“You don’t do that either,” he declared.

“What?”

“You can’t sleep, you can’t sleep here. You don’t go somewhere else.”

“But I don’t want to wake you.”

“You wake me, I f**k you or we talk until you get back to sleep. You don’t sneak outta the goddamned bed –”

“I didn’t sneak,” I interrupted him quietly.

He ignored me. “You sleep here or you lie here not sleepin’.”

“Are you…” I hesitated and started again, “are you angry I didn’t want to disturb you?”

“You’re quick, babe,” he muttered sarcastically and gave my waist another rough squeeze.

“Tate –”

“Three weeks, after f**kin’ you, knowin’ what you taste like, what you feel like, the sounds you make when you come, three weeks I’m on the road and all I got is a couple minutes of your voice on the phone every night. Fuckin’ you, that’s all I can think about, like a teenager, at night in the dark, it’s the only thing in my goddamned head. So I jack off, hopin’ to cut through it, but nothin’ compares to you.” I stopped breathing at this admission and he kept talking, “Then I know you can’t sleep so I can’t f**kin’ sleep wonderin’ if you’re sleepin’. That shit’s whacked and I come home, f**kin’ beside myself it’s over. First night you’re in my house, you sneak outta my bed and sleep on the couch. What the f**k is that?”

“I was trying to be nice,” I informed him.

“You failed, Ace,” he informed me.

I felt a chill seep into my bloodstream.

“Which one are you?” I whispered.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you the good guy, the sweet guy who takes care of me or are you this guy who’s kind of a jerk?”

His answer was instantaneous. “I’m both those guys, babe. Your job is to get used to it.”

There it was, another order. Not even an ultimatum. Just, “get used to it”.

“Tate –” I started.

“It’s simple, Lauren. You’re in my bed or any f**kin’ bed with me in it, you don’t leave it.”

“But –”

“That can’t be hard to sink in.”

“Tate –”

“Now can I get some goddamned sleep?” he asked on another squeeze and I could tell he was done with this conversation.

Therefore the conversation was done.

“Yes,” I whispered.

And he could because he did. It was just me who couldn’t.

Or, at least it would take awhile.

* * * * *

I woke up to an empty bed.

I turned to my back, lifted up to sitting and pulled my hair out of my face. I saw movement at the window and sleepily watched Tate walk along the deck toward the balcony area.

Once he disappeared from sight, I stared out at the bright sunshine. Then I threw the covers back, got out of bed and wandered to the window. I looked out and to the right to see Tate dressed in jeans and a tight, army green t-shirt, no belt, no shoes, sitting in a lawn chair pulled up to the railing. He was slouched in the chair, his feet up high resting on the railing, crossed at the ankles. He was staring out to the woods and drinking coffee.

His hair was wet but curling and drying fast in Colorado’s arid climate.

Apparently I couldn’t take a shower without Tate but he could take one without me.

Figures.

I walked as quietly as I could to the dining area and retrieved my bag where Tate dropped it, taking it with me back to Tate’s bathroom. Buster came with me and glided around my ankles as I pulled my hair in a ponytail and surveyed my face in the mirror.

There was some purplish-blue bruising but hardly any swelling at my temple. There was a dull ache too but only when I thought about it. I brushed and flossed my teeth and washed my face. Then I bent and picked up Buster and put her on the vanity counter so she could keep me company while I put on moisturizer, powder, blusher and mascara. She watched me do this, her tail hanging off the edge of the counter and flicking, her eyes blinking but curious. This was new to Buster. Tate obviously didn’t moisturize or apply makeup.

Then I got dressed in jeans and a girlfit, faded aubergine colored t-shirt that on the back had a set of black wings. It wasn’t really me but Wendy found it, made me try it on and it fit really well, I liked the wings at the back, they screamed Biker Babe! so I bought it. Under this I wore my purple underwear with black lace.

I packed everything up, an activity Buster wanted nothing to do with and I knew that because she pranced out of the bathroom.

I went back into the bedroom and gathered my clothes from the floor and shoved those in my bag too. Normally I would make the bed but there was no point in Tate’s room. The floor was littered with clothes and the surfaces of his nightstands and dresser were covered with the flotsam and jetsam from his life (likely from his pockets) – change, receipts, slips of paper. There was no point tidying.

I walked out of the room, down the hall and all the way to the mudroom where I dropped my bag by the door to the garage. Then I went into the kitchen and searched the cupboards for mugs. We hadn’t done the dishes last night. The bacon fat was still in the skillet. The plates in the sink.

I didn’t tidy those either, mostly because I heard the sliding glass door open.

I didn’t turn. I went to the coffeepot and started pouring.

My mug was mostly full when I felt bearded lips at my neck and an arm slid around my ribs.

“Mornin’, babe,” Tate muttered against my skin as he pulled my back into his front.

“Morning,” I said to the coffee and put the pot back under the filter.

“Come out and sit with me on the deck,” he ordered, his lips just under my ear, his soft words vibrating on the sensitive skin there in a way that would be delicious if I wasn’t heartbroken (okay, maybe it was an invitation voiced as an order but I was in no mood mainly because I was heartbroken).

“Thanks but I need you to take me home,” I told him. “Go for a swim.”

I felt Tate’s body go still.

He didn’t speak so I asked the coffeemaker, “Can you let me go? I need milk.”

He let me go but only so his hand could curl around my mug, pull the handle out of my fingers and put the mug on the counter. His mug joined it then his hands came to my h*ps and turned me around. He stepped in and I had no choice but to press my h*ps into the counter because of the limited space he allowed.