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  I think it is entirely possible to miss someone you never knew. You just don’t understand what that feeling is until you find them.

  31

  Jensen

  I pause, looking at Holland’s face through the camera on my phone. It’s an obsession, plain and simple, and I cannot fight who I am. Not that I want to.

  Her eyes are closed, her lips relaxed and slightly parted in sleep. Dreams are peaceful tonight.

  Lowering my phone, I take two steps forward, bringing me within reaching distance. I don’t touch her. Not skin to skin. Not in the way I want to. But I stroke every inch of her with my eyes.

  The moonlight, shining through the one small window, blue and white and light and bright all at once on her unclothed body is hypnotic. My gaze lingers on the smooth slope of her back. The skin is a shade lighter here. I don’t know that anybody else would be as taken by such a small difference. That anyone other than me would find so much beauty in something so inconsequential. I don’t think they’d even notice. But I notice. Because it isn’t inconsequential at all. It’s the most important thing in the world to me.

  I allow my gaze to move, just a bit, following the curvature of her hips, down to the arch of her ass. Here, the skin is several shades lighter. Like ivory and porcelain and I cannot look away. There’s something so pure and untouched about the softness of her flesh, though I know that’s not the case. My fingers and lips have memorized her almost as well as my eyes.

  My eyes.

  How can two small orbs bring so much pleasure and cause so much pain?

  The shadows linger at the edge of my vision and I’m finally forced to look away from the beauty on the bed.

  My fingers grip the cell phone in my hand too tightly as I set it on the shelf. I snap my eyelids shut and let darkness take my sight. Here, I picture the way my fingertips look caressing gently over her skin. I imagine the way it feels, not just where I connect with her, but inside. In my chest. Could she save me? Could she be the peace I’ve been searching for?

  I turn to her, opening my eyes and letting them fall once again on her face. My stomach muscles tighten when I find her looking back at me. She hasn’t moved, still lying on her bare stomach, arms beneath her head, rosy cheek resting on the back of one delicate hand. Her hair is splayed, long and flaming, across her pillow.

  She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. But there is communication. There is a whole conversation in the way we watch one another.

  I’m jealous of the moonlight. Of the way it kisses her body and holds her tight. Of the way it embraces every piece of her that it possibly can. The way it sees her in ways I cannot.

  I’m going to miss this most, seeing her in the low light of night.

  I should pick my phone back up. I should take another picture.

  Yet I can’t stop myself from going to her. Can’t find the desire to make myself stop. To quit this woman. The urge to touch is greater than it’s ever been. To hold and to consume.

  I always expected I’d be alone in darkness. I never dreamt I’d find light near the end. It hurts to hope. It hurts to care. To want. To need. I shouldn’t feel this way. I can’t.

  I blame it on the moonlight.

  *

  I wake, tangled in arms and legs and a mass of dark red hair, and for the first time since I was twelve years old, I feel—serene.

  It terrifies the ever-loving shit out of me. And I like that too. I like being scared of something different for a change. I’m selfish and wrong, but I take a deep breath, inhaling Holland into my lungs, and close my eyes, relaxing into the tranquility her presence brings. Like this, I can almost fool myself into believing my final outcome is not inevitable.

  “Good morning,” she husks, her voice muffled against my chest.

  “Morning.”

  “I want ice cream.”

  A surprised laugh bursts through my lips, causing Holland’s head to bounce up and down with my quick release of breath. “Ice cream? For breakfast.”

  She pushes her hair out of her face—it takes three sweeps before I can see her eyes. “Why not? It’s one of the perks of being an adult. You can eat ridiculous things for breakfast and nobody can stop you.” She smiles—really smiles. Hair in knotted disarray, cheeks pink from sleep, eyes wide and bright with mischief, and she’s stealing my breath.

  The grin on my face fades as I cup her jaw in my hands, pulling her mouth close to mine. “You’re so incredibly beautiful when you smile.” I kiss her, hard, showing her how stunning I think she is.

