Erasing Faith (30 page)

Perfect.

Exhaustion had effectively fled my system as soon as the words
Weston Abbott
left his mouth. I’d never felt more awake as I stared at the wall, contemplating everything.

His words just now. His actions back then.

As I replayed memories in my mind, I knew it would be another sleepless night for me.

And yet, with his name echoing off the walls inside my skull, I couldn’t seem to make myself care at all.

OVERTIRED

I was tired as hell when dawn broke.

It had taken me hours to fall asleep, listening to Faith toss and turn on the other side of that ridiculous damn barrier she’d put up between us. Every few moments she’d shift from her back to her side, her side to her stomach, and so on, and each time she’d let out this soft little sigh that would’ve been cute as hell if it hadn’t been so damn late.

By the time I finally fell asleep, it was practically morning, which meant I was going on day three without so much as a night’s rest. I cracked open my eyes — overtired and grouchy as all fuck — and prepared to take on what was sure to be another infuriating day with the goddamned brunette whose life’s mission was apparently to make me as miserable as possible.

But all my anger disappeared as soon as I blinked awake and found Faith wrapped around me like a starfish — one leg wound around my thigh, an arm slung across my chest, her forehead nestled into the crook of my neck. Evidently, her unconscious mind wasn’t such a fan of pillow barriers; at some point in the night, she’d shifted onto my side of the bed and tangled her limbs with mine so thoroughly, it would be a miracle if I managed to get up without waking her.

I froze for a solid minute, just appreciating the feeling of this — waking up to Faith. Her warmth radiated into my skin and the light rise and fall of her chest pressed against mine was more soothing than anything I’d ever felt. I could’ve happily stayed there all day, but that would’ve been a test of my control unlike any I’d yet faced. The need to trace her curves with my hands, to skim my lips against her soft skin was so strong, it took every bit of restraint inside me to keep myself in check.

Abruptly, I wasn’t tired. In fact, I felt like I could’ve had marathon sex for hours, days, weeks, if Faith had so much as stirred in my arms and arched up to press her lips against mine…

Fuck
.

Fantasy time was over. I was officially sporting morning wood harder than the oak tree I’d bashed my fist into last night, which meant it was past time to climb out of this damn bed before I lost myself completely.

Gently, I detangled her limbs from my body and rolled her onto her side of the bed. She barely stirred, even when I rebuilt her pillow barrier and tucked the blankets back up to her chin. As I watched, she snuggled deeper into the bed and let out another tiny, sweet sigh.

Without taking my eyes off her, I lifted the cord around my neck up to my mouth and pressed it there for a full minute, wishing everything was different. Wishing I could slide back into bed with her, wrap her up in my arms, and make love to her until she forgot about the past.

I let the cord drop back against my neck before I turned, grabbed my t-shirt off the ground, and walked away.

LEAVING TRACES

The first thought I had when I woke was
coffee
.

The entire cottage was suffused with the rich, delicious smell. My eyes flew open and I saw immediately that Wes had already risen from the bed. His side was barely rumpled, as though no one had even slept there, and I noticed my pillow barricade was safely in place.

I chose not to analyze the faint feelings of disappointment I felt when I saw that.

Thankfully, those unwanted emotions were overtaken by immense joy when I spotted the pot warming on the single stovetop burner. The coffee had been cooked in an old-fashioned percolator and it smelled a little burned, but I couldn’t have cared less.

Caffeine was caffeine.

I poured myself a steaming cup and drank it black, so happy I almost didn’t miss the heaping teaspoon of sugar I typically dumped in. Stretching my back like a cat in a vain attempt to work out some of the kinks after a night on the ancient mattress, I pushed through the screen door and stepped onto the dew-covered porch. I could see my breath puffing in the crisp morning air, and my coffee steamed steadily as I shifted back and forth on bare feet, trying to keep warm as my eyes swept the small clearing.

My gaze eventually settled on Wes, who was standing with his back to me about fifty yards away on the edge of the glade. I felt my eyes widen as I took in the dark streak of sweat soaking the back of his gray t-shirt and saw the axe in his hands.

The man was chopping firewood like a genuine freaking lumberjack.

I felt my mouth go dry as I watched his muscles bunching and cording with sheer strength. He swung the axe high over his head and brought it down on the log with so much force, I thought he’d likely strike straight through to the stump beneath.

For five minutes, I watched him in the pale morning light, the smell of autumn lingering in the air. I felt like I was intruding on a private moment, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Seeing him this way was captivating. A show of pure power, of sheer masculinity.

There was beauty in it — beauty and brutality.

