“Um, sure. What do you need me to do?”
He sits on the bed, and wipes his eye—the one that’s not swollen shut. “I want to take a shower, but I . . . I’m feeling dizzy. I’m afraid I’ll pass out or something.”
Alarm bells sound in my head. Does he want . . . ? Is he asking . . . ?
“Can you help me?”
Keeping my voice steady, I ask softly, “Are you asking me to come into the shower with you?”
He nods, and dips his head. “I’m sorry. I know that sounds weird. I’m not being weird. Please don’t think that. I just want to feel clean.” His voice breaks and his hand trembles as he raises it to cover his mouth. Nurse Swenson warned me the concussion could cause erratic emotional responses for a while. His brain had a bit of a jostling. Tomorrow they want to check for any additional swelling.
I walk over and sit down next to him. Without thinking, I rub his back in gentle circles over the soft cotton of his T-shirt. “Wait here for a moment, okay?”
He nods without looking up.
When I turn the corner out of the guest room, my pulse quickens. I have an idea. I rummage through my drawers and pull out my one-piece bathing suit—the one with the built-in tummy reducer. Then I pause and think: Robert’s clothes. Still neatly packed in boxes, I never got around to donating or discarding them. Raine is a bit taller and more muscular, but he should fit in Robert’s bathing trunks. I locate the box in the second guest room closet and pull them out. I’ve set a new speed record. The whole adventure takes me less than five minutes.
Raine is still on the bed where I left him. I kneel down in front of him and take his hand. “To make this more comfortable and keep our sense of modesty, I found you these.” I hand him the swim trunks and hold up my bathing suit. “This one is for me. Good?”
He gives me a half smile and nods.
“How about I help you down to your underwear, and then you take it from there while I change and come back?”
“Okay.” He stands, and moves to remove his shirt. Mid-movement he groans and winces.
“Here, sit. Let me.”
He obeys, and I take the hem of his soft T-shirt in my hands and lift it slowly over his head to reveal the rippled contours of his torso. I try not to gasp at the angry purple welt on his ribs. After discarding the shirt on the bed, I tenderly pass my fingertips over his bruised ribs. His eyes lock on mine. I press, and he screams.
“Shit, Raine! Your ribs are broken.” How the hell did the hospital miss that?
“I know.”
Could this get any worse? I wonder.
“I’ll tape you up after we shower,” I say evenly. “Can you stand?”
He gets up, and I unbutton his jeans. I steady my fingers and carefully sneak them under the waistband and separate the denim from the cotton of his underwear, so when I shimmy them over his hips I won’t take his briefs with me.
He helps and then sits down. I lower his jeans to the ground and free his legs. They’re covered in soft, light blond hair. The swim trunks are in his hand.
“I’ll be right back. Change while I’m gone?” I say, and then race back to my room and strip naked.
I wrestle my body into my bathing suit and return to him.
Raine is wearing the trunks when I walk in. He’s lying on his side, curled up in a fetal position on the bed. I pass by into the bathroom and turn on the hot water. This guest room has the most generous shower, a walk-in with multiple heads.
When I return, Raine’s eyes are closed. I brush back a clump of his matted hair. “Hey, are you still awake? You still want that shower?”
“Yes,” he murmurs and grimaces when he tries to sit up. He clutches his head with his hand, and manages to get upright. Taking him by the arm, I gently lead him into the bathroom and underneath the warm water in the shower.
I wet my hair and push it back out of my way then position him under the spray. “Can I wash your hair for you?” He bites his lip and nods. His vulnerability breaks my heart. “Let’s rinse the blood out first.”
He turns his back to me and tips his head back. The warm water cascades through his hair turning it from tawny-blond to brown. Gently, I guide the water from his roots to his ends to get rid of the dried red reminder of his beating, careful not to put too much pressure on his skull and the tender lumps and stitches I feel under my fingers.
I squeeze shampoo into my hand then spread it through his hair, lightly rubbing it up into a rich lather. I focus on running the soap through his hair without spending too much time at the roots. “You can rinse now.”
