"I don't want to talk."

She stared down at him, her smile gone, but her expression neither angry nor sad. Curious, maybe. Interested. Her eyes were so beautiful, expressive and changeable, almost every color they could be.

Bending toward him, she brushed her lips over his and murmured, "What do you want?"

He cupped her face in his hand. "I want to love you."

Smiling then, she pressed her lips to his mouth, then his cheek, his jaw, his neck, his shoulder. He took a deep breath and let himself focus on nothing but her loving touch. His c.o.c.k was full and aching, but he stayed calm and tried to simply feel, to let it happen.

Then she worked her way down his arm, pausing at his elbow to kiss the scars there. She knew what that was, and he tensed. But before he could pull away, before even his chaotic head could try to f.u.c.k the moment up, she rolled against him, putting her back against his side as she continued kissing all the way to his hand.

When she began to suck his fingers into her mouth, one at a time, he turned toward her, upsetting Sly, who hissed halfheartedly and then hopped to the floor.

Her nude body was nestled against his as she sucked on his fingers, and he rocked his hips, letting his c.o.c.k slide against her pretty a.s.s. Sweet Christ, how she felt. With Faith it was more than s.e.x, far more than f.u.c.king. It was overwhelmingly physical, and yet that was hardly even the point. Maybe that was what love was, when the physical act was an extension of the connection, not the connection itself. He could have simply lain on this bed in this weird room for his entire life, with Faith in his arms, and done no more than that, and it would have been more erotic and fulfilling than the most athletic s.e.x he'd ever had.

Which wasn't to say that his physical need wasn't riding him hard, as he rocked their bodies together and she sucked his thumb as if it were his c.o.c.k and then moved to his other hand. Looking over her shoulder, he was transfixed by the sight.

She'd never had him in her mouth; he hadn't wanted to abase her in that way. They hadn't even had s.e.x in the position they were nearly in now. She had sucked just now on more fingers than he'd need to count the days or nights they'd been physical together before. It had all been new for her, and he hadn't wanted her to feel like a wh.o.r.e. In those days, with his own weird feelings and beliefs, b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs and s.e.x from behind were degradations.

Experience and distance had tempered those oddities in his perception. He hated to admit it, hated to even think it at this moment, but Kota had helped him in that way, too. She had been wild and entirely uninhibited, and she had demanded things of him that he, trying to be someone who could be a partner, had tried to give her. His aversions had abated.

He shoved that b.i.t.c.h out of his head. He wanted no good memories of her. She had tainted all of them. And he was here now with Faith, who deserved all of him, every atom, every thought in his head.

Then she turned her head to kiss his bicep, and she got every single thought. The movement had shifted her thick hair, baring some of her neck. He lifted his hand and brushed it fully away. Behind her ear, about the size of a quarter, was her only ink.

The kanji for strength.

Immediately, entirely, overcome, he laid his head against her, his forehead on that symbol.

She started to turn her head, but stopped and took a breath. "Oh," she said on the exhale. Then she lifted his hand back to her lips and kissed his knuckles. "I never stopped loving you, Michael. Not for a minute."

He couldn't answer. He had no words. All he could do was hold her to him, curl his body around hers, and keep her close.

They were quiet like that for a long time. Demon was submerged in an ocean of love and fear. To have her, now to really have her. There was a future he could almost see, one in which he and Faith and Tucker, and Sly, too, and all the kittens Sly could love, all made a family together. In a house like Bibi and Hoosier's, maybe. With a yard and a swing set. And a grill. Faith could have her weird sculptures everywhere. He'd build out a garage for her art and his bikes. They could be happy. They could be real. And strong. Tucker could grow up the way a boy should grow up.

But he was afraid, terrified, to let that picture develop in his head. Even if he were given a chance for all of it, it wouldn't happen. Because he wasn't that man, the man who could be strong and stable for a family. He knew it. He'd scared his boy twice in the past two days, blowing up in front of him. He would never hurt Tucker, he knew it in his bones, like he knew he'd never hurt Faith, and like he knew that the same did not apply to anyone else on the planet who ended up in his way at the wrong time. He'd never lash out at his boy, he'd never lash out at his love, but he could scare them. He could lose their faith. He would. He had.

At that moment, gripped by that certainty, he almost ran. His body tensed, ready, and he started to pull his hand from Faith's hold. But, as if she sensed his turmoil, she took that hand and put it over her breast, and then lifted her arm over her head, making her breast tauten against his palm, the nipple growing hard. She put her hand on his head. "Michael...just love me. Don't worry so much. Just love me."

