The hours slipped away, unnoticed until the day was gone and the apartment was full of shadows. Tyler realized with a start that he was sitting on the couch and had no idea how long he'd been there, lost in his thoughts, wracking his brain. The gun was in his hands, dangling between his knees. The contents of one of the boxes of bullets was scattered across the coffee table. He'd loaded the gun.
He didn't remember doing it.
A chill crept over him, some still-rational part of his mind sending up warning bells. It was the instinct he'd used as a police officer when something didn't feel right. Sitting alone locked up in his apartment all day—he hadn't even gotten dressed, and his stomach told him he hadn't eaten—was not right. And he'd loaded the gun but couldn't remember doing it, didn't even remember getting the bullets out.
Flynn's voice whispered in his ear: forget about all that, love, and come to bed.
He crawled into bed, gun clutched in his hand. He curled up in a ball and waited for sleep to come, for Flynn to come.
For the first time, when Flynn appeared, sitting Indian-style on the bed, he wasn't naked. He was dressed entirely in black, a long-sleeved black shirt with a high collar and black pants. All of his beautiful body was hidden from Tyler's sight.
Flynn looked upset, angry even. "You're not trying very hard. I don't think you really want to be with me."
