Talking Dirty (6 page)

I can’t believe he admitted to owning a gun. I can’t believe I was so careless as to walk into this house when he owns a gun.
No matter how much planning I’ve done over the years, my emotions make me reckless. Stupid.

“You came here to kill me,” Morrison says. His voice shakes, but not with uncertainty. The knife in my hand is a clear statement. A solid indication of my intentions.

“I don’t think I can do it,” he continues. “I don’t think I can take my own life. Will you help me?”

I laugh as fresh tears invade my sight. He’s asking me for help. He’s asking me to kill him. I pivot on m
y heels and walk down the opposite hall briskly, searching for his bedroom.

The room’s a mess.
This is what giving up looks like. The bed is unmade. Clothes are strewn across the floor. Dirty dishes on the dresser, the windowsill, the nightstand. My attention focuses there and I move toward it. I tug the top drawer open and pick up the revolver lying inside.

It’s cold. Heavy.
I press the release button and roll the cylinder out to verify it’s loaded. And then I turn it as I press the ejector rod, emptying it onto the bed. I pick one bullet up and place it into the gun. I turn the cylinder, ensuring the first few rounds in the chamber are empty.

In the small living room, Morrison hasn’t moved. He’s seated on the couch in the same position I left him in. I set the gun on the table in front of him. R
ight next to the box of article clippings.

“I don’t owe you any favors,” I explain. “But you owe me a life.”

I close the knife in my hand and tuck it into my pocket before I turn my back on him. I hear the scrape of the gun as he slides it across the wooden surface. As I near the door, I hear the first empty click.

I open the door as the second click echoes off the walls.

I pull it closed behind me and head for my car.

A shot rings
out into the silent night just as my hand closes around the handle. I flinch. A dog barks in the distance.

Two down
.

Twelve

Rocky

I change into a pair of pajama shorts and a t-shirt, throw my hair up in a messy bun, and then I pace back and forth in front of a fresh canvas, paintbrush in hand. I tap the brush against my thigh.

I don’t think most people would agree, or even understand, but there is so much beauty in a blank canvas.
It’s so pure and untouched. It has so much untapped potential, just sitting there, waiting. It can be anything. Anything I want to make it.

Inspiration hasn’t exactly been my friend for a while now. I haven’t painted anything of worth in years. Every time I try, all the ugliness I feel inside erupts in swirls of dark paint, broken brushes, and ripped canvases.

Tonight, however, I feel that excited, tingling urge of new vision.

I use Link as my muse as I dip into red ocher. The deep, vibrant color is the bes
t way I can represent the passion he stirs inside of me. The aching, the yearning, the desire.

I twirl the brush, twisting the stroke
before easing up, and allowing it to fade at the edge. It doesn’t look like much yet, but it feels right. I grab a new brush, dragging it across a deep calypso blue. I merge it with the tail end of the red, fanning it from blue to purple.

This brush is perfect. I like the way it feels in my hand. I like the rough texture of its bristles.
The size is perfect. The sound it makes as it kisses the linen is music to my ears. Everything else fades away. All I know is color. More blues. More reds. More purples. Shades of violets and soft oranges. A little black. A touch of gold. And back to red.

I use my fingers to sweep certain areas, giving them texture where it feels right.

The faint, almost metallic scent fills my senses as I spread more and more paint. I love this smell. I love the smudges of color on my skin. I love the way I feel right now in this moment.

This is who I’m supposed to be.

I don’t know how much time has passed when I finally step back, dropping my brush into the jar of dirty water.

I use the back of my arm to wipe the tinted hair from
my face. I know I have splashes of color all over myself, but I don’t care.

I’m surprisingly satisfied with what I see in front of me. To most people, they’d see nothing more than whirls of different colors, blending and fading. But I know what’s there. I see the faint lines of rope, surrounding a ring. The curve of boxing gloves. The fine contours of a sculpted back. The slashes of scars that stain that back. And I see how much all of these things make me
feel
.

They
make me feel
good
.

They make me feel alive.

My eyes trail over the piece slowly. It’s beautiful. To me, it’s the most important work I’ve ever completed.

I drop to the chair, my paint-covered hands resting on my thighs, and I let that warm feeling in my chest consume me. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this.

Fulfillment. Pride in myself. And gratitude for what I’m capable of creating.

I hear the faint tapping at my door, but it takes me a moment to comprehend someone’s outside. I tear myself out of my thoughts, my heart racing.
I push myself to my feet, the tarp underfoot crinkling much too loudly as I tiptoe across it. As soon as I step onto the carpet, I hurry to the window, peering through a crack in the curtains. My held breath expels in a rush and I flip the lock, pulling the door open.

“I know it’s late,” Link says quietly. I wait for him to go on. To explain why he’s here, but he doesn’t say more. He just takes me in, his warm gaze moving over my discolored skin.

After his confession tonight, I should be scared of him.

But I’m not.

I step back, opening the door wider. He moves inside, hesitating in the entryway as if he isn’t sure he should be here.

“You’ve been painting.”

I nod. But we both know he isn’t here to discuss artwork. “What’s going on, Link?”

He closes the door and leans heavily against it. His eyes close and in this moment, he forgets to hide his emotions. Or maybe he’s allowing me to see them.

He’s in pain. That’s evident from the crinkle in his brow, the tightness in his jaw, and downturn of his lips. I don’t like it.

We barely know each other. But we know each other so well.

I move closer, touching my hand to his cheek. The blues and reds stand out on my skin against his. I think of how this paint represents him. How I captured him on my canvas. How freeing it is to be able to do this again. And how he’s the reason.

Link’s eyes open, meeting mine. He places his hand, warm and strong, overtop of mine, holding me in place.

