Under Her Skin

by Adriana Anders

  The few seconds she searched the woods were unbearably long, but finally she turned to slip through the open gate—even that she didn’t fucking close—up the sweet, overgrown flagstones of her walkway, then onto her porch and through the front door, without even a hint of the jingle of keys. He stood unmoving as she made her way down the hall to the back room. She didn’t lock the front door behind her and still hadn’t done so by the time he watched her turn off lights and disappear up the big staircase.

  Guiltily, he took in the upstairs lights switching on, her shadow moving through an interior door, another light on, in the front of the house—fuck, it was the bathroom, wide open, like the rest of the place. He stared, hating himself, as she pulled off her skirt, too low for him to see, which was both a disappointment and a relief. She reached for the bottom hem of her shirt and paused, turned her head, and took two steps to close a set of wooden shutters, which masked the lower half of the window entirely and, therefore, his view.

  Good, he thought with a sigh. Good, she’d cut him loose, absolved him of guilt by removing the element of choice, which was good, because he couldn’t have looked away, even if he’d wanted to. Which he hadn’t. No, he’d wanted to—

  Something bumped his leg, and he almost shouted with surprise until he saw what it was: the cat. The fucking cat was back outside. It had come to find him, to chase him off, or… No, not chase him, apparently, because it rubbed him in the same way it had rubbed her. Pushy figure eights around his legs, designed to influence. He bent and picked the creature up, pulling it into his chest the way she’d done just minutes before.

  With a jolt of surprise, he felt the odd space where one of the animal’s legs was missing. It didn’t seem too hampered by the shortage as it clawed its way up to his face, embracing him with its one remaining front paw, and sniffed his mouth with its tiny, cold, wet nose.

  Awkwardly, Clay stood for long minutes, holding this purring creature, waiting to see what the hell it wanted. After a while, it settled deeper into his arms, with apparently no intention of taking off. With a sigh and a look around, Clay made his way to what appeared to be a downed log and sat, leaning against a trunk, letting the animal’s warmth and engine-like rumble cover up the buzzing in his brain.

  It was strangely comfortable, despite the heat and humidity and the prick of mosquitoes eating at his skin. Possibly because, for once, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

  8

  Clay awoke the next day a hot, shivering mess on the motel room floor.

  Immediately, he remembered what he’d done the night before: stalking Dr. Hadley. Shame weighted his gut, deep and heavy. Fuck, he was a creepy fucker, watching a woman in her home like that, no matter how good his excuses.

  The problem was that he’d liked it. You weren’t supposed to like a stakeout. You were supposed to be miserable and uncomfortable, not pleased, the way he’d been—not relieved to have a purpose beyond waiting around for a court date that was still months off.

  And, fuck, he was a sick bastard, because he wanted to do it all over again. He wanted to be out there, watching over her. Keeping her safe in a way that he knew was wrong, wrong, wrong.

  God, his head. It hurt, like he’d rammed a spike through his eye socket.

  Christ, why did he do this to himself? Memories of waking up in the clubhouse, hungover, hurting, and half-clothed with some random woman next to him in his bedroom. He’d complained to his boss, who’d eventually gotten him lined up with an undercover girlfriend. Thank God. The other guys might think he was whipped, but that was nothing compared to the stress of having to fuck—or avoid fucking—those poor women.

  Women like Carly.

  He screwed his eyes shut against those images.

  With a rustle, his hand met paper, and memories from the day before came flooding back—Niko Breadthwaite dead, Clay drinking at the bar, then running into that cop. The man had seen right through him. He’d known something was up.

  Had the sheriff made him? Clay wondered, the morning bringing a new perspective on that odd conversation. Fuck, maybe Clay was losing his edge and the sheriff saw right through the civilian charade.

  Because that was what this was. A charade. All day, every day, Clay was playing some role, pretending to be something he wasn’t… Yeah, but you do it long enough, you become it. Whatever it is.

