Seth (Damage Control #3)

by Jo Raven

  But then he smiles, and it’s unexpectedly beautiful and bright, sinking a hook into my heart and hauling me in.

  “Manon.” His low, rough voice caresses my name, and I shiver. “You’re here.”

  “Yeah. I tried calling you. Sorry about this. It’s my fault.”

  “No, sweetheart, it’s not.”

  He reaches for my hand, and as his strong fingers close around mine I have a feeling I’m in a world of trouble, yet I can’t help but smile back.

  ***

  “Will you be all right on your own?” Micah asks me for the hundredth time. “I could stay.”

  “I know.” It’s past midnight, and Seth had to puke once, but has been otherwise quiet, dozing on and off. I glance into his bedroom. “He’s asleep. I think he’s less nauseous now. He’ll be fine.”

  “Sorry to take off like this, but I’ve got to get up real early tomorrow for this appointment.”

  Something to do with the tattoo shop, apparently.

  “It’s really fine, Micah.” I give him a nudge toward the door. “I’ve put the bucket by the bed, just in case, and I’ll read until morning. I’ll call if I need help. I promise.”

  “Okay.” He stops at the door and salutes me. “I appreciate it. Zane’s way over his head right now with the expansion of the shop, Rafe, too, and they’ve probably forgotten we need to do this.”

  I nod and push him all the way out, locking the door after him and leaning on it to catch my breath.

  Don’t get me wrong, having Micah around was nice. He helped Seth to the toilet when the nausea got too much, half-carried him back to bed and undressed him and tucked him under the covers while I went to make him some tea and find some crackers.

  While I tidied up the living room and the kitchen, Micah got Seth to take more Dramamine and painkillers, talked to him, and generally made sure he was okay.

  I don’t even know why I want to be left alone with Seth. I mean, he’s asleep. All I can do is sit by his side and watch him sleep.

  So that’s what I do, sinking quietly into the chair Micah placed beside the bed, taking in his room, his things.

  Him.

  The room is small and messy, the carpet stained. There’s a Batman mug and stacks of old paperbacks by the bed. Crime novels, sci-fi and… romance? What the heck? A pile of dirty clothes looms in one corner, two ten-pound hand weights and a towel sit in the other, and I itch to tidy up.

  Not your room. Leave it be.

  An old closet covered in stickers and scraps of posters, photos and drawings pinned to a cork board. A metal box set on the floor, a dying plant on the window sill.

  And my gaze keeps returning to him.

  He really isn’t my type. His forearms, lying over the covers, are so big the veins bulge over the thick muscles. The dark lines of his tattoos curl on the side of his neck. His skin is smooth and tanned, the stubble on his cheeks fine, darkening the line of his jaw, his chin, his upper lip. Those long lashes…

  Jeez, Manon.

  I get up and go to stretch my legs in the living room. When you get a concussion you may feel confused, unsteady. That’s what a brief Googling of the term on my cell phone told me before I arrived here.

  Then why am I the one confused? Why do I feel like I’m drifting away from the shore?

  It’s nothing. Just the late hour. The crazy yesterday. The stress of changing directions in my life and not knowing which way I’m going.

  Wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I enter the tiny kitchen and pour myself a glass of water from the tap. The light from the living room cuts a square on the floor. Outside the small kitchen window, the city flickers.

  Soon Seth will be better, and I’ll have no excuse putting off deciding what to do with myself. What I really want to do. Which way to turn, who to talk to.

  Let it sink in.

  Ballet dancing for me is over. What else could fill my life and give it meaning like dancing did? Is there something that could?

  Without warning, tears fill my eyes. I put down the glass and press the heels of my palms into them to stop from crying. This is ridiculous. It’s not the end of the world, not like it was when I was seven and Mom left. When I thought I might die from sadness and heartbreak.

  No, this is just a setback. I’m fine. I mean, just look how Seth deals with everything happening to him. That’s serious stuff, not a change in career. A career I didn’t even begin. A change in studies direction, that’s all.

  I’ll survive. I’ll be fine.