I want to ask him what’s wrong. I want him to talk to me. I want to help him. But I don’t say anything. I give him time. I give him the silence he needs, just offering him my touch until he’s ready for more.

Thirteen

Link

I can’t look away. I can’t let her go. I haven’t needed someone like this since…

I’m cringing inside with th
e thought. Rocky isn’t filling the void of Livie. That will never happen. It can’t. But there’s something about her that feels true. Right.

And there’s something about her that feels overwhelmingly wrong.

I know that’s the part of me that holds onto Liv. I’ll never be willing to let her go, so this will never work with Rocky. It will never be more than whatever it is now. Yet here I stand, soaking up her reassuring touch, ready to tell her all of my secrets.

“The detective assigned to my case found one of the men that attac
ked me and Livie four years ago,” I say hoarsely. “He stumbled across him when the guy was brought in on another charge.”

Rocky drops here hand, waiting for more.

I maneuver around her, heading to the couch. I need to sit down. I need
her
to sit down with me.

“Byers ca
lled me in to identify the guy, and I lied. I said it wasn’t him. And then I followed him home.” I drop my head into my hands. “I tortured him. I made him give me the names of the other men. And then I killed him.”

I raise my head and force myself to look at her. To see her reaction. She gives away nothing, holding my gaze as she waits patiently for me to continue.

“Tonight, I visited one of the men. I loaded his gun and told him to kill himself.” I turn on the couch, facing her. I need for her to understand. To understand me. “I can barely live with myself right now. The guilt is eating at me. But the shame I feel isn’t enough to make me stop. I won’t quit until they’re all dead. Until they’re all punished for what they did.”

She nods gently.
“And I won’t stop until I make Garrett pay for what he did,” she says. “If you don’t want to help me anymore—if it’s too much for you—I get that. But please don’t try to stop me. I won’t stand in your way. You don’t stand in my way.”

I shake my head. She doesn’t get it.
“You can’t come back from this. You can’t kill a human being—no matter how evil they are or how much they might deserve it—and walk away unscathed.”

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever happens is better than how I am right now.”

I think of Morrison. Of the anguish in his eye as the tears fell unendingly. “It’s not. I promise you that. It doesn’t get better or easier. You’ll still have all the pain you’re already carrying. And then you’ll have to bear the burden of guilt. It’s not worth it, Rocky. It’s not.”

“I disagree,” she insists with finality.

I know if someone tried to stop me, I wouldn’t listen. Not even now, knowing firsthand what comes with it. So I don’t argue. I drop it, knowing I’ll just have to get to Garrett before she does.

***

I wake with a start, my heart hammering in my chest and sweat beaded across my forehead. I must have fallen asleep on Rocky’s couch. The first murkiness of daylight casts the room in a dull gray illumination.

B
eside me, Rocky stirs, her eyes fluttering open sluggishly. When her gaze finds me, she sits up quickly. “Are you okay?” Her hand settles on my arm and I look down at it. So small, soft and warm against mine.

Without a word, I pull her to me.
My lips glide over her neck before I whisper, “I want you.” My fingers tangle into her dark silky hair as I guide her closer, dragging my open mouth along her collarbone.

“I need you, Rocky,” I utter. And I do. It’s almost painful
the way I need her to feel normal. “I need you to take it away.”

I expel a long breath against her neck, causing a shiver to rock her body.

“Tell me this is okay,” I murmur huskily. “Tell me you want this.” My hand skims down her body, hooking around the back of her thigh, and I tug her onto my lap. “Say yes.”

But she doesn’t say yes with words. Instead, she pushes herself closer, gri
nding into my already hard cock. Her teeth nip along the side of my neck in a series of searing bites that have me moaning and thrusting my hips against her.

She sighs in pleasure, her warm breath rousing another groan from me. I push her back onto the couch, following her until I
’m hovering over the top of her. I want to rid us both of the clothes separating our bodies and dive into her.

“I want to fuck you,” I
rasp. I push her legs apart, flexing my hips into her. “To take you to that place between pleasure and pain until you’re demanding more.” I hook my finger into the V of her shirt, yanking it down to expose more cleavage. I lick between her breasts, causing her chest to arch into my mouth.

“Do you want that, Rocky? Do you want me to make you feel g
ood again? Do you want more? Do you want me inside of you?”

I may be pushing her too far, too quickly, but I’ll never know if I
don’t ask.

“Do you have the same desire pulsing through your veins for me that I do for you?”

“Yes,” she breathes. “I want you. I want to try.”

I drop my forehead to hers and I breathe he
r in. I can feel her heart racing. I lower my mouth to her neck, pressing my lips against her pulse. I know this is difficult for her, and the fact she’s willing to try, for me, is humbling.

“Stand up,” she commands
. She’s taking the lead again and I obey her immediately.

She moves in front of me, pushing my shirt up and over my head. I duck down, helping her remove it. She tosses it over he
r shoulder as her eyes rake down my chest. The heat in her gaze has my cock throbbing in my jeans.

Rocky goes for my zipper next, freeing me. I want to touch her,
to run my fingers over her smooth skin, but I hold back, waiting. She slides my pants down my legs slowly. When they catch around my shoes, unable to go any further, she places her hand against my stomach, shoving me back onto the couch. I fall back heavily, watching her with hooded eyes as she removes one shoe followed by a sock, then the other.

My pants go next and she stands, folding them over her arm. The
knife drops from one pocket with a flat thud. The picture Morrison gave me before he killed himself falls out of the other pocket, floating to the ground. The picture of the four men that raped and murdered Olivia and tried to kill me.

My gut clenches as Rocky b
ends down, picking both up. Her eyes move over the photo. Her brows crease in confusion. She makes a small noise in her throat and turns it around, showing it to me.

“Why do you have a picture of the cowboy
that attacked me?”