Page 109 of Pretty Broken Wings
“You’ll stay for a while. If I hear you’ve come back here…”
Rich raises his hands.
Gage stands there until Rich backs off, and when he does, I feel an odd sense of victory.
With some grumbling to Gage’s mom, Rich leaves. Gage then kisses his mom’s forehead and asks her to look out for Axel. She’s confused, but Gage just says Axel threatened to beat Rich’s ass, and he’s too drunk to move him.
When he says that, I get the most unreasonable wash of disappointment. Did Gage not see what Rich did to me?
“Axel okay?” I ask as Gage gets in the car, and I put the keys in the ignition. It’s a question I shouldn’t even be asking. I shouldn’t care how that asshole is doing. I blame it on the small buzz I have going.
Gage’s fake sword bunches up as he folds into the seat. He cusses and pulls it out of his belt, then runs his hands through his hair. “Uh, yeah. He’s just drunk, he’ll be fine.” There’s a long pause, and I almost ask if we should stay, but then I stop.
Axel’s a big boy. He can live with the consequences of his actions.
Discomfort shifts through me. I can still feel Rich’s grip on my breast, filling me with a familiar defeat and disgust. Men are disgusting pigs.
Gage’s hand shifts, and I jump, having gotten so wrapped up in my thoughts that I forgot he was there.
“You okay?”
I glance at him briefly, unsettled that he noticed. There’s a crease between his eyebrows, and his gaze looks soft. But the alcohol-warmed part of my brain gets excited that he noticed. He cares.
I have the insane urge to reach across the console and put my hand on his clenched one.
The thought makes fear jackknife in my chest. Have I learned nothing?
Apparently not, because Gage is upset about something. And the alcohol in my system insists that deep down, he’s a good guy, and I can trust him.
I drive in silence that feels so loaded and yet so…lonely. Nothing feels okay right now. I just want…something to ground me.
Movement makes me glance over. Gage’s hand twitches, and I rip my gaze away from the veins tracing over his hand. I focus on driving.
Then, there’s movement again. When I glance over, Gage’s hand has moved an inch towards me. As we drive, his hand gets closer.
I’m driving with my left hand, my right clasped in a tight fist on my thigh. I should move my hand. Should pull away screaming.
But, for some insane reason, I don’t.
His pinky brushes mine, and an electric zap runs up my arm and down my spine. We sit there for a minute, not moving. My body hums with energy from just that single touch. It’s not aselfish or demanding touch. It’s gentle and hesitant, a lot like Gage.
And for a glorious moment, I feelhimthrough it.
Then, his finger is gone, and my hand is there alone. Gone is the warmth and the comfort, and I want it back.
Ignoring the screaming in my head, I push my hand closer to Gage’s, brushing up over his pinky so my palm sits on his. Just so in this moment, I’m not alone with my thoughts.
Then, he reaches his pinky out and grips mine in a firm touch that isn’t an accident.
I brake for a stop sign a little too hard, jerking myself and him forward.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Gage turns to me, voice deep with concern. “Are you okay?”
I look at him, seeing his handsome gaze fully focused on me. All I can do is make a choking noise. “Yeah.”
Gage must think I’m choking cause of the seatbelt. “Fuck.” His hands are all over me. All over my shoulders, patting me down, brushing my neck, causing heat to tingle all the way up to my face. “Can you breathe?”
