"There's not," she reassured me with another foot squeeze. "Once Roderick here saw what he did to you, he filled him with holes."
There was a strange floaty feeling in my chest as my head slowly turned to find him already looking down at me.
"He had it coming," he told me in a small voice. "He put his hands on you," he added when I said nothing, his hand moving from lazily lying over my shoulder to curl around my neck a bit so he could run his finger next to my lip that was split, but healing.
"There were no other witnesses," Astrid added after Roderick's hand dropped and both our gazes moved forward again. "Apparently, in that neighborhood, when they hear bullets, they go hide behind furniture, not look out the window to give IDs to the cops."
"We were lucky," I mumbled. "I felt it in the car."
"Felt what?" Astrid asked, brows furrowing.
"A tingling at the base of my spine. The kind of feeling you get when something isn't right, when you should turn around and walk away."
"We rushed it," Astrid agreed, nodding.
"We will do more due diligence," I decided, noting the way Roderick stiffened beside me, but not knowing why. And, quite frankly, not wanting to go into anything deep right then.
"Friends or Will & Grace?" Astrid asked, moving to the space at the end of the couch, reaching for the remotes.
"Superstore," I corrected, watching as her eyes went knowing. Friends was for causal, mindless viewing. Will & Grace was for when I needed a little laugh. But Superstore, yeah, that was for when I felt like absolute crap and needed a pick-me-up.
Cam moved in near Astrid, the two of them sharing a blanket.
And me, well, I finished my coffee, let Roderick take it from me.
And then I let myself do it.
What I wanted so badly to do.
Curl into him.
Let him gently wrap me up.
And before two episodes had even played, I was fast asleep in his arms.
I woke up to him forcing more pain medicine into me, encouraging me to eat the Chinese Astrid had ordered, then letting me fall asleep next to him again.
The next time I woke up, I was in bed with Roderick.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like a walking bruise," I admitted, shrugging. "It will get better," I added, not wanting to sound like I was wallowing. Which I maybe was a little.
"You just gotta let yourself take it easy," he told me, running a finger down an unmarked part of my cheek.
"There's not a lot of time to wa..."
"You are going to take all the time you need. Right here in this bed. Sleeping. Recovering."
"I never slept. After my bullet wound. After this," I said, waving at the scar on my jaw. "After all the beatings I have taken. I never slept. I couldn't. I don't know what is so different this time."
Except... maybe I did.
Maybe what was different was him.
Maybe I slept because he was there with me, stroking my hair or back, soothing me into unconsciousness even when my mind was trying to tell me I had slept more in the past two days than I had in the past week.
Maybe it was because he was right there with everything I might need each time I woke up. I never had to get up, venture out, fetch all the things I needed.
Maybe it was because he had it all covered.
I always had Astrid and Cam to rely on. Even if I needed a recovery day, they held down the fort for me.
But I always felt like things were falling behind, that I had to get up earlier than I truly wanted to because things needed to get done.
Except, this time, they didn't.
It hadn't escaped me that some of my bedding was freshly washed, that the bathroom had been scrubbed, that all the dishes had been done.
Roderick was handling everything while I rested.
I was sure Cam and Astrid were pitching in, of course. But I got the feeling that the laundry and cleaning wouldn't have been done without Roderick around to do it, that the overflowing sink would have driven me to distraction, making me drag my busted ass into the kitchen to handle it, pain be damned.
But things were simply... handled.
There was nothing to be done.
Cam had even gone and had the car professionally cleaned, new fake plates put on it.
There was nothing to do but rest and get well.
So that was what I let myself do.
And when I wanted to snuggle into Roderick because it made me feel better to do it, I let myself.
Shower, rinse, repeat.
Each day that passed brought less sleep, my body not hurting quite so much, my system not flooded with pain meds that made me tired.
So we talked.
He showed me how to play a game on his phone. We watched movies.
It was just all so... natural.
On the fourth day, I woke up alone, but heard Roderick in the kitchen with something sizzling on the stove. Knowing him, eggs. It seemed to be the one meal he knew how to cook. Unless sandwiches counted. Which they didn't.
I brought myself to the bathroom, turning on the water, then stripping out of my clothes.
And I realized.
The pain was gone.
Aside from an ache in my ribs when I turned too fast or too far and the twinge if my tongue probed the empty hole where a molar used to exist. But my lip had sealed and scabbed and the scab had rubbed off in my sleep. The bruises had faded, the cuts mostly closed over. My knuckles were still tight with the healing scabs, but didn't hurt, just felt weird, restricted.
Everything was on the mend or mended.
And after a long, hot shower, all the remaining aches had been soothed away.
I was feeling back to normal.
And, somehow, that thought filled me with something I could only label as sadness.
Because it would all be over. The nursing. The sweetness. The hushed talks in the middle of the night. The cuddling. The soothing petting.
I wasn't hurt anymore.
He didn't need to take care of me.