  Her face is even rosier when I release her. I watch her unravel herself from the blankets and stumble from the bed unclothed and sexy as fuck. She pads to the fridge, pulling a half gallon of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer, and two bowls and spoons from the dish drainer on the counter, before hurrying back to jump up beside me.

  She makes quick work, scooping out large spoonfuls into each bowl and offering one to me.

  “You never did tell me who you sell your photos to,” Holland says between bites. She’s sitting with her back pressed into the wall, her feet crossed underneath her. “The erotic ones,” she adds.

  I spin my spoon, swirling it through my frozen breakfast. “Collectors mostly.” With one hand cradling my bowl, I stretch her bare legs out, skimming my fingers over the smooth skin.

  She arches a brow. “People collect nude pictures of women?”

  I pause, my hands now resting on her knees. “Yes. A lot of people. And before you ask, no, they are not all men. In fact, I’ve sold quite a lot to women over the years.”

  “Do you do art shows?”

  I nod, squeezing the space between her knee and thigh. “I did. When I lived in New York, I showed my work monthly in a gallery. Most of my sales are online now.”

  “You lived in New York?” she verifies curiously.

  “For a while,” I supply. I don’t offer more and though her eyes move over me inquisitively, she doesn’t push for more details. I sweep my hands upward, moving closer and closer to the place I want to be.

  “Did you sleep with all of your models?” she asks, licking the remnants of chocolate from the back of her spoon. Goddamn, that gives me all sorts of ideas. “Not the ones since you—you and I—” she stutters. “Since we’ve been…since we met. But before.”

  “No,” I reply slowly. “Not all of them.” As soon as the silverware leaves her mouth, I press my lips to hers. Her tongue is cold and sweet when it slides over mine. I’m ready to stop talking now, but Holland, who never seems to have much to say is obviously feeling chatty this morning. She pulls back, her hand skimming along my bicep.

  “I saw your wall. There were a lot of different models.”

  “Yes?” I sit back on my heels, waiting, wondering where she’s going with this. I’m so damn hard, my balls are starting to hurt.

  “So how many is not all of them?”

  I cock my head to the side, trying to read her expression. “Why?”

  Her tongue slips over the spoon again and the head of my cock begins to tingle.

  “You can be honest. You won’t hurt my feelings. I barely have any.”

  I’m not sure which one of those sentences to respond to first. I’d rather pretend I didn’t hear any of them and just bend her over her bed.

  “I’ve fucked a lot of women in the last fifteen years. Some were women who did modeling work for me. Some were women I met in bondage clubs.” My voice is rising with each sentence and I can’t seem to control it.

  “There were girls when I was in high school. Even more in college. A few I picked up at a bar or the grocery store or the fucking library. I don’t know why you want to know this all of a sudden. None of them meant anything. I didn’t marry any of them.”

  Holland’s eyebrows rise as she slips the spoon between her lips and I sigh harshly.

  “Happy?”

  Her eyes narrow, just one brow arched now, but she doesn’t respond.

  “The number doesn’t fucking matter,” I
say, my voice low and gravelly now. “None of them affected me in any way. Not a single one of them have ever gotten under my skin and into my bones in the way you have.” I pick my spoon up, my ice cream now more liquid than solid. “This conversation is over and I wouldn’t mind if we never discussed it again. Now, I’m going to enjoy my breakfast.”

  I turn the spoon over, letting the cool, chocolate drizzle over her thigh. Her leg spasms, her lip catching between her teeth as she watches me dip down and sweep my tongue over her skin. It’s sweet as fuck.

  “I just wanted to know if you slept with any of the women who look like me,” Holland whispers as her body trembles.

  I take her nearly empty bowl out of her hand, setting it on the floor beside the bed, and pull her until she’s lying flat on her back. I spread her legs wide, settling myself in the middle.

  “No,” I say adamantly. “They were never good enough. They weren’t you.” With my spoon reloaded, I tip it, letting it dribble on her lower belly, moving downward slowly until it drips over her pussy.

