Lust Is the Thorn (9 page)

It was Saturday night, and we'd been together for two days and nights. That was how long we'd been living in this perfect mansion, by this perfect lake, with this perfect food, and our perfect “fake” lives. After that first day, with that bath and our almost-kiss, Thorn had been the perfect gentleman. He crawled into bed with me and held me at night, soothing me without any words.

He hadn't crossed the line, or touched me again, no matter how much I might secretly have wished he would from time to time. I'd kept my hands and my dirty thoughts to myself, and if he had any, he'd done the same. And, yeah, I knew ignoring my desire for him was the right thing to do, and
blah blah blah
sin,
blah blah blah
sex,
blah blah blah
whatever.

Just like I knew he wanted me, maybe as badly as I wanted him. But I couldn't be the reason he walked away from his dream.

I wouldn't take him away from the life he wanted.

The thing that really stopped me, that made me keep my greedy little hands to myself when he gave me the look guaranteed to have me ripping my pants off as quickly as humanly possible with my still-sore wrist, was the distinct knowledge that no matter what he said or thought, he would regret fucking me the second we finished, and that would
kill
me. If we were together, it had to be a beautiful thing.

Not something to regret.

Which meant we'd never be together.

I would never find out what it felt like to be with the man I loved, and that was fine. It was great. It was fan-fucking-tastic. If I said it enough times, maybe even I'd believe it, and I could stop touching myself in the shower while pretending it was him again.

Or, you know, cats would bark and grow feathers.

It was our last night at the lake house, and I could move around without pain now. My throat no longer ached with each word I spoke, and I could breathe without pain. I was slowly healing. Slowly forgetting. And even though I had no clue where I was going to live or work after this, these past couple of days with him had been the happiest of my life. We'd fallen into a pattern of joking, sharing, and relaxing.

But in a way, I was
relieved
it was almost over.

I'd been alone for so long, with no one but myself to keep me company, and the thing was, I liked that. Liked being on my own. No one could hurt me, or drag me down, if I only relied on
me
. I prided myself on being a loner, the type of girl who doesn't need anyone or anything to be complete—least of all a man. I
liked
being alone….

Ninety-five percent of the time.

Everyone had their moments of weakness, right?

But having him around to laugh with and watch corny game shows with was something I'd never expected to enjoy so much. But I did. Being with him made me
happy
. Which sucked, because I'd never really been happy before. Never really known how addictive the feeling is.

The front door opened, and I hugged my knees to my chest, watching him as he entered with his arms full of wood for the fireplace. His biceps flexed as he walked inside, and when he bent down to set the wood on the stone in front of the fire, nothing short of an act of the God I didn't particularly believe in would have stopped me from looking at his hard ass. His black khakis hugged it to perfection, and I ached to touch him and see if he was as hard as he looked, despite the white clerical collar he wore every time we were together.

Something told me he kept that on to remind himself who he was….

And maybe to remind me, too.

“There.” He straightened and dusted off his hands. I'd mentioned in passing wanting a fire, since I'd never had a fireplace before, and that was all it took for him to run outside and collect wood. I'd barely even finished my sentence before he was out the door. It was adorable and maddening, all at once. He was making himself too needed. Too damn missable. “That should do it.”

I sipped my wine and watched the first flames snake around the log. “When did you learn how to start a fire?”

“At school,” he answered dismissively, kneeling to place the wood in the pit—or whatever the hell it was called. “There was an outdoor sportsmanship club. I joined.”

“Of course you did,” I muttered.

He glanced over his shoulder and cocked a brow at me. I smiled and watched as he quickly and efficiently got a fire going. By the time he rocked back on his heels and held his hands out to the flames, my wine was gone, and my head was spinning with that slight buzz you get right before you tip the scales to being full-on drunk. “Come over here. It feels great,” he called over his shoulder.

