Page 71 of Saving the Rain
So I swallow down the chaos of heightened emotions and feelings, and give over control. I cede any thoughts of what tomorrow might bring. As he eases out of me, we both let out a hiss at the sensation.
I can’t be thinking too much about why I hate the feeling of him no longer being seated inside me.
Who knows what comes next from here. I’m going to have to figure that out at some later stage.
For now? I let myself be led back to the shower by Raine.
I’ll gladly continue staying out of my head. That’s the last place I want to be.
Chapter 30
I’ve been staring at the same photo on my phone for the past twenty minutes.
The scene is snow-covered, a soft, rolling carpet of fresh powder. A good ten inches looks to have accumulated, and the shot is framed to show a clearing amongst dense pine trees.
No footprints. No animal tracks. It’s an unblemished canvas. A microcosm frozen in time. The sun has just burst over the horizon, showering everything in drops of gold, and while I’m standing here looking at it on my screen, my tongue can taste it—the below-freezing temperatures, the ice crystals hanging in the air.
What does a snapshot like this represent for Raine? Why would he choose to postthisparticular picture on his social media when the man only has about half a dozen posts? It’s not recent; he shared it last winter, but it’s the last thing he’s posted. Other than that, his social media is as barren as a rocky mountain. There are a couple of still images from his competitive years as he demonstrates exactly why he won so damn frequently—with chin tucked low, arm thrown high overhead, and fringes of his chaps swinging with the momentum of the bronc beneath him. They’re images taken by a professional photographer, from events that I recognize where he won big. Then there’s one of a dog and a horse by a river.
But that’s it. The only peeks into my stepbrother’s life. Nothing to give any clues about where he’s been or what he’s been doing all these years.
I really shouldn’t be hovering in the kitchen at this time of the morning, sipping my coffee and stalking his Instagram. But unfortunately, I left my willpower to stop thinking about him twenty-four-seven back in his bedsheets somewhere.
My thumbs hover over the keypad to compose a message. It’s driving me to distraction that up here on Devil’s Peak, texting or calling like a normal person is out of the question. So, I’m doing the agonizing dance of whether to reach out to him—in the way that I’m evidently hanging by a thread to do—or if I should play it cool.
You know... because I’m pretty sure what we did can’t ever be allowed to become anything more than just sex. Even if it wasn’t that way for me, I’m certain that’s all it’ll ever amount to for Raine.
Oh, god. This is absolutely the reason I cannot be trusted with anything; because I destroy it. I take something perfectly good and normal, and I smash it to pieces, every time without fail. Now I’ve probably broken my stepbrother, who I keep imagining has high-tailed it back north of the border to put as much distance as possible between us.
Puffing out my cheeks, I close my eyes and give in to the urge, that incessant voice inside me wanting to contact him. Because even though it wasn’t exactly awkward when I left the other day, it was almost dawn by the time we had both showered and recovered from the intensity of falling into bed together. When I drove back up this mountain, bleary-eyed and running on nothing but blissful post-sex hormones and cold coffee, it was about five in the morning.
We weren’t really in a state to have a big ol’ heart-to-heart about the fact he’d just turned my entire world upside down, and so we did what we do so well.We didn’t talk about it.
The only problem is, I’m like a balloon ready to explode under the pressure of all the unspoken things dangling between us.
Fuck it.
I tap on the innocent little icon, the button that might spell my misery and ruin. Being ignored will be nothing new where he’sconcerned. If I send this message and never hear from the guy again, well, at least then, I’ll know where I stand. It’ll be done, and I won’t have to walk around carrying any more stupid notions—no morewonderingwhat any of this all means. This faulty, broken compass inside me can be patched up and, hopefully, eventually learn to be directed elsewhere.
Except, when I finally man the fuck up and brace myself to begin typing, my heart stops dead in my chest.
There’s already a message there, waiting for me. Sent the morning after I left his place.
A message.
From him.
Raine:
Did you get back to DPR safely?
A flurry of jitters and bouncing balls and flapping bat wings occupies the place where my stomach should be. I read and re-read the single line of text with eyes pinballing back and forth. Is there subtext here? Why can’t Raine spare the use of a goddamn emoji like a sane person to let me know his intended tone? Are those words scolding, or caring, or indifferent?
My mouth is bone-dry, and I gnaw on the inside of my cheek while trying to figure out what to say in return.
If there was any doubt as to myfeelingswhere my stepbrother is concerned, seeing one solitary message from him—unexpected and unprompted—has got my legs ready to buckle underneath me right where I stand in this kitchen.
I’m so fucked.