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Whimpering, I tilt forward.
August catches me with a snarl boiling up his throat.
I barely catch a glimpse of someone smirking, then disappearing into the trees along the sidewalk with a camera clutched in his hand, before my vision goes dark and murky.
From the vibrating tension in August’s touch, he’s about to charge after my camera ninja like a marine drill sergeant who’s just caught some dumb boy climbing in through his daughter’s window.
Only, he doesn’t.
He stays, holding me tighter than ever, while I hear the car door open and a third set of footsteps, then another car door opening.
“This way, Mr. Marshall!” Rick urges softly.
“Thank you, Merrick,” August answers. His hands guide me forward. “Just a few more steps, Elle. Fuck, I’m sorry. Old paparazzi trick to get you to turn for a good shot. I should’ve briefed you on their games.”
“I-it’s okay,” I stammer.
But it’s not okay.
It’s worse being bitch-slapped from that wonderful kiss and back into this awful feeling than it was with the swelling migraine alone.
August ushers me into the car so carefully.
I still can’t see beyond vague hints of things around the black-and-white flashers clouding my vision, but he coaxes me to sit, to draw my feet in, before Rick closes the door behind me and reclaims the driver’s seat.
“Stay,” August orders Rick. “Elle isn’t well, and the motion could make it worse. Give her time.” To me, he whispers, “Lie down. Just like before. We’ll wait as long as it takes.”
I let him guide me, stretching out gratefully across the plush back seat.
What I’m not expecting is that when he says just like before, he means—
Resting my head in his lap, apparently, instead of scrunching up to fit my head against the seat at his side.
I’m too tired to question it.
And I don’t really want to when it’s comforting and close, and that’s exactly what I need right now without thinking too hard about it. So I settle with my head in his lap and close my eyes.
I don’t mean to fall asleep.
I want to stay awake.
I want to talk to him.
I desperately want to wonder what that look was for after he kissed me, almost like he was angry at me, and not the photographer.
I want to hold on to the warmth still throbbing in my lips.
So many wants, but I can’t.
My body takes over and drags me down a bottomless abyss.
Before I can think about what I want next, I’m gone.
VIII
SUNSHINE MADE FLESH
(AUGUST)
