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I wound up doing the opposite. Opening my mouth. “Is it bad I was more upset that you decided to throw our kiss out the window as if it didn’t happen?”
No response. Not even a reaction.
The quiet began to eat at me as he took longer than I assumed necessary with handling the rope.
A little frustrated hmph noise fell from my lips. “You don’t plan to speak, do you?”
He lifted his chin, a silent request to sit. “Remove your glasses. Mess up your hair a bit. Unbutton the bottom and top buttons. You can’t look too perfect.” His orders were delivered with precision, in a no-nonsense way like he’d rather be anywhere but there.
Worked hard to do that, huh? “Commands don’t count as speaking.”
“Pretty sure they do,” he grumbled, his personality cutting back through again.
I was ninety percent certain he was pushing me away because he was scared of what he felt when our mouths touched earlier, and maybe even before then. It had to be true, because I was equally terrified. I wasn’t sure if I could science my way out of what was going on between us, not in a rational sense, at least. But he seemed content to try and brood his way out.
“Fine. I’ll do what you say.” I set my glasses on top of the bag, then removed the rubber band Mya had given me and freed my hair. Slipping the band onto my wrist, I did a headbanger movement trying to make my hair a little wild. Whipping back up straight, I tore my fingers through it, locating Carter’s harsh stare pointed at me as if I was doing the whole “messy look” wrong.
“What? Not disheveled enough for you?”
His nostrils flared again, but he just continued to stare at me and brood away.
I untucked part of my shirt from my jeans, then undid two buttons and positioned my rear end on the plastic chair. “Satisfied, sir?” I asked with a bit more sass that time, growing frustrated at him all over again when I should’ve been focused on what the Secretary of Defense’s son had shared with us ten minutes earlier.
“Don’t call me that.” His gravelly voice sent my back flush to the plastic behind me. “Not a good idea.” He dropped to his knees before me, swallowing hard, a move I didn’t miss now that we were nearly eye level. “This is harder on me than you.”
“Doubtful.”
He set his hand on my knee. “Trust me.” Those two words managed to stamp out my frustration with him. “It’s hard for me to tie you up.”
“Aren’t you good at torturing people?” Okay, that was a low blow. Also, maybe I was still upset he’d killed two people when it hadn’t been self-defense. And I’d asked him not to. More than anything, though, I was upset he was going to just turn me over to other people rather than bring me home himself. Pass me along the chain and possibly never look back. Never see me again.
Seemingly unfazed by my insult, he ran with it in an unexpected direction, murmuring, “You have no idea just how good I am at tying people up.” Lifting his hand from my knee, he inched back a bit, focusing on my sneakers. “I just don’t want to tie you up.”
That you barreled through my mind, leaving so many questions in its wake. And I hated knowing he wouldn’t answer me if I bothered to ask him to clarify.
When he began working the rope around my ankles, and the pad of his thumb brushed up over my skin, I shuddered. How could such a small sweep of his touch across my skin have me melting into a puddle of aroused goo?
When his hand went still—strong and tight, like a cuff above my ankle beneath the denim—I realized his eyes were shut, and he was dragging in an intensely deep breath.
Oh shit. “That’s why.” It finally dawned on me. “You don’t want to tie me up because you do want to tie me up?”
He was quiet for one of the longest minutes of my life before peering at me. “I’ve got issues.” His anguished tone made it obvious it’d pained him to admit that. “If you haven’t noticed.”
“Don’t we all?” At the tight draw of his brows, I couldn’t help but blurt, “I have anxious attachment issues.” I wasn’t sure why I was doing this now, but something inside me wanted him to know he wasn’t alone in the issues department. “Years of therapy helped me figure out why when a man ignores or ghosts me, it makes me feel not so great.” He kept quietly staring at me, lips parted. So I kept going. “It’s because when I was growing up, my father used to give me the silent treatment whenever he fought with my mom. I’d begged him to talk, at least to me. To not go quiet and ignore me because of her. But he’d just look at me and remain quiet. It could go on for days.” Aside from my mother, only Sierra and my therapist knew this. Of all the times and places for me to unzip my lips and share this.
But my parents fighting didn’t feel like sharing new information with him. Had I shared that in the shower that morning, too? The drugs had laid a blanket of haze over most of that experience, so I wasn’t totally certain what I’d said or done.
Still quietly staring at me, his hands unmoving . . . it was like he’d seen a ghost. Not the best thing considering I was already haunted enough by Rebecca’s memories. I should’ve felt guilty for kissing her husband tonight, but I kept reminding myself he was single now, and . . .
“So, yeah, when people ignore me, it triggers my anxiety. Not so great for dating and the whole ghosting thing that happens so often in the modern world,” I sputtered since he’d yet to say anything. Or tell me to shut up. “You know what’s frustrating, though, is that I know the problem and still can’t seem to stop my reactions when it happens. My walls are never tall or thick enough to prevent the pain. And you being quiet on me right now has my stomach hurting, and pulse flying and?—”
“I’m sorry.” He released both my ankle and the rope and leaned into me, startling me by cupping my cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Genuine. Raw. Real. Everything about his words and this moment was that.
I blinked back tears, hoping like hell they wouldn’t fall. He didn’t need my tears. He needed my compliance. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth and info-dumped on him, not even in an attempt to soothe his soul by letting him in on the secret that we were both imperfect.
“You don’t need to apologize, I was just explaining why I got bratty when you went quiet on me, and to let you know we’re not that different. We both have issues.” Could I really compare my anxiety triggers with his apparent enjoyment of tying people up? Not exactly apples to apples, but still.
“We’re very different,” he said in a somber voice, letting go of my cheek.
