Page 43 of The Sculptor

This time, I have hope.

And right now, that’s all I’m holding on to.

I can make things right.

I can restore our hearts.

I can lead ushome.

“I believe we’ve been here before.” I feel the warmth of his breath on my neck, wrapping me in a blanket of contentment as my eyes close on their own.

“Have we?” I smile, opening my eyes but not looking back.

“We have,” Duke answers brusquely. “Recently even.” His forearms suddenly appear at my sides as he cages me between his body and the bar. The restraint contained in his tight muscles is not to be messed with as he continues, his voice low and controlled when he says, “We have a problem, Ray.”

I act like I don’t know this territorial mood of his. “And what problem would that be, Dr. Potter?”

There’s so much I want to say to him right now—so much I want to do.

But that’s not the plan.

And the plan can’t fail.

Not now.

Because Duke might hear my screams, but all I hear is his silence.

It lives in me like poison, running through my veins, killing me slowly.

I watched the light fade from Duke’s eyes.

I witnessed the medics trying to shake the answers from his eighteen-year-old body as he fought to simply breathe.

He couldn’t speak.

The doctors called it post-traumatic stress disorder.

I called it watching someone’s soul die.

And I caused it.

I begged him to run away.

I begged him to lie.

And he did because he loved me.

He wanted to know if I had forgiven him, but the bigger question was, have I forgiven myself for pulling him down with me?

My current answer? No.

But if I can right my wrong with this thing with Langston? Yes. I think I can forgive myself for putting him through hell.

Because, this time, I can save him.

“The problem, Ray”—those strong arms of his move in closer, letting me know that running is out of the question—“is that we’re in a country western bar, and you’re not dancing.”

I can’t contain my smile. “That is a big problem,” I agree. “Tell me, Dr. Potter, do you still suck at line dancing?”

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