With his eyes closed and his head on her shoulder, he moved his hand, feeling her body respond to his touch. She was so beautiful, sleek and firm. Her a.s.s moved against him, restoring his c.o.c.k to fullness right away.

He shifted so that the arm under her could take possession of her breast, freeing up his other hand to slide down and between her legs and find her wet, ready heat. She was shaved, her skin smooth and velvety. That had thrown him, at first, last night. What he knew of Faith had been etched into his brain a decade before. There was still so much that was the same that it took a moment for him to accept the differences, to reconcile the present with the past, the reality with the memory.

She moaned quietly and lifted her leg up, setting it back on his hip, opening herself wide to him.

"You want it like this?" he asked, keeping his voice low. The years had tempered his reservations, not eradicated them.

Her body already writhing in time with the movements of his hands, she nodded. "Yes. Oh, yes."

Shifting their bodies, he slid into her. Earlier, as soon as he'd been inside her, the urge to completely give himself over, to take everything he'd wanted for so long, to have her, had been absolutely consuming. He'd been sure, sure, he was going to go too hard, be too much for her. He'd known he hadn't been capable of keeping himself in check. But she'd refused to let him go.

And he had lost control. But she'd gone with him. He hadn't been too much.

This time, he felt calmer, and he even had the luxury to really feel the perfection of their physical connection. He'd been fighting everything so hard before that he'd been locked in his head, resenting his body's demands. Now, he could feel her, the way he still knew her, the way she molded to him like she was meant for him, inside and out.

He realized that this was the first time, in all the time he'd known her, that he was free to just enjoy her, without guilt, without fighting his nature. He shoved his fear of the future aside as hard as he could. In this present, they could be perfect.

He sped up, moving his hand again between her legs, finding her c.l.i.t and listening to her responses to understand what she wanted of him. Though noisy s.e.x, grunting like animals, made him uncomfortable, stirring up skittering thoughts and memories, he liked Faith's quiet, almost shy gasps and whispers. Barely using words, she was telling him what she wanted, that she liked what he was doing. She knew now what she wanted in a way she hadn't known before. He wanted to give her that.

Her hand moved down from his head and slid between her legs, where his hand, and his c.o.c.k, both moved with increasing intent. She touched herself with him, and she touched him, sliding her fingers around his c.o.c.k as he thrust into her.

That felt...holy f.u.c.k, that felt amazing.

"Oh f.u.c.k," he muttered and then clenched his teeth together to keep his mouth shut.

Looking over her shoulder, she said, "Michael, I like that. Talk to me."

He shook his head against her shoulder.

"Okay," she whispered and then rolled onto her stomach. Demon followed her, putting more of his weight on her as he thrust harder, losing his ability to hold back. With Faith's hand, his hand, and his c.o.c.k between her legs, and her tight, swollen nipple between his fingers, he thought the climax that was coming for him would run him over.

And then her body clenched and spasmed, and she began to bounce her hips as she milked him. She didn't cry out, except for a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

He came before she was finished, hating the rutting-beast noise that was forced out of his mouth as his body tensed and he filled her. He kept up his pace until she could complete, too.

When it was over, he lay down with her, turning her to her side so he could stay off of her but still inside her.

"Faith..."

"Don't apologize," she sighed, patting his hand where it rested on her belly. "Don't even try. That was fantastic."

Lifting onto his elbow, he kissed her cheek. "I wasn't gonna. I was just gonna say I love you."

She grinned. "Okay. You can say that."

"I love you."

"Am I an a.s.shole if I ask what this is supposed to be?" Demon stared at the tubular hunk of metal. He could make out all sort of things he recognized in it, but he had no idea what they made together. Not what they had been manufactured to make, that was for sure.

"It's a snake."

He turned and gave her a look. She was giving him s.h.i.t. No way that was a snake. "Seriously."

"Yeah." She walked over. "Well, this is a part of a thing that will be a snake. It's so big, I have to make it in segments. I'll weld the segments together on site."

It was almost as tall as he was and as wide as his arm span. "How're you getting it out of here?"

When she put her hand on his arm, in a comfortable, casual touch to direct his attention, heat like fire emanated from that point through his body. He stared down at her hand, and she ducked her head to catch his eyes. Nodding toward a big...thing hanging on a brick wall, she asked, "You see that tapestry?"

It looked like a rug of some sort. A raggedy rug. "Yeah."

"There's a loading door behind it, and there's a rig outside that comes up to this floor. It's how I got pretty much everything up here-and how I get my work out. I have a storage s.p.a.ce for the finished pieces."