Setting my glass down carefully on the table next to his full one, I scooted off the couch and slid forward on my butt. It was easy, due to the hardwood floors. “Mm.”

He watched my ungraceful approach with a smile and warmth that did things to me that he had no right doing. “Seriously, little Gallagher?”

“What? I'm dusting the floors before we leave as a thank-you.” I settled in beside him, careful to leave a few inches between us. “It's the least I can do.”

The laugh that escaped him was one I hadn't heard since before Mikey died. “Or are you simply too lazy to stand up on your own?”

“Potato. Po-tat-oh.” I shrugged. “Call it what you will.”

He laughed again, and I soaked up the sound, cherishing it. Over this past weekend with me, his personality had changed. He'd become almost like the old him—the one he'd been before. It had been bittersweet, and almost heartbreaking, because it only drove home just how much he had changed after the car accident. Sure, some of it was for the better. He'd sworn off drugs, sex, and partying, and now spent his days helping women instead of getting them out of their clothes with nothing more than a charming smile and an empty promise.

There was no arguing that he had improved in
those
areas.

But he didn't even remotely resemble the boy he'd once been. There was no laughter in his life, no joy, no spontaneity. It was as if he were on autopilot, living the life he thought he should, and that was all he ever did with himself. The accident hadn't just taken Mikey's life. It had taken Thorn's, too.

And it had left another man in his place.

“What's it like, being a deacon at Saint Paul's?”

He let out a breath, staring at the fire. “I love it. I'm not a priest yet, so I don't do all the stuff Father Marco does, but I get to give the homily sometimes, and I've stood at his side for a few baptisms and weddings.”

“Have you heard any confessions yet?”

Shaking his head, he kept his focus straight ahead. His profile was hard. Unyielding. “No. Not until I take my vows.”

“That would be my favorite part of the whole priest thing. Hearing everyone else's juicy secrets.”

He laughed again, his features softening. “No big shocker, there. You've always loved gossip. I'd rather hear
your
secrets, though.”

Oh, I bet you would.
“Do you ever think about that night?”

“Which night?” he asked quietly, watching the flames. “You'll have to be more specific than that.”

“The night.” I gave him a sidelong glance. “You
know
what night I'm talking about.”

His jaw flexed, and he reached behind us for his glass. After setting it down beside him, he grabbed my empty one and the bottle of wine. He filled it, handed it off, and picked up his own. Then he said, “Every night before I go to sleep, and every morning before I open my eyes. About three times a day in between, sometimes more. It haunts me.
He
haunts me. He's why I am who I am today.”

I didn't know what to say to that. That was an insane amount of thought to devote to such a tragic night. “Why?”

“How much do you know about that night?” he asked, frowning at the fire.

His profile was half lit, half in shadows, and I couldn't help but think that was a lot like his life. And I knew which side I belonged on.

“You guys were out partying, and Mikey drove drunk.” I swallowed hard and pressed the glass to the ring on my lip. It clanked lightly. “When you guys crashed into the tree, he was ejected from the car, and you weren't. You lived, he didn't. I think that's all I need to know, really.”

A small sound escaped him, but I couldn't define what it was. A groan? A moan? A grunt? It was a sad sound, whichever one it was.

That much I knew.

“Why are you asking me what I know?” I asked hesitantly. “Is there something I
should
know that I don't?”

He sat there, not speaking. I waited patiently, knowing sometimes he liked to just sit there silently. Thinking. When he was ready, he'd talk. He always did. After a few minutes of silence, he sighed. “Yes.”

“Okay….” I stiffened. “What is it?”

“It was the night my whole life changed, just like it changed yours.” He gripped his wineglass tightly, even though he still hadn't taken a sip. “When he died…he didn't die instantly. We talked for a minute or two. I don't know how long. I promised him things, and one of them was that I would change my life for the better. Be better. That's what I'm trying to do now. What I'm trying to tell you: It was my fault he died, so I—”

“No.” I slammed my good hand down on my thigh. My hurt wrist was much better, but still ached too badly to be abused. “No, it wasn't. You can stop that nonsense right now.
Right fucking now
.”

