No more apologies.
No more trips down memory lane.
Our replay is over; this is now an improv.
Eyes closed, I inhale deeply, breathing in as much of him as possible.
He pulls his head away, and my lashes flutter open, eyes meeting his light-brown ones as they flick between mine. His fingers slip through the length of my hair, lift it, and his gaze drops to study the strands. While his body moves on autopilot, his mind is on everything other than the color or the feel of my hair — thinking, assessing, debating. What, exactly, I am unsure.
The shoes he is holding drop to the ground, and his hand grasps one of mine. “My car has been parked here since before we caught up with Crow in the woods near the meet,” he states, clearing the emotion from his voice and returning to the matter of the clusterfuck of events in the past twenty-four hours or so. “Tonight… you need an alibi in case Porter tries to throw you under the bus.” His eyes scan my body before lifting my hand and studying my blood-coated fingers. “And you need to get cleaned up.”
Part of me is thankful for the change of subject. Yet a different part of me is envious at his ability to so easily drop this thing between us and get back to business.
He tugs me onto the walkway again and keeps tugging until we hit the sandy path. “You were with me. All night. From the moment I parked here,” he instructs, fabricating an alibi while continuing toward the shore. “We’ll both clean up here, but you should probably burn your clothes in case any of his blood got on them. As it stands, you touched the doors and window in your house. If he dies from blood loss, Jude never touched him — you did. You have his blood on your clothes. I have his blood on my clothes. Hayes and Crow…” His words are rushed and somewhat manic, but they trail. Once we hit the more compact, damp sand, he stops — the still and quiet surface of the endless gulf spread before us. He pulls in a lungful of salty air, turns to me, and with a choked voice says, “Remi… I’m not ready to forget you yet.”
How do I respond?
Words didn’t fix anything.
Begging won’t change things.
My tears were enough to prove I don’t want this to end either — my reenactment enough of a show. But I won’t seduce, manipulate, or guilt him just to appease my own desires.
I want to say a number of things: I understand. Give me another chance. Sorry.
The words get stuck, however, and I say nothing while his hands move to the collar of my leather jacket. Gently, he slips each side off my shoulders.
His phone dings, nearly blending with the crash of a small wave and effervescence of bubbles lapping at the shore near our feet. He finishes removing my jacket and tosses it to the side before digging out the device and reading Hayes’s check-in text. Unlike the last check-in, he responds immediately. Composing the message takes time. Occasionally, his eyes dart up to mine, face illuminated by the screen.
When he is done and the phone is returned to his pocket, I don’t question why my nice leather jacket is on the sandy ground. What happens next is up to him — the reason, if harsh, inconsequential. Trenton might not trust me, but I trust him.
He steps back, crosses his arms, and stares down at the sand, toes curling into the fluff. “Undress,” he states quietly.
My eyebrows rise sky-high, but his attention is too focused on the moonlight-illuminated sand to notice. I toe off my shoes, kick them to the side, unbutton and unzip my jeans, and untuck my black camisole. I opt to wriggle out of my jeans instead of my cami first, unsure what exactly is going on beyond executing our false alibi. The built-in bra and length of the tank offers my otherwise braless chest and bare ass a modicum of modesty.
Once my jeans have joined my jacket and shoes in the sand, I meet his gaze again, standing before him in nothing but my camisole and g-string.
His arms unwrap, hands drop to his sides, and fingers curl loosely into his palms. I resist the urge to mimic his earlier action by crossing my own arms over my torso to give myself more cover. The silent hesitation only lasts a couple more seconds before his hands whip to the hem of his shirt, rip it over his head in one quick motion, and he strips off his jeans and boxers — an act that took half the time it took me, yet leaves him completely unclothed.
I’m still unsure why we are taking these extra steps, but one thing I do know for certain is that seeing him this way is difficult — naked with shadows and reflective light highlighting and shading every part of him just right. Our connection was physical from the moment we laid eyes on each other, and that dynamic hasn’t changed; he hasn’t suddenly become a hideous creature just because he won’t forgive me.
For that reason and so many more, when his eyes lock on mine and he offers me a hand, I accept it, slotting my fingers between his. And when he pads toward the water, thumb dragging lightly across the ghost of my lost string ring, I know without any doubt that if he pushes me under… I’ll sink willingly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Trenton doesn’t pressure me to undress further, and I choose to keep what remaining clothes I have on to act like a bathing suit. If this is still only about alibis, the proof is mostly on my top layers anyway. Considering the repercussions of such a thing, I find my voice and whisper, “Leave your shirt and jeans here. I’ll take care of them. Last thing you want to do is put them in your car.”
He nods but otherwise doesn’t say anything as the water kisses our toes.
The gulf is way cooler than my body temperature, causing goosebumps to cover me from head to toe and my jaw to clamp down at the contact. Part of the reaction is from the chill, but most is from nerves. When we get to about hip deep, Trenton tugs me to face him. I keep my eyes on the undulating water between us.
My body trembles slightly, and I lift my arm from the water to wrap it around my torso for protection — both from Trenton and the cold — but he slips his thumb under my palm and raises my hand to about shoulder level, displaying my bloodied skin to the moonlight like a sacrifice. He then lines up the pads of each of our fingers, creating a steepled triangle for a breath before pressing our palms together and entwining his fingers between mine.
Generally, I enjoy how he and Hayes silently communicate, but I prefer his jokester persona over this mysterious and intimidating one. Maybe Porter has something to do with that: The unknowing. The multiple personalities. How he could be sweet with the gentlest touch one minute, then extend his claws the next.
Fear and a resulting need to react — to survive — doesn’t kick in with Trenton, though. A fear exists but only within my overactive thoughts. My body disagrees. Entirely. Even the simplicity of how delicately he squeezes my hand in his and studies the size difference and how they fit together, makes my center coil tightly.
Trenton twists our palms so the back of my hand is now facing him. His light-brown eyes eclipse, darkening as he adjusts and removes his fingers from mine to cup my hand instead. He runs his thumb over my knuckles and eyebrows curve inward.
Only then do I realize where his thoughts led.
My string ring.
If the moonlight wasn’t already paling my skin, the new, reactive pallidness would be visible. This must be the first time he has realized it is gone, all of us too distracted by the events at the port.
My eyes lock on his.