  “Hey,” a gruff voice says behind me, and I yip, crashing back against the fridge and whacking my hand on it.

  “Shit. Ow.”

  “Christ, you okay?” Seth is staring, dark eyes wide, one hand braced on the wall. He pushes off it, reaches for me and staggers drunkenly. “Fuck.”

  “Seth, no.” I grab him in time and push him back to the wall. “You shouldn’t be up.”

  “Was thirsty,” he mutters, frowning down at me. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “I’m fine.” His eyes are a warm brown, like cinnamon, and the way I’m pressed to his body I can feel how strong he is, feel the hard muscles in his thighs and chest.

  Shit. I jerk back.

  He lifts a hand to my face, stopping me. “Don’t run.”

  Frozen still, caught once more, I don’t know what to say. Why is he saying that? I don’t want to run.

  Not sure what I want, in fact. How I feel. We’re friends, right? That’s all.

  I pull back until his hand drops away. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

  ***

  When I bring him the water, he has his head turned to the side, a hand shading his eyes. “Light’s too bright,” he murmurs.

  I hand him the glass, then go to turn off the overhead light and switch on his small bedside lamp. “Better?”

  “Yeah.” He sips at the water, and I catch myself studying his hand, large and strong, an old, white scar running from the wrist down his palm. “Listen…” He puts down the glass on the worn bed-side table and I reach out to steady it. Our hands brush, and I flinch at the spark of heat. “You don’t have to be here. You probably feel like you have to, but you don’t, okay?”

  I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Want me to go?”

  “No. That’s not… Fuck.” He leans back on the stacked pillows and closes his eyes. “Not what I meant. I like it.”

  “What then?”

  “You. Here.”

  Warmth travels up my chest, and my heart does a weird little flip. Which is plain weird. “Feeling better?”

  “Sure.” He’s not convincing, though, and he’s quiet for so long I’m pretty sure he’s dropped back to sleep, when he shifts on the bed with a wince. “Tell me something about yourself.”

  I still, muscles tensing. “Something? Like what?”

  “Anything you want.” He gives me a faint smile. “I’m not picky. I’d read, but I’m dizzy.”

  “I could read to you.”

  “Ya know, I read these books ten times over while my leg was in the cast. Besides, I’d rather hear about you. Anything. Your full name. Your favorite color. The last book you read. The places you visited.”

  I shake my head, but an answering smile tugs at my lips. “Okay. I can do that, I guess.”

  My hands shake a little when I put them in my lap, but in the dimness, with no one looking on, I tell him.

  Chapter Seven

  Seth

  “My name is Madeline Amelie Torres.” She draws a deep breath. “My dad’s from Texas, my mom’s French from Algeria. I’m…”

  She falls silent, and I crack one eye open, needing to see why. Her hands clench in her lap, and her gaze is distant. Clad in a dark blue dress with a narrow belt cinching her tiny waist, with her dark hair curling around her heart-shaped face and those large, dark eyes she looks like a movie star from the forties. There’s something so delicate about her face I’m afraid I might crush it if I cup her jaw.

  Not that it matters. I won�
��t be touching her. She’s not free.

  “So… Madeline Amelie Torres,” I drawl. “Ça va?”

  Her gaze snaps up, and her eyes widen. I grin at her startled expression. “You speak French?”

  “Nope. That’s it. And Je t’aime.”

  Her cheeks redden. “Used this last one a lot?”

  I shrug, and my shoulder stops me, shooting a sliver of pain up my neck. “Told Shane once. He didn’t appreciate it.”

  She giggles, then claps a hand over her mouth. “This is ridiculous,” she whispers. “Me sitting here, telling you about myself. I don’t talk about myself to anyone.” But before I ask why not, she sighs. “I like blue. Anything that’s blue.”

  Great. I bet this Fred she’s dating has baby blues, unlike me. “Gotcha.”

  Hey, I asked for it, didn’t I? Somehow.

  “Last book I read was… In Search of Lost Time.” At my confused look, she explains, “A book by Marcel Proust. Talks about himself mostly. Very French.”

