I look down and shake my head, just as much to tamp down my own intrusive thoughts as to deflect his endless barrage of inappropriate commentary, “You have to stop saying things like that.”
Colson raises both arms above his head and stretches from side to side, “Why?”
“Because that’s not even a thing. You know I can’t do any of that.”
“Can’t—” he cocks his head, “or won’t?”
“Won’t,” I say firmly.
“Well, if you don’t have time for that,” he lowers his voice, “I could just take you on a date—a real date—maybe even one that doesn’t result in PTSD.”
I stare at him blankly, “What for? You already do whatever you want regardless of how I feel about it—whether I know about it or not.”
“Come on, Brett,” Colson scoffs as he stands up and meanders over to the waist-height filing cabinets lining the wall, “I’m kind of surprised you’re still like this.”
“Like what?”
“I mean,” he takes a seat on the edge of the cabinet, “since Barrett’s a trauma therapist, and all…”
My eyes round and I jerk my head up. He remembers Barrett? And how does he know what she does? Then again, Barrett’s profession isn’t a secret and you can find out anything on the Internet. I clench my jaw and don’t respond, but my silence tells him everything.
“You never told her what happened.”
I don’t tell people a lot of things. It should be his favorite part about me by now.
“Why not?” he asks, sensing my growing discomfort.
Why are we even talking about this? I feel like I’m constantly ending up in conversations with Colson Lutz that I don’t want to have. He already tried to murder me once, why can’t we just move on and be cordial to one another?
Wow, maybe I’m more messed up than I thought.
My outrage gets the best of me and I rise from my chair and take a couple strides toward Colson. This is probably the closest I’ve been to him since I fled his house all those years ago. Even sitting next to him at meetings in the conference room, he keeps his chair a comfortable distance from mine, and walking down the hall, he always trails a few feet behind me. But now I’m the one invading his space, telling him to shut his fucking mouth and to stop making assumptions about my life and what I have or have not told my best friend.
“You have no sense of boundaries,” I hiss with as much venom as I can muster.
“Not really,” Colson shakes his head, “but, you already know that.”
“And you’re not my fucking therapist,” I say and look away, staring at a faint blotch on the carpet next to the door where I spilled an entire mug of coffee last year.
After a few moments of watching me fume, Colson bows his head and I feel him lean into my periphery, “Look at me, Brett,” he murmurs.
I shift my eyes toward him without moving my head.
“I’m sorry for what I did to you,” his voice is like a low hum, “I’m sorry for hurting you, and I’ll keep telling you as many times as you need me to.”
Colson apologized to me in the parking lot the first time he spoke to me, but I figured he had to if he wanted the conversation to last longer than 15 seconds. I’m stunned he’s actually apologizing again.
I turn my head slightly, enough to see his face, “Say it again.”
Colson’s gleaming eyes remain locked on mine. Maybe if I look at his face when he says it, I can tell whether or not he’s being genuine.
“I’m sorry for what I did to you, I’m sorry for hurting you,” I still love the sound of his voice, both dangerous and soothing, “and I’ll keep telling you as many times as you need me to.”
He shouldn’t be here, but it doesn’t occur to me to make him leave.
You should make him leave. You never should’ve let him in.
Where’s Nate and his nosey ass now, the one time I actually need him?
I hear Colson’s voice again, this time closer to my ear, “You know I’ll never hurt you again,” he leans down, brushing his nose across my cheek, “except in the ways you want me to.”
He doesn’t reach for me, but I reach for him, scratching the itch that crawls deep beneath my skin that’s born from both temptation and morbid curiosity. I pull his face to mine and when my lips touch his, I remember the way he felt in the dark and every memory and every detail comes flooding back. I instantly recognize the contour of his neck and the texture of his hair and how sweet he tastes when I run my tongue over his, sucking and biting his lip hungrily.
Colson kisses me back just as fiercely, but still doesn’t reach for me. Instead, his arms remain at his sides, hands gripping the edge of the cabinet with white knuckles. Then, without thinking, I drop my hand to his belt and squeeze the polymer buckle. The clip releases, and his belt weighed down with tools and weaponry falls to the floor with a crash.
The sudden noise snaps me out of my trance. I’m not by the river or in his bedroom in his house. I’m at work, in my office. I pull back in horror and look down at his belt laying in a pile around his boots. I jerk my head up, my mouth still lingering with the taste of his.
What did I just do?
I know what I was doing, but I don’t know how to explain it. My eyes dart to the door, still closed, expecting there to be a knock any second. Frozen, I listen for movement in the hallway, but there’s nothing but silence.
“I—” my eyes dart back to Colson, “I’m sorry.”
“Jesus,” he smiles, “don’t be sorry.”
I take a step back and drag my fingers down my jawline, speechless, “Colson, I—” I stammer, “I don’t know what that was.” There’s nothing I can say that makes any sense, except the obvious, but I’m sure as hell not going to acknowledge it.
“You don’t know?” he taunts.
