Page 53 of Rooke
“Work? At this time of night? I had no idea watch making was such a demanding job.” I realize I’ve made a mistake as soon as I finish speaking. A hard, blank look forms on Rooke’s face.
“Not that job. Myotherjob.”
My cheeks flush scarlet. “Ah. The…”
“The car-boosting job, yeah.”
“Aren’t you going to reply?”
He looks at me, his gaze steady. Unshakeable. “No. I’m not in a position to take this particular job.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would require me leaving you right now, and I’m not going to do that.”
A pleasant, strange sensation coils deep in the pit of my stomach. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m excited and giddy that my boyfriend is turning down grand theft auto work in order to care for me, because I drank myself stupid and needed to get my stomach pumped. There is something very, very wrong with this scenario. Rooke smiles, an almost, kind-of-there smile. “You’re taking this very well,” he says.
If only he knew how well…
“I’m clearly disturbed,” I tell him.
Rooke shakes his head. “If you were disturbed, you’d be telling me to take the job. You’d be telling me you’d come along for the ride.”
I stare at him, unblinking. Was that an idle, off-the-cuff comment, or was he making a veiled suggestion? I narrow my eyes at him, trying to decide. “That reallywouldbe crazy.”
“Yeah. Only a really badass woman would go on a boost with her insane boyfriend.”
“Do you want to take the job, Rooke? Are you asking me if I’ll come with you to steal a car right now?”
He laughs, picking up a small silver pocket watch from the desk by his window. He opens it and glances at the face, then he lifts his head and looks me dead in the eye. “Yes. I am. What do you say, Connor? Are you in, or are you chicken?”
No. No fucking way, Rooke. That is categorically the most stupid, erratic, dangerous suggestion anyone has ever made to me. I work at a museum, for crying out loud. I am a curator. I go to bed at ten thirty every night. I’m not that kind of woman. I’m just not…
These are the thoughts that stream through my head, making their way to my mouth, ready to be spoken, but when I open my mouth an entirely different string of sentences come out. “I’m not chicken. I’m brave enough. I’ll do it. I’m just kind of sick, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Rooke snaps the pocket watch closed. “You’re right. Youaresick. And I’m just screwing with you. I am never going to be the reason you find yourself in danger, Sasha.Never.”
I’m kind of relieved he wasn’t serious. I’m also kind of shocked at myself. What the fuck was I thinking? “Does that mean you’re going to stop working for these people altogether?” I ask.
He goes very still. He doesn’t say anything for a long time. And then, very quietly, he says, “Are youaskingme to?”
“No. I don’t know. I don’t think I am.” I’ve never really asked myself this question. I’ve known he’s involved in illegal activity for a while now. Why hasn’t it crossed my mind that I should ask him to stop? Why haven’t I asked him whether working in Williamsburg at the antiques shop is ever going to be enough for him? Perhaps it’s because I look at him, even now, and I see his tattoos and the quiet hum of anger that always seems to be there, regardless of his mood, and I know there’s no way for this man to live a normal life. One where he wakes up and goes to work to mend watches, comes home, runs errands, takes the trash out, watches TV or reads, and then falls asleep at ten thirty like I do. There’s a darkness inside him. The night owns him, or at least it owns a decent-sized chunk of him. There will always be a side to him that needs rebellion and destruction. The real question is, can I accept that? Can I make my peace with it? And if I can, then how does that kind of chaos fit intomylife?
“You’re overthinking it,” he says under his breath. “I can see it on your face. You’re worrying. You’re trying to paint pictures in your head. Don’t do that.”
“How am I supposed to stop?”
“You just…let go.”
I just let go? He has no idea how impossible it would be for me to do that. I’ve been fighting for control for so long now that relinquishing it goes against every single instinct I possess. The way he says it makes it sound so easy, though, like it should be as simple as breathing.
It never will be for me. It really never will be.
“You’re repressed,” he says. “You hold back. You come between yourself and what you want all the time when you overthink shit, Sasha.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Take right now, for example. You’re watching me. Checking me out. You want me, but you’re not going to do anything about it, are you?”
