I'm so tired, and I just want to go home. Curl up in bed with Pep and my Kindle and a mug of tea.
I try again, fighting the urge to just break down and cry.
Finally, the cranky old engine catches and I pull out of the parking lot. I get halfway home when I remember I have no food at home, and will have to pick up something. So I turn around and head to the other side of town to the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, pick up some tasty but bad for me fast food.
And, of course, a few miles from home, my truck starts coughing again. I'm in the process of making a left turn, and halfway through the intersection the gas pedal goes limp, and the engine quits responding. I floor the pedal, and get nothing. I coast to a stop, right in the middle of the intersection, engine dead.
I try the ignition a few times, horns honking all around me.
Nothing.
I slam my fist onto the steering wheel, fighting tears.
Horns honk. People shout and curse.
I put it neutral, get out of the truck, and with one hand on the doorframe and the other on the steering wheel, I push--hard. But this old truck weighs a goddamn ton, literally a metric ton, and I struggle to even get it moving.
And does anyone help me?
Fuck no.
Can't stop the tears now, because I just want to go home. I want to eat my stupid chicken sandwich and my stupid delicious waffle fries.
I feel a presence behind me. "Get in." The voice is deep, thunderously deep, yet smooth as velvet. A whisky voice, smooth and fiery and potent.
I turn, and the man standing there is...a god.
I'm struck dumb.
Six-four, easily. Wild, loose, long, wind-tangled blond hair, a thick unkempt beard. He looks like a deity of the wilderness, from far and remote places. His eyes are blue-green, vibrant, piercing, the color of the sea. They're wrinkled at the corners, as if he's spent untold hours in the sun.
"I said get in, honey." He gestures at the seat.
Honey? That shakes me out of my daze. "I can handle it."
"Traffic is piling up behind us, and this truck has to be heavier than hell. Just get in and let me help."
I want to be stubborn. No one calls me "honey"--no one. But he's right, and I'm tired. So I get in. He settles in where I was, in the corner of the open door, hands on the frame and the wheel. He pushes, and his muscles bulge. And Jesus, we start to move.
I am not unaffected, and that in itself is odd. It's not like there aren't any men in Ardmore. There are, and some are rather attractive. They're all country bros and cowboys, which is cool. Not really my thing, exactly--were I to have a thing anymore--but cool.
So what's different about this guy?
I don't know, and that makes me even more irritable. I keep my hands on my lap while he pushes my truck out of the intersection and into a nearby parking lot.
When we're out of the way, my rescuer leans against the open door and passes his hand through his hair. "There. You got Triple-A or anything?"
I shrug. "No."
"Someone to call to come get you?"
Another shrug. "No. But I don't live far from here. I'll be fine. Thank you."
I take my keys, slide the strap of my purse over my shoulder, gather the white paper bag with my sandwich and fries, my cup of soda, roll up the windows and close the door. I start walking. When I said it wasn't far, it was a little bit of a lie.
Or a lot of a lie: it's five miles to home, easily, and my feet ache already. But I'm not about to let this perfect stranger take me home. Just because he's gorgeous doesn't mean he's trustworthy.
Or that my suddenly whacked-out hormones can be trusted around him. Honestly, this second issue might be the bigger problem.
"I'm not letting you walk across the town by yourself. It's getting dark." He says this while catching up to me.
"So?"
"So you're a woman alone. It's not safe."
I laugh, gesture around us at the small country town. "Have you looked around?" I keep walking. "I think I'll be okay."
He keeps walking beside me. "Listen--"
I stop, face him. "No, you listen. Thank you for your help--I really do appreciate it, but I'll be okay from here. Please leave."
He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "All right, fine." He's not offended at all, or doesn't seem to be, anyway. Equanimous, even-keeled, unruffled by my outburst.
I may have snapped at him, unfairly perhaps. He was being a gentleman.
But there's no place in my life for polite, gentlemanly, attractive men.
No place in my life, no place in my heart--shit, who am I kidding? I don't have a heart anymore. I buried it with Ollie.
