by Eden Butler
I can’t help it. The sound that leaves my mouth is somewhere between an undignified snort and a low gasp. His eyes widen and my cheeks flush hot, but I forget my embarrassment when his laughter echoes through the basement. After a few seconds, he sobers and lets his fingers run through his hair. “I was an arse earlier. About, well, about your mum.” At first, my lips lower, quiver, but when I turn my attention to the books, he touches my arm and squeezes his fingers gently over my skin. “My mum, she’s gone as well.”
My eyes pop back to his face and I relax my expression. “I’m sorry,” I say, forgetting the books for a moment. He nods once. “When?”
Declan lets his hand fall away from my arm. “Oh, it was some time ago. I was just a kid, but I don’t reckon that knot in your gut ever goes away.” He stands and we return to the books, but his eyes are on my face again and he smiles. “I should have known better than to say something so rude when I don’t really know you.” Declan shakes his head as though another thought comes to him. “Fact, I should apologize properly for the first time we met.”
“I thought you did that,” I say, earning a smile from him, a silent confirmation that his forced apology didn’t mean anything.
“I was pissed out of my head. Too much whiskey.” Again Declan frowns, moves his head as though he can’t believe what an ass he made of himself that night on the pitch. “It’s no excuse, I know, but I am sorry. I’m not like that, really.”
“Well, I wasn’t really pissed at you.” He raises one eyebrow and I smile. “Not for being rude today. You’re right, you don’t know me, but it’s still a bit, new, you know?”
“I do. It was a shitty thing to say so, again, I’m sorry.” We return to the sorting and our hands work together in the box. Several times we touch. His skin is rough and there are blisters on his knuckles, on his palms. He has a player’s hand, calloused and slender, good for grabbing, holding the ball, and I find myself looking at how long his fingers are, the width of the joints, the show of vascular lines on the tops.
“What do you play?” I ask and he stops for a moment, notices me staring at his hands.
“Wing. Well, normally I’m wing. Tucker’s convinced Mullens to set me as scrumhalf.”
“Ah, so that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you hate Tucker.” He doesn’t respond, just returns to the bookshelf to grab another box and my gaze follows him, takes in the rigid set of his shoulders. “He’ll be gone at the end of the season, you know.”
“Hmm. If I’m lucky,” he says.
“Mullens is a good coach. I’ve known him forever and he’s friends with Ava.” A wrinkle forms between Declan’s eyebrows. “Dr. Winchell.”
“Thick as thieves with the president, aren’t you?”
“No. Well, yes, but it’s not what you think. She was my mom’s best friend. They’d known each other since college.”
He opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, but then just nods before he clears his throat. “Sayo mentioned it was a car crash?” When my eyes narrow, he shakes his head as though I shouldn’t be angry. “That was after she and the other two barked at me forever. Told me what an arse I was, how rude I was, how you didn’t deserve to be disrespected.” I relax and he continues. “You were hurt?”
“Yes.” My hands shake, tremble as they rest on the box in front of me and I can see myself bloody and still in the car, remembering the pain, the suffocating feeling of my mother’s loss. A breath tamps down the burn of tears in my eyes. “Three broken ribs, a completely busted up leg, and a lacerated abdomen. I had more scrapes and bruises than even you’ve probably had.”
“I’ve had many. Loads of scars as well.”
I don’t know what possesses me to do it, perhaps some subconscious need to prove how tough I am, that I’m not some sniggering girly girl, but I lift up the side of my shirt and show Declan the top of my incision from the surgery. It’s a horrid, long line still pink that runs from my hip to just below my bellybutton.
“A steel rod from the truck that hit us pinned me to the seat. Seven hour surgery.” Declan winces. The scar had faded and the doctors told me that over time it would continue to diminish, but it would never disappear completely. Five months on and it’s still quite disgusting.