  “You know, most women would have cared about the number,” I add.

  She gives a little one-shouldered shrug. “I’m not like most women.”

  My eyes meet hers as I begin to lap at her flesh. “No,” I breathe against her in agreement, “you’re not.”

  With that settled, I spend the rest of the morning eating my melted ice cream in every erotic way I can come up with.

  32

  Holland

  Sitting in my empty apartment overflowing with quiet stillness is beginning to make my ears pound. When you become accustomed to noise, silence is deafening.

  Today is the first day I’ve been away from Jensen all week. My choice, not his. He’s kept me so busy lately—the art museum where he was like a little kid at the zoo, excitedly admiring each exhibit, then there was the park where we walked hand-in-hand unless he was taking photos, the movies, where we discovered we share a mutual love of ridiculous comedies, and then there’s his bedroom where he ignites a fire, burning through my blood. If he had it his way, that’s exactly where I’d be.

  This man is trying to woo me, I suspect. And it’s working. I’d be with him now if I didn’t have so much to do.

  My twenty-eighth birthday is rapidly approaching. I need to renew the tags on my car and run a few errands I’ve been putting off, like doing laundry and hitting the grocery store. I’d much rather have his company, but I don’t want him making a big deal out of my birthday. It’s better if he doesn’t know it’s around the corner.

  After dressing in a simple yellow sundress, I roll my hair into a sloppy bun on the top of my head, step into a pair of sandals, and head out with purse in hand.

  It’s a gorgeous day. Balmy and sunny. The sounds of summer are in the air, making me so glad I got out of my apartment. Lawnmowers are running, kids are shouting, birds are chirping. It’s a damn nice day. I wiggle my sunglasses out of my purse and position them on my face.

  It’s been a while since I’ve actually driven my own car. Jensen has taken on the role of my personal chauffeur lately. Except when he picks me up at the end of my shifts from work. He always lets me drive back to his place. Now that the nights are warming up, the very first thing I do when I get into his car is open the moon roof and crank up the music. He likes to shake his head as if he thinks I’m being ridiculous, but I think deep down he secretly loves it. Why else would he keep allowing me to drive?

  My car isn’t as fun. It’s a nice car and all, but I haven’t taken the best care of it since I left California. I didn’t give a shit enough to take care of myself, let alone a car.

  Maybe I’ll run it through the car wash on my way home.

  I pull into the DMV parking lot and groan. Nearly every space is filled. This is going to take a lot longer than I was hoping.

  Inside, I walk toward the line and nearly turn right back around when I see two familiar faces standing at the end. I’m not quick enough. Margo spots me almost instantly.

  “Holland, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, you know, came to get a manicure,” I joke awkwardly. My gaze shifts to Pop, and I’m not above admitting I’m a little scared of him. Of what he knows—or thinks he knows—about me.

  “How’s she look?” Pop asks Margo, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

  “Cute as a button,” she tells him. “Honestly, she’s nearly glowing.”

  He nods, a warm grin breaking across his face. “I’m telling you, Margo, we Paynes have that effect on people. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Margo’s cheeks redden noticeably. “Knock it off, Walt.”

  He leans in like he’s sharing a secret with me, though he doesn’t change the volume of his voice. “I think I’m starting to wear her down.”

  I laugh and Margo rolls her eyes for my benefit. The line moves and we shuffle along with it.

  “We’re getting his car tags,” Margo offers up, trying to make conversation, I assume, or just looking for a subject change.

  Pop scoffs. “I can’t even drive the damn thing and they still make me renew the plates.”

  “I drive it,” Margo states and by the tone of her voice, it sounds like this isn’t the first time. “Unless you want me to stop running you around?”

  He makes a face in her direction and she throws one right back. Though he can’t see it, he chuckles as if he can.

  “We’re going next door to grab some lunch when we’re through here,” Pop says. “Come join us.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “I insist,” he adds firmly, reminding me a lot of his son, and also his daughter.

