Page 135 of Insidious Heart
I don’t know if it’s still the fear of rejection, the concern over whether or not she means what she’s saying, if Stevie fully understands what it meansto me. Or if it’s something far simpler than that. That I really am so fucked up that I’ve convinced myself I love Stevie when in fact I’ve fooled myself into believing I’m capable of loving her the way I’ve seen in movies. I’ve gotten so good at faking emotions and projecting what I think people want to see that even something like love can be pretended like everything else.
Or maybe… maybe I know, deep down, that loving me can be dangerous because when I love back it’s like a disease. My love is insidious; it festers and spreads until one day it’s all consuming. And when that happens, that’s when people get hurt, so I’m really protecting her by not saying it back.
The only other person I’ve ever allowed myself to love died, and I won’t let that happen to Stevie.
So with a sigh, I ignore my gut and respond.
ME:????… ????????????
God, I’m such an idiot.
* * *
“How didtheynothave any women’s underwear?” I grumble as I dump several bags into the back of Marbles’ truck.
Not that I want my little dove wearing panties—ever—but it doesn’t seem right having her go commando while her younger brothers will be sleeping only a few feet away. It’s already going to be hard enough keeping the urge to fuck her under control since we’ll be sharing a roof and a bed indefinitely, and knowing Stevie won’t be wearing any panties until we can go shopping tomorrow is going to drive me up the wall.
I’ll deal with it, though.
Just like I’ll deal with not fucking her until her grief and shock isn’t so raw.
Stevie will need time to really process everything, I know that, and she’ll have to help King and Prince process shit, too. They have a long road ahead of them, and I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’m just shitty when it comes to helping with this kind of stuff.
Now, if my girl decides she needs me balls deep inside her pussy in order to help her deal with the new information she received, I can definitely do that, but even my demented ass knows we should probably avoid banging while she grieves, and while there’s nothing but thin doors and a hallway separating us from the boys.
And panties or not, I’ll deal because she’s more important than my libido.
With a huff, I slam the door and climb into the front seat of the VP’s truck, grateful the crazy son of a bitch drove separate from Snipe and didn’t mind riding bitch on his bestie’s bike in order to lend it to me. Which was a sight to see, let me tell you.
But Marbles gave me his truck to use, no questions asked, and once I was done with the sheriff and his men, I took off to the Moreland’s house.
And I was surprised by some of the shit I found because yes, I snooped while packing for King and Prince.
Pictures of Stevie as a baby and a little girl.
Ones with her mother, ones with Rochelle, and the boys.
There were dozens of pictures of her all over their house, all alongside family photos of the four of them as if Stevie had always been a part of things.
And tucked away in a safe—one that is now in the bed of the truck—was a picture of Stevie when she was first born, Cal holding her and looking at her like she hung the fucking moon while Celeste rested her head on his shoulder.
I don’t know the specifics, not outside of what the two men spit during the shootout, but I can safely say Cal was telling the truth. And once she’s ready, there’s a letter explaining everything to help her understand that truth.
No, I didn’t read it, but I found it with the photo, as well as Stevie’s original birth certificate—her actual name isPrincess Stevie Moreland, which isn’t great but makes a hell of a lot of sense—social security card and hospital records, all of it in an envelope with her name on the front.
So, I grabbed the safe, all the framed photos, as well as a few albums, the things the boys wanted, and split to the only store in Rolling Meadows that’s open at six in the morning.
The store that also doesn’t carry women’s underwear, apparently.
I back out of the spot and head toward the highway, wondering if maybe I should call to see how important panties are, when the urge to do just that goes from curious to pressing.
Each mile I drive, the more anxious I get, and by the time I’m almost to Birch Creek, I’ve dialed Little John and have him on speaker.
“I thought you’d be back by now,” he grunts down the line. “Was starting to get worried.”
“Panty issues. I’m on my way, though. Stevie doing ok?” I signal to get off at the next exit then swerve when he responds.
“She’s not with you?”
