“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” Tomcat says, but he’s laughing, that warm sound vibrating in the air between us.
“Duh, lover. I’m amazing. Why wouldn’t I be?”
The laughter fades, and something serious moves into his face. I feel myself go still, bracing without meaning to. “You’re so fucking strong. Do you know that? The shit you’ve been through would break most people.”
I turn it over for a moment, sorting through the wreckage of my own mind to find something honest to give back. "Itdidbreak me." I tap my temple. “Up here. I’m not the same. I'm self-aware enough to know that. There’s a chemical imbalance that would put most people off. It’s not like I could exactly go to therapy on the run. That would be the easiest way for Damon to find me.”
“You used other identities,” he counters softly.
“Yeah, but it just wasn't worth the risk. I’ve learned to cope in my own ways. Sure, some stuffy professional would say I haven’t moved on from what happened, but I healed in the ways that worked forme. That’s the whole point of it, right? Finding your way through your own trauma in whatever way actually gets you to the other side."
He reaches out, his fingers brushing over my cheek with a tenderness that still feels foreign and terrifyingly beautiful. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m not, really.”
“To me, you are.”
The way this man looks at me is so different from how Damon ever did that sometimes it feels like my mind is split between two worlds. Tomcat is the living, breathing answer to every hopemy papa ever whispered for me. He wanted his only child to find someone who could match her fire. I remember that wish often. I remember it now.
Most mornings, fear is the first thing I taste. Fear of loving and losing, of letting someone in only to watch that love unravel me. But I am learning not to let fear steer my life, because I know exactly what I would lose if I did. I see it clearly, standing right in front of me.
Knowing that Tomcat sees the real me—the cracked, humming-to-keep-the-darkness-at-bay me—and still calls me perfect, stirs something wild and magical in my soul.
There is only one way to show him what this means to me. Words fall away. I reach up, peel the shirt from my skin, let it fall, then tug his jeans down and press him back onto the bed.
A faint chill lingers in the air today. Summer is finally shuffling off, and with it, the tourist swarm will dwindle to a trickle. Soon, the noisy out-of-towners will vanish, and Coral Cay will slip back into its quiet, off-season rhythm. That’s when I love it most.
When the noise fades, it’s easier to spot the faces that don’t belong.
“Zippity doo da, Zippity day,” I whisper, jumping in a one, two motion, like I’m playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.
My bag thuds against my hip, Jack the Dripper weighing it down more than usual. Safety first, right? I give the bag a grateful pat and hop along. I may have also swiped Tomcat’s plushie cat for company. Stuffing the man himself in my bag would be a logistical nightmare, not to mention a felony, and I doubt he’d appreciate being knocked out for the privilege. Theplushie is a solid stand-in. It even smells like him. That’s good enough.
I’m deep in the mental gymnastics of a Tomcat-kidnapping plan when a cold rush crawls up my spine. Suddenly, a huge hand clamps over my mouth and yanks me into the shadows of the alley.
They're big. Significantly bigger than me, and strong in the way that doesn't leave a lot of room for argument about who might win this fight. My clawing and kicking registers somewhere in the vicinity of only mildly inconvenient to them. They drag me deep enough into the alley that the street almost disappears, then drops me and drives a foot into my side before I can find my feet.
Once.
Twice.
"You should have listened," he growls.
His voice is deep, male, warped by pure fury. He kicks me again, hard enough to send me rolling onto my back. I should be screaming or sobbing, but instead, laughter bubbles up through the white-hot pain. I glare at the masked man.
Not sexy at all, by the way. Completely lacking in originality.
“Is that all you got?” I wheeze.
The man grunts in anger and reaches down to grab my hair. I don't wait. I lift my foot and kick him squarely between the legs, watching with a dark sense of satisfaction as he drops to one knee. I scramble to my feet, my knuckles connecting with his face, but for a man his size, he moves fast.
A thud against my outer thigh makes me stumble, my leg going momentarily numb. I dive into my bag, fingers curling around Jack’s familiar, ridged girth. His fist crashes into my face just as I yank Jack into the open.
“Hiyaaa!” I scream, hefting the bright pink silicone and smacking him across the face with it.
His head snaps sideways in that exaggerated slow-motion I’ve only seen in Tomcat’s blaring action movies. I can’t help but giggle. That satisfying thwack deserves an encore.
“What the fuck?” he cries out, his voice cracking as he lifts his arms to shield his face. He actually starts backing away.