by Ella James
I squeeze my eyes shut. God, I’m sure I’m boring him to tears. “Nothing exciting,” I summarize. “Just a very tasky day, and now I’m feeling lazy.”
“Tasky?” He smirks, and spreads his legs to stretch.
“It should be in Webster’s,” I say. My cheeks flush at his pose, which is ridiculous, and which I pray to God, Allah, and Moses, that he doesn’t notice. “Tell me you’ve never had a day that’s tasky. Boring, lots of mundane stuff to do, and tiring at the end. It’s not really tasky,” I say, mimicking his stretch, “unless you’re totally exhausted at the end and you feel almost no real satisfaction.”
He nods.
“So how about your day?”
His pretty eyes lift to meet mine, though his head is still tucked down. He shrugs, bending one knee so he can stretch the muscles on the inside of his thighs.
“Fine,” he says simply.
“Oh, c’mon. No exciting tales of blowing bubbles, hunting down organic avocadoes at the grocery store, or flipping through TV channels? Don’t tell me my boring, tasky day has got yours beat.”
He stands straight up, pulling one leg behind him to stretch his thigh.
“Damn, that’s good form,” I say, at the same moment he says, “Blowing bubbles?”
“Huh?”
He smiles—a patiently obliging, almost shy-looking smile—and steps over to my porch steps, pulling the toes of his right foot up toward his shin and stretching his calf with the help of my step. “You said you were blowing bubbles?”
“Yeah. At speech.” I laugh. Embarrassing.
“What does that help with?”
“Just getting my mouth stronger. Helping my lips re-learn to make an ‘o.’” The comment sounds perverted to my sensitive ears. I can feel my cheeks burn. Damn fair skin to hell.
When I brave a look at his face, he’s not smirking or cracking jokes. He looks natural and curious.
“Tell me what you mean.”
My cheeks sting anew. All this focus on me… I stretch my calves too, my smaller shoe beside his on the stair’s edge. “It’s just weaker on the left side. I still have a little trouble saying certain words. Anyway, by the time speech therapy is over, I feel like I need a drink or something. Have you ever had absinthe?”
“Once or twice.” He nods, and takes a big step from the porch. He moves his big body effortlessly into a flawless side kick. “Mostly French,” he says.
I struggle to stay looking natural, versus impressed, which is how I feel after he does a few more flawless-looking kicks.
I do a side-kick of my own, and feel embarrassed. Years ago, my form looked more like his, but—it doesn’t matter what he says about my kick—it’s nothing anyone would watch admiringly.
“You should come in and have some, sometime. No pressure or anything. I just got a recipe for Death in the Afternoon, which is basically champagne and absinthe, if you didn’t know.”
Barrett
She sinks into a sparring pose, legs spread wide, knees slightly bent, arms up. I match hers. Her face isn’t eager or curious. She could tell I wasn’t going to reply. She said what she wanted to say, but she tried to keep me from feeling pressured.
It dawns on me, as I spar with her, focusing on her weak spots and cataloguing responses she could offer with one of the other martial arts, that no one has invited me to do anything in a long time. Not since my team within ACE was stateside and training at Fort Bragg. When was that? Last June?
No one but this girl has sought my presence. Not even Kellan. He’s been sick, although he’s getting better all the time, so the few times I’ve seen him and Cleo, it was my idea. I guess that’s pretty fucking sad.
I push the thought away and keep on trying Gwenna, testing her to see how much she knows. I’d put her at about a first degree black belt. I still feel impressed with her mobility. Finally, just when my left shoulder has started aching, I stop and show her some new tactics.
I show her a few pressure points I teach sometimes for use in street fights gone wrong: like when you lose a gun, or God forbid, run out of rounds. After I’ve shown her, I step back and raise my eyebrows. “Try one on me. Your pick.”
She presses her lips together, quiet and round-eyed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I arch a brow and give her a smirk.
“Oh—” Her funny smile blooms on her face— “so it’s like that, is it?”
