Page 147 of Forgotten Comeback
Fifty-Six
Gavin
Taylor stirs, and I open my eyes. Her face is plastered to my tattoo’s protective cling. That’s uncomfortable for both of us, and I gently shift her onto her pillow.
My feet hit the floor as soft as a cat’s paws, and I tiptoe to the bathroom and use the head. I even remember to lower the toilet seat. See, I’m picking up this boyfriend thing.
I pop the top of the aspirin bottle and dry swallow two pills, as I’m still sore as hell from my embarrassing bout. Checking out my ink in the mirror, there’s a little blood around the edges, but it looks to be healing. A good thing, because my coach is already gonna be on my ass after last night’s fuckup. I didn’t want Taylor to think me eating the mat was her fault in any way. Not that it was her fault; it was mine. Inferno’s right: I let the Hammer get in my head. A mistake I won’t let happen again, because Taylor will be protected at all future bouts.
Or I will keep my promise and burn that fucking arena to the ground.
Gently peeling off the cling and cleaning up around my tattoo, I tiptoe back to bed. Except my feet hit the floorboard at the wrong angle, making an ungodly creaking sound. I grimace when I find Taylor watching me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Grabbing the water on the nightstand, I take a sip before offering it to her.
“What time is it?” She sits with the covers pulled around her, accepting the glass and taking a drink before returning it to me.
We’ve been in this exact position before, except a third wheel was involved. And that’s when I realize, without a doubt, that I don’t ever want to share Taylor. Me watching my girl with anyone else will have to remain in the fantasy vault.
“Not quite ten.” I set the glass down and crawl into bed and under the covers, settling over her naked body. With the hot glide of my tongue, I kiss her deep.
Her tongue tries to battle with mine, but I slip mine out of her mouth, determined to keep things slow and sweet.
“What are you doing?” she murmurs against my lips.
My forehead creases as I pull back. “If you have to ask, I must not be doing it right. I’m gonna make love to my girl, and you’re gonna let me.”
Tears spring from her eyes, but I kiss them one by one. “I love you. Let me.”
“I’m still scared,” she whispers.
“Of what? We broke your curse.” I tap the proof on my heart. “We’ve both already fucked up and tried to ghost each other, so we’re even. What else you got?”
“That things are too good, and the other mania shoe is going to drop,” she whispers.
Holding my weight off of her, I say, “Explain how your manic episodes look, so I’ll know what to expect.”
“Sleep’s a biggie; if I’m only getting four hours or less for more than a week, that’s a sign things are about to go south,” she explains quietly.
“Make sure you’re well rested. Got it. What else?” I ask.
“Mood swings; I might go from clingy to shredding your shit.”
“I’m not attached to any of my shit, except my car, but as we’ve seen, that can be replaced. What else?” I kiss away another tear.
“I might wake up and decide I hate you, and kick you out,” she tells me.
“You’ve already changed the locks once; no biggie. What else?”
“On the more severe side, I might begin hearing voices again. Seeing dark figures. Becoming really paranoid,” she says, her voice nothing but a whisper. “Getting on a bus to move cross-country without telling you, for example.”
“And after I find you, then what should I do?” Because I would find her. Period.
“Count my meds and see if I’ve missed any doses; me getting back on track is super important. Call my doctor, or if I’m self-harming, you may have to take me to the hospital, which I know would be triggering for you…”
Not promising I wouldn’t get myself admitted to keep her safe on the inside, I assure her, “I can do all those things. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of,” she says hesitantly.
“Now that you’re out of excuses, I’m gonna make love to you.”
