When my father said that I have a train brain, it had absolutely nothing to do with how much I actually love trains.
My train brain doesn’t reverse. Ever. Once it’s moving forward, it just keeps going. There are no regrets. No going back and definitely no retracting what I fucking said or did.
So now, I have a train life, one that’s only focused on getting shit done and moving on to the next thing, then the one after that, and so on. That’s how my train brain works.
Forward.
Outward.
Nothing is kept inward. Otherwise, it’ll rot and cause my downfall.
Now is no different. The present and the past are only a step for the future. A stop, a station. They’re not what I should be focused on and I certainly shouldn’t be thinking about her fucking words. The words that she shouldn’t have said in that sultry voice that I want to hear say fucked-up things.
I don’t want safe and boring.
That’s what started it all. That’s what brought us to this moment where she’s staring at me as if I’m the big bad wolf from her favorite fairy tale. Even though it used to scare her, she wanted to hear the story over and over again, because that’s what Gwyneth does. Instead of running away like normal people do, she stands in front of what scares her and looks at it—or him—with those chameleon eyes.
I want to see what makes them that way, she used to say. Everyone has a reason, right?
And now, I’m the one she’s focused on. The one she obviously fears—or is at least apprehensive of. But she still willingly stands in the path of my destruction.
When I drove her back to the house, she didn’t stop her scrutinizing either. Her inquisitive eyes kept watching, observing, as if waiting for some sort of a sign.
What exactly, I have no fucking clue.
We’re now in front of King’s house. We agreed that I’ll be moving in, not only because we can’t leave this place empty, but I also don’t want her alone after everything that’s happened.
However, she doesn’t know that piece of information, and she never will.
“Go get some sleep,” I tell her.
She faces me with a slight furrow in her brows. “How do you know I didn’t sleep last night? I looked at myself in the rearview mirror, and I don’t have dark circles.”
“You have tremors.”
“Tremors?”
I tip my chin at her hands. Her fingers are shaking slightly, even though they’re lying inert at either side of her.
She lifts them up and stares at them under the sun, her lips falling open the slightest bit. And I want to jam my fingers in there, open her mouth wide with them and order her to suck on them.
I clench my fist.
What the fuck am I thinking about? In King’s house? About his daughter?
It’s those damn words. She shouldn’t have said them. She shouldn’t have confessed that she doesn’t want safe and boring. That’s what girls like her are supposed to want. Fucking safe and fucking boring. It’s predictable and with a known result.
This whole new thing isn’t.
“Oh. I didn’t notice that.” She lets her arms fall. “How did you?”
“How did I what?”
“Notice my tremors when I haven’t?”
“Because you were doing it when we were at City Hall.” Lie. It’s barely noticeable unless you look close—really fucking close.
“I was?”
I nod but don’t say anything else. She keeps watching me, though, as if waiting for my words. When they don’t come, she wipes her palm on her denim shorts.
“So what happens now?” she asks in that tone again, in that fucking bright and lively and damn curious tone.
“Now you go to sleep and I go back to the firm.”
“And after that?”
“After that, you’ll wake up and eat something. Actually, do that now. Eat before you sleep.”
“You give a lot of orders, did you know that?”
“And you do a lot of talking back.”
“Because you’re so inflexible. Someone has to lighten up the mood a little.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“If you want.”
“Do you see me laughing?”
She throws a dismissive hand in the air. “I never see you laugh, Nate. So the problem is you, not me. Anyway, what happens after I wake up and eat and go to visit Dad and you come back from work?”
“What do you think will happen?” I’m treading on dangerously thin ice, but I can’t ignore the light shining through the greenish part of her eyes, the playfulness in it. But even that is darkening now as she gulps audibly, the sound carrying through the air.
“I…don’t know.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“No.”
“That should mean nothing will happen.”
“But you said something about me being fucked. I heard it. And I also heard the other thing.”
“The other thing?”
She bites her lower lip. Hard. I’m surprised it doesn’t start bleeding. “You know.”
“Say it.”
“I…can’t.”
“See. This is why I told you to go back to safe and boring.”
“I said I don’t want that. If I did, I wouldn’t have kissed you two years ago.”
At the mention of that, memories of her lips against mine rush back in. It’s a myriad of hazy things, like her body against mine and her scent bleeding beneath my flesh.
I don’t even like kissing, but now, I can’t stop staring at her fucking lips. The lips that started it all when they shouldn’t have.
“That’s not a moment to be proud of, Gwyneth.”
“I know. I should’ve grabbed you harder so you wouldn’t have been able to push me away. But you’re strong. I’ve seen the way you work out with Dad, so I don’t think I stood a chance either way.”
I can feel the muscles clenching in my jaw and upper chest. With every word out of her mouth, she’s digging a knife into places that shouldn’t be disturbed.
“For once, you said something accurate.”
“Which part?”
“The part where you wouldn’t have stood a chance. You didn’t. You don’t. So stop playing with fire.”
“Or…what?”
I approach her predatory-like, deliberately taking my time. At first, she stands her ground, looking up at me with those ever-changing eyes. Eyes that the longer I stare into them, the stronger I’m pulled closer. It’s a fucking trance that I have no chance of warding off.
When I’m within touching distance, she steps back, one foot behind the other, matching my pace, but she’s not fast enough and trips. I catch her by the elbow and pull her toward me.
She crashes into my chest. And it’s a full-body fucking crash, where her soft curves are molded to me, her thighs touch mine, and her head is nestled against my shirt.
And is that her heartbeat or mine that’s about to rip flesh and bone?
She stares up at me as if hearing the same rhythm—the pulsing, the pulling, the tugging—and her lips are parted again. There’s a blush in her cheeks, a pink color that extends to the hollow of her throat and the shells of her ears.
And because I can’t fucking help it, I lift her chin with my thumb and forefinger, angling her head back. I do it because I want to watch her mystic eyes, the changing in them, the mixture of emotions swirling in them. But maybe I also do it because I want to touch her.
Put my hands on her.
She’s soft and small and that does fucked-up shit to me.
It shouldn’t.
It can’t happen.
But fuck if I understand that right now.
Because this, right here, this moment suspended in the middle of nowhere feels like the truest thing I’ve experienced in a very long fucking time.
But then something happens.
A full body shake takes hold of her.
And it’s not just one of the side effects of her insomnia; it’s a violent type, as if she’s about to combust. Her chin trembles, too, like when she’s scared.
Like right before she goes to hide.
What the fuck am I doing?
I release her and step back. I need to get away from her before I do something I’ll regret.
Under King’s own fucking roof.
