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On top of that, my need to remain guarded comes from my fucked up childhood and a time I didn’t have anybody in my corner I could rely on or trust.
But here I am with Mac who’s set me at ease without doing much of anything at all.
She has this unique mix of innocence and vulnerability that’s at odds with the strength and confidence she exudes. But along with that, as soon as we walked out of the Freebird tonight, I detected something else.
Fear. Mac’s afraid of me. Not because she thinks I’ll physically hurt her, though. And I get it. Because underneath the fucked-up myriad of emotions I’ve been wrestling with ever since my sister died, being near Mac leaves me feeling like she’d be a game changer for me.
She’d be hard to walk away from. Even harder to forget. But I’m not in the position to make any promises.
“Do you want to…talk about her?” Mac’s gentle question doesn’t hold any demand. It’s almost as if she senses the turmoil inside me when it comes to my sister. She doesn’t look at me but studies the TV screen.
“It’ll fester if you don’t let it out.” The woman who’s been my self-appointed mom told me this years ago and reminded me of it again after Emilia’s death.
That woman’s been more of a mother to me over the years than my own had in the short time she was alive. When I met Bronson and he took me under his wing back in high school, I never imagined I’d get a family out of it.
I never dared to dream of a time when I wouldn’t be hungry or stressed about having to take beating after beating. That I’d someday own my own place and never worry about the power being disconnected or the water shut off because I couldn’t pay the bill.
With Emilia’s death, everything I’d worked so hard to put behind me has come raging back in. It’s dredged up all the raw pain I’d buried and exposed all the nerve endings.
“You don’t have to. It was just a question,” Mac rushes on to say. “I’m cool with learning about”—she tips her head to the side, gaze narrowing in mock intrigue at the television—“this amazing device that cuts hair while simultaneously vacuuming up the trimmings. Huh.”
With an inward grunt, I grab the remote and switch it to another channel. “That’s better.”
“Wow. I don’t even cook, and a few seconds of this, and I’m dying for this food slicer thingy.”
Curiosity has me peering at her. “You don’t cook?” I nod. “That explains the beef stick thing.”
She shoves at me playfully. “Don’t disrespect my meat.”
A rumble of laughter rises up in my chest, and when our eyes hold, her features soften as if she sees something I don’t even realize I’m showing.
I shift on the bed, resting my attention on the TV. A moment passes before I finally speak, my voice muted.
“We hadn’t talked in years. She left when I was eleven and just…forgot about me. I tried to track her down time and again. It felt like every time I got close to findin’ her, I’d hit a roadblock.”
A golf-ball-sized lump lodges in my throat. “Then I got a letter from her tellin’ me to stop tryin’.” I try to fend off the searing pain that brands my heart, telling it to fuck off. Of course, it doesn’t work. My voice is raspy when I tack on, “And that was it.”
Each word feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of nails. “It wasn’t until she came to me a few weeks ago that I saw her face to face for the first time in years.” My throat grows unbearably tight. “She turned up dead right after that.”
“Daniel.” Mac breathes out my name with audible anguish, but I can’t bear to look at her. Instead, I stare sightlessly at the television.
The sound of a beer can being plunked on her bedside table along with a plastic wrapper reaches my ears a second before the bed dips and she moves closer. When she extends an arm, the hesitation evident in her movement, I turn to look at her.
She winces. “I’m not well-versed in the whole hugging thing.” A frown mars her pretty features before she mutters, “Or the whole ‘having friends’ thing, for that matter. But I’m pretty sure that’s what friends do sometimes. They…hug.”
Vulnerability coats every bit of her—both her words and the rigid way she holds herself. But when I move my arms to my sides in silent invitation, most of that tension evaporates.
She lowers her body against mine, the motion as awkward as it is sweet, and places her cheek to my chest, holding me. It feels completely natural to wrap my arms around her.
I close my eyes and soak up the comfort she’s offering. Anguish over losing my sister and having so much left unsaid still cleaves away at me, but this touch from a woman who’s admittedly not well-versed in hugs or anything of the sort holds the power to dull the pain a little.
I’m not sure how long we lie here, but at some point, one of my hands has begun to trace a path along the length of her spine. She shifts slightly, turning her face toward the base of my neck, and her lips dust along my skin.
The effects of that simple contact spread everywhere, like soft fingertips tracing a path down my body to encircle my dick. Fuck. It’s the strangest mix of comfort and arousal I’ve ever experienced.
I’m about to shift her more to the side and out of the way of my growing hard-on, when she whispers, “I’ve never felt this with anyone.”
I swallow hard. “Felt what?” Maybe I’m a goddamn sadist, but I need to know if it’s the same for her.
