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“I’ve never had to deal with you according to your age, Leland. Don’t make me start now.”
“Says the grown man fucking someone other than his wife.”
Checkmate.I released him, stumbling back from the blow of his spiteful words.
“I-I’m sorry, Franky,” Leland said, reaching for me. “I didn’t mean—”
I held a hand up, stopping him. “I think we need a breather. Some time apart,” I said.
“Won’t we already be getting that when you leave?” he replied.
“I’m going to work on the patio—”
“It’s about to rain—”
“Then in the garage!” I shouted. “We need space. We’ll talk later.” And because he still hadn’t taken his threats back, and because I was five seconds away from taking him over my knee, I turned and vanished into the garage before he could issue another reply.
Chapter 17
Leland
Hunkered down inside the guest room, I spent the rest of the day taking my frustrations out on a blank canvas. I’d considered going to my place, but the very idea of leaving him, after learning he’d soon be leaving me, hurt like a stab to the chest.
For once I welcomed the afternoon storm clouds and then the early evening rain as I purged my emotions via paintbrush.
I could’ve lied to myself and said that the version of Franky I’d left downstairs wasn’t real, that it didn’t exist outside of our heated argument, but I didn’t want to. Because whoever that man was—Franky, Franklin, or someone else entirely—having him promise to make the life of anyone who touched me a living hell, felt good. Too good to question or regret, and I hadn’t been an angel either.
I’d pushed him because I needed him scared, just as scared as me, because maybe if his terror reflected my own, he wouldn’t leave me to go be withher.
Shoving him over the edge meant I didn’t have to fall headfirst alone, and it confirmed, more than words ever could, how much he wanted me. Yeah, it was an unhealthy way of thinking, but I owned it. I didn’t give a shit.
More than anything, I’d wanted him to know how it felt to feel like I was slipping from his grasp, because I damn sure felt like he was slipping through mine.
Stepping off my milkcrate, which doubled as a step stool and paint supply holder, I shuffled to the bedroom door to take in the full scope of my painting, squinting up at the seven-foot canvas. It was chaotic, dark, and the biggest piece I’d ever created.
I added a few finishing touches to the bottom, then dumped the brush next to the others in the jar of murky water and began kneading the headache building behind my forehead.
“Fuck.” I pulled my hands away, remembering they were covered in black and blue paint, which now meant my face was too.
The storm kicked up outside my open window. Rainwater screamed as it made impact with the earth and ocean, and the growl of thunder competed with the growling of my stomach. In my stubborn determination to avoid Franky, to not be the one to seek him out first, I hadn’t eaten all day.
My forearms were also covered in paint, and the stench bubbling up from my armpits nearly knocked me to my ass. Food would need to wait until after I’d showered.
After thirty minutes of standing under the hot spray, hunger pangs cut into me, and I began to sway on my feet. I held myself open a little while longer, letting the water wash over and soothe the place Franky had claimed so completely last night. Despite what I’d said in the heat of the moment, Franky did own me, and he always would.
I finished up, snagging a towel off the floating shelf and haphazardly drying off as I trudged into the bedroom. My nerves elbowed their way in, forcefully overtaking hunger’s space as I quickly dressed and then descended the stairs.
Banging came from the side door leading to the garages, which was where Franky worked whenever bad weather ran him from the patio. I spread my palms over the door, needing but refusing to cross over the threshold and go to him. If we only had a few more days together, we should be making the most of it, not spending time on separate ends of the house, but I wanted to be the one pursued. I wanted him to feed into my insecurities by showing me what I already knew. I wanted him to show me that he cared.
We’d dealt with each other’s crankiness before but never had we been soangrywith each other. Never had we done and said things with the sole purpose of inflicting pain.
I’d started it, the hurling of hurtful words part. All he’d done was tell me the truth about his plans at the first opportunity he could, even if that truth stung.
The hammering in the garage stopped, and the hammering in my chest picked up. I’d bet ten scratch-offs that if I opened the door, I’d find him shirtless and grimy, staring my way with that look he often got when waiting for me to turn a corner and enter a room. A mix of raptorial hunger and hard affection. Like he missed me and wanted me badly enough to not take his time or be nice about it.
My world freeze-framed as I pictured Franky cocking an ear in my direction, sensing me.
Footsteps pounded beyond the slab of wood, closing the distance to the door. Not wanting to be caught lurking there when it swung open, I hurried on light feet to the kitchen.
