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“Were you okay?”
“I was fine. Emerson wasn’t. Eventually he didn’t want to leave the house. We finally moved out when Dad went to prison. Sin got us all an apartment in the city. And Em didn’t go outside for a year.”
There’s more. So much more. But I’m almost at my limit. I’m past it, actually.
“A year…” Bristol’s breath is warm on my skin. I can feel her looking in the direction of my shelves, at the photo of us in front of the Met.
“Those fifteen blocks took even longer.”
“Is he okay now?”
“He’s happy. He has Daphne. He surfs every day, all year, and makes a point of walking outside every time he comes to the city. But he still has panic attacks. Not as often as they used to be, but they still happen. He needs things to be a certain way. And Sinclair—Sinclair’s constantly trying to get himself killed. Extreme mountain climbing. BASE jumping.”
“And you go to the warehouse.” Her tongue meets my hip bone, and I can breathe a little deeper.
“They’re like that because of me.”
“I don’t think so,” she says, voice soft.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“You can’t see me.”
“I canhearyou. Don’t—don’t pity me. This is why I don’t say anything.” My brain is too drowned in chemicals to find any real defenses. “Wouldn’t have been so bad if they didn’t try to protect me.” Why can’t I just shut the hell up? Why? “It would have been different if she stayed.”
“Maybe.” It’s one word, but it’s sounderstanding.How has she turned the tables like this? I hate it. And I don’t want it to end. “Do you want to be done talking?”
“Yes.”
She wraps her hand around my base, and it makes no sense, being this hard after I’ve been so pathetic. I reach for her hair and find it. Push her face in the direction of my cock.
“No more questions,” she promises. Then Bristol’s lips close over me, and there’s nothing more to discuss.
20
BRISTOL
Will doesn’t sayanything about our conversation the next morning, or the morning after that.
Naturally, I want to talk more. I want to hold his hand and be patient and listen to everything he has to say.
He doesn’t want to talk. He wants to fuck. And frankly, so do I. A girl has to know when it’s time to demand answers and time to appreciate what she has right in front of her. In my case, that’s a six-foot-three blond with actual washboard abs and a face that could be anactualgift from God.
It’s kind of unfair, actually. Because he climbs over me in bed, and I forget that things are complicated.
The next couple days at the office, he doesn’t find me when I’m alone. From what I gather, he’s a general stormcloud otherwise, as grumpy and exacting as he was at Summit. Greg’s on the phone with him a lot. At home, he’s great with the twins.
With me, he’s distant. His guard is up. Will sleeps next to me in bed after we’ve worn each other out, but he’s holding back. Not in terms of intensity, but in terms of intimacy.
We wereclose.Hetalkedto me. Told me about his brothers. His life. Even his mom.
I thought knowing more about him would improve things, but I guess not.
No word on Building C, though. If he wants to be sodistant,why doesn’t he just text his friend Donovan and make sure it’s clear?
I’m thinking up a casual, jokey way to say that to him in the copy room on Wednesday when the door opens in a fast, sharp way that can only meanWill.I look to make sure, because if it’s not him, then that’s awkward, and I get a flash of sea-glass eyes and a scowl.
“Did something happen?”
