“Okay,” I whisper as I kiss his back. “Can you tell me what happened when you saw him again?”
Connor raises his head and stares straight ahead. “I was passing through Arizona, heading to Cali. I stopped at a Walmart to buy some deodorant, of all things,” he snorts. “I was standing in line, checking out, when I saw him. I didn’t even think about what I was going to do, I just went after him. I caught up with him in the auto parts section, he was looking at floor mats.” He runs a hand down his face and continues.
I asked him if he remembered me and I could tell he did; he had fear in his eyes like I’ve never seen. I wasn’t some little punk-ass kid anymore, ya know. I was a man—big fucking man and it scared the shit out of him.”
I kiss his forehead, reminding him I’m here. That I’ll always be here.
“If he had just run, I think I wouldn’t have followed him. But he didn’t do that. He goaded me.”
“How so?” I whisper.
Connor lets his head drop again. “He asked me if Blake’s ticker was still ticking or if he’d finally kicked the bucket.” His hand finds my leg and squeezes, the memory causing a physical reaction in him. I hug him tighter, my heart shredded with how cruel the world can be.
“What happened next?”
Connor raises his head, his dark gaze flickering. “I killed that motherfucker. I beat him with my bare hands until he was dead, and then, I beat him some more. That’s what happened.” There’s not even a semblance of remorse in his tone. He’s not sorry. Not one iota. “And I hope he’s rotting in hell.”
I close my eyes, letting Connor’s hurt and anger wash over me, absorbing it as my own. Sitting up on my knees, I crawl in his lap and meet his gaze, rubbing my hand across his stubble-covered cheek. His eyes are red from the tears he’s fought as he swallows hard. His hurt is prevalent. He’s weighted down with it. “Let me share this with you. Let me carry some of it, Connor. You’ve carried it too long, baby.”
He lies back, pulling me with him. My back is against his front, my body curved and fitted perfectly to his. He rocks into me, and I find myself pushing back, meeting his body. His hand finds my breast, rubbing it as he nuzzles my neck with his nose.
“I love you, Connor,” I whisper.
Gently, he pulls me to my back and climbs on top of me, slipping inside of me. He doesn’t speak, not with words anyway, but every touch tells me exactly what he wants me to hear.
He loves me too.
When I wake the next morning, Connor is beside me, lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. “What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
When he turns his head to look at me, his dark stare is riddled with worry. “What happened?”
I turn on my back and stare at the ceiling as well. Taking a deep breath, I do my best to tell him everything I can remember.
After I had left Mary-Anne, I ran across the street, afraid McKenzie was acting terribly to Mr. Jenson. After the way she behaved to him that weekend we kept all of the kids, I thought maybe she got into it with him. The Jenson’s house is on a bit of a hill, so I hiked it up the driveway. I could hear McKenzie shouting and some clinking, like tools being dropped on the floor, but I couldn’t see them because the Jenson’s garage doesn’t face the front of the house. So I ran around the side, and the bay door was open. Neither of them noticed me when I entered. Mr. Jenson had some kind of metal poker . . . like a fire poker . . . and he was jabbing it at McKenzie. She was screaming at him to let her go, but every time she made a move for the door, he tried to stab her. He’d always seemed so feeble and slow, but when he was going after her, he moved like a young man.
“What was McKenzie yelling at him?” he asks as he takes my hand and squeezes it.
“She was calling him a sicko.”