by Meli Raine
How can I get a break when the pain is inside me? My very existence feeds the shame industry, all of the news headlines beating their big drums until my head explodes. Silas protects me from social media and the newspapers. My phone is filtered. I’m rarely in public.
And yet, I know.
I know the crazy gunman at The Grove will be blamed, somehow, on me.
Tara’s death is my fault.
My own car bombing is my fault.
That’s all I’m good for, I realize as I gasp, clawing at my own wet throat, seeking air. Silas heard me scream when the hot water hit my skin’s wounds, but this silent scream will go unanswered.
I can’t turn what I feel inside into sound.
And so instead it will vibrate through me, multiple frequencies turning my organs and veins, neurons and impulses, into a ragged mess of noise and danger, all trapped inside my scarred and torn skin, the bones my only anchor.
A person can only handle so much pain.
I know this isn’t the end, either.
There is more coming.
Steam curls around me until the shower fixtures float in and out of my vision, lazy and hazy. For a few moments they seem surreal, my mind unable to stay in place for long enough to register my surroundings, hands fumbling for soap on the small ceramic tub shelf. I drop it, the loud thud as it hits the bathtub floor like a head striking concrete, a gavel banging in a judge’s hand, the sound echoing until it softens, like the crash of lovers’ bodies on a bed.
Against a wall.
On the floor.
I bend to find the soap, fingers slippery, the object that makes me clean eluding my grasp over and over. My nailbeds are slightly tinted, blood pooled in them and dried. A flash of Tara, dead, like a doll in a horror film, makes my stomach roil. I know that’s my blood. Not Tara’s.
But is there a difference anymore?
Finally, I just can’t take it, and I slip and slide down to the bottom of the tub, head down, forehead pressed so hard into my knees, it’s like I’m trying to fuse the bones. I cry under the hot spray until ice-cold needles pierce me.
Until I shiver my way into a single internal frequency. From many, one.
One very tired self.
I finally stand on legs that don’t deserve to work. The shower turns easily to the off position. Dripping wet, I step onto the bath mat and pick up the large, folded towel Silas left on the counter. If only life were like this. If only someone took care of me, anticipating my needs, trying to offer what I want.
Such a change from anticipating people who want to hurt me. So different from thwarting people who want to kill me. We focus on predicting and preventing their actions based on their needs. Their wants.
Not mine.
Never, ever mine.
Crying into the big bath sheet isn’t a choice. I can’t help myself. I couldn’t stop if someone held a gun to my head. Here, in Silas’s bathroom, staring at a red, swollen version of my face, the dark, wet hair like a sad crown on my head, I can finally be. I can feel. All the emotion I shoved aside so I could act and react is finally coming home.
While it may not live here, it’s a familiar visitor, and it has some sights it really wants to see before moving on.
“Silas?” I call out, wrapped in the big towel, my hair hanging around my ears, wet and feeling nicely clean.
“Yes?”
“You said there were clothes for me?”
Silence.
“Hang on.” His voice fades as I hear footsteps, then muttering as he comes back. “Looks like they didn’t bring any clothes.”
“What am I supposed to wear?” I look at the pile of filthy, torn, bloodstained clothes on the floor. “I–I–” Panic blooms in me.
“Give me a sec.” His voice fades again. One minute later, he’s back.
Tap tap tap.
“Who is it?” I say, voice filled with sarcasm.
“It’s Silas.” He laughs at himself. “Can I open the door?”
“Sure.”
He does, extending a small stack of neatly folded cotton clothes my way.
“This is the best I could do.” As I take it with one hand, I realize it’s a set of sweats. UC Irvine is on the front of the sweatshirt.
“What is this?”
“The smallest stuff I could find in my drawers.”
“You want me to wear your sweats?”
“Want isn’t the word. It’s all we’ve got until I get someone to do their job and deliver what they promised.” His voice is terse.