The lather snakes down the hollow of his spine in a soapy river.
“Conditioner?”
He nods.
I spread a small dollop through his hair, and rinse. With that done, I turn my attention to his body. Soaping up a pouf with shower gel, I start at his shoulders and work my way down the muscled landscape of his back until I reach the swim trunks.
Unprompted, he turns and I wash his arms and his chest, avoiding his purple ribs. Moving the pouf lower, I glide it over his sculpted abs down to his waistband and stop. To my artistic eye, even injured, I can’t help but appreciate every line, curve, and ripple that I touch. I’m having trouble imaging what could drive a father to break and batter his own son like this.
“Can you . . . ? Um, never mind.” I discard the idea of asking him to lift his leg. He’s unstable enough on his feet, no reason to endanger him further. Instead, slowly, I sink to my knees in front of him, draw in a breath, and hold it. My face falls in line with the healthy bulge hidden underneath the swim trunks. Warmth unrelated to the heated shower spray spreads across my cheeks. Lord, help me. Pushing away my discomfort at being this intimately close to him, I cast my eyes downward. Brownish-blue bruises and scraped skin cover both kneecaps. His injuries tug at my heart. Carefully, I run the soapy ball over one well-defined leg and then the other.
Something close to relief fills me as I rise.
Switching to a face cloth, I take the corner and gently dab the ugly bruises on his face and the cut on his lip. He takes my hand as I finish, and brings it to his lips. I suck in a breath.
“Thank you,” he says as his lips graze my knuckles.
“Can you finish from here?” I whisper.
“I think so.” He swallows. “Will you . . . ?”
“Just tell me what you need.” My voice is soft and encouraging despite the sudden rigidity of my spine.
He hooks his thumb inside the elastic waistband of the swim trunks. “Will you help me take these off? You don’t have to look.”
Oh, Sweet Jesus. “Sure, take this.” I hand him the pouf and step behind him. Better getting an accidental eyeful of backside than . . .
Sinking to my knees, I stare at the tile and reach up to find the thick elastic band by touch. He helps me glide them down over his hips, and I take it from there. My fingers gently graze over the soft hair on his legs as I work them down to the shower floor.
“Thanks,” he says, stepping out of them.
Keeping my eyes averted, I place the trunks in the back corner of the shower and step out of the steamy water. My heart rate slows as I hit the cooler air of the bathroom. Grabbing two towels on my way out, I wrap one around my wet bathing suit, and fashion the other into a turban around my head before heading for the door.
“Jillian?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you stay in here until I’m done? You know, just in case . . .”
“Okay.” I plant myself on top of the closed toilet seat. I want nothing more than to get the cold, wet spandex away from my body, but I’m more concerned about Raine. My comfort is a small price to pay for his safety.
His masculine form moves stiffly behind the curtain of steam clouding the shower glass. I hear him groan a couple of times over the sound of the pounding spray.
The water shuts off, and he peeks around the glass door. “Can you bring me my duffel bag? Please.”
“Sure.” I ease of
f the toilet seat and out the door. It’s sitting right where he left it on the side of the bed. I loop my hand through the handles and put it down outside the bathroom door. He peers out through the crack, and slides it inside. “Do you need my help?” I ask softly.
He hesitates before saying, “Thanks, but I can manage from here.” I can’t help but think he’s too embarrassed to ask, but decide not to push him.
“Will you be all right for five minutes while I change?” I ask as he closes the door.
He nods and the door shuts with a soft click.
I return in yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt. He’s curled up on the duvet in pajama bottoms and a clean T-shirt with his damp hair fanned out on the pillow. He watches as I walk in. His black eye is taking on a yellowish hue.
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
His head shakes imperceptibly, and his eyes close. For some reason, I can’t let him sleep uncovered. Retrieving a blanket from the closet, I place it on top of him then turn off all but one small light visible through the crack in the bathroom door.
Crouching down next to him, I whisper, “I’ll be back in an hour or so, just to make sure you wake up.”