He took an uneven breath and ran a hand down his face, never taking his attention off the fire. “You don't understand. It
was
my fault. I was—”

My throat ached and my eyes stung. Knowing Mikey had lived after flying from the car and suffering that much pain—it was too much. I didn't
want
to know that, just like I didn't want to know why Thorn said he was to blame for Mikey's death when
he
hadn't been the one driving the car. I was probably better off not knowing.

It wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring Mikey
back
.

“I refuse to discuss this any further.” I finished off my wine, setting it down a little harder than necessary on the wood floor. “I don't want to know any more. I know enough. Believe me, I see enough of it in my head. Rehashing it won't do either one of us any good. If you feel you have some sort of blame for that accident, then whatever. Feel guilty, if that's what you want. But there's no changing what happened that night, no matter how horrible you feel for whatever it is you think you did, so I suggest you move on instead.”

“You make it sound so easy.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He set down his untouched glass of wine, but didn't take his attention off the fire. Didn't look at me. “It's not. I replay it in my head constantly.”

“That's not healthy.” I rested a hand on his hard back. “You need to let it go.”

“I can't.” He locked eyes with me, his nostrils flared. “That night is what makes me
me
.”

“But it can't be all of you. There has to be more.”

He didn't say anything to that. Just turned his head and stared straight ahead.

“I still talk to him,” I whispered, tucking my hair behind my ear with a trembling hand. “Alone at night, in my room, no matter where I'm sleeping. I pretend he's there, listening to me. Helping me.”

A sad smile slipped onto his face, and he tapped his foot on the floor, staring down at it as it moved. “Me, too. Sometimes I like to pretend he answers me, through prayer.”

“I don't pray,” I managed to get out. “Not since Mikey died. I'm not sure if I ever believed in it, anyway. Not really. Not like you did.”

Finally, he turned away from the fire and faced me. The torment I saw in his expression, in the tight line of his jaw, punched the breath out of me. “That's my fault, too.”

“Not everything is your fault, Thorn,” I said quietly, wrapping my arm around my knee again to keep my hands at bay. Having one out of commission helped, but not much. “I don't know if this is your thing now or whatever, but being a martyr is overrated. I swear, if you confess one more thing to me that's ‘your fault,' I'll punch you in the nose—again.”

He reached out and smoothed his knuckles across my cheek. Every time he did that, it made me tremble in ways that no other man had made me tremble. It wasn't
fair
. It took him a while to speak. “It's not being a martyr if you're telling the truth. That night, I was the one—”

“Stop. Please. Stop.”

He growled in frustration. “I'm trying to tell you something—something I should have told you a long time ago.”

My heart pounded, because I knew that whatever he was working up to, I wasn't gonna like it. I was too pragmatic to think it would give me some kind of peace, knowing what he was about to say. Instead, it would rip another man away from me, because whatever he wanted to tell me would tear us apart. I sensed it. And I couldn't live through the loss of a man I loved. Not again. The truth wouldn't make Mikey come back, so it wouldn't do either of us any good. Not this time. “I don't want to hear it. Please. Just let it go. It was almost eight years ago. It's time to move on.”

He flexed his jaw. “Are you sure?”

“
Yes
. God, yes. Whatever it is you think you need to confess, I forgive you. Does that work?”

He laughed. “No.”

“Well, it should.” I rested a hand on his shoulder again. “There is nothing you could do that I wouldn't forgive, given time.
Nothing
.”

He swallowed hard. “Rose…you have no idea what you're saying.”

“Did—did Mikey suffer that night?”

Thorn flexed his jaw and didn't look at me. “No. He said it didn't hurt at all, that he didn't feel any pain. That's when I knew that no matter how fast an ambulance came, it would be too late. He was going to die.”