Ghostface Killer(49)

When the last bit finally spills, Baz goes limp against my tongue. I slip his cock from between my lips as he pants raggedly, like he just dominated an Ironman competition. I glance up at him as my own chest heaves, and the look I find is startling. That removed gaze is present, but accompanying it is one of shock and wonder.

Baz doesn't release my hair, he just holds me still as his lids flutter lazily. And just before he closes his eyes for good, he whispers, "You are my quiet." Then he's gone. Transfixed in a deep, impenetrable slumber.

I just redefined the term blow your fucking brains out.





YOU ARE MY quiet.

Those were the last words Baz uttered before he fell asleep three days ago. I have wrapped them around me like a thick, warm, luxurious blanket and used them to comfort me while he recovers from-I'm not exactly sure what to call it-his mental bender? I don't even know if he's getting better. I just know I've been feeding him his meds every day at the exact same time like the note said with high hopes it will help. He barely registers the movement. He's dead weight when I try to lift him. Lost in a deep, Sleeping Beauty-like sleep. And my kisses definitely don't break the spell.

I've used my alone time to get familiar with the house. Now that I'm not on my death bed, I've explored. Not that there's been much to discover. It's just a nice, big house in the middle of frickin' nowhere. Baz seems to like the middle of nowhere. There's plenty of food in the fridge, which the little demon is grateful for, and plenty of firewood next to the hearth, which I am grateful for. There's no TV, radio, or car, and I can't find Baz's phone, so I've just been staring off into space, watching the dancing flames of the fire the last few days, waiting for him to wake up. Seclusion sucks.

I did manage to find some underwear. They're Baz's boxer briefs, but at least they cover my ass from the draft. I have to fold them over then roll them down just so they stay on my waist.




 

 

It's getting close to sunset, and the clock is telling me it's almost time to visit Baz, but the sound of heavy footsteps above me and the screech of the shower pipes tell me he's finally up.

I shouldn't be so nervous at this revelation, but I am. Who is the person in that shower? I have no idea, and that's an ominous thing. I want the rational Baz back. I want someone I can talk to. Get through to. Recalling the way he shot at me in Colorado, I wonder if he was ever reasonable at all.

The shower runs for close to an hour. I just sit in the living room alone, listening, wrapped up in a blanket on the bearskin rug, leaning against the couch. I don't want to fight anymore. I just want . . . want . . . I don't know exactly what I want. I just know I don't want to fight.

Baz pads all over the second floor. What he's doing, I couldn't tell you. It's a long while before I hear him make his way down the stairs.

My heart beats in tandem with his every step. Who will I encounter? Will he be enraged? Or reasonable? Pissed or appreciative?

When he rounds the corner into the living room, my jaw drops. It's the only part of me that moves. His worried eyes find mine, and he cautiously saunters toward me. This Baz is completely new.

Gone is the unkempt, scraggly beard and messy hair. In its place is a cleanly shaven face and tight, neat man bun.

I've never seen this Baz before. Never seen every single facial feature the way I see it now. Unobstructed. Unhindered. Bare for all to witness. Words fucking fail me as his stride slows. As he comes to stand a mere foot away. I catch a whiff of that earthy scent, and I'm knocked in the face with titillating memories. Memories of us, before circumstance tainted us. My stomach flips, and I place my hand over it. I swear the baby knows. He knows his daddy is present.

"Hey." Baz clears his throat uncomfortably as he stands there shirtless, his grey sweatpants hanging temptingly off his hips. I'm sure he isn't trying to be sexy, but fuck me, he so is.

"Hey," I echo back from my seat on the floor. The fire crackling loudly behind me.

The silence between us stretches for miles. I would speak, but I don't want to say the wrong thing, so I wait for Baz.

His unease is evitable. "Stevie, I . . ." He trails off, digging his fingers into the strands of his neatly pulled back hair. A piece falls in front of his face, and when he looks at me, really looks at me, I see Baz. I see the eyes that caught my sprinting spirit. The eyes that bridled a wild stallion's untamable heart. I see warmth and affection and humanity.

I see Baz.

"Don't," I cut in, my emotions firing on all cylinders.

"Stevie, I need to explain." 

"No, we need to talk."

"How much do you hate me?" he spontaneously asks. The look on his face is desolate. Desperate. He thinks I hate him? Well, maybe I should. He did try to kill me, twice. But I don't. Not in the least bit.