Page 45 of Unstable

“YOU WANT TO LIE down, get comfy first?” he asks.

“Comfy? Have you ever used that word in your life? And no, it’s not a bedtime story, Keaton.” I can’t stop a small laugh. “I’m fine like I am.”

“You’re also a stubborn smartass,” he grunts. “I’ll break ya one of these days. Can’t wait. You’ll come seek me out and snuggle up, wrap your arms around me, and lift your face up for a kiss. Gonna be great.”

“Hey, Romeo,” I snap my fingers. “Quit watching so much Lifetime, there stud. You’re killing your whole ‘I’m the man’ vibe.” I tuck my legs underneath me and lean against the back of the couch. “Now, party, Merrick, fight. Let’s hear it.”

He blows out a long, laden breath and forces himself to meet my eyes. “First of all, I don’t watch Lifetime. I was trying to be sweet. Most girls like it, not you of course, ‘cause that would be too easy. Then again, you’re not most girls, never have been. You’re you, and I’m not complaining.” He grins. “Anyway, I only went to that damn party to see if you were there. Saw Hadley and she told me you weren’t coming, so I walked into the woods to take a piss before I left.”

“Classy,” I tease.

“Says the girl who made me stand guard, holding up a horse blanket, when she squatted to pee in the arena parking lot? And they had a bathroom there.” He laughs.

“With a line that went all the way around the corner!” I remind him. “You know, I almost peed on myself. Trying to balance and make sure you weren’t peeking.”

“I’ll never tell,” he winks.

“You didn’t. I watched you like a hawk.”

“See? We weren’t always fighting.” He edges closer.

“Huh,” my surprise sounds. “I guess we weren’t. Who knew?”

“Me, Hen. I knew.” His velvety timbre starts to wrap around me, but I fight it, clearing my throat and going with habit—changing the subject.

“I’m concerned about us,” I snicker. “I think we both need to be tested for A.D.D. Do you have any idea how many times we’ve veered off subject? I’ve lost count.”

“It’s called natural conversation. I like having it with you.” The affection in his smile matches his voice, and I’d be a fool to deny its appeal. But at this rate, I’ll still be wondering about my original question at dawn.

“I’m not saying I don’t like it too,” I mutter and divert my eyes, “but I want to know, Keaton. Tell me, please.”

“Fine,” he huffs and draws a slow hand through his hair. “I was pissin’, and I saw…” he dips his head to catch my eyes, drawing them back to his, “Merrick. He was…um…doing shit that I had some questions about.”

I don’t dare interrupt lest we get sidetracked onto another story, merely nodding for him to continue.

“I yelled at him, asked him where you were. He said, ‘At home,’ then went back to what he was doing. So, I took a few steps closer and asked him if you two had broken up. Now a smart guy would’ve just told me yes to avoid what he had to know was coming if he said no. But not ole’ Weasel Dick. No, he thought it was a good idea to answer me with, ‘Cash, there’s enough snatch in this town to go around. Surely you can find some of your own and quit being so worried about my girlfriend all the damn time.’ You see where he went wrong there?”

I figure my eyes must be bulging from my disgust. “Yeah, my God. I had no idea he had such disrespect for women in general. Snatch? That’s repulsive.”

“Oh, Henny.” His shaking head drops for a moment, then he peers back up at me, impending doom all over his face. “You’re right, he’s a vile piece of shit, but I already knew that. Where he fucked up on a ‘bout to get yourself hurt level,’ was when he called you his girlfriend. See, that answered my question—that you guys hadn’t broken up, making what he was doing not the fuck okay with me. So I beat the hell out of him, left him whining and rolling around on the ground clutching his balls, and went home.”

He stands, cool as a cucumber, and asks, “Do you mind if I grab something to drink?”

I jump up too, my jaw somewhere on the floor, so I have to proverbially pick it up to answer him. “Sure, I’ll get you something, but you do know that’s not the end of that story, right?”

“No, it was.” He starts casually strolling toward the kitchen and I catch up, just…dumbfounded, scrounging up the right words to make him understand what a terrible storyteller he is.

I take the pitcher out of the fridge and fill a glass with ice, hoping he clues in…but that hasn’t happened by the time I set his tea in front of him.

“Thank you,” he says, with another, unsaid layer to it and a silent request in his gaze that lingers on mine.

And I finally get it.

He absolutely will not be telling me the rest of the story unless I force him to. He’s begging me to make sure I really want to know before I cause him to take the chance of hurting me.

I finally get something else too—undoubtedly. Keaton Cash truly cares about me. And he always has.

Thinking about it, almost every fight we’ve ever had was instigated by me, because he was looking out for me, and I wanted him looking out for her. Or he was flirting with me, and I wanted him flirting with her. Truth be told, I can’t think of a single time in my life when Keaton has ever been mean to me in any way, shape, or form.

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