The coffee in my mug went cold, totally forgotten as my eyes followed every lift of his arms, every crack of the axe. The sight took my breath away.

Eventually, my good sense returned and I wanted to shake myself for spying on him. Cursing, I turned and crept back inside, careful to ease the screen shut slowly so as not to disturb him. Judging by the pile of split kindling, he’d been at it a while — judging by the mountain of yet uncut logs, he’d be at it a long while still. Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, I made quick work of turning on the spigot in the large copper tub.

It took a few minutes, but the water at last began to run clear and hot. I fished the travel-sized body wash from my duffel, dumped a heaping capful into the bath, and watched, delighted, as the basin began to fill with bubbles. Nearly tripping in my eagerness to shed my clothes, in less than a minute, I’d kicked off my pajamas and sunken into the heavenly warmth of the water with a content sigh.

I felt the wear and tear of the past few days begin to slide off my skin. The taut bands of emotion that had been squeezing my chest, slowly suffocating me, started to loosen for the first time since I’d left my parents’ house.

Margot’s death, Wes’ presence, Szekely’s hitman — it all faded away, and for a few brief moments, I was a hollow, emotionless shell without a care in the world or a thought in my head.

It was blissful.

When the water lost its warmth, I was forced to open my eyes and emerge from the chilled tub. And of
course
— because my love life was just one long series of awkward moments — at the exact second I’d risen to my feet and begun to reach for the towel rack, trying desperately not to slip and fall on my face, Wes decided his time as a lumberjack was over. I heard the screen door screech as he stepped back inside the cabin and I lunged for the towel, but it was too late.

He’d seen.

In the tiny fraction of time before I managed to tug the pitiful excuse for a curtain in front of me and wrap a towel around my body, his ever-intent eyes had scanned my entire frame and locked on the ugly round scar, just below my left breast. Even after I’d covered myself, his gaze burned into the fabric, like he couldn’t stop seeing what lay beneath. I tried not to tremble as I stepped as gracefully as possible from the tub, my wet feet leaving damp footprints on the hardwood as I moved out of the bathroom area.

No one had ever seen my scar. Not my family, not Conor, not my new friends back in New York.

It was part of my past I didn’t share with anyone — the only physical wound left behind to mark the internal pain Wes had inflicted on me. Every time I’d looked into the mirror for the past three years and seen it, I’d also seen
him
staring back at me. Haunting me, taunting me.

I lifted my chin and made sure my face was contorted in an indifferent expression as I stood there, waiting for him to either say something or walk back outside.

He did neither.

Instead, he just looked at me. His eyes lifted to meet mine and the emotions swimming in their depths were so strong, they nearly leveled me. He stood there, stripped of every defense. His walls were finally down and I could see it all — the sadness and the regret that shone so brightly in his eyes, like two burning beacons of pain.

That look — it tore me apart inside. It made me want to scream at the top of my lungs, slap him across the face, and slam my lips down on his all at once.

I didn’t.

I pinched the fleshy part of my hand as I reminded myself that nothing was different after two days cooped up in a cabin with him. Even if his name really was Wes and he’d come back to protect me, it didn’t mean anything — didn’t
change
anything.

I channeled every bit of searing, simmering anger I could muster into my gaze and stared back at him.

I had to stay angry. There was no other option. Because if I let go of my rage…

Well, I’d be right back where I’d started: in love with the ghost of a man, who cared nothing for me.

He was just as hazardous as he’d ever been — to my health. To my head. To my heart.

So, as far as I was concerned, he didn’t have a right to regret his actions — not now. Not after all this time, when it was too late. He didn’t get stare at me like he’d do anything to erase the past.

Because, every second he looked at me like that, it was a little harder to remember that he’d ruined my life. That I hated him.

Every second he looked at me like that…. I wanted to be back in his arms, letting the rest of the world disappear.

His mouth finally opened but I turned away before a single word made it past his lips.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice stark as my eyes dropped to the floor. “A little privacy.”

The screen slammed shut a moment later and I pressed my eyes closed, feeling more confused than ever.

***

“So, here’s the thing,” I called, stepping outside onto the porch and planting my hands on my hips.

Wes turned his head over his shoulder to look at me, an eyebrow arched in question. If he was surprised by my change in demeanor from the shaky, silent girl I’d been less than an hour before, he showed no signs of it.

“I need to get out of this damn cabin,” I continued, walking forward and settling in on the stoop two steps above his, making sure to leave a careful amount of distance between us. “I’m beginning to understand the term
cabin fever
all too well.”

Wes snorted. “Well, you clearly don’t understand the terms
hiding out
or
safe house
.”