Instead of answering, I lunge forward on the balls of my feet and shove her shoulders. She springs toward me, feinting for my neck, but balling up her right fist and striking me in the solar plexus instead. The bundle of nerves, just underneath the sternum, is sensitive as fuck if you hit it right. I know she did because my diaphragm locks up, and I can’t get a breath. I clench my jaw to keep from yelling—the natural foil to that maneuver—and I don’t step out of her reach until my head is feeling fuzzy. Then I snatch her wrist and twist her elbow so her body follows that motion; she hits the ground with her right side and flops onto her back.
I’m panting over her.
Her eyes are wide. “You’re insane!” She laughs, jumps up, and makes a grab for my inner elbow, attempting another new trick. She’s a righty, so she goes for my left arm, which doesn’t have sensation in that region, so I have to shake her off. She looks pissed. Her eyes cling to my left hand. “How can you keep your balance on that hand? Some of the fingers don’t work, right?”
I grin.
“You jerk.” She shoves me and I let her, laughing at her energy. She’s like one of those little yappy dogs: more show than actual threat, although I’d never tell her that.
“Truce.” I swing my hand out, faking a hand-shake, and when she grabs it, I hook a foot around her good ankle so she’ll have to use her injured one to fall. I haven’t taught her that, and I’m not positive she knows it, so I catch her on her way down, pulling her atop me.
She spins around to face me, her ass rubbing my crotch in such a way that I’m glad when she hops off my lap so she can face me fully. “Holy hell. Are you a gymnast or something?”
I stand, and hold a hand out for her.
“No thanks, mister. I don’t think I need your kind of help,” she teases. She hops up and brushes her rear end off. I keep my eyes locked on her face. “Barrett, that was seriously impressive. You’re acrobatic.”
I laugh. I’m breathing a little hard. “Out of practice.”
“God, I’m glad.” She laughs. “This was awesome! Just enough ass-kicking so it was fun without me feeling totally pathetic.”
“Next time I’ll show you more target areas around the neck and head.”
I swallow. Next time?
Fuck.
She’s grinning. She waves me toward her front door. “Come here. Come inside, absinthe or not. I got your cupcakes.”
“Serious?”
She beams like Betty fucking Crocker. Little tendrils of auburn hair float around her flushed face as she moves toward her door. “Made them last night—from scratch, by the way.” She winks. “Easy peasy.”
I decline the absinthe, take another Tupperware box from her, and ask to use her restroom before I go.
That night, when I’m in my chair drinking Red Bull, I navigate to my phone’s camera mode. Without opening the lens of the camera in her room, I punch the code for audio and listen to her snore.
TWELVE
Gwenna
For the next three nights, we meet at 6, at my house. Every night, I have something for Barrett. Brownies, fudge, colored rice crispy treats. In exchange for food, he helps me hone my trachea-crushing skills and learn the groin stomp. Which, mind you, he doesn’t let me practice anywhere near him.
The arrangement is working really well, giving me something fun to look forward to and something to do when he’s not here. My comfort level around him is evolving, too. After the second night, I forego my silly pre-workout shower and greet him looking like my regular self.
With some effort, I try to stop overthinking things an
d focus more on making him laugh, which I increasingly think he needs. I’m no expert, but after our second night together, I become convinced his awkwardness is not so much that, but rather some kind of fatigue. The more I loosen up around him, the more often I notice him rubbing his eyes and forehead and pressing on his temples when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
Always, I want to ask about his service, but I know better. I gather details like my bears forage for their autumn binge. He’s from the L.A. area. He has a younger brother. He doesn’t talk to his dad much. He was a Ranger for a long time. I learn he’s savvy about the caffeine content of chocolate, leading me to wonder if he has sleep issues; he says he doesn’t mind food coloring because “there are worse things.” Every night, I invite him in for dinner or some wine or absinthe. Every night, he finds a way to politely accept the treats I’ve made and go straight home.
