Page 9 of Off-Limits
Uncle Damon springs to mind, memories swirling viciously inside of me as I remember all of his kindness and willingness to include me in all of his and Arrie’s adventures. It warms me from within. That’s what I see, and it surprises me how even after all these years, he can still pull these feelings from me.
Cowardly, I blame it on Arrie being here and my conversation with Tin Man. I want to let go, to feel something other than the hollowness and mistrust that poisons my body, but I promised myself I would never allow myself to be defenceless again.
To beweak.
But in in the dark, with no one to see or judge me, with only my thoughts and my best friend beside me; I allow myself this moment. I allow myself to think ofhim.Bright, sparkling, blue eyes, a killer smile, and inked muscles for days.
And it makes me smile.
I wakethe next morning with a headache, Arrie snoring beside me while her phone beeps constantly. Groaning, I fling my legs over the side of the bed and grab myself some painkillers and mineral water. Once I’ve downed them, I pop a couple more and place them and some water on the bedside table on Arrie’s side.
Her makeup has run down her cheeks; she did cry herself to sleep. Anger works its way through my system, but I push it down. I will be here for her, but I learned a long time ago no one can save you from yourself, or the skeletons you hide in the closest.
I take one last look at her before moving my ass to the kitchen to make some coffee. Strong and black, - like my soul. The perfect way to enjoy it when one’s fasting. Entering the small yellow room that is adjoined to my living area, I move to the moka pot on the four-burner stove and unscrew it so I can insert the ground coffee.
Setting it on the stove, I release a breath and move across the kitchen. Leaning against the bench in a long t-shirt, I close my eyes and relax, but just as I do, my phone vibrates on the kitchen table. Sighing, I push off the bench and grab the phone of the table.
Tin Man.Swallowing the saliva collecting in my mouth, my hands tremble over the screen until I finally click on his name.
Did I upset you?
Do I reply, or let sleeping dogs lie?
But then he messages again.
I know it’s stupid, and incredibly out of the blue me texting you, but ever since we agreed on cutting ties a few weeks ago, I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you. I miss you, and I’m not sure how or when that happened. That last picture you sent didn’t help matters, you cheeky minx.
I try not to smile at his endearment, or the fact he liked what I sent, but it breaks through regardless, and I start typing.
I don’t know what to say, but I hadn’t expected you to reach out again. I’m not sure what you want from this interaction between us, or if there is anything, but I’m not here to play games. Young or not; I’m too old for that shit.
The dots appear immediately.
Adrenaline takes over, and I feel like a giddy school waiting for his reply. “Get your shit together, Dottie.” My phone vibrates behind me again, but I force myself to stay on task. Turning off the coffee, I snatch the moka pot off the stove and pour it into a cup, filling the rest with the hot water.
Moving over to the tap, my palms burn with the need to read his message, especially when it vibrates again. Biting downon my tongue, I turn on the faucet and drip a little cold water into my mug, so the coffee doesn’t give me third degree burns.
I stand there with coffee in hand, my body on fire for a completely different reason. He and I never exchanged photos above the neck, but I’ve seen the rest of his muscled, tan, and tattooed body.
It sends a shiver down my spine and pools right in my traitorous cunt.
“For crying out loud, Dottie. You’re a grown ass woman. Get. Your. Shit. Together,” I scold myself out loud.
Careful not to spill my coffee, I stalk over to the phone and snatch it off the bench.
And the last picture you sent me of you in nothing but a paint-stained white button-down shirt, your neck covered in it, and your lips, those fucking lips I cannot stop thinking of.
But it isn’t only the image, your lips, or how incredibly sexy you are. I miss our late-night messages, the playful banter—you. I don’t know how it’s possible with us never having met, or me not even seeing your face, and I know what I said the last time we spoke when I ended our communication… but Blossom, you make me want to be selfish, so here we fucking are.
I can sense the anger and frustration in his message, the want, the guilt, and the loss of control, but he still reached out, and I can’t tamp down this overwhelming need. I take a sip of my coffee, reading over his messages again and I feel myself burning up for an entirely different reason.
He broke his own rules.
For me.
But what does he expect me to do with that after how we ended things?
I hear a creak behind me.