  “That explains it,” I mumble. My stomach twists, and man, I really fucking hope I won’t throw up again.

  “My mom wanted me to read more French literature while I was staying with her, and I tried.”

  “D’you like it?”

  “It was okay.” She smooths the fine fabric of her dress over her thighs, and I’m caught in a spell, staring at her small, white hands on the black cloth. “Suited the mood while I was there.”

  “Not fun?” I guess.

  “Not really. I was there for the last year of high school. I had been looking forward to it, you know? I hadn’t seen her in years. I’d missed her. I thought we’d have fun together, but…” She leans back, bracing her hands on the mattress, and my gaze dips to her breasts, high and pert, stretching the bust of her dress. Like clockwork. Can’t help myself.

  “Sorry,” I say automatically, trying in vain to look away.

  “Yeah, me too. And then this happened, with the dance school, and I am…” She bites her lip, and the catch in her voice finally does the trick. I look up, at her face.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  She nods, but she’s not okay. This is obviously crushing her, this rejection from the school, the loss of her dream. And yet here she is, taking care of me.

  “Forget about this,” I say. “This talking shit. It was stupid. I got another idea. Why don’t you lie down with me?”

  “Lie down with you?” Her voice rises to a horrified pitch.

  “To catch a few Zs. You know.” I blink at her, my lids heavy. “It’s late.”

  She doesn’t move, and it occurs to me belatedly that maybe I’ve offended her. She barely knows me, and I’m telling her to get into bed with me. A narrow bed, at that. Why would she?

  “Hey, I’m not coming on to you,” I mutter. “I promise. I’d just feel better knowing you’re getting some rest, too.”

  Fuck, I’m an idiot. She’s probably considering her exit strategy right now. Not sure how to fix this, I rack my mind for something to say to smooth things over before she runs.

  Which is why I jerk in surprise when she toes off her shoes and climbs onto the mattress, lying down beside me. She’s on top of the covers, I’m below, but even through the quilt I feel her curves, and despite the queasiness, I harden and have to shift to accommodate my swelling dick.

  Shit. Didn’t count on that. Thought I was too zonked out, but my dick has other ideas.

  I pretend nothing happened, that I’m not two seconds away from flipping the covers back, grabbing her and sinking into her until she comes so hard she can’t speak. Until I come so hard I can’t think. I pretend that we are just a guy and a pretty girl on their way to becoming friends.

  It will have to be enough. No choice. Not for someone like me.

  She curls up against me, and when I extend my arm over the pillow, she snuggles closer. Jesus Christ, can’t remember the last time I’ve had a girl in my arms. Not like this. On my bed. By my side.

  The girl I’ve been fantasizing about.

  I shift again, draw a deep breath of her vanilla scent, and close my eyes, determined to catch some winks despite everything. Despite the silky softness of her hair under my cheek and her warmth along my side.

  Yeah, as if. Dammit, I can’t sleep. My head is throbbing in time to my heartbeat.

  “Seth?” she whispers.

  “Yeah?”

  “What about your family? Micah said…” She stops, starts again. “Crap, sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  She’s right, it’s not. Automatic defenses rear up, put in place years ago, and I open my mouth to tell her Micah should learn to keep his fucking big mouth shut.

  But I don’t.

  Roll with the punches, right? Don’t lash out, don’t take the suckage that is life seriously. Despite the call this morning, despite the fact my mom is alive, that she left me to rot behind bars and took off with God knows whom to do God knows what… I don’t.

  Besides, I asked first.

  I take too long to reply, though, and she starts to sit up.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again. “Really am. I shouldn’t poke my nose in other people’s lives. I should go.”

  “They’re not dead,” I blurt out. “My parents.”

  “Seth…”

  “I don’t know my dad,” I say. Need to stop her from leaving, so I draw a deep breath, force out more words. “And for a long time I thought my mom was dead, but I found out today she’s not.”

  She stills, her eyes wide.

