don’t bother explaining who “she” is to North. He’ll know.
He answers quick enough.
No. Check the feeds.
The house has cameras set up by the front door, along the driveway, and all around the front gates. Even though only North and I can access the feed, I refuse to put cameras anywhere else. Instantly, I’m reminded that Delilah is out there and so is one of the women who stalked me.
If Delilah were accosted or hurt by a stalker obsessed with me, I don’t know what I’d do. The air in my lungs grows thin. My thumbs shake as I type.
She was supposed to stay home. She was supposed to be guarded.
Mathias is watching Fredericks. She won’t get anywhere near Delilah.
Cold comfort when the house is empty, and I don’t know where Delilah has gone. I don’t care if it’s spying; I pull up the feed. And there she is, looking edible in a clinging wrap dress and wearing those red fuck-me heels again. She went out shortly after I did; it’s one o’clock in the morning now. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I told her I was going out all night, making it pretty damn clear I was hooking up with someone, and did she stick around, get jealous? No. She went out on her own. As she should. Only, now I’m home alone, and I feel like a fool. For many reasons.
I don’t have a name for the emotions roiling around in my gut, but I don’t like them. Setting down my phone, I close my eyes and breathe. I have to believe she’s safe. Doesn’t stop the other thoughts from crashing in.
Never in my life do I regret my youth more than at this moment. I bullied Delilah out of fear and ignorance. There’s no excuse for it, and I have no idea how to make up for what I’ve done. But I have to because this need for her is only growing stronger, deeper. I care for her. A lot.
Everything could go up in flames if things go south between us, and I’ll lose her completely. But sitting here in the dark, waiting for her to come home just so I know she’s safe, just so I can hear her voice and see her face, makes it perfectly clear that I can’t keep pretending that I don’t care.
Question is, does she want me? I’ve caught her staring when she thought I wasn’t looking. She doesn’t seem to realize I feel her gaze on me like a hot hand stroking my skin. Every. Damn. Time.
I think of the way she snuggled into my lap with complete trust and contentment. It was a moment of perfect rightness. Had it felt that way to her? Maybe. Maybe not. Once she realized what she’d done, she lit out of there as if her ass was on fire.
“What am I doing?” My voice is a rasp in the dark. I press a hand over my aching eyes, soaking up the warmth.
I don’t chase women. I am a loner. It works for me. If I let people in, they might see something they don’t like. Delilah already sees things wrong with me. She always has. And here I am contemplating laying down my pride for her. When pride is the only thing that has kept me going, I have to wonder if it’s worth it.
Delilah
The Uber drops me off at the doorstep. The windows are darkened; only the front drive and hall lights that I left on are glowing. The sight of it almost enough to sober me up and take away my happy buzz.
But no, I’m not going to think of him. Nope. Nope-ity-nope-nope.
I let myself in and am greeted with the silence of an empty house. The unwelcome thought of where Macon is sits heavy in my stomach. Leaning on the wall for support, I kick off my heels, one of them flying farther than intended. It pings on a wall, and I snort before stumbling toward the kitchen. I need to drink some water to head off a hangover.
To combat the awful quiet, I start singing “Comfortably Numb” again, snickering between lyrics because I know how goofy I sound.
“Are you singing Pink Floyd?”
Macon’s deep voice coming from the dark has me yelping loudly. I spin so fast I have to grab one of the columns that frame the great room so I don’t fall on my ass.
Macon sits in a low-slung armchair by the window, the light of the moon