On that depressing realization, I carefully dressed in black leggings and a plain dark gray tee, brushed and dried my hair, then - with no other grooming that needed my attention - I made my way out into the living space, finding the blankets all folded on the couch, the pillows arranged neatly.
No empty, discarded soda or iced tea bottles were laying around, no dishes loading up the sink, no garbage overflowing the pail.
Everything was neat.
Clean.
And there was a pile of eggs and toast on a plate for me. With orange juice. And coffee.
"You look better," he observed after soaking the frying pan in the sink to be dealt with later. And not the way that me or Astrid would do, leaving something in the sink to 'soak for a bit' and then not dealing with it until it was three days later. No, he would actually wash it after we ate breakfast.
"I feel better," I admitted. "Aside from a little twinge in my side, I feel almost back to normal."
"Cam will be glad when he gets back. I think he was really starting to worry about you."
"I never take to the bed. No matter how hurt I am, I am usually up and going the next day. There is always something that needs to be taken care of. Except this time," I said, giving him a wobbly smile that felt lame, felt like it didn't convey nearly enough of the feeling inside. "Thank you for that."
"It's my fault you got hurt," he insisted.
"What? No, it wasn't. We didn't research that enough. That was on me more than anyone else."
"I meant because you needed the gun."
"Again, because I stole it from you to begin with," I reminded him, rolling my eyes. "This is all my fault from start to finish."
"Hey," he said, voice a little firmer than I was used to it being, making my gaze move up from my plate. "Don't give a fuck what the situation was, that getting done to you, that was not your fucking fault."
My belly fluttered hard at that even as my head shook a bit. "This j
ob comes with risks. I knew that going into it. This, getting worked over, this is part of the territory unfortunately."
"I don't like that," he admitted, his gaze focused on his plate even though he hadn't even attempted to eat anything yet.
"I don't think you're supposed to. No one likes the idea of someone getting their ass kicked."
"You're not just someone, Livvy," he told me, voice low, and the fluttering was amplified this time. "I don't know how Cam does it," he added after the silence stretched long enough to become awkward since I couldn't think of a single thing to say. At least not anything that wouldn't give it all away. What I was feeling. Toward him. About him. Knowing that was not somewhere either of us needed things to go right then.
"Does what?"
"Handles the threat of something happening to you - or Astrid - all the time. He's a stronger man than I am."
"I think it helps that this is all we have known while we have been together. The fun nights just hanging out here at the loft are great, but there aren't as many of those as there are nights out on the road, worried, going into dangerous situations, never knowing if we would make it out of them, and then sometimes when things went south, having to limp back to the car together, holding compresses to bleeding wounds, trying to do battlefield emergency care. We've been in the trenches more than we have been out of them. So while I think he does still worry, that this does still eat at him in many ways, it is something we are used to."
"I don't think it would be possible for me to get used to seeing your head get kicked in like that. Or hearing you cry out in your sleep if you moved onto a sore spot. Or fighting back tears when I cleaned your wounds. There are some things you should never have to get used to."
Something, a choked, sad little voice deep within me said words I didn't want to hear.
Don't worry; you won't have to.
Because, the fact of the matter was, he was going to leave. Once we got the gun, or once the time ran out on the deadline, he would leave. And, chances were, I would never see him again.
Unless, maybe, he lost his position in the MC, needed a job, decided to stay in the business, came to work with us.
But that, well, that was what could only be referred to as wishful thinking.
And things like that, yeah, they were dangerous.
And not in the way I was used to, in the way that would result in external injuries and pain.
Oh, no.
It was dangerous in a whole other way, in a way I hadn't known in so long that I barely remembered it was a possibility.
It was dangerous because wishful thinking and hope led to the kind of pain that couldn't be seen, the kind that often never healed, the wounds etched deep in your heart or soul, the ones that you felt the strongest in quiet moments when there was nothing to distract you from it anymore.
Hoping for a future with Roderick - even just a chaste, professional future - when the chances of it were slim, almost nonexistent, yeah, that had the potential to put little cracks in a place I would have sworn was hard as stone except for toward Camden and Astrid.
My heart.
Roderick had the potential to hurt me there.
And that, somehow, was more terrifying than the idea of a repeat of the events of a few nights before if Astrid didn't come in time, if we had all met our bloody ends right there in a parking garage in The Bronx.
"What's that look for, mami?" Roderick asked, moving his food around his plate, but not actually eating any. Maybe because his focus was on me.
"It's going to be weird when this is all done," I admitted, shrugging.
"When I leave," he specified, not letting me have my vagueness.
"Yeah, when you leave. We've gotten kind of used to having you around."
"We?" he asked, brow raising a little.
"Yes, we. I'm not the only person who lives here."
"Admit it. You have gotten used to having me around."
"It's been nice to have an empty sink," I allowed, smiling a little when he snorted at me. "And not having to crush the garbage down so I can cinch it closed."
"And?"
"And having something for breakfast that isn't donuts for a change."
"And?"
He wasn't going to let it drop until he heard what he was after, what I was trying to avoid. The full truth.
