I shook my head. “You would have held her at a distance to discourage her interest. She probably thinks that if she can get close to you, you’ll fall for her.”
“I highly doubt it. But it’s a moot point, since I have no interest in her. The only woman I want is sitting right in front of me.” His eyes glittered. “And she’s all mine.”
I tilted my head. “I wouldn’t have had you down as the possessive type.”
“No, neither would I.” He drank more wine. “How did the meeting go at your mother’s house?”
“Pretty much as I’d expected. Clear still wants me to move in with her, which I can’t do. I’d be putting her in danger.” My brow furrowed. “She said that Linton hasn’t been bothering her much. Just leaving her voicemails. She hasn’t come face-to-face with him in a while.”
Blake twisted his mouth. “So his main focus is you.”
“If he’s really writing that book he mentioned to me, he should be more interested in speaking with Clear. Linton said he finds it interesting that Michael is a model prisoner, and he believes that she keeps him stable in some way and that she’s even ‘fixed’ him to an extent. Linton thinks I helped her with that.”
“Maybe you did.”
Yeah, well, I didn’t like to think about that. “Linton also finds it interesting that I’m involved with you—someone who he thinks is, like Michael, emotionally unavailable.” I expected Blake to be offended at being mentioned in the same breath as a sociopath, but he was too busy staring at me thoughtfully.
“You don’t like to think you’ve had a positive impact on Michael,” he sensed.
It was instinct to say nothing and just shrug noncommittally, but I didn’t do that this time. We’d agreed to try ‘more.’ I had to do my part. “No, I don’t.”
He cocked his head. “Why does the idea bother you?”
“Who would like to think that a sociopath has formed an attachment to them?”
Blake’s perceptive eyes flashed with something soft. “It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you if he has.”
It was no surprise that he’d seen right to the heart of the issue. I drained my glass. “Ever since I was a kid, my mom told me she couldn’t survive without me. And I knew she meant it. Knew she was so fragile that she literally needed me as much as she needed oxygen to breathe. I’m sure she thought it was supposed to make me feel treasured. It didn’t. It was like a weight.” I thrust a hand through my hair. “It’s terrifying, especially to a child, to know that another person’s emotional stability rests on you that way. Is it wrong that sometimes I’m actually grateful that she has Michael, so that someone else shares the burden?”
“It’s not wrong. It’s human.” Blake rounded the island and turned my stool so I was facing him. He insinuated himself between my thighs and rested his hands on them. “You’ve told me about her bubble. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to have someone in your life who you can never quite reach—it must have made you lonely at times. And I’m sure it’s even harder that that same someone has made choices that complicated your life in ways she blinds herself to. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could hate her, but you can’t. You don’t. It would be hard not to feel pity for someone who can only feel safe when in her little bubble.”
I nodded. “And who am I to judge her for that? I live in my own bubble sometimes, don’t I? When I write, I go to a place where things are in my control. A place that’s not real. A place where I’m safe. In some ways, that must be relatively similar to what Clear does.”
“That’s different, and it’s not the sole reason you write books. You explained to me that you write because you have to write—it’s almost an inherent part of your identity. It serves as an escape, yes, but it’s only a temporary one. You come back. You choose to live in the real world. She just can’t.”
I gestured from me to him. “This is weird.”
“What?”
“Having deep conversations with you. In a very short period of time, we’ve gone from keeping things simple to … this—having serious talks. In your apartment. Where I’ll be staying the night. We sort of slammed on the acceleration pedal.”
He shrugged. “I don’t do things halfway, Kensey.” He twirled a strand of my hair around his finger. “I like hearing about your life. I live having you here. I like that I’ll get to wake you up in the morning by shoving my cock inside you. I don’t see a problem.”
When he put it like that, neither did I.
“After this mess has been cleared up, I’ll be going on the occasional business trip again—some will be overnight stays, some will last longer. I won’t get as much time with you then, but we’ll never go back to only seeing each other at weekends. I want more. You want more. Why move at a certain pace simply because it’s what other people do? We’re not other people.”