So I keep walking, and don't look back. At some point I hear the deep diesel rumble of a big pickup, and see a new but dusty black F-250 roll by, windows down, some kind of hard-driving and definitely not country music blasting loud. California plates. A huge, shaggy dog hangs its head out the passenger window, tongue lolling in the wind, and I can see my blond god savior at the wheel, bobbing his head to the music, one hand trailing out the window. He glances at me, waves goodbye, a polite, friendly gesture.
I could be in that truck right now, sitting on some nice leather seats, AC blasting, a gorgeous guy beside me, a dog in the back licking my hand, listening to music that isn't country.
But I'm not. I'm on foot, in the drowsing dusk, on aching feet, with five miles or more to walk--alone.
Once you're out of the downtown area, things get dark real quick at nightfall. The little city doesn't give off a lot of light pollution, and the streets out this way are narrow, mostly dirt, and unlit except for the occasional orange-yellow streetlight. Which means, once I get out this far, I don't really feel as brave and fearless as I did back in that nicely lit intersection. Of course, it's plenty safe around here. But...you never can tell, can you?
It takes me over an hour and a half of walking, but I finally make it home.
My feet throb and ache and it feels like I've got knives stabbing into my arches. I'm dusty from the dirt road, have grit in my mouth, and I long since finished my dinner, which means I'm still hungry with nothing to eat except some pasta noodles but no sauce, and some stale bread.
So I make the noodles and eat them without sauce, and save the bread for breakfast.
But I do have plenty of something else.
Wine.
My own version of a sleeping pill.
So I pour a big glass of wine and drink it in bed while trying to read.
It takes me a while, but eventually I'm tipsy enough to fall asleep.
And when I do?
I dream of Ollie.
In the dream, we're lying in the bed of that battered old Nissan, back in Africa. The metal is still hot under our backs--I can feel it. I can smell the dust. I can smell blood, too.
I feel Ollie, but I can't see him. I can sense him, and I know he's beside me. In the way of dreams, I feel this urgency, this driving need, this bone-rattling panic. I have to see him. I don't know why, but I have to see him. But I can't turn my head. If I don't turn my head to look at my beloved Ollie, I'll never see him again.
If I don't look at him, he'll die.
It's the only way to save him.
TURN YOUR HEAD, NIALL! I scream it at myself, in the dream.
I strain and twist.
But it's like my head is caught in salt-water taffy, stretchy, sticky, trapping me. I can't turn my head. I CAN'T--I CAN'T!
OLLIE, please Ollie, don't go.
Don't die, Ollie.
I can't look at him, and somehow time is running out.
He's calling me.
NIALL--NIALL--NIALL; I can't actually hear him, his voice isn't audible, but I know he's calling me.
I'm sobbing. I can't see him. I won't make it in time. My head is turning, but it's in slow motion. I can't see him, I need him, and everything is happening in slow motion. Panic has me in its claws, and if I could I'd grip my head in my hands and physically pivot my
head with my hands, just to look at Ollie so I can save him, but even my hands are trapped in the slow-sludge of dreaming.
And then, just like that, time unsticks, and I can turn my head.
And there's Ollie, lying in the battered bed of the blue Nissan. His eyes are open, but he doesn't see me. His eyes, those beautiful brown eyes like melted chocolate, they're dead and lifeless. Blood trickles out of his mouth. His forehead is smashed open, and I can see brain matter mingling with his blood on his cheekbone.
There's blood, sticky, tacky, old blood, so dark as to be nearly black, pooling beneath him. His chest is ripped open. He's freshly dead. Still warm. And the blood is now seeping out, trickling down his forehead, and I can hear the gushing whistle of his breath and the gurgle-gasp of blood in his throat, even though he's dead. I'm hot. The heat from the sun is beating down on me, punishing me for letting Ollie die. For arguing about stupid music. For not paying attention to the road, not seeing the semi swerving toward us, clipping our front end, sending us spinning, tumbling.
We're on the PCH, now. In the car. I see the semi, and I can't do a damned thing. I watch the huge bumper of the semi smash into our hood, send us twisting, tumbling, flying, rolling. I watch in slow motion the moment Ollie flies out of the windshield. I see him hurtle through space, and the car is spinning and smashing against the ground and rolling and landing upside down. And through the broken driver's side window, I can see Ollie.