Seemingly without thinking about it, Declan reaches down and rubs his thumb against my scar and at his touch, my stomach flips. I know he can see the light hairs on my stomach stand on end and how my skin covers in goose bumps. He looks at my face again and once more his eyes linger too long in my eyes, then down to my lips. But then he breaks contact and unbuttons his shirt.
“I’ve got a few nasty ones as well. See this?” He lifts his undershirt back over his left shoulder and I nod, curious of his point, his intentions. “Rory McDonald pushed me straight through the rusty, broken uprights when I was fifteen. Twenty-nine stiches that ached like a bugger. And here,” he lowers his shirt then pulls up the hem to show me a smooth gash just below his bellybutton. “Mickey Douglas forgot to ditch his watch during a practice match when I was eighteen. Fecking thing nearly ripped me in half when he lined me up and smashed me as I went for a try-scoring pass.” The scar is faint, barely noticeable and doesn’t register really as I am distracted by muscles so taut that I can see the lines across his stomach. There is a long trail of black hair below his navel that disappears beneath his belt and I can’t help the wild dip of my stomach as I watch his bare skin.
“That’s um, yeah.” I swallow against the dryness in my mouth and Declan steps closer, his shirt still raised. Again I feel him watching me, and I don’t realize how close we are standing until he drops his shirt. There is no smile on his face, no condescending little grin that tells me he thinks I’m an idiot.
I don’t react when Declan reaches for my face or when his hand cups my cheek. The tips of his fingers are smooth, not like the rough callouses on the tops and palms of his hands. I’m about to speak, say something glib, sarcastic, but just then Declan rubs his thumb across my bottom lip, a mimic of what I’d done to him Thursday night on the sidewalk. I can only manage to watch his head lower until his lips are at my ear. When he whispers, his voice is low, a soft rasp that nears a growl and instantly makes my body ache.
“Like what you see, love?”
He steps back and the crackle present in the air, the one I’d forced the other night, returns, collects into the stillness of the basement. The seconds stretch, he moves forward, and the only sound I can hear is the low hum of the lights overhead and my own heartbeat thumping in my ears.
“Yes…um, no…it’s not like that.”
“Liar.” He runs his fingers through my hair, by my ear and I like the way his hand fits perfectly against my skin.
I ignore the pulse that throbs between my thighs, close my eyes to breathe in and out. When I step away from him, Declan lets his hand smooth down my arm before I walk to the bookshelf. Another box rest precariously on a shelf above my head, but Declan doesn’t give me a chance to grab it. He reaches over me, only this time he stands directly behind me and I feel the heat of his body behind me. One hand stretches to secure the box, the other rests lightly on my hip. I pray he can’t feel how I’m affected by him standing close to me or how I unexpectedly enjoy the warmth his body gives off.
“You know, I don’t think standing so close to me is necessary for an apology,” I say, as I bump against him to emphasize my point.
His laugh is deep, raspy and he lowers his mouth close to my cheek. “Probably not, but a bloke’s got to try to make amends, no?”
Declan steps aside then sets the box down and we sort through the books. I try to keep my distance, moving my body to the other side of the table. He shakes his head, smiles to himself as I put space between us.
“I’m not going to bite, McShane.”
“Yes, well, you seem to take apologies to the extreme. Except when they’re forced. Can’t have that, now can we?”
“Oh, I think we ca
n. We can have that plenty.” His accent gets thicker when he’s angry, or, like now when he’s trying to flirt. He sidesteps closer to me and I believe he’s momentarily forgotten about the night we met. Either that or he doesn’t see me as much of a threat.
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
“And why not? Have you already fallen for the nancy captain?”
“No. It honestly has nothing to do with Tucker.”
“Ah, still hacked off at me for that kiss?” He moves back and his hand covers his crotch.
I lift my hands in surrender. “No worries, I’m not going to attack. Besides, I’m over it. I just think you and I would be inappropriate. You’re an undergrad. You can’t be more than twenty, right?’
“I got started late.” He plays with my hair and ignores the slap I give his hand. “I’ll be twenty-four in January. Plenty legal.”
