Page 53 of ILY
There’s still no sign of Thorne, and I need to figure out how to get him his stuff, because at some point, he’s going to need it. Especially his badge and holster. I may keep his shirt, in remembrance of him and all the things we did together.
I’m starting to feel pretty certain I’m never going to see him again. Now that I’ve found him out—and now that he knows I’m not a fucking serial killer—what’s the point of him hanging around?
I realize in that moment I’m simmering with some chaotic mixture of rage, resentment, sadness, and regret. So much of this could have been solved if he’d just asked me for proof of Michael. It wasn’t like I didn’t have a hundred fucking videos on my phone of the little monster. I would have…well, I like to think I would have stopped in my mad chase to show Thorne that I was telling the truth.
Instead, miscommunication and secrets destroyed something that could have been so, so good. Maybe the best thing that has ever happened to me…shit. Ever.
I swallow against a thick, aching throat and fight the urge to go try to chase down Thorne and ask if we can start over. Would that be a mistake? Probably. Would he laugh in my face becausewhat would a man like him want to do with me besides a quick fuck?
Most definitely.
But Iamteetering on the edge of lunacy, so why not have a little mad hope along with the madness.
I debate going to the kitchen for coffee, but the adrenaline and betrayal zipping through me is better than any caffeine. I take a fortifying breath and walk to the front door, yanking it open. I need to find out where he’s gone. Maybe I’ll go ask the neighbors if they’ve seen a man in sweats wandering down the road. I’ll put up signs or?—
Oh.
To my left, in the rickety, dangerously old swing, Thorne’s asleep. He’s got his legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his naked chest, head tipped so far forward his chin is resting on his sternum.
I clear my throat, but he doesn’t move, which, of course he doesn’t. His hearing aid case was on the nightstand. I stomp on the ground twice very hard, and he jolts, sitting up and almost lurching off the swing before catching himself.
When he looks up, his eyes dance back and forth, which tells me he’s probably got a little vertigo going on.
I should be happy. He should suffer. Only instead of the anger previously welling up inside of me, empathy rises in my chest, and I walk over, offering him a hand. “I didn’t know you stayed,” I say, pitching my voice a little louder than usual in hopes he can hear it.
He swallows heavily and stares at my lips. I bet he had FBI lip-reading training. He shrugs and lifts a hand to his chest, making a fist and rubbing it in a circle. ‘Sorry.’
I don’t know why he’s sorry. I have all his shit. His badge and…wait. How is he FBI if he’s losing his hearing? “I didn’t think federal agents could be deaf.”
He blinks, then sighs and shrugs, and I can see pain flare up in his eyes. Clearly, this is a tender topic. “They can’t.”
I bite my lip as I exhale. “So…?”
“It’s a long story.” His tone tells me it’s not one of the easier ones for him to tell. I do feel sorry for him. Kind of. But he also fucked me while lying to my face. I bet he was in that hotel to arrest me, which pisses me off, even though, technically, I was committing a crime.
And probably deserved to go to jail.
I can’t seem to stay angry for more than a couple of seconds. I hate that all I want is for him to pull me against his chest and kiss the absolute shit out of me. I hate that the only comfort I want is from him.
I clear my throat, asking the question that’s been burning since last night. “Why didn’t you take me in?”
He stares at me again, then glances at the door. “Can I go get my hearing aids on?”
‘We can sign,’ I offer on my hands.
He bites his lip. ‘I’m not sure I know enough to understand or answer all the questions you have. I’ve only been studying regularly for a couple years, and this is…complicated.’
He’s probably right. Besides, as pissed off as I am, he’s the one who gets to choose how we talk.Whatwe talk about, well, I’m taking control of that shit. I’m so done being lied to.
‘Go,’ I sign, my fingers snapping in annoyance. ‘Go upstairs, then meet me in the kitchen.’
He gives me a stiff nod, and the door slams behind him when he goes inside. Accident? Or maybe he’s pissed off and in pain from having slept upright on a shitty swing all night.
Something twists in my chest at the fact that he did that. He could have demanded to come inside and get his things before he left. He could have demanded to come inside to sleep on the couch.
Instead, he respected what I asked of him, even when he knew the next day would be hell on his body.
It makes me feel things I’m not in the mood to parse out. Not right now. Not until I have all the answers.