Although that made sense, it still worried me that he might feel crowded at some point. “You have to tell me if you miss your alone time and you feel like I’m taking up too much space in your life.”
He lightly nipped my lower lip. “You don’t take up the space. You fit into it.” He sounded as surprised by that as I was.
“You say some pretty nice stuff sometimes.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered.
“I wouldn’t dream of ruining your street cred.”
With a chuckle, he scooped me up and took me to bed.
Again, I woke to muffled voices. No, it was just one voice, I realized. Just Blake’s. And he sounded irritated.
I edged out of the bed and slipped on his shirt as I quietly padded out of the room. He was sitting on the top step of the spiral staircase, his bare back to me.
“I know, I know … And he loved you too.” Blake sighed. “He didn’t leave you. He didn’t leave anyone. What he did wasn’t about us … She is paying for it, Tara. And she’ll continue to pay for it.”
Tara. My upper lip curled. Was I at all impressed to find he’d left me in bed to go talk to that heifer? No, not at all.
His broad shoulders stiffened. “I don’t need her to pay for what happened between me and her—it wasn’t me she hurt,” he said, voice flat.
My stomach plummeted. Oh shit, what had the bitch in question done?
“Well, of course I don’t talk about it. Why the fuck would I want to talk about it?” His shoulders lifted as he breathed deep. “I’m not holding in anything. There’s just nothing to say. Now, drop it, Tara … Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t cry.” He bit out a soft curse. “What bar are you in?”
Wait, she’d called him from a bar? Drunk?
“Stay right there. Rossi will pick you up and take you home.” He sighed impatiently. “No, not me.”
Definitely not freaking him.
“Then Rossi will drop you at a friend’s house.” Another impatient sigh. “No, not here.”
Definitely not freaking here.
“For one thing, I’m not the comforting type. For another, I have Kensey with me … Why is it surprising? I told you, she’s mine.” He rubbed at his nape. “Not yet, no. I’ll tell her in my own time.” His back went ramrod straight. “Who the fuck fed you that shit? Libby Williams, I’m guessing.”
That hoe would never learn, would she? I silently and slowly crossed to Blake.
“Kensey’s none of those things,” he clipped. “Yes, I do know that for a fact.” A low growl rumbled out of him. “Careful, Tara, you’re crossing a line here. Don’t ever insult what’s mine and expect to—”
I snatched the phone out of his hand and put it to my ear. Blake shot to his feet and turned, but I cast him a look that warned him not to interfere. “Hello, Tara,” I said, voice hard. “Having a drunken pity party, are we?”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “I don’t wanna talk to you,” she slurred.
“That’s good, because I don’t want to talk to you either. But you will hear me when I say that you do not call Blake ever again in the middle of the night trying to lure him to
you with crocodile fucking tears.”
“This’s none of your business.” The garble was laced with loathing.
“You made it my business when you started talking smack about me.”
“You won’t last. I’m the only woman in his life who ever has.”
“Good for you.”
“You don’t even know him. You think you do, but you don’t. Nu-uh. But I do.”
That dart hit its mark. I met his eyes as I allowed, “Maybe you’re right. But I know what he looks like when he comes. Can you say the same?” I inwardly smiled at her hiss. “Don’t pull this shit again.” With that, I ended the call and threw the phone back to Blake. Before he could say a word, I spun on my heel and marched back into the bedroom.
I was mad enough to yank my clothes on and walk the hell out. I liked to be alone when I was pissed anyway. But that would give Tara power, wouldn’t it? She’d just freaking love to hear that her midnight call caused a blowout. So, instead, I flung myself on the bed. Flat on my stomach, I hugged the pillow and closed my eyes.