“Okay.”
As I approach the threshold, his voice comes from behind me. “Jillian?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you stay with me?”
Thank God the darkness hides the surprise on my face. Warmth floods my chest. I can’t remember the last time I comforted anyone.
“Sure.” I set the alarm on the nightstand, and slide in behind him on the queen-size bed. Without hesitating, I snuggle into the hollow of his back and rest my hand on his hip, offering him my warmth. He smells fresh from the shower, the scent of my lavender shampoo clinging to his damp hair.
He takes my hand, twines his fingers into mine, and pulls my arm more tightly around him until my hand rests next on his stomach. His gesture ignites both my desire and my need to protect him.
“’Night, Jillian,” he whispers, and drops off to sleep. He breathes in a steady rhythm, and after my heart quells, I soon follow.
Chapter 14
Raine
I REACH UP TO grasp my throbbing temple and groan. My eyes open into slits. Sun streams underneath the half-closed shades and I wince from the brightness. I’m desperate for something to dull the pain.
A soft hand touches my naked back. I remember being too hot during the night and the searing pain of removing my T-shirt, and then later, pulling the blanket back over me when the air-conditioning got too cold.
“You awake?” Jillian asks from behind me and removes her hand.
“Barely,” I mumble. My skin tingles where her fingers grazed me.
“Roll over and let me see your eyes,” she says, all business. “I want to check your pupils.”
I roll onto my back and try to ignore the agony in my ribs. “Can you tape me up this morning?” I grit out through the shooting pain.
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry! I forgot to do it last night.”
“It’s okay, so did I.”
My eyes feel heavy, and I know one is in dire shape from the way it won’t open all the way. It hurts when I breathe, but at least I didn’t puncture a lung. Been there, done that the last time my ribs were broken. That really was a sports injury.
I look up to find Jillian hovering over me. Her eyes meet mine, but she’s assessing them, not gazing into them with interest. God, I must look a mess. I can’t believe she even allowed me into her home. Not to mention, I must’ve been tripping last night when I asked her to take a shower with me. She must think I’m a nut case.
“They look good,” she says, and I close them again.
Her fingertip travels over my cheek and my eyes snap back open. The feel of it is so intimate, something stirs down lower. I bite my lip, willing it to stop. On top of everything else, I don’t want her to think I’m a sex-crazed lunatic. You’d think I hadn’t gotten laid in a year.
My eyelids slide shut again. I still can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe that piece of shit who calls himself my father came at me with a billy club. Who does that? Sick motherfucker. Nice bonus to know he also wishes my mom aborted me. I feel the frown etch deep between my eyebrows. Jillian’s finger traces the furrows. I want her to stop, but I don’t want her to stop. This connection feels good, but I realize I might be imagining the whole thing. We still barely know each other.
She clears her throat and takes her finger away. “Are you in pain? Can I get you some ibuprofen?”
“That would be great,” I say and then cough. I regret it as pain spears my midsection.
She eases off her side of the bed. “Try not to move until I get back. Your appointment is in ninety minutes. Will you make it?”
“Yeah.” My mouth is dry and gritty. The thought of getting up is unbearable. I hurt worse now than when I went to bed.
Before I know it, Jillian’s back, helping me to sit up.
I swallow the two pills, and drain the glass. The cold water soothes my parched throat.
“Ready for me to tape you?” She takes one of the rolls of tape she’s brought with her and pulls out a thick strip.
I eye her warily. “Where did you learn to tape up broken ribs?”
She smiles. “Jenny’s field hockey games.”
The pressure of the tape feels good.
When she’s done, we agree to meet downstairs after I turn down her offer to help me get dressed. I’m still choking down my embarrassment from last night.
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting with Jillian in her kitchen at the island. Orange juice, a plate of eggs, and toast sit in front of me while Jillian just drinks coffee—which I despise. I drink tea, like my mom. But rather than ask for it, I skip it this morning.