  “You might as well give in. He’s nothing if not persistent—and pigheaded.”

  *

  Nearly an hour later, we’re sitting at a booth in the diner adjacent to the DMV. I’m sweating bullets in part because there’s no air conditioning in this restaurant and also because I’m just waiting for Pop’s uncanny power of perception. If he starts reading me again, I’m going to leave. I determined that fifty-five minutes ago when he extended this lunch invitation.

  “Man, this place is a dump,” he announces, drumming his palms on the Formica tabletop.

  “You picked it,” Margo grumbles flatly.

  “How can you tell?” I question curiously. I don’t know if that’s rude to ask or not. I haven’t had to worry about couth in so long, I’ve kind of forgotten my manners.

  “Cheap tables,” he says unaffected, fisting his hand and knocking with his knuckles. “The air is thick with grease. My shoes are sticking to the floor. I can smell cigarette smoke coming from the back—probably a waitress grabbing a few puffs in the bathroom—different from the scent of smoke coming from the burning eggs in the kitchen. The vinyl seats are cracked to shit, chafing my ass. And there’s no air conditioning.”

  “Wow,” I breathe, seriously impressed. All I picked up on was the lack of air and the bad décor.

  He smirks, looking exactly like Jensen when he gets cocky. “It’s the blind-man’s gift.”

  “How do you do that?” I ask softly. “Take this all in stride so effortlessly? It weighs on Jensen so much, but you seem…okay with it.”

  A crease forms on the skin between Pop’s brows, his head tipping to the side slightly. “He’s told you?” He seems surprised and I can’t fathom why.

  “Yeah, Retinitis Pigmentosa, right?”

  He nods, his eyes shining. His Adam’s apple rises and drops as he swallows harshly. He places his elbows on the table, bringing his face closer to mine. “How is he doing?” he asks, all of his usual humor and teasing tenor gone. His intense urgency sends a tremor of nerves through my stomach.

  The waitress stops beside our table, snapping a piece of gum between her teeth, and the conversation is put on hold while we order. But as soon as she walks away, her shoes making light suction-cup sounds with each step, Pop inclines toward me once again.

  “It was always easy for me to accept that one day I wou
ld be blind. I watched my father go through it, and his father before him, and I learned what to do and what not to do.” He shrugs, defeated, and all I can do is stare at him. My blood runs cold as I repeat his words in my head, trying to make sense of them.

  I watched my father go through it, and his father before him.

  “It’s a bum deal, but it is what it is,” he continues, his fingers clamping and unclamping in tight fists. “I guess I just hoped he’d see. He’d watch me and how I appreciated my sight while I had it, but my life didn’t end when my vision did. I’m still me. And when it’s his time, he’ll still be him, but only if he lets go of his anger.” He shakes his head sadly. “He’s just so bitter. And that is what is going to ruin him. Not the disease.”

  I take a shaky breath and press my fingers against my forehead. They feel icy cold against my overheated skin. There are so many thoughts rolling through my mind, it’s hard to get a hold of a single one. All the puzzle pieces are snapping into place. Click, click, click, in glaring succession. The true reason behind his Scopophilia, why he doesn’t like to drive at night, how he was so sure Summer wasn’t his father’s child—because she isn’t afflicted, his need for control… The list goes on and on and I’m realizing I’m the one who’s been blind all this time.

  “It’s genetic,” I croak, finally understanding.

  Pop’s brows draw together, puckering the skin once again. “I thought—you said he told you?”

  I smile weakly, though he can’t see it. “He told me about you,” I explain, my voice cracking. “He never…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I didn’t know he was losing his sight too.”

  33

  Jensen

  When the bell rings, I don’t expect to find Holland on the other side of the door. She made it sound like we wouldn’t be seeing each other at all today. I’m not a huge fan of surprises, but this is one I think I could get used to receiving.

  She takes my hand, pulling me with her as she moves with purpose toward the bedroom. She hasn’t spoken a word, but her intent is pretty clear. I can definitely get used to this.