have all that.
He was a pastor, after all. And he wouldn’t take those things without love and commitment—and God help him, honesty—underscoring all of it.
Would he?
Oh, but she was right there. She was so close.
He leaned forward and her eyes flew open. There were scant inches between them. He could feel her breath on his skin, sweet and warm. He inhaled, moving his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck. Her eyes dropped to his lips.
“My brother and I had matching tattoos,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. Something about her had him determined to speak the truth. He pulled her body closer to his. He wanted her to feel his heat, to feel his desperation and the darkness of his past. He wanted her feel it and know the visceral facts of it and run far away from him.
She should run.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her gaze unflinching.
“What happened?” she asked.
He let himself feel the fire of hot want for her. He let the past come back so that its blackness could cover them both, and so she would know the truth of who he was. And leave him alone—forever.
“We repaired old cars together,” he said, his voice low and full of an edge that sounded like pain, “and called it Phoenix Autobody because we said it was like getting old junkers to rise from the flames again. And my brother, Shawn, he was good at it. So was I. We got the tattoos because that business—that was what we were going to do. The two of us, working side by side as brothers and as best friends.”
He took a breath. Betty tightened her arms around him. “And?” she asked.
“ And the only problem was that we didn’t just fix cars. We drank. Hard. We partied and we lived life like it was something we had to conquer. We were young and full of ourselves, and for a second there, it was glorious.” He could still feel the wild, reckless abandon of it, and the joy that had come from living life hard, with no restraints.
He shifted. Betty held on. He inhaled her scent and forced himself to go on. To tell her all of it.
So that when he was done, she could get away from him.
“Until,” he said quietly, “our older brother Gus held an intervention. He was in med school at the time, he was always such a good kid, and he wanted to help us. I blew him off, but Shawn listened, and he decided enough was enough. He started to go to some AA meetings with Gus’s help and it was like—well, I wasn’t there yet. I wanted to keep going, to keep partying and never stop. I wanted us to be wild brothers together. I didn’t know how to be anything else. I loved him, and I loved our reckless life. We were—this sounds nuts—but we were like legends in our hometown up on the Iron Range.”
“Tell me,” Betty whispered, her lips nearly grazing his. “Tell me what happened.”
He almost took her then. He almost brought his hot, searing lust down on her and ripped at the tights on her legs to put something between them besides this story. To distract them both with lust and desire. But he steeled his resolve and forced himself to finish the story.
“There was a Camaro,” he said finally, “that we’d been working on. We’d just about finished up on it, and I took it for a spin. I’d had, I don’t know, five or so beers by then. I was eating up the back roads, blasting the stereo, and feeling like a king. I was thinking, screw Shawn, and I was wondering if maybe I should go into business for myself. I knew I was good, but more than that, Shawn was ripping me up inside. He was nagging me about things constantly once he started AA—about my messes, about being on time and not hungover for things—and I was sick of it. More to the point, I was hurt by it. Like he suddenly thought he was better than me or something. And honestly, at that time, I couldn’t find any middle ground when it came to him. Like either we were two halves of the same person, or he was a stranger to me and I hated
He was a pastor, after all. And he wouldn’t take those things without love and commitment—and God help him, honesty—underscoring all of it.
Would he?
Oh, but she was right there. She was so close.
He leaned forward and her eyes flew open. There were scant inches between them. He could feel her breath on his skin, sweet and warm. He inhaled, moving his hand from her cheek to the back of her neck. Her eyes dropped to his lips.
“My brother and I had matching tattoos,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. Something about her had him determined to speak the truth. He pulled her body closer to his. He wanted her to feel his heat, to feel his desperation and the darkness of his past. He wanted her feel it and know the visceral facts of it and run far away from him.
She should run.
Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her gaze unflinching.
“What happened?” she asked.
He let himself feel the fire of hot want for her. He let the past come back so that its blackness could cover them both, and so she would know the truth of who he was. And leave him alone—forever.
“We repaired old cars together,” he said, his voice low and full of an edge that sounded like pain, “and called it Phoenix Autobody because we said it was like getting old junkers to rise from the flames again. And my brother, Shawn, he was good at it. So was I. We got the tattoos because that business—that was what we were going to do. The two of us, working side by side as brothers and as best friends.”
He took a breath. Betty tightened her arms around him. “And?” she asked.
“ And the only problem was that we didn’t just fix cars. We drank. Hard. We partied and we lived life like it was something we had to conquer. We were young and full of ourselves, and for a second there, it was glorious.” He could still feel the wild, reckless abandon of it, and the joy that had come from living life hard, with no restraints.
He shifted. Betty held on. He inhaled her scent and forced himself to go on. To tell her all of it.
So that when he was done, she could get away from him.
“Until,” he said quietly, “our older brother Gus held an intervention. He was in med school at the time, he was always such a good kid, and he wanted to help us. I blew him off, but Shawn listened, and he decided enough was enough. He started to go to some AA meetings with Gus’s help and it was like—well, I wasn’t there yet. I wanted to keep going, to keep partying and never stop. I wanted us to be wild brothers together. I didn’t know how to be anything else. I loved him, and I loved our reckless life. We were—this sounds nuts—but we were like legends in our hometown up on the Iron Range.”
“Tell me,” Betty whispered, her lips nearly grazing his. “Tell me what happened.”
He almost took her then. He almost brought his hot, searing lust down on her and ripped at the tights on her legs to put something between them besides this story. To distract them both with lust and desire. But he steeled his resolve and forced himself to finish the story.
“There was a Camaro,” he said finally, “that we’d been working on. We’d just about finished up on it, and I took it for a spin. I’d had, I don’t know, five or so beers by then. I was eating up the back roads, blasting the stereo, and feeling like a king. I was thinking, screw Shawn, and I was wondering if maybe I should go into business for myself. I knew I was good, but more than that, Shawn was ripping me up inside. He was nagging me about things constantly once he started AA—about my messes, about being on time and not hungover for things—and I was sick of it. More to the point, I was hurt by it. Like he suddenly thought he was better than me or something. And honestly, at that time, I couldn’t find any middle ground when it came to him. Like either we were two halves of the same person, or he was a stranger to me and I hated
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