Because Colson isn’t the one I hate. Far from it.
And, when he didn’t fall away, when I realized he was still standing before me, unscathed, I could breathe again. Something sparked in my chest and I felt alive—really alive.
Granted, there was no way in hell I was going to tell Colson that right then. Especially after he’d been such an asshole and said all those god-awful things to me that made me want to shoot him in his goddamn face.
But afterward, I don’t know how long I stood in front of the mirror in the upstairs bedroom, staring through my eyes and into my own soul.
You would’ve done it. You would’ve killed a man. You would’ve killed him. You have it in you, and this is part of you now.
Maybe I shouldn’t shove this down and try to ignore it like so many other things in my past.
Keep it. You might need it for later.
I might’ve tried to kill Colson. But later, when I was laying in the dark, and things got quiet again, I found myself outside his door, asking him to let me inside. I’m used to being alone, it’s how I’ve lived for most of my adult life. I’ve also spent much of my adult life running from Colson. But last night, being on the other side of a hallway from him suddenly felt like the cruelest form of isolation imaginable.
And what happened after, when he let me inside, felt like pure redemption.
Maybe it was clarity. Maybe it was some kind of self-medication to dull what happened 48 hours ago. Maybe it was an attempt to steal back some kind of control, or maybe it was vengeance, pure and simple.
But I meant it. I meant all of it—everything I did and everything I said. And Colson knows it.
This time, once I fall asleep in the crook of his arm, tucked into the curve of his body, I don’t wake up until the sun glows through the white linen curtains. No one dragged me out of his bed, no one slammed me against the floor, and no one shoved a gun down my throat. I didn’t have to fight him. I didn’t have to flee. I didn’t even have to move.
When I open my eyes, Colson’s tattooed arm is still outstretched on the sheets, jutting out from beneath my neck. And when I roll over, he’s reclined on his pillow, leisurely scrolling through his phone. He tosses it back onto the table and curls his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close.
“What time is it?” I mumble as he kisses my forehead.
He runs his thumb up and down my arm, “Quarter of eight.”
I wrap my arm around his torso, feeling his familiar heartbeat against my cheek, “You should be gone to work by now,” I yawn.
“I’m not leaving this house until you’re packed up and safely on your way to Toronto.”
“What?” I jerk my head up, “I’m not going to Toronto.”
Colson looks down at me, his aquamarine eyes darker and more severe today, “Yes,” he says harshly, “you are.”
My eyes fall with a disappointment I don’t even try to hide, “Now that you finally got me here, you’re sending me away?” It’s absurd, but it feels like an affront, a slight of the worst kind.
“Baby, I’m not sending you away,” Colson gives a shake of his head, “I’m putting you somewhere safe where it’s harder for him to find you.”
“Putting me somewhere…” I snicker, “it sounds like you’re having me committed to an institution.”
“I already told you,” he looks down at me through amused eyes, “if you end up in an asylum, then we’ll be there together. I just need to know you’ll be safe until I can take you home with me.”
Home?
“I thought that’s where I was.”
Colson senses my irritation, but remains unfazed—unbothered. He throws back the sheet and rolls on top of me, “Brett,” a shot of dopamine rushes through my stomach as he settles between my legs, “your home is wherever I am, and vice versa. Today, it’s this house, but it won’t be by this afternoon.”
I haven’t even been awake for five minutes and I’ve already had enough of his vague bullshit. “What the hell are you talking about?” I rasp up at him.
“There’s a house in Colorado,” Colson pauses with a shrug, “well, most of a house. It was supposed to be finished a month ago, but some asshole forgot to order enough metal roofing.” He looks down at me in exasperation, “Supply chain issues.”
“Supply chain issues…” I stare up at him, trying to make sense of his words, “you’re building a house?”
“I told you I’d build you a house to live in with me,” he replies with nonchalance.
My heartrate begins to climb with the gravity of his words, and suddenly, I’m back in college in this same bed, considering running off to Colorado with Colson Lutz. I didn’t have anything tying me down back then, and by some surreal twist of fate, I now no longer have anything tying me down here anymore.
Because of Bowen Garrison.
“You can’t stay here, Brett,” Colson says gently, “you were always going to leave here with me, but it was supposed to be under different circumstances. I can’t even bring myself to leave you alone in this house for an hour, so you’re going to leave here today, drive up to Toronto, and stay there until I come for you,” then he lowers his voice to nearly a whisper, “and I will come for you.”
I’m at a loss for words but, after a few moments, pull myself together, “I can’t just go to Toronto.”
“What are you going to do instead?” he asks. “Lock yourself in this house, right on the other side of his woods? Go back to Barrett’s? Go to work like nothing ever happened? Wait for him to find you?” Colson’s tone goes eerily calm, “Because he will find you.”
And then it dawns on me—he’s right, I don’t have any other options. This is how I get out of this.
Colson leans down and kisses my forehead. Then the bridge of my nose. And then my lips. “This is the part of our story where you trust me, I take care of you, and you accept it.”
●●●
I don’t want to let go of him. I don’t want to climb out of Colson’s bed or listen to him walk down the stairs to the kitchen. I don’t want to step into the shower and wash him off my skin or get dressed for a day of unknown horrors. I don’t want to leave the ancient wicker sofa on the deck with its worn, flattened cushions or carry my plate inside to the sink, still sticky with maple syrup from the orange cardamom pancakes.
Orange fucking cardamom…