Limp.
Lifeless.
Bleeding.
Not dead yet.
And I have to get to him.
My seatbelt is locked, and everything hurts, and I have to get to Ollie, but I can't.
I can't.
I have to look at him, and then I can't look away because now the slow-sludge of dreaming is back and I can't look away.
And Ollie, he's still dead.
Bu somehow he looks at me. His eyes roll and swivel and find me. He blinks, once.
He doesn't say anything, but he judges me.
He hates me.
He blames me for killing him.
In real life, Oliver would never hate me, would never blame me, would never judge me.
But this is dead dream-Oliver.
And I cannot escape the baleful glare in his cold, dead eyes.
He bleeds, and hates me.
When I wake up I'm soaked with sweat, and I'm sobbing. My mouth is caked with thirst-effluvia, I'm so thirsty it hurts to swallow, and my head pounds, and I'm sobbing so hard I can't breathe.
I collapse to the floor, thirst forgotten, and try to conjure up an image of Oliver when he was alive. The way he'd grin at me, knowingly. A grin that said later, after work was done, he'd get me naked in our little room on the MSF compound and he'd make love to me under a sheet, even if we were both dead tired from endless hours on our feet, even if we could barely walk, barely see. He'd make love to me, and his salt-and-pepper hair would fall in front of his eyes while he stared down at me.
"Oh god, honey," he'd whisper to me. "I'm coming. Are you with me?"
"Yes...god, yes," I'd whisper back.
"Niall, oh god, Niall, honey, I'm coming so hard..."
And I'd come with him, and we'd roll over when we were both finished and he'd wrap an arm around my middle and nestle his sticky, slackening manhood between the globes of my butt and wiggle as close as he could get, and we'd fall asleep like that.
And for some godforsaken reason, I hear a different voice calling me "honey". It was a throwaway term, something thrown out because of habit, the way some guys do.
But the way he growled that term, honey--it shook something inside me.
Made me hear it the way my Ollie would murmur it when he came, but now it's a different voice. A new voice. Calling me honey while he comes. And that sends spears of guilt slicing through me, cutting me to ribbons all over again.
I sob on the floor, sob till I shake, till I can't breathe, can't breathe, and I could vomit from the shaking and the sobbing and the lack of oxygen.
Pep finds me. Curls up in front of my face, sitting like a sphinx directly in front of my eyes, and he boops my nose with his little paw.
Somehow, that comforts me.
I pull Pep to my chest and hold him there until I can breathe again.
I think I fall asleep on the floor, because that's where I wake up, on the floor outside my bathroom.
It's early morning. There's bright sunlight bathing the hallway.
I stumble to my feet and into the kitchen, start some coffee--at least I have coffee, and thank god for that. While the coffee maker burbles and glugs, I drink several cups of water from the sink, to slake the demonic thirst of my cheap-wine-hangover.
My kitchen sink has a window over it, which faces the road, and my driveway. I can see anyone coming for a good mile. And if they pass the Jensens' driveway, they're coming here because I'm at the end of the road, with nothing beyond me but grass.
Dust is being kicked around, way up the road. It's been dry as hell lately, so the road has been churned into powdery dust, which means I can't make out the approaching vehicle until it's past the Jensens'.
It's my truck.
What the hell?
Like the sleepy, hungover idiot I am, I stand at my kitchen sink, cup of water in hand, watching my truck approach. I watch as it parks in my driveway, right in front of the slab of concrete that passes for my front porch. And I watch the blond god who rescued me from the intersection unfold his tall frame. That beast of a dog is in the passenger seat of my truck.
Once again...what the hell?
I watch him approach my front door.
God, he's handsome.
I mean, he's scruffy, unkempt, and wild looking. But he's clean. He's ripped. And his eyes are arresting, blue-green like the deepest sea.
He knocks on my door, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that yes, I do have to answer the door.
I move to the front door and pull it open. There's a screen door, which I don't open, yet.