  Maybe it was the goddamned banner Ape had forced on him—the one that said, Hey! I’m a fuckin’ cop and I’ll never work undercover again, because it’s written on my face!

  After a worthless fifteen minutes of he-made-me, he-made-me-not, Clay stopped the internal debate firmly on the side of not.

  In fact, he decided, he’d been so damn good at his role of stupid criminal that the man had figured he’d best take him off the streets.

  Good. Good.

  He stood, let the sweaty sheet fall to the floor, revealing his unexpectedly naked body—he didn’t remember taking his clothes off after returning from his vigil at the doc’s place—and moved to the A/C, pushed a few buttons, waited… Nothing. From polar ice cap, it had turned into a goddamned sauna in here, and he couldn’t get a fucking wheeze of cool air.

  In the bathroom, he lifted the toilet seat and vomited, made even more nauseated by the state of the porcelain rim.

  Christ, he had to get out of this place. He would have spent the night in the woods if the mosquitoes hadn’t eventually made it unbearable, their bites overlapping, the bumps still texturing his skin. His T-shirt was festooned with grisly smears of blood from crushing them. His blood.

  Outside, his mind called again, overlaying the image of the doctor’s house with another place—that mountain overlook where he’d found… What? Himself? Yeah right. His new favorite bird, the vulture? The mirror showed a cynical smile at that thought, but the notion did have an oddly true ring to it. He’d felt a weird kinship with that bird.

  After a long, cold shower, a big glass of cloudy water, and his last two wrinkled apples, he made his way back into the world, only to be blinded by the sun. He was yearning for something to soak up the booze, so he headed to Main Street, on foot, avoiding the bad-news diner and going straight to the coffee shop with its hipster baristas—probably the only place in town where he almost fit in.

  A pretentious pastry and two tasteless coffees later, he felt slightly better, then caught sight of a clock only to realize it was just a few minutes before noon. He considered his options—back to the motel, where the A/C could no longer even pretend to battle the filthy, moist heat or…

  Shit.

  He was going to do it, wasn’t he?

  Clay took a quick trip to his room to change into his sweatpants, hesitating before slipping into a crappy T-shirt with the arms cut off. At the last minute, he grabbed a long-sleeved shirt to throw over himself, then headed back to the gym beside the clinic.

  The clinic. Shit, he’d have to go back at some point. Or maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d just hold on to the tats, like part of his history. Hell, the kids in the coffee shop had looked at him with a sort of awe—who knew a face tattoo would get you quite so much street cred?

  He knew. His tats had gotten him exactly the respect he’d needed to fit into the club.

  He hesitated briefly before he pushed into the MMA school. Inside, it was exactly what he’d expected. And at the same time, it wasn’t. Yes, it smelled like sweat and socks, like every other gym in the world, but there was more to it than he’d imagined. It was bigger than it looked from the outside, with mats lining the middle of the room and weight equipment along the sides, a couple of speed bags, heavy bags in the corners, and a boxing ring in back. Nothing particularly high-tech or new. He liked it, which gave him a jolt. It had been a long-ass time since he’d felt right someplace.

  Nobody manned the desk, so Clay just walked in, ignored the stares of the two guys lifting, and scanned the room until he spotted
Sheriff Mullen in the back. He stood wrapping his hands before hopping up into an elevated ring.

  “Made it,” said the sheriff, with a come on back here wave. “Get you suited up.”

  “For what?”

  With his chin, the man indicated Clay’s hands. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin all that pretty ink, would we?”

  Clay scoffed and unconsciously rubbed his arms. “Yeah.”

  “You got more under there?”

  After a brief pause, he lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

  “That what you been doin’ next door?”

  A noncommittal sound was all Clay managed. He wasn’t sure why, but after a brief hesitation, he yanked off the long-sleeved shirt, baring his tats, before wrapping his hands.

