Page 53 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
Shit shit shit.
“No. Fuck, I’m sorry.” Aaron dragged a hand down his face, shook his head hoping to rattle the shame loose. “Wasn’t thinking.”
Kenny said nothing.
Because he knew better. Knew Aaronwasthinking. Too much, too fast, too loud. It was pouring off him, practically screaming through the space between them:I’m in trauma mode. And Kenny would know. He always did. He did that maddening thing where he didn’t look at him, keeping his eyes on the road, calm as anything, which only meant he was seeing more. Seeing harder. Right fuckingthrough. Straight down into Aaron’s fucking psyche.
So Aaron reached out, snatched Kenny’s hand from the wheel, and slammed it back onto his leg, right where the rip in his jeans exposed bare skin. He held it there.
Made him touch him.
Made himfeelhim. The prickling skin. The fractured pieces. The part of him still flinching and the part still wanting him.Kenny. So Kenny slid his fingers under the frayed denim, circling his thumb across the cold skin of Aaron’s thigh.
And—fuck.
Aaron’s throat closed. His chest did that twisty, impossible thing.
He might cry.
He didn’t even know why.
What the fuck was this?
“You okay?” Kenny asked, as if he already knew the answer and didn’t expect to hear it.
Aaron sniffed hard, swallowing down whatever sound clawed at his throat. “Yeah.”
He shook his hair out, scrambling for something—anything—to say that wasn’tI’m a fucking mess, stuck in the past, when will I get over it, and have you chipped me down so far I can’t function unless you’re holding me? All the fucking time?
Too much. Way too much.
So instead he said, flat and simple, “We had a lurcher brought in. Been with her all day.”
Kenny said nothing.
“Skin and bone. Couldn’t even fucking stand. Someone tied her to a tree and left her. In winter. Wind like this, rain like knives. And they walked away.” He ground his teeth. “She won’t eat. Won’t move. Trembles all the time. Flinches when someone tries to get near her.” He blinked too fast. Wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I fucking hate people.”
Kenny stilled his thumb on his leg.
Did he know it was deflection?
Course he fucking did.
Didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
It was. All of it. Hedidhate people. Hated what they’d done to that dog. The way they’d stripped her down to fear and reflex. How she flinched at every hand trying to help. How her ribs showed through her coat and no amount of coaxing could convince her she was safe now.
But what pissed him off most, what broke him if he was honest, was that someday she’d be labelled un-rehomable. Too difficult. Doesn’t like affection. Aggressive when cornered. Best kept away from children.
Un-fucking-lovable.
He wiped a tear from his cheek he hadn’t even felt fall.
Kenny noticed.
Of course, he fucking noticed.
Because he was Kenny. And because he was somehow both a forensic psychologist and the goddamn patron saint of boyfriends, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t push. He kept his hand on Aaron’s leg. Circling his thumb in that same grounding rhythm.
