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He would go in after the fact desperate to fix what John Schmidt broke.
He sucked another long breath in through his nose, trying to inhale Reilly the same as he would pot. To share her calmness and let it wash over and through him.
Once he got home, whether Saylor wanted it or not, he was grabbing his sister and hugging her so fucking hard. He needed to remind her that he was there for her no matter what. He also needed to show her instead of just saying the damn words.
Words spoken could be empty. They could also be full of lies.
When Reilly’s cheek pressed to the top of his head, he tightened his arms around her, pulling her into him even closer.
He had no idea how long he clung to her, but she never got tired and pulled away. As long as he was holding on, she remained holding on to him. There was something so goddamn healing about it.
Now he wished he’d held Sarah a lot more before he ran away. Once he left, she didn’t even have that. She had nothing.
He left her with nothing.
For fuck’s sake, he never should have left.
He should have stayed. For her. Then figured out a way to get them both out of that situation.
He fucked up. His fuck-up fucked her up even more. He was partly to blame.
Reilly cupped his face and lifted it to hers. She kissed him lightly and when she moved to pull away, he stopped her and took her mouth even deeper.
He wanted to hold her again, but while he was inside her. Not just to fuck her, but something more. Unfortunately, his head wasn’t there yet. He needed to get it there by smoothing out his jumbled thoughts first.
He ended the kiss and she pressed her forehead to his. “Wanna fuck you,” he whispered.
“Same,” she whispered back. “But that’s not going to happen if you get trashed.” She went to move away again and he let her go this time. “I’ll grab your pipe.”
“In a minute, help me figure this out. Sit.”
“There’s nowhere to sit. There’s only one chair.”
“My lap makes a good seat.”
She gave him a soft smile, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and settled on his lap. “Yes, you’re right, when nothing is poking me, it does.”
“Makes an even better seat when I’m hard.”
“When we’re both naked.”
“We’re both gonna be naked soon. Think I want you to ride my dick in this chair.”
“You think it can handle that action? It’s a cheap motel chair.”
He shrugged. “We break it, I’ll pay for it. Might be worth the cost.”
“Might not be worth the hurt if it breaks and we land hard on the ground.”
“We’ll figure it out. Need to figure this out first so I can try to put that shit outta my head… for now.”
“Do you think writing it down will help it make sense?”
“None of it will make fuckin’ sense.” But seeing it spelled out in front of him might help him wrap his head around it.
“True,” she murmured, her fingertips strumming the back of his neck.
That kind of touch shouldn’t make him hard, but it did. Despite his messed up head, he couldn’t ignore the fact he wanted her. More now than ever.
He curled his left hand around the pen so he could write one name on each rectangular sheet he tore free from the rest of the pad.
“I never realized you were a lefty before. Is Saylor?”
“Think so.”
“You don’t know?”
“She was still pretty young when I left, and I never paid attention if I saw her write.”
“How about when she colored with crayons? You should’ve noticed it then.”
He lifted his face to her in answer.
That was all it took for her cheeks to darken in anger. “You weren’t even allowed to color?”
If they wanted to do anything normal kids did, they had to do it away from the house, usually at school. Like when he got a chance to play baseball. He really wanted to play on a team, but that had been forbidden.
Once he had all the names written on the slips of papers, he lined them up along the counter. One name he omitted was John Schmidt since the bastard had no blood tie to him or Saylor. The man didn’t deserve one more thought.
He slid the paper with his grandfather’s name, Lorne, to the top edge of the counter. Under that he placed two more each with the names Rachel and Matthew. “Father, son and daughter.”
“That would be simple if those leaves on that family tree remained that way.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, moving both sheets with the names Michael and Sarah under his mother’s name. “This is what it should look like. Ain’t what it ended up bein’.”
He took the pen, drew an arrow from Sarah’s name to their mother’s name, then drew another arrow angled toward Matthew’s name, Sarah’s real father. He also drew an arrow pointing from his own birth name to Rachel. Then another arrow pointing up toward Lorne, Rev’s grandfather who also was his father.
