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He is truly a dark beauty. His hair is wild, his lips are swollen, and his chest is glistening with perspiration. I know I’m being greedy, but I don’t want to be alone. Not after what we just shared.
He wrestles with what to do. I don’t want to force him, so I turn on my side and arrange his shirt as a blanket. I get comfortable within seconds, my eyes slipping shut. I haven’t felt this relaxed in weeks.
On the cusp of sleep, I vaguely hear Saint lying down beside me, sure to keep his distance, but that’s okay. His sated breathing is the sound I fall into a deep sleep to, and so are his monumental words…
“It means…angel.”
I asked, and he delivered, so the question is, what happens now?
I fucked up. I never should have touched her, but I couldn’t help it. She is poison, a toxic combination to my body. I haven’t touched a woman like that for over two years, but it was never like that with anyone else. When I was “normal,” I never wanted someone as much as I want her. I don’t know what to do because each day, the thought of letting her go evokes a possession I thought long dead. I’m so fucking screwed.
Day 16
IWAKE SORE, but I hurt so good.
I have no idea of the time, but as I crack open my eyes, I see that it’s well past dawn. I slept in, which is a first. Stretching, I see Harriet Pot Pie sitting quietly on her makeshift bed, an egg awaiting me. What I don’t see, however, is Saint.
He no doubt left early, not wanting to have the awkward morning-after talk.
I don’t know what last night means. It escalated so quickly, and before I knew it, I was giving in to my desires. It wasn’t just a physical connection for me. When Saint reached for my hand, uncertain and afraid, it did something to me. And the name he’s been calling me is a term of endearment. Why?
I don’t expect us to ride off into the sunset together. Saint has a darkness. He confessed as much to me last night. He clearly hates Popov as it seems he is the man who robbed Saint of his humanity. Saint thinks he’s dead inside, but I disagree.
I’m left with so many questions, but at the forefront is why.
Deciding to find him, I stand slowly, my legs complete Jell-O. I reach for my shoes, underwear, and shorts, and slip into them. Reaching for his shirt, I draw it up to my nose and inhale deeply. It smells like pure sin.
With Harriet Pot Pie in hand, I scale down the rope, my balance better as I’m getting used to my home being in a tree. We trek through the terrain, and when I hear a fire crackling on the beach, my heart begins to beat quicker.
Pushing through the trees, I make my way onto the sand. There are coconuts and fresh fish, but no Saint. Shielding the sun from my eyes with my hand, I scan the shoreline, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Hey.”
“Sweet baby Jesus!” I yelp, clutching my chest. Saint’s deep laughter floats through the air.
Craning my neck, I see that he’s indeed not on the shoreline because he’s perched in a tree. A thick, low hanging branch offers the perfect place to sit and write in his journal, which is what he’s doing right now.
Sitting with his back pressed against the trunk, he has the journal resting in his lap. When we lock eyes, my cheeks immediately flush. Memories of last night crash into me, and I gnaw the inside of my cheek to mute my moan.
“I think a storm is coming,” he says, thankfully breaking the silence.
Now that I’m semi-coherent, I look at the heavens and see that he’s right. The sky is laden with swirls of gray, and the sun has decided to sleep in as well. Overall, an energy pulsates through the atmosphere.
Closing the journal, he jumps from the tree branch with ease. I instantly back up while he ignores my insanity. “Are you hungry?”
I nod, passing him the egg.
He pockets the journal before walking over to the fire to prepare our breakfast. “I think we should find higher ground for tonight. Maybe the cave? Let’s grab whatever food and water we can and wait out the storm. I have a feeling it’s going to get rough.”
“Okay, if you think that’s a good idea,” I say, wringing my hands behind my back. The prospect of being caught in another monster storm makes me nervous. But so does seeking shelter in a cave with Saint. There is nowhere to go. No escape. This could end ugly.
We are silent, both mulling over what’s headed our way.
As Saint cooks the fish, I grab a coconut and attempt to crack it open like I’ve seen Saint do. I’ve tried countless times in private but failed miserably. I had the good sense to grab the pocketknife, so I reach for it and stab the three holes in the coconut. When I feel one give way, I make a small hole and bring it to my lips.
The juice of the coconut quenches my thirst, and I offer some to Saint, but he shakes his head. My knife rivets his attention, and when the green to his eyes spark to life, I know he recalls when I pressed it to his throat last night and the events that followed.
The memories slam into me also.
