Page 94 of Beautiful Forever
I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. “No, thank you.” Watching Syn is one thing. That other crap he’s into…hell no. Crossing my arms to stop my fingers from fidgeting, I point out the obvious. “Why are you so fucking eager to share her with someone you’ve actively despised since we were six years old?”
It’s like dangling a slice of decadent chocolate cake in front of a starving man. He knows how much I want her.
Hendrix chews on the inside of his lip. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am not ‘sharing’ Syn with another man,” he says, using finger quotes. “And I don’t hate you.”
This time, it’s my turn to scoff. “Yes, you do.”
This entire conversation…hell, this entire evening…feels like I’ve fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole, then wound up in the Upside Down fromStranger Thingswhere everything is the same but confusingly different.
He blows out a breath and shrugs. “Fine. I don’t hate younow. You’re kind of cool to be around when you don’t have that giant stick shoved up your ass that turns you into a pompous twit.” He pushes off the wall and shakes the water from his hair. “I never did thank you.”
“For what?”
Another shrug. “For a lot of things. For stopping Michael’s men from getting to the farmhouse. For saving Tristan. For always protecting Syn. I get it, you know.”
“Clearly, I don’t,” I reply, at a loss because he actually sounds sincere.
“What she sees in you.”
The air in the alleyway solidifies like thick cement, making it impossible to breathe. “What she sees in me is a friend. Nothing more. And it’s a friendship I’d like to keep. So, I’d appreciate if you didn’t pull another stunt like you did tonight.”
Hendrix gets in the final word as I walk away. “If that’s what she wants. But it’s not.”
Forty
November 25
It’s alreadydark at five fifteen—fuck you very much, Daylight Savings Time, and my face tingles from the icy cold after the three-mile walk from the Bierkeller to the house. We got an early snow overnight that dumped two inches of fresh powder. I should have driven today after Keith called and asked if I could fill in for Michelle who is down with the flu, but the roads were icy when I left the house, so I didn’t want to risk it. Of course, I had to fend off three very demanding men insisting on taking me to work. Maybe I should have given in. My frostbitten toes would have thanked me.
Numb toes aside, the long walk gave me time to think. I want to make things right with Aleksander, but the damn man is avoiding me. He wasn’t at the bell tower this morning when I dropped by. He still wasn’t there when I stopped by just now. And he won’t answer my texts. I’m tempted to ask Constantine or Tristan to track him down.
Aleksander and I have a lot we need to hash out. Not only about what happened last week, but also about the whole “spying” thing. I want to be upset about it. Ishouldbe upset about it. And the fact I’m not says a lot.
Rounding the corner, I can see the house in all its holiday-bedecked glory from down the street. I had a feeling Constantine wasn’t going to be able to wait until after Thanksgiving to put up the Christmas decorations. I’m surprised by how much the guys got done in the five hours I’ve been gone.
Stopping along the curb, I take in the million strands of multicolored LED lights and the festive animatronic displays that are jingle-bell rocking away in sync to the music blasting from the in-ground speakers. An inflatable Santa riding a T-Rex greets me when I walk up the driveway, and a smile creases my cheeks when I see the snow sculpture the guys also made—a four-foot-tall rooster with a red scarf around its neck for the wattle.
Laughing, I snap a picture of the enormous Cocky Bastard with my phone and send it to Raquelle.
Me: Some inspiration for your next painting.
I doublecheck to make sure I haven’t missed a message from Aleksander and frown when I don’t see anything. I know I’m worrying about nothing, but something just feels…off. Like a faint niggling that won’t go away.
Dragging my weary ass up the porch steps and into the house, I dump my bag on the foyer floor and peel out of my winter gear, not bothering to hang anything up. I add my gloves to the heap on the foyer bench, take off my boots, and collapse back against the front door.
Today has been exhausting. I want a scalding hot shower, a chilled beer, and about twenty hours of sleep. Unfortunately,with a rambunctious infant who defies normal developmental milestones and started to crawl two days ago, rest is a luxury I never get anymore.
Mustering up the energy, I call out, “I’m home!”
“Shit, T, catch him!” Hendrix shouts from the kitchen, but it does little to slow the thunderous pitter-patter of tiny hands and knees that come fast and loud.
Any tiredness I’d been feeling evaporates when I see Fénix’s happy face. He looks more and more like Constantine every day. God help the female population when he becomes a teenager because my precocious boy is going to break hearts.
Dropping to my knees on the foyer rug, I hold out my arms. “There’s my gorgeous boy!”
He babbles excitedly as he races toward me, leaving a trail of baby drool on the wood flooring because he’s teething. His first bottom incisor broke through last week, and he’s been chewing on everything, including the furniture.
Constantine is worried that Fénix will have a speech impediment, and I have to keep reminding him that Fénix is two weeks shy of being six months old and that babbling is normal for that age. Babies usually don’t say their first meaningful words until they’re between eight to eighteen months old.