I look at the clothes. My bra has glass in it. My underwear should be declared a biohazard. I can’t wear my old stuff.
I have no choice.
“Okay. Thanks,” I say, pressing the door closed. He’s blocking it but moves with an elegance that makes me smile.
I’ll take any reason to smile.
As expected, the sweats are enormous. It’s like swimming in cotton. But the pants have a drawstring and I can walk around without being a nude model.
Minus the artist.
I find Silas in the kitchen, pulling two pints of ice cream out of the freezer. He does a double take, dips his head as if he’s embarrassed, then laughs.
“You look like a mad scientist got his hands on you and shrank you ten percent.”
“I would trade what happened today for that.”
He opens a cabinet door and grabs a bottle of red wine, holding it up to me in a gesture of offertory. “Want some?”
“Wine and ice cream?”
“One of my men’s health magazines says it’s the best way to establish rapport with women.”
“How sexist.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”
I snatch one of the pints from him. Bourbon vanilla. “How about making a wine float?”
He’s taken aback. “A what?”
“You know. Like a root beer float? A wine float.”
He has a corkscrew in his hand and takes the bottle, gripping it between his thighs, peeling off the foil from around the cork. His movements are hypnotic, watching him open the wine a form of pleasure in and of itself. The soft cotton of his well-worn college sweatshirt rubs against my stiffening nipples and I force myself to turn away, struggling to control the wildfire of desire that makes me wonder what it’s like to be between those thighs.
I’m jealous of a wine bottle.
“You seriously want to pour red wine over ice cream and eat it?” he asks, deeply amused.
“It’s worth a try. Anything is worth a try.”
Pop! The cork comes loose. Silas gives me a funny look.
“Anything of value is worth a try,” he declares, pouring into a wine glass, careful with the stem. He frowns at me. “Did you put the antibiotic cream on those cuts?”
“No. Not yet.”
“But you will.” He’s firm about it.
“Yes, I will. Priorities.”
“Wine and ice cream come before basic first aid?”
“They are first aid.”
Laughter fills the tiny space between us, Silas lifting his wine glass to his mouth, white teeth showing before he takes a sip. “Hell of a day,” he says, shaking his head slowly. Letting out a breath, he drops his shoulders, body moving from action to rest.
“I’ve had better.” I grab the wine bottle before he can offer and pour myself a glass, drinking half in one long gulp.
He does the same.
“So, how does this work?” I ask, so tired, I’m punchy.
“How does what work?”
“While we wait for some clothes for me, I’m stuck here.”
“Stuck.” He makes a very male sound in the back of his throat, like I’ve offended him.
“Don’t take it personally.”
“I’m not.” But he is.
“I need my own space. I have not been afforded that in ages. I need,” I say, gasping slightly, fighting an unexpected wellspring of emotion, “I need to be alone so I can start to reassemble the pieces of
me.”
“You don’t seem broken to me.”
“Then you’re not looking at me very hard.”
“Oh, trust me, Jane. I am.”
Chapter 7
My blood pumps through me like it’s trying to find a way out. All the tiny cuts that dot my skin pulse along with it, one hand on my wine glass, cupping it for balance under the bottom, stem poking between my ring and middle finger. The other hand rests on the counter, outstretched slightly toward him, as if searching.
Questioning.
He steps forward, halving the distance between us. Covered in dirt and glass, Silas is a mess. He’s breathing a little faster than a moment ago, and I see dried blood on his wrist.
“You need a shower,” I tell him.
The skin between his eyebrows folds in and he looks down, as if surprised by his disheveled state. “Huh. You’re right.”
“I’ll babysit the ice cream and wine while you’re gone.”
His impish smile makes my blood pump harder. Swigging the rest of his wine, he pours another glass.
“Drinking?” I tease. “On duty?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“The shattered glass and bruises aren’t enough?”
He smiles but turns toward the bathroom, refreshed wine glass in hand. I hear the shower turn on, then muffled sounds.
