She gets the magic power of the music from me.Thought control is such a bitch, isn't it? It's exhausting and unpredictable and difficult when there's a redheaded conscience inside your brain fighting every last suggestion with fists and grit and heart. That's what's missing here, because Lochlan's heart pumps a gazillion gallons a second of indignant, mischievous lava through his veins and Caleb's is icy cold, faulty, slow, proper and wizened.
There's no heart in this. No desperate love, no incredible tilting lurch from my own chest when he makes his moves. It's not a game, after all and I am so slow to learn. So slow I think I might be learning-disabled.
And I told Caleb all of this on the way home and he kept trying to get me to shut up, to just listen. To stop. Just stop, Bridget, and catch your breath and stop trying to rationalize things that are meant to happen.
Fuck you. This isn't a thing. This is a business arrangement and I hate it. My candor surprised and unhinged him and he didn't say much else for the remainder of the flight. He sat and read and checked his phone and his watch alternately and pretended he wasn't upset.
Ten minutes before we landed he hands me a cheque.
I rip it in half and he rolls his eyes. Isn't it worse if you do it for 'nothing'?
I don't know yet.
Oh. Well. Maybe Lochlan will tell you what answer to give me.
Lochlan did indeed. He took the money first though. Or rather, he made me take it.