Meant to Be (But Kinda Complicated)

Epilogue

Hello sweet readers,
I've seen your comments asking for a sequel but I honestly don't think that this story needs one. I wrapped it up with a neat bow on top and it doesn't need to be unraveled.
But how about a short epilogue?

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The moon shone bright through the open balcony doors and a quick gust of wind came to play as it rustled the sheer curtains. Randy sighed to himself and glanced at the clock on the nightstand, it was almost the time for the moon to disappear and the sun to grace the horizon.

He couldn't sleep again.

The waves crashing against the shore were loud enough to drown out all the sound but his thoughts were invasive as they poked and prodded.

It was times like this that all his convictions and faults raised to the surface. The people that he killed haunted his dreams, and in this particular night Joe Goldberg made an appearance. The beady black eyes and pointy face that taunted him until he woke up drained in sweat.

Randy glanced at the sleeping woman next to him, her face hidden by blonde hair which migrated to his side of the bed. He reached for her to make sure that she was okay and rested his hand on her slender shoulder, sweeping the hair that covered her eyes.

She looked peaceful as she breathed in a steady pattern, which calmed his own breathing in an instant. His fingers mindlessly rubbed circles on her arm as he watched her sleep.

He wasn't the only one that got nightmares.

She often screamed or tossed around in her dreams, pleading for help or calling out names 'April, Ramee, Lana, Tommy' as she begged for them to stay alive. His name came up the most. He often rocked and shushed her until she woke up, reminding her that he was next to her— that he wasn't going anywhere.

Randy made his way to the bathroom, splashing some water on his face in hopes of finding tranquility during this worrisome night. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, two minutes or twenty.

As the water droplets rolled down his tired face and unevenly dried, he stared in the mirror at the man he barely recognized. The hair was cut short and the signature white was gone, facial hair was thicker and longer, and there was a fresh cut on his right cheek.

What kind of live was he living? Why did he let her get involved? Why couldn't he just be normal and live out the eight month parole in peace and quiet? She risked everything to keep him and their gang safe.

But they couldn't stay still for long, changing cities and their identities weekly. He blamed himself even though she willingly agreed and followed all of his crazy ideas and schemes.

Ride or die, she'd whisper against his lips before going through with his plans. She was crazy for sticking with him. Maybe it was his fault because he made her that way. They were both crazy.

The day before, they almost got caught for stealing money and a car from an old rich man for the thrill of it. She acted as a distraction while he lockpicked the brand new BMW that was worth millions.

They didn't need the money or a car. It was simple. They needed to feel alive.

Both of them lived in a constant state of running from the law for so long that it became an addiction. The need of adrenaline pumping through the body, the pounding in the ears, and the tingle in the lips and fingers from the excitement of the unknown— will they get caught or no?

The bigger addiction was her. The smell. The touch. The desire. The endless trust. He was selfish. He didn't want to share her with anyone. She was his. He'd give up anything for her.