Finally, he’s under the water. Unlike me, he doesn’t scream.
A whoosh of air as I exhale deeply feels so good. No matter how safe I feel with him, Silas holds me back. He might be thawing toward me, but he’s still my biggest obstacle. I can’t get comfortable.
And definitely not naked.
At least, not unless I’m posing.
As I laugh at my own crazy mind, I drink more wine, needing my muscles to relax, craving the release. The body tenses when it’s under attack. Silas isn’t coming after me. I can let my guard down.
Except I can’t.
He’s in the room next to me, separated by one wall, naked in the shower where I just was.
Naked.
I turn away from the tiny kitchen doorway and walk to a small window at the opposite side. Dark clouds, menacing and clearly filled with rain, change the light outside, giving the parking lot and grounds an eerie look, like the old sci-fi movies from the 1980s or 1990s my mom used to ask me to watch with her. I sip my wine, then pull the neck of Silas’s oversized sweatshirt up over my nose, inhaling deeply. It smells like his aftershave and laundry soap. I close my eyes and give myself permission to take him in, to revel in his scent, safely ensconced in cotton and politeness.
And for the next few minutes, I just breathe.
“Jane?” Silas asks, making me jump and spin around.
His features change, going to a puzzled look. “Is your nose okay?”
I look down at the front of me and quickly pull the neckline back where it belongs. “What? Yes. I’m fine.” Red heat turns my cheeks into apples as I blush.
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You were looking down your own shirt. Is there something on your chest? Does it need attention?”
His words are out just fast enough for us both to react to the double meaning, but too quick for Silas to alter them. I bite my lips and pull them in to stop laughing.
He doesn’t bother to restrain himself.
“I obviously didn’t mean it that way.”
Too bad.
Taking a deep breath, he motions toward the kitchen doorway. “Let’s sit on the couch and talk.”
“Sure,” I say, the wine loosening me up. As I walk behind him, I see he’s wearing a tight t-shirt and flannel drawstring pajama pants that are not nearly as loose as mine. Barefoot, with damp hair that curls at the ends when it’s wet, Silas looks like most of the guys I knew in college.
Only bigger, older, smarter, and way hotter.
Just a small difference, right?
I sit down first, curling up against one end of the couch, pulling my knees up and legs under me. He doesn’t take a spot at the other end, as I expect, but instead sits right next to me, in the middle. His thigh touches my knee. We’re that close.
Okay, then.
Warmth pours over me, the feeling so pleasant it’s jarring. I like feeling something other than pain. My skin prickles from all the small scratches, but it lights up with a heat that comes from anticipation. I don’t know where Silas is going right now, but I sure do like the direction.
“This isn’t how I thought our day would end,” he says, a little sheepish, testing me.
“It’s not even three o’clock, Silas.” I hold up my glass of wine. “But it’s cocktail hour somewhere.”
“We can order takeout for dinner. And in my line of work, after a day like today, if you aren’t drinking, it’s because you’re dead.” He says it with a wry look.
I laugh, but the sound is brittle, a social nicety. His proximity makes me want to lose all impulse control and crawl into his lap. Kiss him. Touch him.
Ride him.
The temperature inside me rises as I make myself drink my wine, needing to occupy my hands, my body, my mouth before I make a fool of myself. I’ve never felt like this before–ever. Turning to sex as a way of escaping my life never occurred to me. As I sit here, my body encased in flaming cotton and getting wetter by the second, I wonder if I’ve been missing out.
Except–the only person I want to use sex as an escape with is Silas.
“What about you? You must have dated a lot in college,” he says suddenly, clearly a little uncomfortable with my strange silence.
“That’s an abrupt topic change,” I point out, but I’m not displeased.
He stares at my mouth. “You invited me to have sex with you until you forgot your own name, Jane. We were about to go out to lunch on our version of a date instead. I’m just circling back to first-date conversation.”
