Three weeks later…
"Hey, beautiful," Slate says, walking in the door.
He never knocks, but he always shouts my name from outside the door. At first, I thought he was crazy, but then he produced that silly list clearly documenting my fears.
"Hi," I respond, looking up at him through my brown contacts.
He gives me a deep, lingering kiss and scoops me up off my feet, causing me to immediately wrap my legs around his waist.
"How was your day?" he asks, kissing my neck.
"Terrible."
"Pretty in Pink," Dave answers from behind us. He’s wearing the same smirk he does every time he sees Slate and me together.
The day after Slate made things clear that we were building a relationship, Dave called off the move. I told him that I didn’t want to leave, and he spent the next thirty-six hours shouting at people over the phone. I didn’t ask and he didn’t elaborate, but if possible, I fell in love with him even more because he fought to give me more time with Slate.
I still haven’t showed Slate my scars, but he doesn’t push me. We have this amazing balance of him letting me squeak by with no questions answered and me asking him everything about his life. I’ve never broached the topic of his mom though. I’m not that brave yet. I also don’t want him to pour his heart out about his past and have to look directly into his eyes and lie about my own.
Since the first night, one thing remains consistent—Slate sleeps with me every night. Whether we are at his place or mine, he’s always there when I close my eyes. And I always sleep, a magical feat of its own. Before I met Slate, sleep was a bit of an issue for me. I was an insomniac to say the least. Stress has a funny way of screwing with you. I’ve never been a huge sleeper, but the five to six hours I get a night in his arms is more than I ever would have thought possible. Noises in the night still terrify me, but now it's because I’m worried someone will take him from me. I lost myself, but I don’t think I could survive losing Slate. However, every day that we are together, I put his life at risk.
"Riley, you going to explain the movies?" Dave says, snatching a piece of bacon off the plate.
"Stop eating the bacon or you’re going to end up with just an LT sandwich for dinner!" I shout, and Slate slides me down his body, placing my feet back on the ground. I look up at his golden eyes and smile, squeezing him one last time before heading back to the frying pan. "So Dave and I rate our days based on ‘80s movies. The worse the day, the worse the movie."
"Wait. Shouldn’t it be the worse the day, the better the movie?" Slate asks, stealing his own piece of bacon.
I give him an evil glare that does nothing to intimidate him as he pops it in his mouth. "Um, no. I don’t want to watch a good movie and let my attitude ruin it. I want to watch a piece of shit that I can scream and cuss at for being…well, a pile of shit. I want to complain about the actors and make fun of the director and basically just flip them all off," I finish and look up at Slate, who is standing beside me with a disgusted look on his face.
"Riley, are you telling me you think Vision Quest is a terrible movie? The night I met you, that was your movie of choice, and I have to say, even from my point of view, that was a really f*cking shitty night for you."
"Um, I mean…" I stutter teasingly.
"I want you to consider this very carefully, because I’m not sure we can continue this relationship any longer if that is really the way you think." He looks at me in all seriousness, but I know he’s joking.
"It’s growing on me?" I question with a shrug.
"Oh hell no." He leans down and tosses me over his shoulder. He pushes the pan of bacon off the burner and strides to my room.
"Slate, stop!" I laugh.
"Say goodnight to Dave," he says, slapping my ass.
"No! We haven’t eaten yet! Fine. Vision Quest is pure cinematic genius. Matthew Modine is a God."
"Oh, thank the Lord. I’m f*cking starving." He puts me down just outside my bedroom door.
"You are such an ass," I say with the same perma-grin I’ve been wearing for weeks.
"I can deal with that." He wraps a thick arm around my waist and tips me back for a heated kiss that leaves me wishing I hadn’t caved. I’d be more than happy with abandoning dinner and heading to bed at this point. "Actually, can we talk for a second anyway?" He tilts his head to my room.
"Yeah, sure." I move to my bed and plop down on my side, but Slate stands at the foot.
"I have to go back to LA in the morning," he announces.
My hands immediately knot. "Oh, um… Yeah. Of course."
"Don’t get all shy on me, Riley. I’m retiring."
"What? No, you are f*cking not!" I jump to my feet and shout entirely too loud.
"Riley?" I hear Dave yell from the den.
"I’m fine!" I snap then level my eyes back at Slate. "You are not retiring!"
"Oh really? I’m not?" he asks with a smirk. Yep, a f*cking cocky-ass, sexy-as-hell, panty-drenching smirk.
