She focuses on eyes and facial features, wrinkles etched in skin that tell a story all on their own. I get so lost in the images that I forget to question when she took them until I notice in the background of one of the images a minaret a few miles from the outskirts of town. The picture was taken near dawn, the sun rising over the mountains behind it and a group of men kneeling on their prayer rugs.
At first I notice the unique perspective of the shot; then I swipe the digital touch screen of the camera to get more details on the picture. And when I see the date is from two days ago, I immediately think the camera must have the wrong time stamp. It has to.
And then I become almost obsessive, going through the pictures on the camera card again to look at the time stamps. Again I see the wrong date that can’t be right. Once I’m done with the pictures on that camera, I pick up the one beside it and start the process all over again. Normally I’d get caught up in the new images that are just as incredible as the ones the first camera held, but this time around my mind is running a million miles an hour.
By the time I’m done, I’ve noticed that the time stamps on all of these images fall on the nights that Beaux didn’t spend with me. I’m immediately taken back to how I felt day one with her, like I’ve been played – and yet I know she isn’t playing me. She’s explained this all to me… but then in the same breath she promised she wasn’t going to go out on her own anymore.
What the fuck?
My temper is rising. The restless energy I felt earlier after Sarge’s call returns with a vengeance so that the minute I hear the key in the lock, my posture is stiff and I’m primed for a fight.
Beaux pushes open the door and startles when she sees me sitting in her room with a look of complete disdain aimed solely on her. My elbows are on my knees, hands clasped in the center, and my eyes are laser focused on hers.
“Argh!” she yelps. “You scared the shit out of me!” I remain still as I wait to see how she’s going to play this because all that worry I felt is still there, but the anger and frustration are a hundred times stronger.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice lacking all emotion.
“Did something happen? Do we have a story? Why do you look so upset?” She asks the questions in rapid succession as she sets her key on the dresser and takes a step toward me.
“Don’t.” The one-word warning reflects so many things I feel inside me right now. Don’t come closer. Don’t bullshit me. Don’t think you can lie to me. Don’t make me feel like this: angry, confused, worried, conflicted, wanting to pull you close because now I know you’re safe and wanting to hold you at arm’s length because I don’t want to get hurt by you.
“Tanner?”
The cautious nature of how she says my name tells me she knows I’m pissed, but the confused look in her eyes and parted lips tug on the sucker side of me. And no one likes to be a sucker.
“Where were you? And don’t tell me you were downstairs in the lobby.”
“I was… out. I went for a walk, needed some fresh air.”
“Was the fresh air so thick that you couldn’t hear your cell ring?” Her eyes widen, but her mouth stays shut. Smart woman. I lower my head for a moment, stare at my hands as I try to rein in the urge to shake the truth out of her, but I know it won’t do any good.
“Whose idea was it to take nights off?” I ask, referring to our agreement to not spend every night in each other’s bed as I lift my head up to meet her eyes again. I see that the change of direction in the conversation throws her by the furrow in her brow.
“I don’t remember. It just kind of came up, didn’t it?”
“You tell me.” I honestly don’t remember because my brain was probably fogged up from the incredible sex we’d just had when the topic arose as we lay spent and panting a few weeks ago. But right now, I have a deep, unsettling feeling that she’s the culprit of starting the conversation. That she created a way out to have nights to herself to get away and do whatever the fuck she does.
“I don’t know. Maybe I did. I honestly don’t remember.”