That’s surprising. Most men his age would have given up on their education. Part of me wants to know what’s taken him so long to get through his studies. “Still inappropriate. I’m not going to jeopardize getting a faculty position next year.”
“Wouldn’t messing about Tucker do that?”
I glance at him once, notice how he’s forgotten the books completely. He relaxes on the table, resting back on his elbows. “Tucker graduates in the spring. But he’s not even a consideration.”
“Why’s that?”
He doesn’t need to know about my history with Tucker. “You, on the other hand have, what, three more years?”
“Two. I transferred. Two years is a long time to become mates.” The table moves when Declan inches off of it to stand next to me.
“I have enough friends, thanks.”
He lowers his shoulders, returns to the books, scanning the spines. “Come now, you can never have enough friends.” The Americanized term sounds odd spoken through his brogue. His bare arm rubs against me as we work and I don’t think it’s at all accidental.
“I think you have decidedly too friendly ideas about me.”
He laughs, then steps behind me so that his mouth is next to my ear. “I won’t deny that.”
Before I can I respond, the lights overhead flicker once, twice. There is a wheeze and a pop and then the only light in the room comes from the small basement window above the bookshelves.
No, I think. Not now.
“Is there a storm?” Declan asks, but I can’t answer. The doors in the stairwell whine as the alarms lock and I already feel the pulsing panic in my chest surface. “McShane?”
“God…oh, God.”
He must see my panic, how my eyes have rounded because he reaches forward to touch me, then retreats when I jerk back. My limbs shudder and I back up against the bookshelf before I crumble to the floor.
“How’s her breathing?”
“Bad. Her face has gone all pale and she looks like she’s about to hyperventilate. What the feck do I do?”
“She won’t hyperventilate. Just be patient with her and try to get her to calm down.” Sayo’s voice is composed, level, but I hear her shouting at the maintenance men through the speaker of my cell. Mollie and Layla are asking questions, that much I can make out, but Sayo puts them off, tries to make them quiet.
Pain radiates in my chest and my heart is a constant drum of aching palpitations. There is no way I cannot be dying. I am dizzy, winded, and when thunder cracks above us in the distance, my mind flashes to the accident, to the winds and pain, blood and loss.
Dammit, I can’t breathe.
Logically, I know Declan is here. He’s crouched on the floor, my phone in his hand, but my mind is a flutter of worry. Nothing makes sense. I hear his conversation, hear my best friend on the speaker, but can’t make the words form coherent sentences. Being locked in this small basement, electricity out, a storm raging overhead, has me freakin’ out.
“Declan, I’ve got to get the maintenance people in line.”
“You better not be an ass to her!” Layla yells into the receiver.
“Hush,” Sayo says, then her voice becomes clearer as she returns her attention to Declan. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take to get the power back on. Oh and just an FYI, Autumn is going to try to escape. Please don’t let her hurt herself.”
“Right. Okay. Cheers.” I think he disconnects the call. I think he tries to touch me, tentative grabs toward my arm, but he is too large. Too close. I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him. Why is he staring at me? Is he staring at me?
Escape. I need an escape. “McShane, please calm down.” Is he following me? There. Right there. Bookshelves. A low ceiling and a window.
My mind is wracking with impossible, ridiculous scenarios. I need air. I need breath and freedom. I need an open field and the sun beating on my face. I need space. Where can I find space? We’re going to die down here. We’re going to starve. We’ll suffocate. I’m going to die like my mom. I’m going to bleed and starve and run out of oxygen.
I spot a window above the tallest row of shelves and dart toward it. Declan is on my heels. “No, McShane, don’t you dare.” I make attempts to climb up the shelf, knocking books to the floor and I actually manage to clear several thick shelves before Declan pulls me down, circles my waist to hold me tight against his large chest. “Calm yourself,” he says. His voice is low, soothing, but it does little to abate the trembling that has taken over me. My whole body is like a livewire, moving, twisting for a reprieve from his hold.