"You are not giving up your career for me! No f*cking way. I know what it feels like to give up your life, and trust me, you will resent me. It’s not happening. We can figure it out long distance, but you are absolutely never, not one question about it, giving up your career for me."
"You ready?" he questions oddly.
"What?" I ask, but it’s too late.
Slate rushes me, lifting me off my feet once again and pushing me down to the bed. His huge body is careful to land beside me instead of on top of me, but with a hand in my hair, he gently tips my head back to look into his eyes.
"Who said I was giving it up for you?" He pops a questioning eyebrow before roughly taking my mouth.
"Well, this is embarrassing," I say against his lips while dragging my nails up his back.
"I’m done, Riley. And the only part of that that has anything to do with you is how you have made me feel over the last few weeks. I was still on the fence when I came back this time, but after spending numerous quiet nights with you…I have zero desire to go back to that life. I love the sport, but I hate pretty much everything else that comes along with it. That life? It’s not me, beautiful"—he tucks my hair behind my ears—"any more than this life is you," he finishes, surprising me.
I instantly freeze at his words, completely unsure of how to respond. His eyes search mine for an answer, but I have nothing to offer. He sees right through my lies—he has since the day I met him.
"Yeah. That’s what I thought." He pushes off me and to his feet.
"Slate, wait!" I call after his sudden departure. He didn’t leave the room, but he left me all the same.
I grab his waist and plant my head against his chest. His arms immediately wrap around me, and he lets out a resigned sigh.
"I’m not going anywhere, beautiful. But tell me something real. I think I know you, but I always feel like I’m missing something. It’s like you are some seven-billion-piece puzzle, and every time I find a corner tile, you change the entire picture."
I laugh, knowing exactly what he’s saying. I feel the exact same way too. I’ve lost so much of myself over the years that I don’t even know what the picture is anymore.
"What did you mean you know what it feels like to give up your life?"
"I just meant, I don’t want you to give up something for me," I lie. "We can make this work without you having to do that." I give him a fake smile, but once again, Slate calls my bluff.
He takes two giant steps forward, forcing me to fall back against the wall. Not because I’m scared but because I have nowhere else to go. "Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit." He leans closer with every word until his mouth is only a breath away from mine. "I won’t ask. But just so you know, I think you are full of bullshit."
"I gathered that by the excessive use of bullshit." I smart off while looking at his mouth.
He quickly closes the gap, mumbling against my lips, "Well, as long as we're clear." His tongue snakes into my mouth, claiming me as his own. He slides a hand under my shirt and over my breasts. I eagerly reach down to unbutton his pants, but his hands still me. "I’m starving. So unless you plan on feeding me something else"—he pointedly looks down at the button on my own jeans—"I need to eat."
"Tease," I mumble and head for the door.
It’s probably for the best that he stopped things from progressing. It’s light outside, and even with my curtains drawn, there is no way I could have hidden my scars from him. Dave and I developed a less than convincing story about how I got them in an accident, but Slate is already suspicious about my past. There is no way he would have believed some weak-ass story. That is just not a bridge I’m ready to cross yet.
"I don’t want you to go," I say, lying naked, wrapped in Slate’s arms.
"It’s only for a few days, beautiful."
"You know you are going to have to lay really low for a while. No more going to that gym at night anymore when you get back." I drag my fingers over his hard abs. "And you know I’m only using you for your body. How will we ever manage that if you can’t work out?"
He laughs, squeezing me hard against his chest. "I’ll have some equipment delivered while I’m gone. Make a little gym in the spare room. You want to start working out with me? Clothing is completely optional."
"Well as sexy as naked lunges sound, I’m going to say yes to working out but no to the naked part."
He suddenly rolls me over, hovering on his elbows above me. "When I get back, I will just be Slate Andrews. Not professional boxer or celebrity. Just Slate. Can you just be Riley? No more hiding or secrets. I need some truths, beautiful. I don’t want you to relive any details for me, but even the general idea of who you really are would be amazing."
"Slate," I whisper, swallowing around the newly formed lump in my throat.
"I want you. All of you. Not these little bits I hear echoing around the room. I just want you, Riley."
Tears well in my eyes because that’s exactly what I want to give him too. But I’m not totally sure that woman even exists anymore.
"I can try," I respond hesitantly, just to appease him.
"Mmm, good answer," he sighs.