He looked around her apartment, if that was what it was. It a big room with a rough, wood floor that looked like it had been painted about fifty times, all different colors, none of them recently. The walls were brick, except for the drywall bathroom that had been erected in the middle of one brick wall, serving as a kind of room divider, he guessed. The ceiling was bare beams, probably iron, considering how old everything looked, and about twenty feet up. Two walls were lined with tall windows that looked out over the streets.

By way of furniture, she had a couch and a couple of low, sloping chairs and a big, square coffee table, all arranged on another raggedy rug, this one on the floor. On another ugly rug, a ma.s.sive old armoire stood against a wall near her iron bed. An old steamer trunk was at the foot. A tall stack of big books, art books, Demon thought, served as a nightstand. And a Fifties-style Formica table and four vinyl chairs were arranged near the door and what pa.s.sed for her kitchen.

What pa.s.sed for her kitchen was a row of white cabinets topped with butcher block, with a sink in the middle and three rows of shelves above. An ancient range and refrigerator bookended the cabinets.

For decor, she had that big rug, or tapestry, hanging on the wall, a whole bunch of unframed canvases in all different kinds of styles, and about ten floor lamps scattered everywhere. And lots of her own art, from small pieces that stood on tables to freestanding pieces.

Also, her clothes. They were draped over the open doors of the armoire, on top of the steamer trunk, scattered around a full, wicker laundry hamper. Faith was kind of a slob. He remembered the day he'd seen her bedroom at her parents' house. And, though it was a somber memory, a painful one, he smiled. She'd been a slob then, too.

All of that took up about half, maybe two-thirds, of the s.p.a.ce. The rest of the room, where they were currently standing, looked like the bike shop, with industrial lights, a welding rig, big bins full of metal salvage, and a ma.s.sive workbench that Demon coveted a little. This area was perfectly orderly and organized.

"You really do make a living with this? Digging around junkyards?" She'd loved that. He was happy to think that she'd been able to do what she loved for work. He had that a little, too.

"Yeah. It's more than playing in junkyards. It's hard work, especially when people tell me what they want and I try to make it happen. That kind of sucks. I'm much better when I just do what I want without thinking about making anybody but me happy. But being what people call 'edgy' doesn't really pay the bills, so I try to balance it all out. I'll make a piece like this snake, which is not my thing but will keep me in whiskey and HoHos for a year, and when I want to tear my face off in frustration, I stop for a while and work on something like that over there."

She nodded toward a piece in the corner, a freestanding sculpture that looked like a nude woman, her long hair made of chains. Her head was thrown back and her arms were outstretched but obviously incomplete: one stopped at the wrist, the other barely past the shoulder. Like everything else he'd ever seen of hers, it was made of parts: sprockets, nuts, bolts, gears, pistons, just about every kind of gizmo he could name.

As he got closer, he noticed that the woman's mouth was open, like she was screaming. Then he noticed that there was a hole in her chest, and the area around it had been made to look as though her ribs had burst outward, as though her heart had been ripped out.

"Jesus," he muttered. Then he darted a guilty look at Faith. "Sorry."

She was smiling. "Don't be. It's not supposed to give you fuzzy feelings. She's in pain."

He peered more closely at the woman's chest. She had nipples. Somehow, that detail made the woman seem more exposed and vulnerable and made the sculpture more upsetting. He blinked and took a step back.

He didn't like it. It made him feel unhappy and powerless. But he wasn't about to tell Faith that. So he said something he thought was probably true. "It's really good."

Her laugh told him that she knew what he was feeling and why he'd given her the empty compliment he had. "Thanks. It's not everybody's taste, I know. It's not really about taste, I guess. Just expression."

Looking back at the sculpture, he asked, "And this is what you want to express? You said you make something like this for yourself?" That thought made Demon feel even worse. Faith should have a life that gave her nothing but happy thoughts.

"Yeah." The sound of that simple word was surprisingly close, and he turned to see that she had come right up to him. She was smiling up at him, her eyes understanding, like she wanted him to know it was okay he didn't like her art. He still felt bad about that, though.

He put his hand on her waist. When they'd gotten out of bed, she'd pulled her weird t-shirt back on. It was sleeveless and almost as long as a dress, black with a big white skull on the front. But the skull was made of flowers. She really liked things to be made out of parts of things they weren't.

He'd been surprised by the way she'd been dressed when she'd come up to her door. The Faith he'd known had been a jeans-and-t-shirts girl, sweaters and hoodies in the winter, the same pair of scuffed-up engineer boots no matter what. In Madrone, she'd been wearing baggy sweats. The Faith who'd come up those stairs, though, had been dressed all in black, in that t-shirt, a leather biker jacket, and the kind of tight, stretchy pants that women called leggings-but these had laced up the front, showing a swath of her legs all the way to the bottom of that shirt.

