Authors: Sarah Masters

Tags: #Gay & Lesbian, #Literature & Fiction, #Fiction, #Gay, #Romance, #Gay Romance, #Romantic Suspense, #Genre Fiction, #Lgbt, #Gay Fiction, #Mystery & Suspense, #Suspense, #Erotic Romance Fiction

Needing (24 page)

Would he even rage?

By the looks of him he was confused, too blindsided to even think of being angry, but fuck, it’d have to come, wouldn’t it? That blistering heat of unfairness that would spur him into leaping forward, hands raised, him with the urge to claw at my face or pummel me into knowing that hell, it was supposed to be him in my place and me in his. I should be lashing out at him, crying, begging, needing answers, but I had my own reasons for not doing that. It seemed he did things differently. He thought, he processed, and although it had been two weeks since my eavesdropping, he still hadn’t said a word about his feelings. How long had he planned to keep this up if I hadn’t spoken just now?

I hadn’t been able to hold it off any longer. Wasn’t it better that I stayed true to myself? That I did what felt right? Hell, I didn’t want to hurt him, but…but if I couldn’t see us moving forward, me falling in love with him once more after he’d explained himself and I’d learnt to forgive and trust him again, what was the point? I’d be lying to him and myself.

“How… How come we’re not working?” he asked, bottom lip quivering.

I wanted to kiss that quiver away but didn’t. It was like some switch had been thrown inside me, preventing any emotions forming other than wanting to get away. Definitely self-preservation, or maybe the yellow-bellied option of not being strong enough to face what might have come had he opened up before tonight. Yeah, it was most likely that. I wondered whether it meant there was something left to save, to build on, or whether it was because I loved him and didn’t want to stick around to see him trying to love me when he didn’t anymore.

“I don’t know,” I said. And I didn’t, that much was the truth.

“But I must have done something, Steve,” he said, dipping his head, dangling his hands between his open knees.

I wasn’t sure what to say, because he
had
done something, he just didn’t know I knew about it. So I studied the top of his head and the way his dark hair hung down—hair that I’d run my fingers through and had loved the feel of. Hair that was a little too long and made him look like a man who didn’t care for being neat and tidy in appearance. And he didn’t. That was what had attracted me to him in the first place. The rough edge, the ease with which he carried himself. All a ruse, all designed to give off a different impression to who he was underneath. And he’d shown me below that surface, had opened up and told me all his fears, his dreams. I’d told him mine too, and here I was, smashing the shit out of them and wanting to walk away to sweep up the pieces by myself in private. I hadn’t asked for those shards to embed themselves in me so that I hurt, but there you have it. Hurting anyway.

Look at him. Look at what you’ve done. And why is he even crying?

I should have gone down on my knees in front of him, sliding my finger beneath his chin and lifting his head so I could look him in the eye and explain. I should have done many things but I didn’t want to.

“What did I do?” he asked. “Just tell me what I did.”

I’d known that was coming, would have said it myself if I were him. I gritted my teeth, searching through my head for something, anything to latch onto that I could blame him for—anything other than me having heard that God-awful phone call.

Nothing.

Fuck.

“So if I haven’t done anything, what’s the problem?” He raised his head and stared at me, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet, silent tears washing his skin.

I didn’t like seeing that wet skin so turned away and stared at a lamp on the table beside him. We’d bought it in a flea market for the bargain price of one pound fifty because the blue shade was slightly ripped and there was a chip in the base.

“I don’t know, I just…” And there it was, the sentence cut short, me lost for words because there weren’t any I was prepared to give. I glanced back to him.

“Just what?” He twined his fingers to create a large fist. “Spit it out. Then we can deal with it.”

He wasn’t going to let me go without an explanation, I could see that, and his words had been further proof. Did he want to fix things, to bring out the hammers and nails that would mend us, those rivets making the bond stronger? I didn’t want to see any damn toolbox at the moment, hear any tinny thuds of metal on metal, those nails driving into me, into him, cobbling us back together. I wanted out. Away. To be gone. So he didn’t have to suffer with trying to tell me what he should have told me a while ago.

“We can’t deal with it,” I said, standing and moving over to the living room door. I leaned on the jamb, the edge digging into my arm, and felt that I deserved the discomfort yet at the same time that I didn’t. My mind was a mashed-up mess of emotions. If I couldn’t think clearly, how could we fix it anyway? It would be like knowing a pipe was leaking yet there wasn’t a visible, telltale sign that there was a hole. If you couldn’t find where the water was coming from, all you could do was continually mop up the mess. I didn’t want to stand there inches deep in emotional water, forever mopping until the pipe either stopped leaking or gushed even harder.