As I lay there wishing all manner of diseases, deficiencies, and the worst hangover ever on Tara, it occurred to me that her calling Blake with crap about me was slightly similar to Cade coming to me earlier with a vague warning about Blake. But Cade hadn’t tried to poison my mind against him; Cade had even claimed to be partly glad that I had Blake in my life. Cade had even assured me that he thought I was safe with Blake. Cade had been looking out for me whereas Tara was just being a bitch.
Blake crawled up the bed, hovering over me. “How pissed are you?”
“Let’s see … Imagine you woke up to realize I’d left you in bed to take a call from Cade, who was trying to lure me to him, and then he talked shit about you when I refused to go. How would you be feeling, I wonder.”
Blake kissed my hair. “I only left the bed because I didn’t want to wake you. Tara’s what you’d call an ugly drunk. She either cries or gets bitchy. Tonight, she did both. Tomorrow, she’ll do what she always does the day after she fucks up like that—she’ll turn up, mortified, and apologize profusely.”
I huffed. “Maybe you’ll be interested in hearing a false apology, but I won’t.”
“She’s not a bad person, she just …” He sighed. “She’s never been able to move past her brother’s death.”
“The one who committed suicide?”
There was a long moment of silence. “Yeah.”
“What was his name?” I asked. I didn’t look at him, thinking he might find it easier to speak of it if there was no eye contact.
Blake lowered his body over mine, bracing himself on his elbows and giving me most of his weight. “Levi.”
“Why did he do it?”
“He was depressed. Someone …” Blake nudged my hair away from nape with his chin and kissed it gently. “Someone he thought loved him … just didn’t. They hurt him. He couldn’t take it.”
“And this person also hurt you?”
“Hurt me? No. But she made me fucking pissed.”
“Is this the same person you were with when you were a teenager?”
His teeth raked my nape. “Yes.”
“So she played you both or something?”
“Or something.”
I sighed, annoyed. “Why do you have to be so mysterious about it?”
He rubbed his cheek against mine. “Talking about it takes me to a dark place. I don’t want to go there right now.”
I turned my head to meet his eyes—they were so disturbingly blank that my skin itched. “All right. No more.” For tonight.
He rolled me onto my back, and then he was kissing me. Touching me. Driving me to a fever pitch of need. Only then, when I was embarrassingly wet, did he slide inside me.
His eyes pinned mine. “Just so we’re clear … If Cade ever called you in the middle of the night and pulled that shit, I’d break his fucking ribs. I keep what belongs to me. I won’t give you up to him or anyone else.”
Each thrust was torturously slow and amazingly deep. It wasn’t until I exploded around him with a choked cry that he upped his pace, pounding into me hard and fast. And then I came again, and he was right behind me.
Rolling off me, he placed a restraining hand on my stomach and said, “Stay. I want you to sleep with my come in you.”
“That won’t happen.” As soon as I could feel my legs, I’d be in that bathroom. And then, as fingers brushed my hair away from my face and a soft mouth whispered over mine, I felt sleep pull me under.
The bell above my head chimed as I stepped into the bakery the next morning. The mouth-watering scents of pastries, fresh bread, and spices wrapped around me, but they didn’t put me at ease. Not when I had a meeting with a certain someone who was waiting for me at a corner table.
He looked relieved to see me. Probably thought I’d be a no-show, given that I was ten minutes late. Naturally, I wasn’t so pleased to see him. At best, Linton was a pest. At worst, he was Smith. Either way, I didn’t want to be around him.
Still, I briefly chatted with Bill Taylor as I selected a muffin from the glass case at the counter. I then made my way to the small seating area near the rear windows.
With a polite smile, Linton stood as I reached his table. “Good morning. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, taking the chair opposite him. For a short while, we just stared at each other. The bakery was pretty quiet, since we’d skipped the morning rush. Around us, people murmured, oven timers beeped, and dough tumbled in the mixer.
“I’m glad you came,” he finally said.
The stiff wax paper crackled as I peeled it away from my muffin. “You’re not eating anything?”
