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I wonder offhandedly if I’m normal in any way. Between the anxiousness, my parents being murdered, living with my horrible aunt and uncle and being a twenty-three-year-old virgin. All probably oddities.
But then I wonder if anyone is considered truly normal? And what does that mean? Normal. The meaning: conforming to a standard. Aren’t we supposed to, as humans, strive to perform above the standard?
“Parker, you want to eat?” Wells calls out.
Jerking my chin, I take a step toward him, then another. He’s got food plated and on the table. There is also a bottle of water for each of us and two tablets beside mine. “Anti-inflammatory,” he explains. “What are you thinking?”
Sinking down into my chair, I give him a small smile. “I was thinking about the definition of normal and wondering how, or rather why, people strive to be normal when it just means that they’ve met a standard. I don’t want to just meet a standard. I want more.”
WELLS
I can’t helpbut laugh at her words. She’s not wrong. Normal is just meeting a standard, and there is nothing normal about her or any of us, really. Reaching for the bottle of water, I lift it to my lips and take a drink.
“No, cupcake. I suppose normal is not something to strive for. I’m glad you aren’t, and neither am I.”
For a few moments, we eat in silence, then she reaches for me, touching the back of my hand with her finger. She traces the ink there. Her eyes watch the movement before she lifts her gaze to meet mine.
“Eat,” I gently demand.
“Does it always feel this way?”
Instead of saying anything immediately, I watch her and lean back in my chair. I think about asking her what the fuck she means, but I already know.
“Do you mean, is it always this real, this comfortable?” I ask.
She dips her chin, reaching for the fork before she stabs a piece of lamb. I’m unable to take my eyes off her. She’s breathtaking, and seeing the bruises on her throat, knowing that it was me who put them there and her body fucking loved it, makes me want to keep them there… always.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“No,” I state. I could lie to her, but what’s the point? Instead, I tell her the truth. “Or maybe it is. I’ve never stayed overnight before with anyone, so I wouldn’t really know.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
We don’t say anything else for a few moments. We eat, and when we’re finished, Parker cleans everything up. I watch her, loving the way she looks as she moves through the kitchen. She’s brushed her hair, washed her face, and is wearing the sexiest shorts and tank set.
She’s perfection.
“What happens next?” she asks, her hip leaning against the kitchen counter.
I open my mouth to reply, although I don’t know what the fuck I would even say at this point, but I’m saved when my phone rings in my pocket. Standing, I reach inside and grab the device, frowning at the sight of the name on the screen.
Sliding my thumb across, I walk away from Parker, open the balcony door, and slip outside.
“Uncle Dean?” I ask.
“Need a favor,” he murmurs.
A favor?
That sounds both ominous and like it would piss my dad off. When it comes to work, I try not to do that… ever. Even if I seem to accomplish it often.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Don’t end the girl.”
I know exactly who and what he’s referring to. He doesn’t want me to kill Shiloh. I let out a heavy sigh, then clear my throat before I ask him why, even though I’m not really sure that I want or need to know. I’ve already made a promise to my brother. I’m not someone who breaks promises or vows, ever.
