Trin by J.M. Snyder

Author:J.M. Snyder [Snyder, JM]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2011-08-04T04:00:00+00:00

What if he isn’t sorry? Aissa’s voice again, he’s getting sick of it. Bad enough she has to terrorize him in person, now she haunts his head, too. Trin suspects he could tune her out if it wasn’t for the unfortunate fact that she’s right. Dammit the hell, but she is. What if he’s not waiting for you, then what? You hunt him down? How fucking desperate is that?

He should leave the truck as it is, torn open and wounded, and when the gunners gather to leave in the morning, Gerrick will have to stay behind. With me, Trin thinks. The idea has merit. If he could only convince the man to love him, to love only him.

But Blain won’t like it. His brother stopped by the garage this afternoon specifically to make sure the trucks would be ready to roll tomorrow. If he sees the damage Trin’s caused, the gunner’s indiscretion will be the least of his troubles. Much as he wants to say fuck it and blow off the repairs, to force Gerrick to stay, he can’t. He won’t. Blain won’t let him.

With a weary sigh, Trin crawls out from under the workbench and hauls himself to his feet. He rubs his eyes with grimy hands and glances at the clock that hangs above the bay doors. An ancient beer ad lit in neon buzzes intermittently above red digital numbers. He’s surprised to see it’s late—later than he thought, almost midnight. He’s been here for hours, and suddenly his legs cramp from being folded under the workbench, his arms ache, as if just knowing how long he’s been sitting makes his body hurt. No matter—he’s not going to his room, not tonight. Let him sleep alone, Trin thinks. A small defiance but all he has. He wants desperately to believe that one night apart will be enough to make the gunner come running to him tomorrow.

Tonight, the truck. Already he’s regretting his little fit—he knows he doesn’t have half the shit he needs to repair the hoses and cables he destroyed. Friction tape and luck, that’s all he has to rebuild with, and he knows it’s going to take all night. The thought exhausts him. This is Gerrick’s fault, too.

A splinter of anguish shoots through him, pricking here and there before it’s gone. He can’t even get upset anymore, he’s cried out. He tries to poke at the wound the gunner tore into him and this time feels nothing but the faintest glimmer of hurt. Somehow that scares him more, like he’s dead inside. At least before the pain made him know he was still alive. Now he thinks there’s a very real chance that he isn’t, and his body is simply going through the motions until it realizes the truth. I should say screw the truck, he thinks, his mind racing, rush upstairs and forgive him. He’s in my pallet, I know he is. Let his hands prove to me that I’m still here. Let his kisses bring me life.

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