Page 52 of ILY
I had that sucker up to the max volume, and I was ready, god damn it.
I was fucking ready for groundhog annihilation. But I wasn’t ready for this. Not for finding out that Thorne is a goddamn FBI agent.
I’d been too fixated on getting Michael to realize that Thorne had followed me outside. I didn’t even notice him until he screamed,Freeze! And even then, it had taken me a good fifteenfull seconds to realize he was talking to me. By then, it was too late to get Michael.
He just stared at me with those beady little eyes, holding my goddamn zucchini.Smirking.
Then the world crashed around me when Thorne admitted the truth: he had been lying to me this entire time. It was never about me. It was about who and what he thought I was.
Leaving him on the porch felt good. Then cruel. Then good again. I paced in front of the window all night, waiting for him to get in his car and leave.
He didn’t. Or, at least, I think he didn’t. There was no sign or sound of him in the house, but his car remained where it was. Maybe he slunk off to the road and called someone to get him now that his cover was blown.
I comfort myself with this thought until I finally peel myself out of bed, a walking zombie because it feels like months since I’ve gotten a full night of rest, and then I see his clothes lying in a pile by his side of the bed.
His side of the bed.
His.
Christ, I’m in this so deep.
Kneeling on the floor, I begin to unravel his jeans. A holster drops to the ground with a loud clatter, and I jump back before realizing the only thing in it is a flashlight. It’s one of those fancy ones—the mini version.
That fucker had this and made me run around with my phone flashlight? What a dick! I could have broken my knees or my neck.
That alone is worth the bad manners of going through his pockets. His wallet’s tucked in there, and I pull it out. Shit, this is the thickest wallet I have ever seen, but then my eyes fall to an attachment on it, and when I flip it open, I see his badge.
Oh god, it’s real.
He’s actually FBI.
Thorne Logasson. My gaze falls to his agent ID number or whatever it is. I don’t know FBI things, but I don’t think this is fake. Well, at least he didn’t lie about his name. That’s…something, I guess.
Unable to help myself, I open his wallet and see his ID. He lives in Portland, so he’s come a long goddamn way for this investigation. He must have really thought I was a monster.
I have no idea how to feel about that, so I shove all his stuff back into his jeans, wrap it up like a ball, and push it against the nightstand.
My hands shake as I pass them down my face. Then, instead of running downstairs to see if Thorne is still here, I make myself shower. I’m sticky with sweat and bits of dirt that I’d missed from last night’s scrub down, and as I let the bubbles fall down the drain, I realize something: I do look like a criminal. Like, arealone.
The kind you see on TV true crime documentaries.
I was on the dark web. I was trying to buy explosives. And the moment he met me, he must have been able to tell I was slowly losing my grip on reality. Why wouldn’t he investigate me?
But that’s not really my problem, is it?
My problem seems to be: do I want to keep fucking a guy who is totally cool dicking down a hardened criminal—someone who was possibly keeping someone prisoner in an underground dungeon?
Oh hell.
My mind conjures up Thorne, his mouth on me, his hands.
My dick gets a little hard at the thought, and I realize I kind of do still want him.
It’s probably time to admit I’m not the most moral man in the world. It seems Michael ate parts of my conscience along with my tomatoes.
My entire life has been complicated, and to make matters worse, I left one job for a life that was supposed to bring me rest. But all I’ve known since taking over my aunt’s farm is sleep deprivation and mental torture.
Shuffling out of the shower, I dry off almost all the way, then slip into shorts and a T-shirt. It’s warm enough that the wood floors under my feet feel nice, and I don’t bother with socks as I make my way to the living room.
