Page 121 of Light in the Dark
Finally, my truck is as clean as I can get it inside and out. I'm feeling less like doing a murder, which is nice. That done, I'm sweaty, shirtless in a pair of rather short workout shorts, and ready to chill on the back deck.
I find myself, far from the first time, wishing things with Ember were different. There's nothing I'd love more right now than to hang out with her on the back deck. We don’t even have to do anything physical. I just enjoy her company. Lately, though—as in the last week or so—she's been avoiding me in the rare times we've both been home at the same time. Even on the rides to her appointments, she's been stiff and standoffish.
I grab a beer from the fridge, take the Louis L'Amour paperback I haven't cracked open since the last time I picked it up out onto the deck, and…actually read. I'm pretty engrossed in the story, so I don't notice Ember until she sits on the Adirondack beside me.
"Hey, Fee. You're home early." She indicates the book and the empty beer bottle. "And actually relaxing. I didn't know you knew how to do that."
I shrug. "It was…" I slip the gas station receipt I'm using as a bookmark between the pages and let the book flap closed. "A spectacularly, magnificently, catastrophically shitty day. So I gave myself permission to say fuck it, and came home."
She nods. "Excellent plan. Is it working?"
I smirk, gesture around the backyard. "I haven't murdered anyone and buried them in the backyard, so yeah?"
Her eyebrows lift. "That bad?"
I recount the events of the day, and when I'm done, she sits back in the chair, blowing out a surprised sigh. "Damn, Fee, what'd you do to piss off the universe?"
"Um? Existed?"
She holds up a finger. "Be right back."
She returns a minute later with a thin joint. "Yes? No?"
I can't help glancing at her head, where her hair hides the evidence of her fracture. "Is that…okay? For you, with the whole…you know, recovery process?"
She sparks her lighter and puffs to get the joint going. "Actually," she says while holding in the smoke and handing me the joint, "there's a decent amount of clinical evidence that it mayassistin recovery of a T-B-I by reducing inflammation. So…yeah."
I take a hit. "For real?"
She nods and takes it back, inhales, passes it to me. "Yep. Nothing conclusive. You know how studies are—'studies suggest' blah blah blah, but I've skimmed through several papers on the topic." She grins. “Mainly because cannabis is my one vice and I was worried about that too. Trust me when I say that, I, more than anyone, don't want to do anything to jeopardize my recovery."
"I wasn't judging, Ember, I was just—"
She brushes her knuckles against mine as we pass the joint back and forth. "I know, Fee," she says, her voice soft, her eyes searching and…almost hesitant. "You're worried. Looking out for me."
“Yeah," I say, "Exactly."
She accepts the joint from me, searching me with her gaze. Holds my eyes, inhales deeply, holds it, and then cups my face as if she's going to kiss me. My heart starts pounding, hope blossoming in my chest.
"Inhale," she whispers, a trickle of smoke escaping with the word.
She touches her parted lips to mine, and I breathe in while she exhales—I feel and taste the smoke, but I'm focused on her, her scent, the soft ghost-touch of her lips, her nearness, the exhilaration of her mere presence and the wonder of her touch.
I can't help myself.
I'm still holding my book—I toss it aside carelessly, slide my fingertips along her temples and into her hair, and fuse my lips to hers. Smoke swirls between us, leaking from our lips as they move and mate, trickling out of our noses as we catch our breath.
She lets out the tiniest, quietest, softest whimper as I plunge my tongue into her mouth. And my god, that sound goes straight to my cock like a lightning bolt.
A predatory growl escapes me and I lean forward, snag her by the hips, and lift her onto my lap. She settles onto my thighs, and her arms go around my neck like they've always been there, like they belong there.
"Fee," she breathes.
"Please don't tell me to stop," I murmur.
"I don’t want to," she whispers, "but we need to talk."
I'm so fucking frustrated and disappointed that I could cry or hit someone—I’m not sure which. Swallowing a dozen different responses, I slide her off my lap as I stand up. I pace away from her, down off the deck, and across the yard, breathing hard and thinking about prune-faced nuns with yardsticks smacking my knuckles—a memory from that one memorably awful year our mother sent Riley and me to the private catholic school…right before she took off, never to be seen again.