  It had been a while since he’d geared up like this. The Sultans didn’t believe in protection for a fight. They believed in scars and wounds. Disfigurement was a way of life for those guys—a badge of honor. The more you tainted yourself in the name of the club, the more teeth you had knocked out, the better. He had a bent finger or two to prove it, since drunken brawls followed by drunken fucks were the norm in Naglestown, Maryland. Jesus, he missed that part of it—the brawls, not the fucks.

  “You gettin’ those taken off?” Sheriff Mullen interrupted Clay’s reminiscing as he pulled out some boxing gloves. He threw a second pair at Clay, along with headgear. “Bit late for the doctor to be workin’ last night, wasn’t it?”

  “Just makin’ sure she was okay.”

  “Hmm,” the small man said, sounding dubious. “What kinda fightin’ you done?”

  “Regular kind,” said Clay with a hint of a smirk.

  “Yeah? Let’s see what you got.”

  Up in the ring, the little guy hit his gloved fists to Clay’s and moved back with a spring in his step. So he’d be fast. That was okay. Clay could handle fast—although maybe not today, all shaky and hungover.

  And he was right. The little guy came in quick and low, arms up in a defensive position that was tough as hell to get through. He was tiny, but wiry and strong, and going up against him, Clay felt like a big, slow oaf.

  But he felt good, too, even as he absorbed a couple of quick, tight little jabs to the head and shoulders. The pain was right. The speed, the adrenaline. Oh, man, what a relief. He ducked and struck with an uppercut that would have stunned if he hadn’t pulled back. His opponent’s eyes were bright—as bright as his, probably—and his excitement ratcheted up a notch or two. Man, this was what it was about—the physical perfection of confronting a worthy opponent.

  A jab, roundhouse, push, push, and the other man was on the lines, but then, before he knew it, his foot snaked out, and Clay was down, with a crash that sounded loud and hollow in the room. It was quiet, besides their breathing, and he realized the other guys were watching them—the main event.

  There was a jangle of bells at the door, and more people came in, their voices fading to nothing as they entered the space and caught sight of the two mismatched fighters in the ring. Ah, hell, he’d seen those UFC fights, where boxers came out looking like losers on the ground, and here he was, the smaller man’s arm wrapped around his throat like an unbreakable noose. He’d hoped to just fight it straight, maybe a little dumb, but…

  His body moved faster than his brain, and before he’d thought it out, his arm rammed into the crook of the guy’s elbow, his hand to his shoulder. God, he loved jiu-jitsu. And he’d missed rolling with someone who knew what he was doing.

  The sheriff’s arm remained around Clay’s neck. Christ, he was strong for such a lightweight, but he’d left his ankle out in the open, and Clay went for it—pushed up on his legs, threw the little guy up, up, over his shoulder.

  Past the blood rushing through his ears, he heard a murmur in the room. He was providing the entertainment. Fucking Fight Night Challenge up here. Shit. He’d blow his cover if he wasn’t careful.

  Wait. What fucking cover? He had no cover, no point for being here, no reason to exist. Andrew fucking Blane was a goddamned joke.

  He who’d wanted to lay so low was suddenly center ring at the goddamned circus. But it had worked, that move, and he liked it, loved coming out on top in a fight, could see that the sheriff had enjoyed the challenge of being one-upped—and now Clay wanted more.

  They shared a painful fist bump before the man pulled him straight into a clinch. “Not just a street thug after all,” he said into Clay’s ear in something just above a whisper. “You ex-military?”

  Clay shook his head.

  “Hmm. Let’s see some more like that,” he yelled and pushed away, going straight for the feet.

  Fuck, he should stop. He had to if he didn’t want the guy to know he wasn’t a civilian. But civilian life was overrated, and this felt good—way too good to put an end to it.

  * * *

  At the knock on her door, George looked up.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” said Purnima.

  “Oh?”

  Expressionless, as always, the nurse nevertheless managed to convey something with her look. “Andrew Blane.”

  She took a big, shaky breath in. “Oh.”

  “Shall I…?”

  George stood, breathed out. “I’ll be right… No.” She sat back down. “Send him in. Please.”

