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Had I always been drawn to Frankie?
Because, if I had, I’d been a shitty friend.
“Malachi…”
I winced.
I hated that name.
Especially when it came from her lips.
“What?” she asked, concerned. “Are you hurting?”
I was always hurting.
But I didn’t want her to know that.
Instead, I chose to tell her the more truthful of the hurts, just to get her attention off the pain I was constantly in.
“I don’t like being called Malachi,” I found myself telling my best friend’s woman.
Frankie looked over at me, her face a mask of pain that she didn’t manage to hide in time, and
stared.
“You don’t like to be called Malachi?” She sounded confused.
Cute and sweet.
I wanted to pull her into my arms.
But, of course, I didn’t.
Because that would be wrong.
Right?
She was my best friend’s woman.
My best friend’s fiancée.
My best friend, who was no longer here.
I didn’t remember much of my time in captivity.
In fact, I barely remembered anything other than the smell—and even then it was only when a
certain smell hit—a rotting animal that’d been run over on the side of the road.
“No, not really,” I admitted. “Malachi just seems… wrong.”
She looked like she understood.
“You really don’t remember anything?” she asked, looking sick to her stomach.
I wanted to wipe that look from existence.
Seeing her in pain was really doing something funky to my heart.