A comment he made yesterday raised my eyebrows—something about it made it sound like he’d be sitting up all night. So today, after a brief trip into the enclosure, I spend the hours before he’s coming over making a chicken pasta casserole, which I leave in the oven, covered with foil.
The second I see him coming through the woods, worry knots my stomach and I know my Pushy Gwenna Dinner Plan is needed. I watch him move through the trees and my pulse actually pounds between my ears. He’s wearing dark jeans that I’ve never seen before and a navy and denim-blue, ringer-style shirt with the same black Nikes that he always wears to spar.
I can tell something is off just by the way he moves. This guy has better balance than anyone I’ve met—and that includes my childhood Taekwondo instructor, a fourth-degree black belt —but I actually see him reach out and put his hand against a tree trunk one time as he moves—more staggers—through the trees. His hair is sticking up off his forehead on one side, as if he fell asleep face-first on a desk or something. As he pushes limbs out of his way and comes into my yard, he gives me what I think is meant to be a smile, but it’s nothing more than a slight twitch of his mouth. His eyelids sag, although as he gets closer to me, I can see him try to pull them open. Dark circles wreath his eyes.
I just want to hug him as I stand up from my porch perch and his long legs close the distance between us. I decide to test my theory. When he gets close enough for me to reach, my hand darts out and toward his cheek. His big hand catches mine before my fingers touch his scruff. His eyes pop open wide as his fingers tighten around mine.
“Gwenna, Gwenna…” He gives me a smile and a slow shake of his head, which morphs into an eyebrows-raised, lips-pursed look of challenge. “You must want the nightly snack to be your sweet ass on a plate.”
I can’t help giggling like a high-schooler.
“You look tired.” I take a swipe at his abs. His hand catches my wrist, squeezing slightly.
“You want to keep that up?” He arches his dark brows again.
I grin, and try to thump his ear. I expect reciprocal behavior, so when he knocks my feet out from under me, sending me flying back, then pulls me by the hand—which, apparently, he grabbed at some point—so when we land, I’m face-down over his lap, I turn my head to look up at him, feeling dazed and stunned.
“You think this is my first time fighting tired?” The look on his face is knowing—and, I think, a little jaded.
I sit up, and put my hands on his thick shoulders. Then I give into a rare pre-accident-Gwenna urge and snuggle up against him. “I think this is your first time coming in for dinner,” I say with my cheek against his chest.
I slide one hand down from his neck, over the hard swell of his outer arm, and down to his ribcage. Despite the lack of air in my lungs, I manage to lean back and give him my most charming snarile.
In the moment, I’m counting on my physicality to keep him from seeing this as flirting. The truth is, I really care about his wellbeing. After just a few days of his little smiles and deep chuckles, his smartass comments and his thinly veiled conscientiousness, I feel a surprising depth of affection for my sparring partner.
Which is why I push myself to let my guard down as I lean away from him and smack my hand against his shadowed cheek. “A-hah.” I arch my brows. “Gotcha.”
He leans back on his arms, looking slightly wide-eyed. I climb off his lap and crouch in front of him.
“You know you’re off your game, sensei.” I wrap my hand around his forearm. “Come inside with me and have some food. Maybe that will wake you up.”
His eyes narrow on me like he’s trying to figure out who body-snatched the woman he met last week and replaced her with this assertive lunatic. I snarile—and realize this feels good. I feel so natural tugging on his arm, tipping my head at my porch. “C’mon. Don’t pretend you have a better dinner plan or better company.”
I smirk. He laughs. He looks a little more awake.
I can see him school his features into a more serious expression as he stands up. “You think you set our agenda?”
“Yes.” I put a hand on my hip. “She who wields the spatula has the power.”
He grins, dark and Cheshire. His arm darts out so quick, I don’t even think of blocking it before his hand is gliding through my hair. He wraps a wavy lock around his hand and tugs lightly.
He smirks. His brows arch over his expressive eyes. “That right?”
