novelxo A Deal With The Devil: Chapter 32
Rats die after nine days without sleep. Even allowing for the longer lifespan of humans, I figure Hayes and I have only a few more days before we change or perish. At least I’ll die happy.
For five days now, we’ve been like this. Barely eating, definitely not sleeping, abandoning work the first minute possible. We don’t really discuss the fact that I’m leaving. One day he asks if I want to go, as if what I want is even relevant. When your family needs you, you step up. He lets it drop after that. He never mentions what happens to us after I leave, but why would he? A guy who hasn’t been monogamous in a decade isn’t going to suddenly try it long-distance. Which is fine, I remind myself. We are having fun, living in the moment. I’m simply enjoying it while it lasts.
I am in nothing but a T-shirt, making him a smoothie, when he gets downstairs. His eyes run over me from head-to-toe, no longer subtle the way they used to be. Under normal circumstances, me wandering his kitchen half-dressed leads to sex on the counter or couch or even inside the pantry, during one especially interesting round. Except today he’s already running late.
“You’re trying to torture me,” he groans.
I laugh. “Is it working?” I turn on his fancy coffee maker—the upside of fucking the boss is that he doesn’t want me getting up early to make his Starbucks run anymore—with some excessive leaning over so my ass is on display.
His eyes go dark. “Fuck,” he groans. “I’m going to be out of a job if this keeps up.”
“You should be out of a job.” I stir the sugar into his latte—weirdly, I now like doing this for him—and cross the kitchen with it. “Yours makes you miserable.”
“Despite what you may think,” he says, “I’m not independently wealthy. I do need to work.”
“But you hate house calls, and you seem to dread half the surgeries you do,” I argue. “If pediatrics is what inspired you in the first place, maybe that’s where you’re meant to be.”
His jaw shifts. “I don’t think so.”
He takes a sip of his coffee and I wait. I’ve found with Hayes that sometimes silence, rather than badgering, is the best way to get information from him.
“All I remember from that period of time when Dylan died and Ella left, other than the guilt, is feeling terrified of going through it again,” he finally says. “I don’t need that kind of pressure.”
I lean forward, drawn by the possibility of finally getting to the heart of this. “Pressure?”
“The pressure of caring so much.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the pressure of caring about his patients, or the risk of loving another person. I suspect it’s both.
“Hayes,” I say, my voice quietly pleading, “I’m not sure feeling nothing at all is really a better option.”
I want him to agree with me. To tell me what we have is different. A smarter girl would probably make note of the fact that he doesn’t.
On my last full-time day, Jonathan comes by to get the phones. For the next few weeks, he’ll handle the calls and schedule from his house while I deal with everything else.
If it were up to Hayes, I’d do no work at all, and he’s said as much, but getting paid by a man to wander around his house naked feels like a turn in the wrong direction, and I still have enough free time after I run his errands to get some writing done. There is no more time spent staring blankly at my laptop—the words are flying now, because I’ve finally realized this book is not Aisling and Ewan’s love story. Theirs was the love of children, not adults. It’s Julian and Aisling who pop off the page, whose every clash comes through with a flash of color, a burst of sound. It’s their story now, even if it wasn’t when the book began.
I’ve just finished writing the sex scene—it’s mild enough for a young adult novel but still has me worked up—when Hayes texts from his car, saying he’s done early.
Show me what I’m coming home to, he demands.
I kick off my shoes and go to his room, stripping naked and climbing into bed. It’s been a long time since I’ve attempted to take a nude photo. I’d forgotten how hard it is to get an angle without double chins or boobs flopping weirdly, though I feel oddly certain he’d be happy with anything as long as I’m naked.
I send the only decent shot I managed to take, and he texts me immediately, telling me to stay right where I am.
Within minutes, I hear him come through the door, taking the stairs two at a time, then he’s standing at the threshold.
“Remove that sheet,” he growls, looking me over in a way that gives me the best kind of chills.
I comply, and his gaze devours me as he moves to the foot of the bed. He wrenches his shirt off, all clenched muscles and urgency. The pants follow. My legs spread as he climbs over me, bracing on his forearms, his mouth pressed to mine.
I will never tire of this, I think, as I look up at him. Hayes, open to me, eyes heavy lidded as he pushes inside me.
You won’t get the chance to tire of it, some cynical voice in my head counters, and I will it away. Our time is fleeting and I refuse to let the truth ruin everything.
An hour later, I’ve come more times than I can count and am curled up against him. These moments are my favorite: the smell of his skin against my nose, his hand smoothing over my bare back, the way he seems so completely content. I’m nearly lulled to sleep by exhaustion and the rise and fall of his chest when he speaks.
“When do I get to read your book?” he asks.
The question wakes me. I’d never even considered the possibility, nor do I want to. Reading a story that parallels our time together would tell him so much more about how I feel than I’m ready for him to know.
“Never,” I reply.
“Why?” he asks with a hint of a smile. “Because I’m Julian and Matt is Ewan? And if Ewan is actually Sam I’m going to be really put out.”
His arrogance, so infuriating once upon a time, just makes me laugh now. Besides…he’s right. “What makes you think Julian’s you?”
“Tall, dashing, irresistible. Obviously, it’s me. Although I can’t believe you named me Julian. Couldn’t it have been something manlier—Steve, perhaps, or Chuck?”
“Yes, both Steve and Chuck totally sound like popular names for fae royalty in the 1800s.” My hand glides over his chest. I bet he can go one more round before dinner.
“At least tell me how it ends, if nothing else.”
My palm goes flat and still. “I don’t know how it’s going to end yet,” I reply, quieter now.
Aisling does not end up with Ewan, but I still don’t see how she can end up with Julian either. And the mere fact that I’m struggling to come up with a believable happy ending, when I have infinite fae magic at my disposal, reminds me a happy ending in real life, with Hayes, is even less likely.