  “It’s like a fairytale gone bad,” I go on, not even sure why I’m spewing everything out. Guess I hope that if I keep talking she’ll stay here and not run away, like she seemed about to do. “My dad is from the Lake Superior Chippewa tribe. Works at the Potawatomi Casino. My mom used to go there often, looking for wealthy men to fuck.” She winces, and I clench my jaw, because the truth ain’t pretty. Like I said. Fairytale gone bad. “She often brought her sister along. They met my dad there one fine day and had a nice little threesome. Nine months later, Shane, and I were born.”

  She says nothing, but at least she isn’t moving away, which is a win, because running after her ain’t in the cards with the way my balance is shot to hell right now.

  “Was that what you were asking?” I say after long seconds pass with nothing but silence. “If my parents are alive?”

  “Yeah.” She’s still sitting rigidly beside me, and I’m so aware of her breathing it’s like there’s nothing else in the world. Nothing and nobody but her and me. “That’s what I was asking.”

  I relax a little. Maybe I didn’t fuck this up. I replied to her question. I held it together. “Okay.”

  “You said…” She licks her lips, soft, inviting in the dim light. “You really thought your mom was dead until today?”

  “Yeah.”

  Didn’t tell anyone else about it, not even Shane. I didn’t want to talk about it, think about it. Wanted to forget it, forget everything. She’s dead to me and will always be.

  But of course now reality slams back into me, and with it memories I’ve done my best to bury. Betrayal. Shock. Fear. Horror. Anger. Sorrow so bitter it burns.

  The police arriving. Finding me unable to move. My mother gone. Everyone gone, leaving me alone.

  And now she’s back from the dead, asking for my fucking help.

  My stomach turns over so suddenly I barely manage to twist away from Manon and bend over the bucket by the bed before I throw up water and bile. Nothing left in me to toss.

  “Crap.” She scrambles up beside me and slides off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

  I pant through the dry heaves, throat and eyes burning. The fuck. Why are my eyes burning? A reaction to vomiting, I tell myself. All that acid.

  Not the memory. Not the pain of the past. I’m over that.

  Even if she abandoned me. My mom. Left me there for the police to find and took off. Never came back for me. Never let me know she was alive.

  Becaus
e she just didn’t care.

  ***

  “Here,” Manon says, handing me my refilled glass of water as I lean back on the pillows, panting. “It’s okay.”

  It’s not, not really, but that’s another matter. My hand shakes, but I manage a small sip of water before she takes the glass away and places it on the bedside table, a wooden crate Shane brought me.

  Shane. Goddammit. I close my eyes, so tired. What a messed up family we are.

  Something cool brushes my brow, and I jerk back.

  “Shhh.” She sweeps the wet towel down my cheek, over my mouth, wiping away sweat, tears and traces of puke. “Rest.”

  Damn. Now I have something clogging my throat. I turn my head away when she swipes at my other cheek, and she sits back, leaving me be.

  Only quiet is not what I need. I reach blindly for her hand, and she lets me take it. I wrap my cold fingers around her delicate ones, feeling the fine bones of her knuckles, the softness of her palm.

  Wish I could tell her more. Tell her everything. Wonder if the words coming out of my mouth are like poison being let out from a wound. If it might heal me.

  Then reason returns, and I clamp my mouth shut. Not because I’m afraid she’ll rat me out to Zane—why would she care?—but because she’ll run away so fast I won’t even have time to say I’m sorry.

  Sorry for who I am. For not being who and what she needs. For not being someone fit for company, for the society, for normal things like friendships and hand-holding. The fact she let me so close is precious to me. And even though I know how stupid this is—and I know, believe me—I can’t help but cling to her for as long as she’ll let me.

  Even if it means not telling her the truth. Lying. Pretending I don’t want more from her, that I don’t get hard just by looking at her.

  Jesus.

  “Feeling better?” she asks, and I jerk my chin down in a nod.

  Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s done all she could. Emptied and washed the bucket, cleaned me up, brought me water. Let me hold her hand. What more could I ask for?

  “How’s your knee?” She glances down at my cotton-clad legs, as she stretches out on top of the comforter. “Did the doctor see it?”

  “It’s fine.” Look at me. A pro liar. “The break is all healed up.”