Funny how he’s not circling back to the having sex part.
“Asking me about who I dated in college is first-date conversation? I’m sure you have a dossier on me that’s a foot thick. You know everything about me.”
“But not from you. I want to hear it from your mouth.” His eyes drift down again to stare at my lips. “Tell me.”
“My first year, I dated, sure.” I play with the stem of my wine glass between my fingers, feeling like this is the most awkward date ever. How do you date someone who has seen you naked, saved your life repeatedly, blocked someone from sexually assaulting you, kissed you after you played Candyland with his newly orphaned niece, and held you back from clawing your newly revealed stepmother’s eyes out?
We are long past the basic-small-talk phase of getting-to-know-you. We leapfrogged over it while playing different roles.
Client and bodyguard, though.
Not potential romantic partners.
“Why’d you stop then? Find a serious boyfriend?” There’s an edge to his question.
“No.”
“Then why?” His head tilts just so, eyes kind. He really wants to know.
He really doesn’t know.
“I wanted to focus on my studies,” I lie, the untruth slipping out of my mouth so quickly, like letting go of a bad taste.
Silas drinks his wine as if he’s taken lessons in drinking and was top of his class. “That is a cover story.”
“I graduated summa cum laude!” My protest is fake. My admiration for his ability to read me is very, very real.
“I’m sure you did, but you don’t go from dating a lot the first year to–what? Nothing?”
I reluctantly nod. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, or–” One eyebrow goes up. “Nothing nothing.”
“Nada.”
“Jane. Why?” A look of dawning recognition fills his face. “Damn. That was when the party happened.”
“Right.” I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. The shaky sound of relief pours out.
“You came back to college, and then...”
&n
bsp; “Every time a guy came on to me, all I could see was Lindsay’s body, bound and abused, bleeding and naked. Then I imagined it happened to me. Every time someone touched me, I–it was too much.”
Any other guy and I wouldn’t say that, fearing it would scare him away. But this is Silas.
Who else can you talk about trauma with if not a combat veteran?
“Then that makes you a–”
“Virgin,” I confirm.
His eyebrows go high and he clears his throat. “I was about to say ‘compassionate friend.’”
“Oh.” So much for not oversharing.
Very awkward silence hangs between us. Long gone is the casual presence we provided for each other. Tension fills the air, sex and passion and questions and nerves all mixing together, the unspoken wondering making each move risky and full of questions.
I reach out first. It’s not intentional. My hand moves as if some higher force is at work, one I don’t know about but that has taken over. Perhaps it’s impulse. Maybe it’s desire. Whatever you call it, the power of that short journey across the space between us comes from unconscious movement, propelling me to reach for his chest and press my hand to it.
“Silas, I...” A long, slow exhale leaves my ribs aching, the right words on the tip of my tongue. They rest, poised and waiting to line up in a neat, orderly queue. Before I can speak, though, the mood shifts.
Radically.
He takes the lead, moving closer, each inch between us telescoping as he closes the gap. I am suspended in time, his body heat warming me, the moment his chest brushes against my arm sending shivers through me. I want this. I want him.
I want us.
Impossibly soft lips and a commanding tongue break down my wall, the one I don’t want, the one I hate having between us. Silas dismantles it with a slant of his mouth, brick by brick, pulling me closer to him, his hands cupping my jaw. The rough stubble of his beard sends electricity across my skin. His heat potentiates mine. My body is drawn to him, seeking a kind of warmth that simple temperature doesn’t convey.
The brush of his thick thigh against my forearm, the slide of my palm under his loose t-shirt, the fresh, clean scent of his wet hair, the way his fingers balance along my neck as he teases me, all turn Silas into nothing but touch. The scrabbling pain of existence starts to yield as he continues, never breaking contact, always seeking more from me. He’s giving and giving and I am taking and taking, eager and alive and needing every drop and more.
