The Resistance(37)
His fingers thrust, eliciting every desire I tried to hide, the emotions that have been blooming inside. I will always be his angel. Though we’ll leave this room, our own little world created in the middle of desert chaos, we will have the memories. In this space, I own all of Jack Dalton and have tamed Johnny Outlaw. In this space, I’ve rid his life of demons and showed him Heaven. With his hands on my body and his lips to my skin, I convince myself this will be enough.
I can’t stay still, everything feeling too good, almost to the point of overwhelming, so I give into it all and free fall. When I resurface, the blurry lines of reality sharpen. My eyes meet Dalton’s clear greens and I see a smile that can rule the world—maybe it already does. Mine for sure.
“That was amazing,” I say, still a little breathless.
He kisses me on the forehead, then says, “You’re amazing to watch.”
My body is already heated from the hot water splashing down and the sexual adventures, and now my cheeks flame under his sweet attention and words.
“I like seeing you blush. It’s sexy.”
“I don’t blush for just anyone, you know.”
“I’m counting on that.”
Grabbing the body wash, I squeeze some into our palms, and smile at him. “Saying such things might give me the wrong impression. I might actually start to think you like me.”
Lathering my chest, he pays special attention to my breasts, rubbing until they’re nice and soapy. His hand slides down my stomach and between my legs again. His lips touch mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. “I more than like you, Holliday. If I could give you more, I would.”
My knees go weak as my heart starts pounding in my chest. When I look up, I know my expression is filled with questions and hope, but I feel fragile for letting him see that side.
He stands straight up and smiles. “Don’t get all weird on me, okay? So I like you more than a little.”
“But less than a lot?”
We rinse our bodies off, and he whispers, “More than a lot.”
Standing behind him, I kiss his back three times, satisfied with ‘more than a lot.’
“Revelations are hard to come by, but when you do have one, they’re usually worth the wait.” ~Johnny Outlaw
The Bugles are gone, the Slim Jim devoured after we had sex on the couch. The Twix remains and I’m not liking the cunning look in Dalton’s eyes, so I settle the issue. “The Twix is mine.”
“I thought we were sharing everything?”
“You said you wanted the Slim Jim.”
“But you ate half of it,” he states, crossing his arms over chest.
He’s got me there. “Good point.” I walk inside to the bar and grab the Twix from the counter. When I return to the balcony, he’s looking out over the city of Las Vegas.
“Sin City is where dreams come to die,” he says, a somber tone taking over. Even after the short amount of time we’ve spent together, I’m starting to get used to his moods. It’s fascinating how you begin to read people, becoming accustomed to their habits and traits when you spend any real amount of time with them, especially like we have.
“Did your dreams die in Vegas?” I ask, sidling up next to him.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and says, “No. My dreams died in Texas when I was eighteen.”
I’m surprised he seems to feel his current life is a back-up plan. “Tell me what happened.”
A long pause leads him into a deep breath and a loud sigh before he says, “We were in our last game of the season. If my team won, we’d go to the playoffs. If we lost, the season would be over. I had played some of my best ball that game. I caught two balls in the outfield and hit a homerun by the fifth inning. The second time I was up to bat I hit a fly ball. It was an easy catch, an easier out, but they missed. They fucking missed it and I thought I was home-free. But the other pitcher sucked and when he threw the ball into home plate to strike me out, he hit me instead. Imagine a seventy-five mile an hour baseball hitting you squarely on the shoulder.” His hand rubs over the number forty-four tattoo like it still bothers him. “The impact from the hit fractured my humerus, just under my rotator cuff and busted up some of my bicep muscles, which ended my season on the field with me flat on my back.” He looks at me and says, “We scored, won the game, and I was helped off the field, my career in baseball over.”
I’m unsure how to proceed with this information—condolences or reassurance. He’s probably been drowning in everyone else’s sympathy for years, so I just ask, “Was forty-four your number?”