Declan runs his large palm over my forehead, his fingers glide through my hair and it’s still no good. The shuddering continues and my defenses kick in, I twist around, punching against him and his hold eases. My back slams against the bookshelf in my feeble attempts to escape him, but he won’t let me move. His hands are on my shoulders and his eyes broaden. There is real fear in his expression, he is guarded, concerned, but he won’t move away from me, won’t let me have the space I need. When I push against his chest, try punching at him again, he exhales, his face flushing red then his hands cup my cheeks and he kisses me.
This is not like the sloppy drunken kiss from a few nights ago. He is demanding and my instinct is to resist, to rebel against his invasion. But then he strokes my face, feather light, gentle, and I relax against him. His lips are smooth, full, and he doesn’t attempt to deepen the kiss. When I grip the collar of his shirt, Declan makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and circles his arms around my back.
Our chests connect and I swear I can feel his heartbeat—wild, pounding, a matching rhythm to my own. I am kissing Declan Fraser as though it is a completely natural, necessary act. The anxiety that controlled me, festered into my chest, dissipates. Calm replaces the manic fear, the desperation to flee, and I sink deeper into him, loving the feel of his body over mine, the firm grip of his hands on my back.
His hands work up to my neck, holding me firm and I am free of tension. I press against him, pulling on his shoulders, lowering him down to me. I don’t know what I’m doing or why, but the sensations he works in me cloud my judgment, my reason. I don’t understand why I’m not fighting this. I never like to relinquish control, but the way Declan kisses me, touches me, has me willingly weak. Losing all sense of tact, my tongue licks against his bottom lip and I feel his heavy inhale, his hot breath against my face. He returns the action, tentative at first, and then his tongue slides against mine and he is pulling me up, holding me close. When my body responds, a small brush against him, Declan breaks the kiss. His breathing is labored and he blinks several times as though he tries to clear whatever thoughts are in his mind.
We stare at each other for seconds, but time expands until the air around us is weighted. Declan chews on the inside of his mouth and lets one long, slow breath release through his nose. When he speaks, his voice is whisper loud. “Not exactly the first kiss I was expecting.”
“That…that was the second.”
“Me molesting you while pie-eyed doesn’t count.” Mouth quirking and me still wrapped around
him, Declan again exhales. “Just now, that was really the first.” He glances from my eyes to my lips then back again. “And here’s another.”
I don’t argue. His lips touch mine once, twice and settle on the third, working over my swollen mouth. He doesn’t wait for me to react, he simply slips his tongue against mine and twists our bodies around, lowers us to the floor so that I’m sitting on his lap. He moves his hands up my back, still, gentle, and I feel a desperate thump kindle in my core.
My cell phone rings and I pull back, feeling over his jean pockets until I find my phone. Declan releases a groan when my hands come too close to his slightly at-attention dick and I repress a chuckle.
“Sayo?” I ask, standing up.
“Hey, you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I step away from Declan who looks like a deflated balloon slumped against the bookshelf. “What’s going on up there?”
“A transformer blew and the whole circuit on this side of campus is out. It’s going to take a while. The janitors are trying to override the locks down there but it’s no good without power. Even the generators aren’t working. I’m so sorry, honey. Are you sure you’re okay? Is the jackass bothering you?”
“No. He’s being well behaved.” I turn to see Declan sitting up with his arms resting on his knees, the constant smirk pulling his mouth. “Just keep me updated.”
Sayo disconnects the call and I return my phone to my pocket. The air is still thick and heated down here, but I am calmer, certainly more relaxed. Declan comes off the floor, follows me to the table near the door and I make room for him when he budges next to me.
“We’re going to be here a while?” he asks.
“I’m afraid so. Transformer and generators are down.”
He lays back and lets his arm cross over his eyes. I’m uncertain what to do with myself. There is an awkward silence in the room, the unspoken reality of our kisses left unmentioned. Should I say something? Will he? God, I feel ridiculous. I’m not sixteen. I should be able to at least attempt adult behavior.
