Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“It’s good to have dreams.”
His head jerks in a nod. “What are your dreams?”
It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to have any outside of keeping a safe roof over my head and food in my stomach. I guess I’m here because I dream of my sister and her kids living safely. If I had a chance to dream big, what would I want?
“One of those old colonial houses near a beach somewhere with lots of nature,” I say.
“With a ’67 Fastback on the driveway.”
“Yeah. And a couple of kids’ bikes.” I smile softly, imagining two dark-haired children on a swing set in the backyard.
His eyebrows rise. “What about inside?”
“Inside it’s white and pale blue and green. Soft colors like the view outside.”
“I see it,” he says. “Wood floors and cream rugs.”
“Yeah. A blue couch with cream throw pillows.”
“Swings and a treehouse in the backyard.” His expression takes on a wistfulness that softens the hard lines of his face and takes my breath away. He’s beautiful, but it’s toughened by his constant frown, the tattoos that draw attention away from the hard lines of his nose and jaw, and the brutality of what’s contained behind his eyes. Like this, filled with his interpretation of my soft dreams, all that falls away. It’s like I’ve formed a picture of what life could be like if he wasn’t in here.
“Yeah. And a porch swing where I can read.”
“Big trees,” he says as the car on the screen eventually crashes, and the man driving claws his way out under gunfire.
“Big trees and colorful plants. And a garden with vegetables.”
“And music,” he says.
“What music?”
“I don’t know,” he smiles. “Some classic shit. Something that wouldn’t bring me down or wind me up.”
I’m suddenly filled with an image of a different Hyde, dressed in beige slacks and a white button-down, rocking on a porch swing, reading the newspaper. He’s home from working a job with decent pay and benefits, content that he’s on the right path. His face is unmarked and unlined. All the stress that makes him jumpy and messed up here is gone. He’s still and quiet.
God, I want that for him.
Even with the other men around us and the movie playing, we’ve entered another space together and woven a dream substantial enough to cradle us together.
“What about you?” I turn a little in my chair. “What’s your dream?”
Like I’ve let go of a piece of elastic, and it’s snapped back, catching him in the face, the peace of my dreams drops away, and he hardens again. “Men like me don’t get to dream.”
He turns back to the TV, his brow low and his mouth set in a grim line, and I curse myself for not realizing that my peace had settled him. He doesn’t have it in him to imagine the same for himself.
He’s rigid for a few minutes, his fists clenched tight at his sides as he stares at the screen. Even though he looks like he’s watching it intently, I suspect nothing’s going in.
Then suddenly, he’s up, pacing again, back and forth, like a caged animal, his body taut, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. His breathing is shallow and quick like he’s fighting to keep himself under control.
Rock rests a hand on my arm, but I look at him and shake my head. I saw something in Hyde, or rather, I saw my words affect him, and I want to try.
I stand slowly and approach him, leaving a foot of space between us. His eyes are dark and feral, and his face is a snarl, accented by the scorpion tattoo that looks so real it could sting. “Don’t get in my way, Lory,” he growls.
I hold my ground and cautiously lift my hand to his cheek. His angry eyes follow the motion, and I half expect him to bat me away, but he doesn’t. When I touch his face, he stares at me pleadingly, and then his lids drop. He exhales a rush of breath through flared nostrils, like a bull ready to charge, and every muscle in my body braces for him to whirl away or push me. Maybe worse, but I don’t want to think of him being capable of that.
He’s fighting his darkness, but there are cracks forming from the pressure of holding it all in. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in fear of yourself, of not knowing if the man you are at one moment will be the same man the next.
A low rumble vibrates against my palm, then, in one sweeping motion, he lifts me, pulling me against him, and strides across the room.
“Hyde,” Kinkaid warns, standing and following.
My heart beats triple time at his power and strength and the knowledge that I’ll have no control over what happens next. Will he listen to Kinkaid and keep to the arrangement for today or tear through the boundaries? I’m not wearing any panties, so there’s not much to tear through.