  “All right. You want me to stay with you?”

  With a frown, George considered before answering with, “No. No, I’m fine. Go on home.”

  Purnima hesitated but finally turned and left the room, returning shortly with Andrew Blane in tow.

  “Come in,” George said with what she hoped was placid concern.

  He stepped inside, disheveled and sweaty and… Oh, geez. Something else. Not hot, but heated maybe? Intense.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, remaining in the doorway.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, I mean, I’m…” He looked away. “I shouldn’t have missed yesterday. I had no excuse.”

  “All right, well…” She swallowed hard, avoided his eyes, and then, maybe because he’d hurt her and she wanted to hurt him back, she said, “You’ll have to pay for the missed time.”

  “Of course.” He waited, just stood there breathing hard, and she couldn’t help but notice his chest beneath his sleeveless T-shirt, moving.

  “Can you take me today?”

  “Have you put on the cream?”

  “No, but…” His smile, dry and cracked-looking, pulled at something deep inside her. “But I can’t reach most of my back anyway, so it’s all the same, isn’t it?”

  “Oh. You don’t have anyone who can—”

  “No, Doc. Got nobody to rub my back for me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” he said with a bigger smile.

  “Of course I am. I’ve—” She stopped herself from talking. “Oh.” God, why was she so dense? Was he flirting with her? And if so, why? Why on earth would he bother flirting with someone like her? A swallow failed to wet her throat enough, and her voice, when it came out, was ragged. “I’ve got to finish up some…paperwork here, so…” Another throat clearing.

  “Got all the time in the world.”

  “Good. Perfect. I’ll just…apply the numbing cream, and we’ll wait for it to take effect.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “All right, follow me.”

  He barely moved back to let her through the door, and that, even that, felt like flirtation, unfamiliar and dangerous, but so, so titillating.

  In the examination room, she moved to the sink, washed her hands, and didn’t watch as he settled back on the table. From a cupboard, she grabbed a new tube of cream and a roll of plastic wrap. “I’ll just apply this, and you can wait about half an hour. Have you had issues with the others?”

  He shook his head, eyes steady on hers.

  “Tak
e off your shirt and lie down on your front, please.” The words came out close to a whisper. Quickly, she pulled on a pair of latex gloves, waited for him to disrobe, and forced herself to breathe. Deep, slow. Okay, his chest was blistering and starting to scab, she noted before he settled onto the bench. The ink was nearly gone in some areas—the lighter applications—but others were dark. She hoped, for his sake, that they’d eventually disappear.

  Although he stiffened at the contact, the first swipe of cream was easy. A thick layer of it, directly over the big, black triangle in the center of his back. If she concentrated on the cream instead of him, it was doable, focusing her eyes on skin instead of muscle. But it was hard to ignore every line of his perfection—this anatomy book illustration come to life.

  She watched as his skin pebbled up into goose bumps. Another swipe, over the spider web on his neck, then across a shoulder blade, and her hand couldn’t help but enjoy the rigid planes, the swell of muscle, the strength. And then there was how he smelled. He’d looked sweaty when he’d come in, but it wasn’t bad. No, it was…

  George pulled her hand away as if stung, took a step back, and breathed through her mouth, although even that was intimate. Past the medical odor of the cream, she could smell soap, maybe some cheap shampoo, and then…sex. He smelled the way she remembered sex smelling. Not the musky odor of genitals, but the scent of desire.

  Man as animal. He smelled solid, real, warm. Right. He smelled right. So right, in fact, that her body did things, perking in places that hadn’t perked in so long she’d thought they were dead. It was cool in the clinic, thank God, because at least she’d have an excuse for her nipples. But not for the slippery weight in her abdomen. Lower.

  “Everything okay?” the man asked, craning his neck to look at her, and rather than face those eyes again head-on, she placed her clean hand to the back of his head and pressed. Gently. Firmly.

  Oh, crap. I’m not supposed to do that, am I?