Because now came the part when Dexter started to freak the fuck out. He’d fallen fast. Fallen hard. And now Dexter felt about as powerful as a blank sheet of paper in one of Colin’s sketchbooks.
That’s what he’d let himself become to Colin. His. Blank and empty, waiting for Colin to fill him, to do something with him. And if Colin felt like turning the page, he’d turn it, and leave Dexter behind for another day. Worse, if he felt like ripping him out, crumpling him up, and tossing him into the garbage, that’d be it. There would be nothing Dexter could do about it.
He couldn’t let that happen. Not again.
* * * *
“What’s going on, Dexter?”
“Nothing,” Dexter answered, sucking on the end of a cigarette, flicking it away, and then lighting another.