What He Fights(2)

He walked to the other side of the bed, lied down next to me and pushed my hair off my forehead. His touch was calming, safe.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Good.”

I clung to him, holding his shoulders tight. His arms were loose around my waist, and I had a moment of panic, thinking that maybe he was going to do what he’d done before– leave me, thinking he was protecting me.

The calm I was feeling began to dissipate, but my panic didn’t come back – instead I was filled with a reckless feeling. This was only the beginning. My name on the witness list was just the first surprise in whatever else was waiting inside of that folder.

There would be evidence.

Evidence tying Noah to Katie’s murder, evidence I probably hadn’t heard about until now.

They have nothing, a voice in my head whispered. They have absolutely nothing. He would have told you. He’s not a murderer.

I wanted to show him I believed him, wanted to show him that I trusted him, that this wouldn’t tear us apart.

So I pushed my leg up onto his, letting the robe I was wearing fall open slightly in the front.

I moved my lips toward his neck, inhaling his scent, brushing my cheek against his skin. I kissed him softly on the chin, then reached out and traced the lines of his collarbone. He was so goddamn beautiful. His body, his face, his cock, his heart, his soul. Everything about him was beautiful.

I felt like I was standing on a cliff, looking down into a dark abyss.

Once I looked in that folder, everything was going to change.

I pushed my body into his.

“Charlotte…” he said.

“What?” I asked, moving my hand down over the smooth planes of his stomach. He was dressed in just his boxers, and when I got to the waistband, I slid my hand underneath.

But Noah grabbed my wrist. “Don’t.”

“Why?” I breathed. “Don’t you want me?” I pushed my robe open more, exposing my breasts to him.

“Not like this.”

“Not like what?”

“Not like you trying to fuck so you don’t have to face the truth.”

I climbed on top of him. It the first time I’d ever been on top of him, and I loosened my robe completely so that he had full access to my body. I felt him harden underneath me.

“That’s not why I’m doing it,” I said. It was a lie and he knew it.

It seemed to anger him. He grabbed my hips and pushed me off, flipping me over so that I was on my back. He straddled me, holding my arms down on the bed. “Don’t lie.”

“Please,” I begged. I tried to push my pelvis against his hard cock, tried to make him see how badly I wanted him, needed to feel him inside of me, to feel our bodies tangled together.

I saw the struggle on his face. He knew exactly why I was doing this. He knew I was avoiding whatever was in that folder, knew I was using this as a way to connect with him.

He shook his head and released my hands, moved off the bed. He stood there, staring down at me. “Get up, Charlotte.”

He moved away from me and walked into the bathroom, where I heard the sound of the tub being turned on.

He returned to the room a moment later. “Get in the bath.”

“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest, defiant.

But he reached down and scooped me off the bed, handling me like it was nothing. He carried me into the bathroom and set me down on the floor. Then he pulled my robe off me and hung it on the shower door. He picked me up again and set me down in the tub.

Steam rose from the water, enveloping me.

“You need to calm down,” he said. “Relax. And then we can deal with whatever is in that folder.”

“I’m not a child,” I said.

“Then stop acting like one.”

He left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.



**



I tried my best to do what I’d been told.

I tried to relax.

But my body was wired with energy.

I made it ten minutes in the bathtub before I climbed out, and I still didn’t feel ready to face whatever was in that folder.

You have to, Charlotte, I told myself. Denying it exists won’t make it go away.

It’s what my dad had done when he’d first gotten sick, slipped into the hazy comfort of denial, and it was this thought that propelled me forward.

I knew if I came back into the room after just a few minutes, there was no way Noah was going to let me see those documents. I’d already been acting crazy – a panic attack followed by an attempt to throw myself at him didn’t exactly inspire confidence that I could handle whatever was in that file.

So I forced myself to stay in the bathroom, to dry my hair and put on some make up – foundation, a slick of lip gloss, a swipe of mascara. I dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater, then returned to the suite.