Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Brendan twisted back to face the audience, searching for Newcomb as the entire audience began to clamor and call out, some applauding, others expressing shock, disbelief, the entire gamut of human emotion, but more and more people turned toward Newcomb—who sat frozen in his chair for just a few seconds, his face a mask of cold dread.
Before he abruptly stood, turning to bolt toward the exit.
Brendan started forward; like fuck he’d let what Cillian and Sophie went through be for nothing when that coward ran, but—
“Brendan, don’t,” Cillian whispered, and pressed against his back, clinging to his jacket. “You don’t have to protect me anymore. It’s going to be fine.”
And just then, the doors opened again.
While multiple uniformed LAPD officers stepped in, blocking off every exit, leaving Newcomb nowhere to go.
And nothing to do but struggle, screeching, as he tried to lunge away and the officers swarmed in on him, closing in on all sides and tackling him to the ground in the aisle. Within seconds they had him wrestled into handcuffs—while Sophie threw her hands up, wet streaks streaming down her face, though she laughed, waving cheekily.
“Bye bye, fuckface!” she shouted—and the entire crowd lost their collective shit.
Brendan felt like he and Cillian were the only points of quiet left in the room.
He turned to face Cillian, pulling him against his chest, resting his chin to the top of his head. “I am so, so fucking proud of you,” he whispered, throat constricting with the force of the feeling. “Do you have any idea how amazing you are? How amazing it is that you did this?”
“I don’t feel amazing,” Cillian mumbled against his chest, holding on for dear life. “I feel like I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”
“That’s not surprising.” He pressed his lips into Cillian’s hair, breathing in his scent. Feeling him in his arms again after so very long…nothing could ever feel more right. “Tell me what you want from me, Cillian. Anything you need.”
“Take me somewhere else,” Cillian whispered. “Anywhere but here. Brendan, take me…take me home.”
l
SO BRENDAN TOOK HIM HOME.
Not the L.A. apartment.
Late night. Awards ceremony left behind long before everything closed out, parting ways with Sophie with a thousand tearful hugs, and now both he and Cillian in his Jeep with their tuxedos loosened, open at the throat, and Cillian…
Cillian sound asleep at Brendan’s side, stretched across the center console of the Jeep to rest his head in Brendan’s lap, quiet and trusting. It must have taken a lot out of him, to put himself out there for the world to see. To risk the backlash that happened when assault victims pushed back against the powerful people who hurt them. To bare himself to all the ugliness that came with it; the finger-pointing, the public shaming.
To be willing to speak the truth anyway.
Brendan rested his hand to Cillian’s hair, stroked his fingers through soft locks, and wondered what he’d done to deserve the love of someone so amazing. Wondered if he’d be strong enough to continue to earn that love; to be someone who made Cillian happy, who helped him be stronger than he already was on his own.
No.
No if.
Because that strength, that ability to be who Cillian needed…
That was a choice.
And it was a choice Brendan had made without realizing it, from the moment those pale brown eyes had caught and tugged on his heart.
So he pointed the Jeep north, up the California highway.
And took Cillian home.
l
THE SUN HAD RISEN OVER the Pacific by the time they reached Asherville, and Brendan’s yellow cabin in the woods. Cillian slept the sleep of the emotionally exhausted, and Brendan let him—lifting Cillian into his arms, carrying him out of the Jeep and into the house, then upstairs to the low platform bed that took up almost the entire loft.
Cillian finally started to stir as Brendan laid him down and began tugging his shoes off; he yawned, mumbling and curling onto his side, before creeping one hand across the blankets. “Mm…Brendan…?”
“Yeah. I’m here,” Brendan said, dropping Cillian’s shoes to the floor and pushing himself up to rest one knee on the bed, leaning over Cillian, covering that searching hand with his own. “I’m right here.”
Cillian opened one eye, then the other, before looking up at him with a sweet, sleepy smile. “It wasn’t a dream.”
“Felt a little like one.” Brendan chuckled, leaning down and brushing his nose to Cillian’s. “We made one hell of a scene tonight.”
Cillian laughed drowsily. Long fingers slid into Brendan’s hair and Brendan closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, letting every sensation soak into him to replenish him after such a painful drought.
“I can’t believe we had the same idea,” Cillian murmured.
“Great minds.” Exhaling with pleasure, Brendan brushed his lips across Cillian’s—just the lightest touch, but God it shot straight to the pit of his stomach after so long deprived. “I never thought you’d be the one reaching out to me.”