"And having you in my bed," I admitted, not quite able to meet this eyes as I told him. He said nothing. And it took only a few seconds for the silence to feel deafening. "I sleep better," I admitted, shaking my head.
"With me there," he specified.
"Yes, with you there."
"I figured as much from that night in the hotel. I've never seen someone travel all over the bed like you did. You only stilled and passed out fully when you rolled onto me."
Rolled onto him.
That gave me a way out of this uncomfortable conversation.
"Speaking of rolling onto you... how is your arm?"
The appendage in question slammed down on the table, wrist up, showing me the pink, healed-over marks with the silver threads that were likely due to be pulled out. "There. And nice try, but you're not changing the subject."
"Why not? Talking about it isn't going to change anything. So what if I sleep better when you're in my bed? You're going to be gone in a few days. I will go right back to not sleeping well alone in my bed. And you... you will fall into many other beds. Doing things that don't involve cuddling and talking about how much we miss warm beaches."
"Livvy..."
"Let it drop, Roderick," I demanded, standing as quickly as I could, taking my plate over to the garbage, scraping the food that no longer felt even remotely appetizing into the garbage before depositing the plate into the sink, turning, and moving away to my bedroom.
It was stupid, but I felt a stinging in my eyes, something foreign and uncomfortable.
Tears.
Over something as stupid as sleep.
Except, of course, I wasn't so dense that I couldn't see that sleep was just the surface of it.
See, I liked Roderick.
I liked Roderick in a way I was sure I had never liked a man before.
Because I never let myself get attached. Men, in my life, had been transient, just a fun, sweaty escape from the often grim, brutal realities of my life.
I didn't get attached.
I had never actually wanted to.
I thought I was fulfilled.
I had my career.
And I had Camden and Astrid there to be my sounding boards, to be a constant source of company, to be my confidants, my dinner mates, my movie buddies.
So the only role men had needed to fill was, well, sexy, sweaty buddies.
I didn't need them for more than that.
So it never occurred to me to try to seek more than that from them.
Then Roderick had come along and had just... provided things. He did things. See, I never had anyone to ever do things for me, so I just did them. I never could have known how nice it would be to have someone else pick up the slack, do things so I didn't have to do them. Or to be taken care of.
And I certainly never could have anticipated the fact that having a man in bed with me could be the cure to my sleeplessness, my restlessness.
And maybe it wasn't just about any man.
Maybe it was about a man who I liked, respected, felt comfortable with, knew could understand me and my life, the stresses of it, the reasons behind my bad sleep.
Maybe the complete and utter relief at having someone around who got you and your situation, who wanted to be near you regardless was enough to let you let go of it all, forget all the bad stuff, let your mind rest, so your body could finally relax enough to get actual sleep.
The idea that he wouldn't be there anymore in a short period of time was enough to make my heart ache a bit. As asinine as that may have been.
There was a tap on the doorframe behind me, making me turn to find Roderick standing there.
I s
hould have known better. He was not a 'let it drop' kind of person.
"Might make it easier to deal with if you actually admit it," he suggested, eyes piercing into me.
"Admit what?"
"That you like me," he told me, making my body jolt a bit with the impact of the truth.
"Fine. I like that I am able to sleep with you around."
"Nope," he said, moving inward, closing the door behind him. "Try again."
"Roderick..."
"Come on. It's not hard. Three words. You can do it," he went on, small smile pulling at his lips. But not a smirk, not something cocky or condescending. It was almost sweet. With each word, he moved closer to me, forcing me to slide back across the floor. I hated myself for retreating, but there felt like there was nothing else to do.
Until my knees and calves met the foot of my bed.
He didn't stop though. Not until our toes were nearly touching, until he was towering over me, until I had to angle my head up to keep eye contact.
"You can tell me," he encouraged.
"What's the use in it?" I challenged.
"Because you feel it. If you feel it, what's the use in keeping it in?" he asked, ducking his head a bit. "I like you, Livvy," he told me in a low rumble, making my belly - and somewhere else entirely - flutter deliciously.
On a strange, choked sound, my forehead met the soft material of his tee. "I like you back," I admitted, knowing it was pointless, knowing that this would all come to an inevitable end sooner rather than later.
"Was that so hard?" he asked, voice still soft as his hands landed at my lower back and moved slowly upward.
"Yes, actually," I told him, slapping his back.
"But now it's out. And you can't take it back," he informed me, one hand sneaking over my shoulder, up the side of my neck, finding my chin, snagging it with two fingers, gently pulling it upward. "And now I can finally do this again," he added just a second before his lips claimed mine, soft, explorative at first, then harder, needier with each passing second.
His hand framed my jaw, the other slid down to press hard into my lower back, forcing my body tightly against his. One of mine went up and around his neck, the other hand bunched up the waistband of his jeans at his hip, holding on.
It felt like forever, yet not nearly long enough, that we stood there before his body started to fold forward, force me to bend back until I was supported by nothing but his arm at my lower back before he lowered me down completely, my back hitting the mattress, his body pressing me deeper into it.
Roderick Page 13