“Talk to me. Last night wasn’t the first time your father . . . hit you.” Jillian raises her mug to her lips, and takes a sip. She makes it a statement rather than a question.
I take a swallow of OJ and grunt. I’m not sure I’m ready for this conversation. Revealing my sordid family history isn’t high on my list of favorite subjects. Not to mention, it usually dredges up my fury over my father’s betrayal. Because of him, I am where I am, rather than where I should be.
Jillian arches a brow at me. “I’m listening.”
“Did you just give me a ‘mom’ look?” I say, frowning.
She narrows her eyes. “That would be impossible, since you already told me I wasn’t old enough to be your aunt or your mother. Or are you taking that back?”
The way she says it makes me chuckle. “No. I’m not taking it back. If you were my aunt or my mom, I’d have to protect you from all my horndog friends.”
“Was that a backhanded compliment?” she asks as her golden eyes sparkle.
“Actually, it was a front-handed compliment. Will you do me a favor? Stop obsessing over your age. You’re an attractive woman, period. If you’re thinking men my age won’t date you, think again. True, some won’t, but I can guarantee you, plenty will. As I recall, I asked you to dinner, didn’t I? Now, let’s move on.” I finish with a wave of my hand.
Her head snaps back and her mouth falls open. “I’m not sure I know how to respond to that.”
“Don’t. That’s the whole point. You don’t need to respond to it. Just accept it, and feel good.”
She shakes her head like she’s clearing it. “Well, okay then.” She gives me that serious look again. “I think you were about to tell me about your father.”
“Not really.” I take a forkful of eggs before they get cold and chew. I don’t owe her an explanation.
“Raine?” Okay, that was definitely a “mom” tone.
“Jillian?” I mimic and finish my eggs and the rest of my toast.
She releases a breath and throws up her hands. “Fine.”
I’m being an asshole and I know it. I release a breath of my own, put my fork down, and pop up off of my barstool. “Jillian, let’s get something straight before I
answer your question,” I say more defensively than I really mean to. Not thinking, I run my fingers through my hair and wince as I pace in front her, unable to keep still. “I’ll tell you when and if I’m ready, but not out of obligation. If I tell you, it’s as a friend, because I choose to and because I want you to know. But let me be clear: I’m not a stray cat you found on the side of the road. And I don’t want your pity. If you offered me a place to stay based on that, then I can’t stay here. I’m not a charity case. That’s not what or who I am.”
Jillian’s eyes are wide and her lips are parted. I can’t tell if I’ve pissed her off or just surprised her. Scowling, I continue to pace nervously with my arms crossed over my chest. “Say something, Jillian. I need you to say something . . .”
Her hand shoots out and she grabs my forearm. “Stop, please. Just stand still for a moment.” She doesn’t look pleased with me, and now I’m the one who’s surprised.
I freeze, hoping I didn’t go too far. “What?”
Her eyes soften. “I don’t think that’s what you are . . . a charity case. But I do think you need help, and I don’t want you to be afraid to ask for it. I’m happy to help you. You can stay here as long as you need to.”
I dig into my pocket and pull out the wad of cash I made last night and start to count it. “I’m not a freeloader, Jillian. I can pay you some rent. I think I have a couple hundred—”
She grabs me again, this time more firmly. “No. I don’t want your money. I don’t need it. I just want to give you a place to stay while you need one. Okay? All I ask in return is respect for me and my home. And if it means that much to you, I’m sure we can think of something appropriate at some point.”
“It does. I may not have much, but I have my dignity and I have my word.”
She squeezes my forearm gently. “That’s enough for me, and that’s more than a lot of people have to offer.”
Her answer warms my insides. I fight the urge to pull her into a hug when she drops her hand. She doesn’t understand how much this means to me. Those things were never enough for Vanessa, or anyone else for that matter, not by a long shot. Whenever Vanessa looked at me, I couldn’t help but feel she was sizing up my future potential. Like an investment in her portfolio. Nine times out of ten, I felt like I came up short.
Caught Up In Raine Page 8