"What are you doing here?" I demand.
His eyes widen, and his gaze slowly, deliberately rakes down my body. I've never been looked at that way in my entire life, as if I'm something delicious to eat and he's starving. He doesn't just look at me, doesn't just check me out.
He scours every inch of my body with his gaze, from toes to hair, up and down. Twice.
He drinks me in, as if he's never seen anything like me in his life. His chest rises and falls, and his fingers tighten into fists at his sides. His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare. I swear the zipper of his faded blue jeans tightens.
And yeah, I'm checking him out too.
But the way he's looking at me, it's...intoxicating. Bizarre, but wild and heated and ravenous.
And that is when I realize what I'm wearing.
Or...not wearing.
I'm in a T-shirt, and that's it. And by T-shirt, I don't mean Ollie's big old UCLA shirt. It's one of mine, and it's old, so it doesn't quite fit me. I never wear it except to bed.
It doesn't quite cover my ass, and it's super tight around my chest.
No bra.
No panties.
Just the T-shirt.
I don't remember undressing, don't remember putting on this T-shirt. I remember watching TV and maybe possibly uncorking a second bottle of wine to go with Vanderpump Rules. But clearly, at some point last night, I took off all my clothes and put on this ridiculous shirt.
It's not ridiculous, though. It's my second favorite sleep shirt, after Ollie's UCLA tee. It's comfy. And it's also not ridiculous for me to be basically naked in my own home, not when I have no neighbors, and especially since no one ever has and--I thought--would ever visit me, so there's no reason to ever worry about modesty.
Which means I'm standing here, basically naked, oblivious, staring at the most attractive man I've ever seen in my life. My hoo-ha is playing peekaboo, for sure. My tits might as well be bare, because this shirt is so old and has been washed so many tim
es it's basically see-through, and now that I'm aware he's scrutinizing me and that I'm naked, my nipples are pebbling, thickening, going hard and tingling. I see his eyes go to them.
And yeah, his zipper is totally bulging.
I feel a blush creep into my cheeks, fiery.
"Fuck." I murmur this under my breath.
"Yes, please," he growls.
And I swear to god, he puts his hand on the lever of the screen door.
What? No. Don't do that.
I'm frozen, unable to move as he swings open my door. Steps over the threshold, and stands in front of me. Towers over me. I'm not a tall girl--I stand five-five and a quarter when barefoot. So this man, at six-feet and several inches, does indeed tower over me. He stares down at me, those sea-churn eyes flitting over my face, back down my body as if he can't stop looking at me.
And for my part, I can't stop looking either. The bulge in his jeans is huge.
I unfreeze then, and back up. Tug the hem of the shirt down in front, which covers my hoo-ha but tightens it around my breasts. Can't win, I don't think.
"You need to leave," I grate out.
"You shouldn't answer the door like that."
"I'm tired. I just woke up." I don't know what's come over me. I should be kicking him out, not talking to him. "And I'm hungover."
"It's past noon, and you just woke up?" He smirks. "That's a hell of a hangover."
"Past--did you say past noon?"
"Yeah." He checks the watch on his wrist, an expensive, waterproof-looking thing. "Twelve thirty-four."
"Shit!" I forget him, forget my shirt, forget that I'm naked. "I'm late for work!"
I was supposed to work at eleven again today. I turn and scramble to my bedroom, pull my emergency prepaid cell phone from the bottom of my purse.
Dead.
Where the hell is the charger? My room is kind of a disaster, because I'm not the neatest girl in the world. There are clothes everywhere; half a dozen pairs of scrubs on the floor, more folded in a basket, bras on door handles and on the floor, along with panties and towels.
I can't find my charger anywhere.
"SHIT!"
"Something wrong?" His canyon-deep voice comes from somewhere behind me.
I'm on the floor near the bedside table, rooting through the clothes and old junk mail for the charger. "Yes, there's something wrong. I was supposed to be at work an hour and a half ago." I finally find it, buried. Plug it in, but the phone is old and it takes a while to get enough of a charge to turn on once it's died. "And my phone is dead."
"At least you have your truck, now."
Yours Page 9
