Strong Enough(76)

I walk quietly back toward the Colonel’s little house on the hill and I mount the steps. I don’t bother knocking, but I do notice the silence when I close the door behind me. I check the living room, which is empty, and then the kitchen, which is not. The Colonel is sitting at the island, toying with an old picture of a woman who looks remarkably like Muse.

He glances up when I stop in the doorway. We stare at each other, exchanging information without saying a word.

He glances at my bag. I heft it up as if to say Yes¸ this is what I’m doing.

He sighs and nods, knowing it’s the right choice. The only choice.

“Afterward, get out of the country.”

I nod in return.

He tips his head to indicate the space behind me. I turn to follow his silent instruction.

I walk to the first closed door I find and I knock softly. There’s no answer, so I turn the knob and push until there’s a crack big enough for me to see through.

Muse is lying facedown on the bed, unconscious. Her chin is tipped just enough toward me that I can see her relaxed expression. The other half of her face is buried in the comforter. Her fiery hair is spread out behind her like she’s on fire and running as fast as the wind.

God, she’s beautiful! I’ve never met someone who bothers me on so many levels. And I say bother because anything that upsets my carefully maintained existence is a bother. Or at least it was. Until I met her.

She’s the most mind-blowing, body-quaking bother I could ever imagine meeting. I love so many things about her that I can tick off a dozen things without even having to think. I love the way she wholeheartedly throws herself into what she feels. She doesn’t hold back. She just jumps. I love that I can turn her to putty in my hands with a simple touch or look. I love that she can stand against all my rough edges and never get cut. I love that she accepted who and what I am without all the lies I could’ve told her. And probably most and least of all, I love that, despite my resistance, she made me feel. She woke me up. She brought me to life.

But all good things must come to an end. And this is our end.

I look down at her peaceful face. Even though I want to touch her and taste her, to commit her scent and her feel to memory, I don’t want to wake her. She needs the sleep, the rest. The escape. I walk to the bedside table and ease open the drawer. There is a notepad and pen inside, which I remove. I jot her a quick note and set it on top of the black bag, which I leave on the floor right in front of her. She should see it as soon as she wakes. And if she doesn’t want to take my offer, her father will talk her into it. He’ll help her see the wisdom in it.

As for me, I didn’t get the good-bye that I’d like. Hell, I’d rather not say good-bye at all. But this is the best one I can give her. I just hope she’ll understand it.

It’s as I’m backing silently out the door that Muse wakes. She lifts her head a couple of inches and fixes her bleary eyes on me. I see confusion. When she speaks, I wonder if she’s actually awake.

“Jasper?”

“Go back to sleep,” I tell her softly.

“Don’t go,” she slurs, resting her head back in the same dip from which she raised it.

“I have to.”

“Then take me with you.”

“I can’t.”

“Please,” she whimpers, her eyes drifting shut again, like the pull of unconsciousness is more than she can fight.

“I’m a killer. There’s no place in my life for you.”

“Then don’t be a killer.”

“It’s who I am.”

Her brow crunches up a little, but her eyes are still closed. I think she’s already back asleep.

“You don’t have to be.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing. I simply wait by the door as her breathing returns to its deep, even cadence, and then I walk out of her life forever.





THIRTY-THREE


Muse

I feel like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck when I roll over in bed. Every joint is sore, every muscle is stiff and my face feels like it’s been kicked a time or two—swollen and tight.

I manage to lever myself up onto an elbow and look around. It’s daylight. I can see sunshine peeking around the closed blinds at the window. I smack my lips. My mouth is dry as a bone.

I move into a kneeling position, taking in the nearly untouched comforter. Evidently I didn’t move at all last night.

As I go to scoot off the bed, I see a black bag sitting on the floor between the door and me. A narrow white paper is perched on top. I reach forward to snag it between my thumb and forefinger, plucking it off to read what it says.

The script is neat, bold and slanted. Without even looking at the signature line, I know who wrote it. It’s as much Jasper as his tiger eyes and the scent of his skin when it’s wet.