I wrap my hand around the arm that’s got me by the hair. “Touché.” I want to keep the ruse going, but I can’t stop myself from laughing.
He smiles back at me, and I feel like I’ve won the lottery.
He lets me go. I fold my arms. “You gonna shun my company? Am I good enough to fight but not dinner material?” I quirk one brow up in mock challenge. I’m not even really sure what I’m saying. I just plan to tease until he comes inside with me, so I can try to figure out what’s up with him.
I feel the strangest blend of pure, 100-proof affection mixed with cheek-staining attraction and a dash of friendly fondness. So I’m not shocked that my heart pounds as I wait for his reply.
His mouth opens slightly. His full lips press together for a moment—in which I wink. “I didn’t think so.”
I hold out my hand. I’m not sure what I expect of his response. Maybe for him to step inside my outstretched arm and come inside with me, like an animal I’m herding. Instead, he takes my hand and laces his long fingers through mine. His fingers squeeze mine slightly and his hand draws mine a fraction closer to his chest.
I watch his eyebrows notch as he tilts his head, his lips curving just slightly. “You’re in a mood today.” The words are quiet. His eyes are, as ever, intense, and underscored by his peculiar brand of kind curiosity. Not curiosity about a certain thing but just…interest in me. At least, that’s how it feels.
Every time I see him, I feel more and more addicted to it.
Since he’s laced our fingers together, I tug him lightly toward my door. “I’m in a giving mood. You look like the zombie version of yourself and I would hate to kick my sensei’s ass.”
His lips twitch, and I’m pleased to see he can’t keep his mouth from blooming into a teasing smile. “You really want to go there?”
“You want to tell me you’re all good so your new friend doesn’t worry about you?”
As soon as the words fly out, accompanied by what I’m pretty sure is my concerned look, I want to disappear into a sinkhole. Way to go, Einstein. Start off dinner with a nagging, mother-hen comment.
My hand tenses in his, but Barrett doesn’t let mine go as I push my front door open, looking over my shoulder at him. His mouth is pressed into a line, but the corners twitch a little. “Worried about me?” The words sound light but his eyes are unhappy. Probably embarrassed, since I came on so strong. ARGH.
My hand is sweating, so I let his go and push the door open, waving him in. “Guests first. And no, I’m not really worried,” I lie. “I’m that friend who sends presents when it’s not a holiday and gives excessive hugs. Former actress, you know? You seem tired and I skipped dinner, so I th
ought…” I shrug.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes move around my living room, then shift to my own.
“It smells good,” he says simply.
I smile. “Thanks.”
We walk into the kitchen and I think he seems distracted as he looks around. “Sit down if you want.” I pull out a chair. “I’ll get our plates. I’ve got chicken tetrazzini casserole and some seasoned green beans, plus rolls.” I keep my gaze away from him as he sits at the table. “What kind of drink do you want? Dr. Pepper? Water? Tea?”
“Water is fine.”
I pour him some water, me some sweet tea, and focus on making our plates. “Green beans?” I ask, glancing at him.
“Sure.”
Damn, his shoulders look wide in my little chair. His wavy hair, the way it curls around his nape…
I swallow. Have I always been this reactive, or is it because I’ve subjected myself to such a long dry spell? I press my thighs together. “So what have you been doing over in that lair of yours?” My voice sounds unsteady and husky. Damn. I swallow as he looks over his shoulder. I can see a smile flirt with the corner of his mouth.
“Lair?” he asks as I heat up his plate in the microwave.
“Lair: a secret or private place in which a person seeks seclusion.” I infuse my voice with confidence so he won’t know my heart is pounding 90 percent of the time that I’m around him.
I bring his plate and glass to the table, sweating slightly, even though it’s not hot in here.
“Oopsie, silverware.” I take some pieces from the drawer and set them in the correct places on the table. “Sorry I don’t have a placemat or anything. I’m pretty low-key these days.”