I narrowed my eyes on the back of his head. “Oh, come on. I need to get out of here and I’ll do just about anything to make it happen. Hell, I’ll wear a disguise — even ugly myself up a little.”

He turned to face me, his lips twisted in amusement. “Ugly yourself up?”

“Yep. You’re ugly enough as it is, so no need for you to partake,” I said sweetly.

His crooked grin came out in full force and I ignored the way my stomach flipped at the sight.

“Thanks, Red.”

“Anytime.” I cracked a smile. “So, is there a diner around here? I could go for pancakes. Oh! Or a burger. Fries. Maybe even a milkshake…. Really, anything that doesn’t come from a can or taste like sawdust would be spectacular.”

He stared at me, unblinking.

“What?” I asked, a little defensive.

“You’re joking, right?” His voice was incredulous.

“When it comes to food, I don’t joke around.” I widened my eyes. “Seriously, I’m starving.”

He was silent.

“Please?” I said, putting on my best puppy-dog pout.

His eyes narrowed.

I jutted out my bottom lip.

“Fine,” he muttered. “There’s a diner a few miles from here.”

I squealed happily.

“
One
burger.
One
hour.” His voice was firm. “We’ll be in and out. No arguments.”

The urge to throw my hands in the air and do a victory dance was strong, but I managed to resist. With the promise of real, warm food, nothing could dampen my spirits — not even being forced to wrap my arms around Wes’ torso so I wouldn’t fall off the back of his bike as we sped down the dirt road back toward civilization.

***

“Ohmuhgawd.”

I moaned unintelligibly around the colossal bite of burger filling my mouth. Wes was silent as he watched me devour my meal, both eyebrows high on his forehead.

If I hadn’t been so goddamn hungry, I would’ve been a little embarrassed by my gluttony. I made a forcible effort to swallow before I spoke again, sipping my soda and leaning back against the faux-leather booth with my hands resting on my now-bloated stomach.

“So good,” I murmured, staring at my empty plate. I’d singlehandedly destroyed the mountain of French fries and quarter-pounder the waitress had delivered fifteen minutes ago.

He continued to stare at me in silence, his eyes roaming my face.

“What?” I asked, my voice abrupt. My heart was beating a little too fast in my chest — I told myself it was from my impending food-coma, nothing more. “Is there a reason you’re staring at me?”

“Besides the fact that you just ate me under the table?” His lips twisted as he reached out and slowly handed me a napkin from the plastic dispenser.  “You have ketchup on your face,” he said softly.

My cheeks flamed. “Oh,” I whispered, taking the napkin and feeling foolish.

“Are you done?”

I nodded. “I just want to use the bathroom.”

“Fine, be quick.” He looked over his shoulder at the empty diner and I fought the urge to roll my eyes. We’d been here an hour and the place hadn’t seen a single other customer. We were so far off the beaten track, I was surprised the place was even in business.

Not that I was complaining — the food had been phenomenal after two days of saltines.

I slid out of the booth and headed for the bathroom. It was a dingy little closet with poor lighting and dirty walls, but even so, it still beat peeing in the cabin. I relieved myself in peace for the first time in days and also got my first horrific glimpse in a mirror since this ordeal started.

Pulling off the atrocious baseball cap Wes had insisted I wear, I saw my face was drawn with grief and tension. There were shadows under my eyes, as though I hadn’t slept in ages, and there wasn’t a stitch of makeup to be found on my features. I made quick work of applying a touch of lipstick and a swipe of mascara, feeling instantly more like myself. I pointedly ignored the snarky portion of my brain that questioned whether my desire to clean up had little to do with me and a whole lot to do with the man who’d just seen my face covered in condiments.

Before leaving the bathroom, I pulled my gun from my purse and made sure it was still loaded. I was surprised to find it was — Wes hadn’t taken my bullets, as I’d suspected he might. Checking that the safety was still on, I slipped the pistol back into my bag and strolled out of the bathroom.

I froze a few feet from the table, eyes widening at the sight before me.

Wes was standing beside our booth, wiping down every surface we’d touched — from the utensils to the salt and pepper shakers — with a damp, disposable cleaning cloth.

“And here I always thought Mr. Clean was bald,” I sassed, giggling at the sight.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, but didn’t stop cleaning.

I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

He sighed audibly. “When I’m on a job, when I don’t want to be found… There’s a reason I pick places like this, with no security cameras. It’s the same reason I pay with cash and don’t chitchat with the waitresses. I don’t leave any traces.”

“Makes sense,” I murmured, looking away from him. My eyes were suddenly tingling for no apparent reason.