Page 40 of Proof Of Life
“Can’t we just drive through somewhere and head home?”
“No, I’m sick of that. We’re gonna go sit in a restaurant like normal people and have a meal and a conversation.”
“Easy for you to say, your life hasn’t changed,” he sulks.
“Why, because you have half a leg? There’s nothing you can’t do with that leg, except cut the toenails on it. You can still shower, work out, do laundry, shoot a gun, and fuck. Having half a leg doesn’t stop you from doing anything.”
“Says the man who still has both.”
“So the fuck what. What are you afraid of? Some loser in a bar who says hey, did you know you only have one leg?” He gives me a well, duh look and I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “Well, do the fucking math, man, you do. You’ve got one and a half legs, big fucking deal.”
I’ve realized with West, being blunt and insensitive is the only way to get through to him when he acts like a toddler. His ‘poor me’ routine is wearing thin on my patience.
“Can you just give me a fucking minute to grieve,” he sputters.
“I did. It’s time you get off your ungrateful ass and return to the land of the living.”
He doesn’t say another word until I pull up in front of the store and park the Jeep.
“Are you kidding me? Fucking Hobby Lobby? Absolutely not!”
Through my laughter, I spit out, “I thought we could pick out some pretty blue yarn to match my eyes.” West gives me his signature what-the-fuck expression that I love so much. “Get your ass out of the Jeep. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can go eat.”
Minutes later, we’re standing in the aisle, surrounded by colorful skeins of yarn, and I’m convinced West is figuring out how to stab me with the needles. I’m going to have to confiscate them in between group sessions for my own safety.
“I think this is a lovely shade of pink. You could do something great with this,” I suggest, knowing he hates me even more.
“You’re a dick. You can take that lovely shade of pink and shove it up your–” he swallows the rest of his threat when a soccer mom type enters our aisle with a bright smile. His face and neck flush red, and I’m dying to whip out my phone and take a picture. Instead, I give him a cocky smirk, and for the first time today, I see a hint of a smile cross his face.
He’s so fucking beautiful when he smiles.
I’m going to spend the rest of the day making sure I get at least two more from him.
Iroll to my right side and reach out blindly in the dark.
When my hand connects with his shoulder, I shake him until he quiets down. Brandt is caught in the throes of a nightmare, no doubt reliving that day. I’ve relived it a hundred times in a hundred different scenarios, but they always end the same—bloody. They end in death.
I don’t want to wake him because then he won’t go back to sleep. There’s no use in both of us being insomniacs. Some nights I can close my eyes easily and manage a couple hours of sleep until they find me in my dreams. Micah, Tommy, and Rosie, they always find me.
Other nights, like tonight, I’m afraid to close my eyes, even for a second. Others I’ve lost in the past have now worked their way into my worst nightmares, joining the death squad—The Street Sweepers. It’s completely illogical, but try telling that to my subconscious mind.
Something outside sets off the motion-sensor floodlight, probably a squirrel or a rabbit, and sends white light shining through the sliding glass door of my bedroom. It spills across Brandt’s prone body, illuminating the harsh angles of his face. Casting shadows. The light plays off his nipple, and it calls to me. I don’t think I’ve ever paid attention to them before, but ever since we’ve begun exploring each other lately, I find myself paying closer attention. I study his face for long minutes, realizing that he’s actually quite beautiful. That mole above his lip has become almost lickable.
I’ve noticed he has a fine ass. If I were looking at it objectively, not belonging to a man or a woman, I could say it was also lickable. Knowing that it belongs to Brandt? Well, it might still be lickable. Smooth and firm, rounded like a bubble, and surprisingly hairless. And now his nipples. They’re small, like the size of a dime, and dark brown. I have the strangest urge to run my tongue across it and watch it harden.
But if he wakes up, I’d have to explain myself, and I’m not ready for that—not yet. The wires in my head are crossed, the signals are completely mixed up, and I know that I want him, but I can’t admit it because I’m not ready to follow through, and I don’t want to be a tease. Brandt deserves better than that, even from me.
Especially from me.
So softly, I drag the pad of my thumb across the tight peak, feeling it pebble beneath my touch. I’m dying to taste it. I want to know if it tastes or feels different from a woman. Would I feel different with my lips wrapped around it?
From his nipple, I trace down the valley of his pecs, through the faint dusting of dark hair, over numerous shrapnel scars, some still healing, until my fingertip dips into his warm navel. Brandt stirs, and I’m tempted to continue further south, but with a sigh, I roll away and sit up, maneuvering my leg over the edge of the bed. It only takes minutes to slide the protective sleeve over my stump and attach my prosthesis. As silently as I can, I move to the kitchen in search of a snack.
I’m halfway through a ham sandwich when he sneaks up behind me, making me choke on a mouthful of bread and cold cuts.
“The fuck? Shit, Reaper!”
He just laughs and jumps up on the counter, his legs dangling. “Some team leader you are. I got the jump on you in your own kitchen.”