Page 46 of Wild Card

“Hey.” I sat up, trying to figure out why Decker was sitting up, his head bent low, while he watched what looked like a baseball game on his cell phone.

“Hey.” His hand tightened around my calf. His fingers had bypassed the blanket and my jeans and had somehow found a way to attach themselves directly to my skin. “Did I wake you?”

I tried to ignore the way his touch made me feel. I tried even harder to erase the burn it made along my skin, but I knew I’d think about it long after his hand left me.

“No, you didn’t…but why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I can’t sleep in here,” he grumbled softly, sleepily.

“Oh.” I sat up, pulling my legs under me. “Go upstairs to your room. I’m good down here.”

He was already shaking his head. “I can’t sleep in this house. Not since my dad…” He trailed off, and again, I felt that surge of pain in my chest at why he couldn’t say the rest of that sentence.

“Where can you sleep?” I crawled a bit closer to him, hoping he didn’t notice.

“My truck, outside…anywhere else.”

I kicked my legs out until I was standing, grabbed the blanket, and tugged the one on the recliner free as I held out my hand. “Let’s go then.”

He accepted my hand, but when I tried to take a step, he stopped me. The flashes of lightning were the only thing illuminating the room every few seconds or so. I paused, trying to decipher what he was doing. I thought maybe he wanted to go to his truck alone, and I suddenly felt so stupid assuming he’d want me to join him.

Tugging me a step closer, he brushed his scarred hand down my face before he pinned his forehead to mine, forcing my breaths to come out in little wisps.

“Tell me what this means.” He brushed the pad of his finger along the tattoo inked under my ear.

I reached up, holding on to his wrist, internally batting away the urge to keep this part of me closed off. After my mom’s death, things were obviously hard…but once I became a woman, left the house, and realized how much I wanted her with me, things became granite. It may have also been the fact that Taylor and her mother went on a vacation, traveling through Europe after graduation. The invitation that came from Taylor to join was half-hearted and insincere, no matter how hard it was for her to actually extend it. Taylor at eighteen was a nightmare compared to the Taylor who lived with me now. So, of course, I didn’t go. I hunkered down into my books, soaking in the library at my father’s house, story by story…until things hurt a little less and college began.

Blinking, I watched as the white light strobed across the walls of Decker’s childhood home.

“It’s originally Nordic. It’s called a Vegvisir Futhark, and it means anyone who carries the symbol will be protected from losing their way in a storm or bad weather.” I licked my lips, trying to build up the nerve to keep going, “I was going through some turbulent times at eighteen and had been reading a ton of Norse mythology.” I dipped my head, releasing my hand, still feeling a little stupid. “The symbol became a rune, making its way into Irish folklore, and since I’m part Irish…I guess I wanted to claim it.”

I shrugged, finally daring to tip my head back to catch his gaze.

An entirely different kind of storm brewed there as his jaw ticked and his other hand came up to cup my face. My chest expanded with hope that he’d close the distance between us, kiss me again…let me get lost in him, in the touch of his skin against mine.

“I want to try something,” he whispered, slamming his lids closed. Giving my tattoo one last swipe, he turned us and braided his fingers with mine. We headed toward the stairs, where carpet silenced our steps.

Thunder boomed and rattled the house as we ascended into this place he hadn’t braved in over a year. I tried to take in as much as I could of different images and pictures of his life, but it was too dark to gather much. Once we crested the last step, Decker walked past two closed doors then paused at the third. He looked at it like it would destroy him any second.

I squeezed his hand, which made him look over at me.

“My little compass,” he whispered before grabbing for the handle and pushing the door open.

Lightning bled through the window on the far wall where a set of navy curtains hung open, revealing a view of the sky. A queen-sized bed covered in a dark comforter rested in the middle of the room, and several baseball posters and framed pictures hung along the walls. A nice dresser and small computer perched in the corner. It was cozy but felt forgotten.

“Come here.” Decker pulled me to the bed.

He sat down first, kicking off his shoes and swinging his legs up until they stretched in front of him. His hand never left mine as I crawled on after him, ensuring the covers were tugged free as we settled.

A strong arm came around me, bracing me against his firm chest. My head settled into the soft pillow as my chest kept expanding with fear. He was testing this; he hadn’t been in this bed in over a year. We might as well have been a pair of hands holding in the pin of a grenade, gasping for air as we tried not to explode.

I felt him breathe in and out unevenly, so I pulled his hand against my heart, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, hoping he’d begin to match me. After a minute or so, he did, and we both began to calm.

“Are you okay?” I asked, finally relaxing into him. He felt so good, firm and rigid in the right places.

“I can’t open my eyes,” he whispered, pain lacing every word.

I gripped his wrist that cradled my stomach, encouraging him to keep going.

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