Page 66 of Hero Hair
Sighing, he puts his hands on his hips. “It came out wrong.”
I shake my head. “No, it came out perfect. I love you, too, Macs. Even if it means we’re labeling it. Even if we said we wouldn’t call it anything. When it feels like this,” I say, laying a hand over my heart, “then you label that shit, put it in a jar, and keep it close. I love you. I’ll wait for you. I promise.”
If he knew how much my promises meant, he’d feel more exclusive, but as it stands his reaction to my admission is enough to make me weak in the knees. He moves my hand and puts his on top of my chest, right over my heart, instead. It chills against my warm skin, still flushed in arousal.
He steps closer, and I lean up on my knees. “I never thought I’d like the sound of that,” he says, leaning over to kiss me. Macs’ hand slides down to caress my side and glides over my stomach as his lips work against mine. Sad eyes greet me when he pulls away. His lips turn down in the corner. “I have to go now, Tay.” His neck works as he swallows.
“I’m not sure how to do this.”
He steps backward and turns his eyes to the floor. “How to do what?” he whispers, rubbing both of his hands through his hair.
It’s odd to see him without product coifing in his hair. It’s not tousled, or slicked back. It’s sort of fluffy and perfect. Even though I want to cry some more, I smile instead. It confuses him enough to garner a grin back.
“How to say goodbye to you when you have this awesome hero hair going on,” I reply.
Smiling, he looks up and hands me my shirt and pants he picked up from the floor. He hikes his thumb at the bathroom connected to my bedroom. “I can go do it really quick if it helps? You’d be shocked what I can accomplish with a little water.” He turns away while I get dressed. “Watching you put on clothes only reminds me of taking them off and we’ll be in the same place we were ten minutes ago,” he explains.
I wouldn’t mind that. I want that. “I’m fully dressed,” I say. “Albeit sticky.”
He has one hand on a small black duffle bag he brought inside. Crossing to him, I hold my breath. The TV anchor drones on downstairs. I hear the hysteria, the panic, the confusion. It fans my anxiety flames.
Macs swallows hard. “I need you to keep this bag for me. There’s another satellite phone in there, which you can use to reach me,” he says, chancing a glance down my way, but looks away quickly. “I only ask that you use it in case of emergency. The number to mine is programmed in there.”
I nod, grateful for this lifeline even if I can’t use it every waking moment. He goes through the bag and shows me things that I can use if we lose power to help with life. It’s extra gear. Things he never in a million years thought he’d need to use or show me how to use. At the bottom is a handgun in a holster.
“This is only for emergencies, too,” he says. “It’s loaded.” His voice is taciturn, demanding I know he’s serious.
I pick the cool black weapon and turn it over in my hand. “I know how to use it, Macs,” I say. “My dad taught me when I was a kid.” I remember how important he thought the skill was. The older I got the more I strayed from that logic. Guns kill people. I didn’t want to have anything to do with them. When he left and I realized what a whore he was, I vowed to never pick up a gun in my life because obviously lunatics and selfish assholes use them. When I tell Macs the quick story, I see the tension in his shoulders relax.
“You’d scare someone with it to be sure, but you don’t know how relieved it makes me to know you can do more than that, you can defend yourself,” Macs says. He’s trying to talk over the television, I can tell. The volume is so loud I can hear that it’s not normal news regardless. His efforts are misplaced.
“Here’s a phone, but don’t call me and here’s a gun, but try not to use it?” I ask, laying it down on the top of the bag.
There’s other stuff in there that lets me know he didn’t intend to leave this here. Like his clothes and a dopp kit with grooming products. He walks over and shrugs his jacket back on. The uniform is identical to the one Tahoe had on, and the sight makes me sad. I launch myself into his arms and bury my face in his neck.
He clutches me tightly, but when he releases me a touch, I know it’s time for me to put my grown up panties back on. When my tiptoes hit the floor, I wipe underneath my eyes. “I lived without you once,” I announce proudly. “And I can do it again.”
My statement doesn’t make him happy. In fact, I think quite the opposite happens, because his eyebrows knit together in anger.
“What? Do you hope I’m miserable without you?”
He scratches the side of his head. You can tell having fluffy hair is a distraction. “I guess not, no. But I don’t want you to go back to being single either.”
“Does this feel like I’m single?” I ask, leaning up and pressing my lips against his.
I will him to feel the passion through my lips. The love. The disdain for this situation. Everything I never said for fear of frightening him off. Macs groans into my mouth, but holds me at a distance.
Keeping my eyes closed, I will the clash of teeth and lips to drown out everything else, so nothing else exists in this moment except what I give permission to. His hands are tender, more so than they’ve ever been. I bite his lip as I pull away and let my gaze find his. We’re nose to nose, heart to heart, and it’s the moment I break.
I sob into his chest.
“I believe you. That wasn’t a single lady kiss,” Macs says. “Don’t get upset over it.”
I laugh through a hysterical sob and I feel like such a failure. Like the little girl who can’t control her emotions. The more he sees me cry, the angrier I become. He tells me he’s sorry, and it’s not his fault, but I can’t form coherent sentences to tell him that, so I just shake my head and clutch his jacket and let every fear take over my body.
When he says he has to go a third time, I release him with the intent of watching him walk out the door. Time has stood still since we entered the house. We’ve been in my room for less than thirty minutes. With a thumb he wipes a tear from my cheek and pops his thumb into his mouth. It would probably make me laugh if there wasn’t a constant stream of tears taking that one’s place. He throws me a lopsided grin, his thumb still tucked between his teeth. A one-sided dimple appears. I shiver.
“From the back to the middle and around again,” he sings, lifting and lowering his shoulders.
