She swallows with great effort. “No, I didn’t,” she responds quietly. “Nothing can happen to him.”
She says “him”, but I can’t help thinking she’s also talking about her mom. She doesn’t say anything more, appearing lost in her thoughts. At first, I don’t like it. I want her to keep talking―to keep me from my own damn problems. Yet despite the silence, the memories―those stupid flashes of things I’d stab my own brain to forget―they don’t come. Nope. Right now, my mind is all on Sol.
Not that you can blame me.
Most girls I hang with, screw around with, that sort of thing, don’t stop yapping―ever. Even when we’re in bed they have something to say, even if that something is them screaming for more. This silence between me and Sol, it’s nice. For all I like to talk, and for all I want to get to know her, it just feels good.
Sometimes, I swear to Christ, the quiet and all the memories that come during that silence are going to drive me insane. That feeling is such a scary place and makes me feel alone, even when someone is sitting right beside me.
It’s not that way with Sol. Maybe because she feels lonely, too. And like me, maybe just as lost.
“Can I ask you something, without it being weird?” she says, spreading her legs across the couch, but bending them so they don’t quite reach me.
I straighten her legs so they do touch me, her feet resting on my right leg. “Well, when you preface it like that―”
“Preface?” she asks. Despite the way her arm is draped over her eyes, I still catch sight of her grin.
“Yeah, ‘preface’. I know what it means. Believe it or not I’m smarter than I look.” I mean it as a joke, because even though I’ve made some pretty stupid mistakes, and say some really dumbass things, I’m not stupid, and I’m sure as shit not dumb.
Sol doesn’t take it as a joke, dropping her arm away. “I know you’re smart, Finn. I don’t question that for a moment.” Her eyes trail over my arms, taking in my tribal tats. “You’re just so ‘street’. And ‘preface’ isn’t exactly a street word.”
“No, it’s not.” She has a point. I probably wouldn’t use that word at the gym. I have a rep to maintain.
My fingers slide over her bare feet as I think back to our kiss. You can say I want more. Hell, you can say I want a lot more. But for now, I’ll behave. Maybe.
Her toes wiggle as I skim her instep. She had on socks earlier, but that’s before Lynnie soaked the bathroom floor. “So you saying I should stick to using words with four letters?” I murmur, paying close attention the sweeps of her soles.
“Of course not,” she says, averting her chin.
She squirms when I pass my thumbs along the ball of her right foot. I grin, knowing I’m killing her in a way that’s probably turning her on. “All right then,” I tell her. “Like I was saying, when you preface a question by asking if it will be weird, than my guess is that it will be. But what the hell? Ask anyway.”
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Am I unstable, she probably means. My muscles tense, but I force myself to keep the massage to her feet gentle. She doesn’t know anything about me, what I’ve been through. So I clue her in before I realize how much I’m really telling her. I shrug. “I’ve been dealing with a lot lately―pissed over shit I should just let go.”
“Like what?” she asks.
My fingers release her feet to trail lightly over her ankles. “I haven’t always made good decisions,” I answer, meeting her face. I’m not proud of what I have to say, but that doesn’t mean I’m a pussy about it. “I have a lot of anger. Fighting has always been a good way for me to release some of it out, but lately it hasn’t helped as much as it has in the past.”
She nods like she seems to understand even though I know she can’t. Women like Sol, they don’t rage. Sure, they have their freak-outs. But when they drink too much, they usually end up puking or telling the world that they love it. I don’t love the world when I drink. I drink because sometimes I hate it and everyone in it to hell and back. The drinking helps me dull that anger. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Thank you,” Sol says, putting my head back in the game.
“For what?”
“For trusting me, and telling me what’s going on,” she explains quietly.
“Is this the part where you slip me a twenty?”
“What?” she asks.
I remind her what she did at the diner. “You paid for my breakfast to thank me for making you smile. Now you’re thanking me for giving you my trust.” I rub my jaw. “Hmmm. Trust is a big deal. Don’t you think it deserves more than a twenty?”
Her shoulders and a couple of other things bounce as she laughs. “Are you trying to tell me you charge for your services?”
“Nah. That would make me a whore. But I can think of other ways you can thank me.”
“You’re funny,” she says, relaxing into the couch.