, has a future. It would almost be worth resurrecting Borne to see the look on the man’s pasty face. But he has more pressing things to consider now.
Slowly, he rises to his full height, only beginning to understand how complex Kate’s anger toward him really is. He thought when he returned, she’d be pleased to see him. The way she’d responded to his kiss . . . well, it had him backtracking on his previous stance of refusing to be this woman’s lover in favor of kissing her again to see where it might lead. He was about to kiss her neck, like he did earlier, and try to make up for the easily forgivable mistake of not being at the right place at the right time. Now he knows it will not be that simple to earn her forgiveness. She called him a monster. It is incredibly unfortunate, since during his highly unpleasant day he came to the determination that he wants this one thing—this pleasure in a sea of challenge—to be simple.
He needs to read the full article to know what there is to smooth over to make it so. But first he needs to determine how bad she thinks it is. “What’s that?” he asks.
“It seems I was right,” she says, speaking to the screens.
“About?” he urges, wishing she’ll get to the point so he can get to defending himself.
Her chair rolls backward, and he has to move so it doesn’t knock into him. She walks to her bedroom door, not facing him as she says, “There’s nothing about you to like. You’re selfish, thoughtless, and, according to numerous articles, ruthless.”
He can hear the conviction in her voice. She means it and it stings. He opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but she slips into her room. When she shuts the door behind her, she leaves a vacuum in her wake.
“Fuck,” he grumbles, torn between knocking on her door and reading the article.
As the air returns to the room, he breathes. Then he turns and glares at the monitors. Time to retread the sins of his past.
The Folly of Mourning Monstrous Men: Editorial