“Why not?” He frowned, those eyes of his with their canopy of wet lashes, the hairs clumped together to form triangular spikes, seeming to bore two hot holes into my face.

I wanted to turn away, to not see the hurt there, but realised I owed him the decency of looking at him. “Because I don’t know what’s wrong, that’s why. I just know it is. I love you but—”

“So if you love me, what’s the deal?” Hope appeared to blare at me from his face, a radiance that I’d quickly be dashing with my next words.

“I’m not
in
love with you.”

“So?”

I hadn’t expected that answer. I’d thought he would have understood the difference.

“What the fuck has that got to do with it?” he went on. “I’m not in love with you anymore either, but it doesn’t mean I’d want to throw it all away. Love comes
after
being in love, doesn’t it?”

That hurt. He wasn’t in love with me. I’d known it, but to hear him actually say it… When had he fallen out of love and settled into ‘just love’—and saying that, from what I’d gleaned, he didn’t ‘just love’ me either. Why was he lying? Why did it suddenly matter? I wanted to stay now, to thrash this out, to be like him and get answers.

I shook my head, annoyed with myself and my inability to understand what was going on. I’d had a handle on this. I’d been the one calling the shots, and with a few words he’d turned the tables. And I didn’t like it one bit. I’d been on an even footing, knowing I’d be walking out of that front door and never returning, prepared to sift through things in my mind when I was alone. But Christopher had a knack of knowing which buttons to press, and he’d jabbed the right one good and hard, ensuring I’d remain here for at least a little while longer.

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d got to me. I wasn’t going to tiptoe around him now he’d said that. If he’d had enough guts to tell it how it was in the first place…

“Love isn’t enough,” I said.
Nor is the lack of trust and you not loving me.
“Not for me. You might be content with not being
in
love, but I’m not. That spark’s gone, don’t you reckon?”

He wiped his face, palms rasping over his stubble, then rested his fingertips on his chin. “It always does, doesn’t it? It’s the way of relationships. I never pegged you for being naïve enough to think that initial spark lasts forever. It changes, you settle into something different. Or at least I thought you did. Love grows deeper—or it would if you gave it a chance.”

Christ, this wasn’t how I’d imagined things would go. He was meant to be brushing me off, relieved that I’d started this so he hadn’t had to. I was meant to be begging, crying, pleading with him to let me stay and make things work. On my knees, clawing at his jeans saying, ‘Please love me. I don’t want to go.’

“I have given it a chance,” I snapped, wanting to lie and tell him I’d been struggling with our relationship for a long time instead of only being unsettled for about a fortnight. “We’ve been together two years. Isn’t that long enough to know whether you’re meant to be with someone long term or not?”

He nodded, leaning back and crossing his arms, lifting one leg to rest his ankle on his knee. He seemed different now, more at ease, comfortable with the conversation. “Yep. And you clearly think you know we’re not meant to be together. Funny that, because it was only last month on my birthday you said you couldn’t imagine being without me.” He paused to let that sink in. “One month, Steve. What happened between then and now? Met someone else, did you?”

“Fuck no!” I said, wanting him to get that particular scenario right out of his damn head. “No. I’d never cheat on you.”

“So you want to, yeah? D’you think it’s best to get rid of me first so you can bugger off with another bloke without feeling guilty? That it?”

Shit, things were spiralling out of control. He was getting the upper hand and I hated it. Fucking hated it.

“No,” I said, shoving off the doorjamb. “No. I’m just not in love with you anymore, and that is
all
.”
And you sat there and said what you’ve just said, knowing you’ve been screwing someone else yourself.

I turned away, upset—and feeling a bastard for it—that his face twitched with his hurt. I couldn’t stand to see that. Hell no.

I walked out, the one with the last word, just as I’d planned it.

Now he could move on, guilt-free.

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About the Author

Sarah Masters is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Natalie Dae and Charley Oweson.

Sarah is busy co-authoring with Jaime Samms. They have several books in mind so will be writing for a couple of years to come! She also needs to finish her M/M novel, the tale she’s dubbed The Book That Doesn’t Want To End. She’s at the last chapter but is afraid to open it in case that last chapter isn’t really the last chapter…

Email:
[email protected]

Sarah loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.total-e-bound.com
.

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