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“Yes, now what are you doing here?” I steer us back to the question at hand because this man could have me naked in two point five seconds flat, and we both know it. I may talk a big game, but I’m putty in his hands, and that pisses me off.
“Just taking a trip down memory lane, I guess.” He says flicking his cigarette.
“Which memories would you like to recount? The ones where you promised to take care of Alex? Or the ones where you promised me it was a one time deal, and it would never happen again?” I sneer, squaring my shoulders. Memories of the hurt he caused in his drunken escapades smacking me back down to size. I continue to stand though; I refuse to show him weakness when he doesn’t deserve it.
“You fucking left, Pistol.” He throws his hands up, like that’s the answer for all of life’s questions.
“You know why I left.” I snip.
“You leaving pushed him over the fucking edge.” He bellows, pain lacing his tone.
“Don’t put that blame on me, Rhyit. You swore you would take care of him.” I roar back at him, my fist hitting his chest in an attempt for him to back up from my space. He grabs my wrist, inspecting the ring perched on my left hand.
“Yeah…and you promised you'd love me forever. Guess we’re both shit at keeping our promises.” He says as he wrenches the engagement ring from my hand.
He palms the ring and holds it like a hot coal. His face twists like he’s in physical pain.
"Is this what you want?" He throws the ring against the wall.
The ring hits the wood of the floor with a resolute thud. His eyes turn back to me, and we hold our stare. His pupils are blown, and for the first time in my life, I’m terrified of what might happen being this close to him.
He closes the gap between us, letting out a deep breath, blowing the hair away from my face. "You promised me forever." He says with a deep rasp.
He releases my wrists, and I fight the urge to rub the place where his palms just were. Even now his touch leaves a delicious burn that I want to chase like an addict desperate for another hit. His eyes swim with emotion undoubtedly matching mine.
“I didn’t go through with it.” I whisper.
His face softens but only a little. With a force that I've missed, he grabs my face and pushes me back against the wall. "Because you belong here." He says. “With me.” My breath catches as I feel his lips attack mine. My heart thuds painfully in my chest. This isn’t sweet kissing, this isn’t hello or goodbye kissing, this is anger and frustration, missing each other with every ounce of our souls kissing.
His lips move against mine, and every word we haven’t said to each other pours from this kiss. A thousand missed apologies, a million missed goodbyes. I feel the tip of his tongue against my lips requesting entry, and his hand snakes down the side of my body until it reaches my thigh. He grabs it with force and brings it to rest against his hip, effectively opening me up to him. It takes every ounce of self control I have to pull away.
“You don’t get to take liberties with my body anymore, Rhyit. I said I’d love you forever, but I’m not yours.” I whisper against his lips.
He pulls away quickly, anger racing through him as he runs his hands through his hair with an exhale so deep, it echoes through the small room where we have so many memories.
"How can you love me and not be mine?" His eyes are glazed over from his high, but they are filled with tears. That's the emotion I want to see, the real Andrew. Seeing past the facade to the soul who used to own my heart.
“Why didn’t you go through with it?” He asks lowly.
“I can’t tell you that right now.” I reply. I can’t. I can’t tell him that his voice and a song we wrote together almost a decade ago when we were in love was played by mistake by a backup DJ who thought it would be cool because my name was in the song. I learned that fun fact when I returned home with my tail tucked between my legs.
“Someday soon?” He asks, hope lilts in his tone, and because I’m a sucker for this man, I nod my head.
“Go home, Rhyit.” I plead. He looks around the room and then back to me.
“I am home.” He says, falling back against the bean bag chair. “Stay with me?” He pleads.
“I can’t.” I concede.
“Can’t or won’t?” He prods. His eyes holding mine again.
“What’s the difference?” I ask, tilting my head toward the wood beams above us.
I see him nod in my periphery, and I turn to head back down the steps.
“Good night, Rhyit.” I murmur.
“Good night, Pistol.” He replies.
