Page 87 of Point Proven
Without allowing him to reply, I walked past the various tables and out the door. Fishing my bike key from my pocket, I shoved it into the ignition before tossing my gloves onto the seat and donning my helmet. With my only desire settled on leaving, I straddled my bike.
Before I could take off, the bar door slammed open, Matt bolting to me as he fumbled to shove his card into his pocket. “Thorne… Thorne, wait, please.”
Flicking the key to the right, I cocked my head. “For what, Matthew?”
“For everything!” he breathed. “Shit, I’m sorry for not being there, for not listening, for hurting you and continuing to do it. But you mean everything to me. Ourfriendshipmeans everything to me, and I’ve treated you like filth.”
Striations danced along my jaw, feathering against the inside of my helmet. “I’m used to it.”
“You… You shouldn’t have to be, Thorne. You mean everything. I know it doesn’t mean much right now, but I am. I’ll prove it to you by being here, always. Not… Not like I was before.”
Starting my bike, I called out over the engine, “Yeah. Except you’ve got far more pertinent priorities to focus on now.”
Without giving him the chance to reply, I shifted from neutral to first and sped down the road.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
OREN
Swiping hues of blue and orange across the canvas with my fingertips, paint decorated my chest with each pass. It was an image of our backyard, both dogs playing outside while the sun set. My favorite time of day—it highlighted not only the peacefulness of being home, but also what I was blessed with: a place of my own.
Focusing on the last little details, I wanted it to be a surprise for Thorne and, if he approved, to hang it somewhere in our place. While I’d focused on those small strokes, most of the splatter somehow rested on me, the tips of my hair coated in drying paint, and my torso coated in my artistry. It was my favorite thing to do after all the chores were done, and this was even more special because it was for him.
Stepping back, I smiled at the finished artwork, placing my hands on my hips. Staring over the intricate lines, the slamming of the front door tore my attention away as I poked my head out of the studio.
“Baby? That you? You’re back early.”
The drum of his biker boots served as his only answer as he walked past the art room and out of my line of sight—clearly on a mission to reach the kitchen, which only meant one thing.
He was binge drinking.
Quickly wiping my hands against my pants, previous colors muddying with the new ones, I jogged toward the liquor cabinet, passing him with ease. Nearly sliding into the hutch, I whipped around to face him, rooting myself in front of the one place he couldn’t touch.
“Baby,no.”
“Move, Oren,” he demanded, his pupils already blown from his alcohol consumption at the bar.
How much did he drink?
“No.” The word was firm, and I glowered at him. “You drove home fuckingdrunk! I’m not moving.”
“I am not drunk.” His brows narrowed, lids hooded. “I had two glasses of whiskey. My tolerance far supersedes that.”
“Yeah, maybe when you were in your prime, when you used to drink all the time! But you hardly have the stuff now, and to this detriment? Something happened, so no.”
“So no?” Craning his head to the side, his nostrils flared. “I take care ofeveryoneall the fucking time, but when I’m struggling, it’s a fucking hindrance! What the fuck else am I supposed to do aside from numb myself, Oren? Because the only moment I’m not sacrificing, the moment I’m not extending myself for everyone else to fucking walk all over, will be when I am fucking dead!”
Dead.
“No, I won’t let you succumb to it again when you haveme!” Pressing two fingers into his chest, I swallowed the growing lump. “For fucking once, just let me take care of you!”
“How can I when I’m always taking care of you?!” he screamed, slamming his palm against the countertop with a deep inhale. “Just… fucking move.”
“No!” I shouted, shoving my palms against his torso. “No, I’m tired of this! The reason you take care of me is thatyouthinkyou don’t deserve the same. But guess what, Thorne, I’m fucking capable of holding my ground. I can tend to you, so for fucking once, shut up and let me!”
His jaw clenched, a glower sparking with growing annoyance. “Yeah? Capable of holding your ground when I have to coax you through every panic attack while I deal with mine alone? Capable of tending to me when you’ve continuously overlooked me andliedto me?—”
Wrapping my fingers around his shirt, I hauled him to me, slamming my lips to his. This wasn’t about silencing him. This was about matching his sorrow with something even more potent:love.
