"True," he finally answered my former comment as he moved to the other side of the bed, pulling up the comforter and sheets and slipping under. "But tonight you're in mine."
"Why?" I asked, watching as he settled down low on his pillows, bringing one arm up to cock underneath his head. He turned on the pillow to look at me, his dark eyes a fathomless kind of deep that I felt myself almost pulled into.
"He's all you have."
"My dad?"
"Yeah, Mack. He's all you got in the world. You told me yourself. Tonight you drove a wedge there that's never been there before. Doesn't take a genius to see it gutted you, babe. You feel like you lost him. And in losing him, you lost everything. Figured maybe you shouldn't be alone tonight."
The words landed like a small bomb in my stomach, hitting, then detonating, exploding and rocking me to my very marrow. Because that wasn't who I was trying to believe he was. He wasn't a good guy. He didn't have a heart. He was cold, cruel, calculated, cocky, and manipulative. He was selfish.
But right then, right there in his own bed, his dark eyes on mine, he wasn't that man. He wasn't the Byron St. James I had come to accept, and maybe even respect in a sick sort of way. He was giving, good, and kind. Not warm. A man like him could never be called that. He was cold. He was dark.
If my father was the sun and I was the moon, then Byron St. James was a complete lunar eclipse.
And as I lay there, I got a horrible, haunting realization: he was dark enough to make me seem like I shined.
And that was absolutely terrifying.
"I know I'm a fuck, Prue," he said, surprising me. "But I have my moments. Don't question it, but don't start expecting it either, yeah?"
I felt my head nod as I swallowed, already pretty sure it was too late.
See, the thing was, we women, we didn't need much. We could be five and a half feet deep in your filth, in your dark, and catch sight of the tiniest sliver of light that we could cling to. And then we did, with everything in us, clutching it to our chests and polishing it with the ends of our skirts, sure we could make it brighter, could expose more of it. Even though, deep down, we knew that the sliver was all there really was, that the rest was just more dark and filth and heartache. But that sliver was there. The sliver was proof of the potential.
And, women, well, we were always suckers for potential.
As I climbed under the sheets and curled up on my side, hands in prayer position under my face in Byron's direction, his eyes already closed, I was pretty sure I was just a big a sucker as the rest of them.
Because I wanted to see if I could make him shine.
It was pathetic.
It was not like me.
But as his chest started to rise and fall steadily, his face softer in sleep, I was sure the sliver wasn't just a sliver.
There was more.
If only I could find it.ELEVENPrueI woke up the next morning to the sound of a dresser drawer slamming closed. I didn't wake up disoriented, unsure of my surroundings. No, I woke up with absolute, soul-deep clarity. I was in Byron's bed because he had put me there because he thought I shouldn't be alone. Because underneath it all, there was a decent man.
And that decent man was standing in front of a dresser with a towel slung low on his hips, beads of water still clinging to his chest and abs from his shower.
Then he wasn't in anything at all.
He whipped off the towel, giving me a view of every last inch of male perfection.
And, yeah, well, let's just say a part of me really liked what I was looking at. But that part of me needed to keep her panties on because I was being a total creep. I shut my eyes, feeling my cheeks warm slightly.
"Go ahead and look, babe," Byron's voice said, casually distant, like it didn't bother him in the least that he caught me watching him change. I guess when you had a body like that, what did it matter? "You're gonna be getting intimately acquainted with my cock so you might as well get an eye full now."
"You seem pretty sure of yourself," I said, forcing my eyes to open despite my embarrassment, and pushing myself up in bed, clutching the sheets to my chest. He was still standing near the dresser, black boxer briefs in his hand, but still stark naked, watching me. At my words, his lips tipped up the barest bit as he moved across the room, skirting the bed to come up on my side. It was always intimate to see a man naked in the throws of it all, when hormones and feelings and want and need were coursing through your system. It was almost a whole other kind of intimate to see someone fully naked, confidently moving toward you, unashamed, not insecure. Like you had been seeing each other naked for years.