Page 51 of A Curse On Black Lake (Black Lake Gothic Cowboys #1)

Chapter forty-one

Eliana

Killian’s large body is as still as stone behind me, and I’m afraid to move. I don’t know what to do, and I certainly don’t know what to say.

If this is true, Killian clearly didn’t know, and his whole world has blown up in his face.

“I need a drink,” he grumbles and gets to his feet.

I follow his lead, helping him shove the books back, and then he takes my hand, dragging me out of the library and down the street a block to the only bar in this town, Sully’s Saloon.

Killian pulls a barstool out for me to sit on, and it’s tall enough I struggle to sit, then he lifts me onto the barstool and sits next to me.

He waves to the bartender with two fingers, and I watch him anxiously.

He’s stoic, impassable, and I don’t think any kind of touch or word will get him to give anything away.

The bartender slides our brown liquor to us, and Killian throws it back. I don’t touch mine. “You gonna drink that?” he asks.

I shrug.

“Fine by me,” he grunts and tosses it back. He waves to the bartender again with two fingers.

I don’t know what to do. But this is not the man I’ve gotten to know. He’s hurt. That’s obvious, and every emotion he’s trying to drown in liquor is starting to bubble up.

The bartender gives us two more. This time, Killian takes a large swig and then sets it down. I put a hand around my glass so Killian doesn’t knock this one back too. It doesn’t matter that I won’t drink it. Then again, maybe I should.

Killian’s hand shakes, and he quickly shoves it under the bar top, hiding it from view. He glances at me under the brim of his hat before fully focusing on his glass.

“Please stop looking at me like that,” he says, his words almost pained. He rubs his face and sets his hat on the bar.

I want to hug him, but I can see the violence threading under his skin. He won’t hurt me. That’s not my concern. But anger is powerful. It’s destructive. And when combined with grief, and hurt from the people you’ve loved your entire life, and are now dead. It’s too much for one person to handle.

So I stay quiet.

If it were me, I know I’d want room to breathe, to work through the pile of manure called my thoughts.

We sit there. For hours. I watch the TV with one of the few channels we get in this town, showing reruns of Friends.

Killian doesn’t ask for another, and I don’t drink mine.

I can feel eyes skating all over my skin, and I do my best to ignore them.

I’ve never stepped foot in Sully’s. It’s simple, with sticky wood floors, an old wood bar top, and some mirrors around the area, one being broken.

A pool table and darts sit in the back corner, along with some high-top tables and chairs.

There’s a dance floor off to the side, and they apparently serve food as I watch the bartender slide a basket of onion rings to a man a few rows down.

I don’t make eye contact with anyone. But the bartender keeps giving Killian odd looks, and my hackles rise.

Killian shifts, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. He tosses a few bills on the table and jerks his head in the direction of the door. I hop off the stool, and he takes my hand, slipping his keys into it.

“Do you know how to drive?” he asks.

“Yes, but be warned I’m not great. Grams taught me.”

He shrugs, and we walk down the street to the truck. Killian opens the driver’s side for me, helps me into the truck and closes the door before walking around to his side.

I pull out of the parking spot carefully, white knuckling the steering wheel. Killian’s truck is a lot nicer than mine, and the last thing I want to do is wreck it.

As we drive out of town, I keep checking on him. His hat sits on the dashboard, and he’s resting against the headrest.

My chest nearly caves in with relief as I turn the truck onto his gravel driveway.

When I pull into his normal parking spot and turn the ignition off, I release a long breath. It’s been a long time since I’ve driven anything.

Killian gets out without saying anything and storms into the house.

I feel like I’m playing catch-up. Unable to ask him what he needs and yet afraid to. Taking a deep breath, I turn the knob, and he isn’t anywhere on the main level. The floor creaks upstairs with his footsteps. Do I go up there? Should I? Yes, the Spirits say.

I know they’re right. If it were me, I’d want someone, anyone, to tell me that my life is not a lie. That I had people who loved me.

Each step creaks under my feet as I go up the stairs. Killian’s door is closed, but I knock anyway.

“Not now,” he grunts.

I ignore him and open it.

“Did you hear a word I said?” he grunts.

Irritation splits through me, but I push it down. It’s his anger talking. “Yes, I heard you, but I wanted to talk to you.”

“What is there to say?” he says.

“A lot actually, but I wanted to let you talk first.”

“Why? You’re usually the one who likes to talk anyway,” he snaps.

“At least I’m honest with myself,” I snap.

“What are you trying to say? I can’t be honest with myself or anyone else? I can’t take the truth, even if it hurts?” Killian says, his voice breaking under the pressure building.

I take a few steps towards him, and he holds his hand out.

“Please don’t. I don’t know what I’ll do,” he says.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” I tell him.

“I’m … angry, Eliana. Please.”

“Then tell me,” I command.

“I don’t want to!” he yells.

“Then yell!” I scream.

“It won’t do anything. It won’t change anything.”

“But it might make you feel better,” I offer.

His eyes lift to mine, and they are full of so much pain and betrayal that my body physically hurts under his scrutiny.

He is hurting, child. The Spirits say.

I’m trying to help ease the pain. That’s all I want to do for him. I tell them.

Go to him. Let him feel that you care.

Taking the last few steps between us, I grab his face and pull it to mine, kissing him fiercely. I do care. I care so much it hurts me. The Spirits go silent, and I give my all to him in that moment, hoping he feels it too.

He grunts, and I push harder, grazing his tongue with mine. With my other hand, I push his chest back, forcing him to sit and stand between his legs. His hands slide up the backs of my thighs, and I slow down, pressing small kisses over his face.

He leans out of my touch, and his hands drop from my thighs.

“I can’t do this,” he rasps.

My heart drops. That’s not what he meant, right? That can’t possibly be what he’s saying to me.

“Please, I need to be alone,” he rasps.

I press my hand to my chest because I think my heart is falling out of the open hole. Again. I’m too shocked to snap back, but it doesn’t matter. It won’t ease the hurt of being pushed away by the only person on the planet that claims to care about me.

“Please go. I don’t want you here,” he says.

“You can’t mean that,” I say on the edge of tears.

He looks up with eyes so cold they frost my heart. “I do,” he says.

“If that’s what you want,” I whisper and leave his room.

Storming down the stairs, I grab his truck keys, my boots, and leave the ranch.

He wants to be alone. Then he can be alone without his truck.

When I pull into my driveway, I sit in his truck, that smells like him. And reminds me of the healing we were beginning to achieve together.

Forcing myself out, I unlock my front door and take off my boots, headed straight for my garden.

It won’t hurt to check things out, but I need to be outside.

I need to breathe the fresh air, get my hands in the dirt.

Maybe sketch, that would help. It usually does.

The Spirits are taming themselves to a dull roar in the back of my head, likely sensing how utterly overwhelmed and sad I am.

Flipping the deadbolt to the back door, I open it, and what I see brings me to my knees.