“No.” He patted his slightly rounded stomach. “I need to watch my figure.”
Well, I didn’t intend to watch mine—muffins and pastries were good for the soul, in my opinion.
Joining his hands as if in prayer, he leaned forward. “I thank you for coming to meet me. I realize you’re not fond of interviews. I have to say, it deeply surprised me that you agreed to meet with me.” There was a question there, but I ignored it. He gave me a quick smile. “As I’ve already explained, I’m interested in the relationship between you and your stepfather. I don’t merely wish to write about his crimes and background. I want to write about the person he is today. Of course, it’s difficult to do that when he doesn’t wish to be interviewed.”
I bit into my muffin and almost groaned. It practically melted in my mouth, along with the little chunks of rich chocolate.
“Most believe that people aren’t born sociopaths; that a number of factors make them become that way,” Linton went on. “It’s a belief that I share. I’ve always wondered if they could un-become sociopaths. They were once—at least to some extent—well-adjusted people. Something changed them. Can they not change back? If average people can change, maybe they can too. In the beginning, Michael Bale was happy to do interviews and talk of his ‘work.’ He liked the attention. Liked to stir things up among the other inmates. He was thrown in solitary many times.”
That wasn’t anything I didn’t already know. Instead of saying as much, I concentrated on my muffin.
“But then you and your mother came along, and he changed—or his behavior changed. He refused to do interviews or anything that would put his name in the spotlight, and he did it to protect you from that attention. The guards tell me he’s polite and composed. They said he follows the rules and doesn’t cause a fuss. He doesn’t send letters to other female fans and groupies who profess their love to him, which shows loyalty to your mother.”
He paused, and I knew he was waiting for me to comment on that. I didn’t.
“Whether having a ‘family’ has truly changed him or not, I don’t know. The fact remains that—at the very least—he made the decision to be someone different. And I have to ask myself what it is about you and your mother that a murderous sociopath would form such an intense atta
chment to you.”
That was a question I’d asked myself several times. I’d never come up with an answer. “I’m assuming you have a theory,” I said before taking another bite out of my muffin.
“I’m sure that you see the correlation between your mother and his own. They were both placed in a difficult position. One kept and cared for their child, but the other neglected and then sold theirs to very sick people. Perhaps Clear, by being the very mother he wished he’d had, soothes the angry, unloved child in him. Or perhaps he sees some of himself in her—if my research led me right, they’re both victims of abuse, both unaccepted for who they are, and both damaged in their own way. Perhaps it is something else. Without speaking to your mother and learning about their relationship, it’s very difficult to reach any sort of conclusion.”
Done with my muffin, I used a napkin to wipe the crumbs from my fingers and mouth. “She won’t speak to you, so you’ll need to be content with theorizing.”
“As for your relationship with him, Kensey, that is also difficult to fully understand. Originally, I assumed he felt he could relate to you because you were both rejected by a parent. I assumed he protected you in the same way he wished someone had protected him—that he was righting a wrong, in some sense. Michael is, after all, a seeker of justice.”
“But you no longer think that?”
“The way he speaks of you … it is far too paternal to be something as simple as being able to relate to you. It is more. There’s never been anyone in his life who he needed to protect or care for. Never been anyone who relied on him in any sense of the word. Without connections or bonds, people can feel like they are floating. Like they have no value or reason for being.”
Linton paused, eyes narrowing. “Then there was you. As a child, you were vulnerable and unable to take care of yourself. For the first time, Michael was needed. He was necessary to someone. There was a little person who now relied on him to be there for them in whatever ways he could be. By being his daughter, I believe you give him … purpose, shall we say? You give him a reason for being. As such, it should be a selfish love that he feels for you. But it’s not. Michael cares for you about as much as he’s capable of caring for someone. His ‘role’ in life shifted from being an avenger to a father. And it truly does make me wonder if Michael could now live a normal life. A life that didn’t include compulsions to kill. A life of a family man.”