And her boots-like combat boots but covered in metal studs. Her makeup was dark, too. She was almost punk. Or Goth. One of those. She looked good, really good. Gorgeous. Just different, in a way that disquieted him. Like she was dressed for battle.

It was like her art, he thought. He didn't like to think that she was angry or defensive. Faith at seventeen had been open and confident. She'd been happy, despite her frustrations with her life. If she wasn't now, Demon felt pretty sure it was because of him.

"What are we gonna do, Faith?" he asked, because he couldn't say those thoughts, and he'd been quietly staring down at her for too long, and creases had formed on her brow.

She slid her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest. "Be together."

"How?" He kissed the top of her head.

"Do you know why I was in Madrone?"

"Hooj said something was going on with your mom."

"Yeah. She's in the hospital. She had some kind of episode and got hit by a car."

"f.u.c.k!" He leaned back and tilted her head up to look at him. "She okay?"

Margot Fordham was someone who'd remained on the edges of his life. She'd moved to Madrone with the club, and she made occasional appearances at the clubhouse or at Hoosier and Bibi's, or at Bart and Riley's. He did all he could to avoid her. His sentiment toward Faith's mother would have been hate if his own guilt would have cleared enough of a path for it to get through, but he didn't exactly wish her ill. Not exactly.

"They think she has Alzheimer's. I think it's pretty bad already. She didn't tell anybody she was having trouble."

"Jesus, Faith." The woman he knew was vibrant and put together. He didn't think of her as old, certainly not old enough for that. He thought of the burden that could mean for Faith, and his arm tightened around her waist.

"Yeah. I don't think Sera's going to come home at all. I'm going to have to take care of her. I was struggling with all that, leaving this life to take care of her when she doesn't even like me. But if I have you, I think it'll be okay. If we're good, I can work the rest out."

Demon's heart felt tight. "What are you saying?"

She looked up at him. "I came home to figure out what to do. I think I know. I'm going to pack up some things and go back to Madrone. I'll take care of my mom. And I'll have you. I'll really have you."

He lifted her off her feet and held her close, the way he always had, and she fitted against him the way she always had. "Yeah, you will."

CHAPTER NINE.

Faith stared at the thick stack of pamphlets Dr. Tomiko had handed to her, one by one, as she'd talked. Information about the medications she'd prescribed. Information about occupational and physical therapy regimens and programs. Information about how to make a home safe. About in-home nursing and a.s.sistance. About adult daycare programs. And long-term residential programs.

The doctor had sat with Faith and Bibi for a long time, describing the diagnosis and prognosis with conscientious care. She'd answered Bibi's questions. Faith hadn't had any; she was too dazed, even though she'd expected the diagnosis, to think of any question except one: Why?

Stage Four Alzheimer's. There were only seven stages. Her mother had likely been declining, and compensating, for years. Maybe since Faith's father had been killed. Not even Bibi had known.

How could Bibi not have known? Faith turned to her mother's best friend. "You saw nothing before now?" She tried to keep accusation out of her voice because she didn't feel accusatory. Curious, but not accusatory.

But Bibi's eyes narrowed a little. "It's been different for us the past few years. Since Blue died, and everythin' changed for the club right after. You were gone, and she lost Blue, and Sera went off to New York. It was a lot of loss for your mama in just a few years. She pulled back. We didn't see each other as often, and when we got together, there was just somethin' in our way. Not keepin' us apart, just not lettin' us as close. She wouldn't talk it out, and I thought she was mad about the club. I guess, thinkin' about it now, after hearin' all this, maybe there was s.h.i.t I missed. s.h.i.t I thought was nothin', just Margot bein' p.i.s.sy, or distracted, or I don't know. Maybe it was signs that she needed help." Bibi dropped her head into her hands and sobbed, "h.e.l.l, Faithy. You're right. How didn't I know?"

Faith put her arms around Bibi. "It's okay. I didn't mean to sound like I blame you for anything. I just can't get my brain around all this."

Bibi sniffed and sat up, wiping her tears away, careful not to smudge her mascara. "Okay, darlin'. How do we handle this? We need a plan."

"This is for me to handle, Bibi. You do enough. I'll...I guess I'll move into Mom's house." The thought of living in that dreary box with a woman who was losing her mind made Faith's stomach hurt, but she didn't see another choice. She'd convert the garage into a studio, maybe. That could work. She'd contact the home nursing service and get some help. That could work.