by Lindsey Hart
Effie planted a sweet kiss on Ted’s gnarled, whiskery cheek. The old man blushed right to the roots of his white grey hair. “Oh, hell, missy, save those kisses for the lad over there. He needs them more than an old man.”
Effie’s gasp of shock was clearly audible. She stepped away, her eyes cast down to the floor, refusing to even look at Jordan. He was just as surprised. What was Ted up to, the old mischief maker?
Was it so obvious what Jordan felt? The desire that twisted his stomach? The way Effie’s face flashed through his mind whenever she wasn’t around, which was increasingly more and more often… was it so damn obvious that he wanted her?
They’d only just met. Was it normal to desire someone so strongly right from the start? He couldn’t deny that he’d felt it, the strange pull, the instant connection, the undercurrent of hard desire that licked through his bloodstream, unfurled in his chest and stomach, blocked off his throat and lungs and invaded his brain, sleeping or waking.
Ted walked out, chuckling to himself. The bus door slammed then it was locked from the outside. An awkward silence descended. Jordan didn’t want to look at Effie, but his eyes were drawn to her face against his will. He stared at those lush, full pink lips. So kissable. Lips he’d wanted to taste and touch since the first time he’d ever seen them.
Rose petals. That’s what he thought they’d feel like. He truly wanted to know if he was correct.
She finally squared her shoulders, as though going into battle, and looked back up. “I really am glad you’re better,” she said softly.
Ted told me you were worried. He signed.
“Yes. Of course, I was. You were so sick. Right out of it at some points. You were burning up, soaked right through a set of sheets and a quilt. You just about passed out right on stage.”
I have you to thank for saving my ass. I don’t even remember what I was saying up there.
“Good thing we had a couple shows under our belts. I just filled in the blanks.”
Have you read my books?
“No,” Effie admitted. Something close to guilt flickered over her face. “Anyway,” she said quickly, too quickly. “Are you hungry or is it too soon to be asking you that? Do you want some toast maybe?”
Yes. Thanks. Some mint tea, too, if there is any.
She fell into it naturally, meeting his needs. He realized he should get up and help her, but not having eaten the entire day before, the tremendous grief he’d gone through and the fever had pretty much sapped the strength right out of him. He felt truly weak, as though showering and changing the sheets on his bed had been about all he could accomplish.
Gratitude flooded his chest. It was mixed with uncertainty and sharped by the raw edges of grief. He blinked hard, against the burn of tears. He’d cried privately, in his room, when he got the text that his grandpa was gone, right before he’d sent his phone careening into the wall.
The smell of toast soon turned his attention away from his grief-filled thoughts. He watched Effie bustle about the tiny kitchen, so adept and sure of herself.
She likes herself just the way she is. She’s confident and perfectly assured of herself. She’s okay with who she is. He wished he could say the same thing about himself.
“Here you go.” She presented Jordan with a white paper plate, white with blue flowers around the edge, two pieces of buttered, golden brown toast and a napkin. “I’ll get your tea.”
He wanted to sign something to her, but her back was turned and he felt a second of impotent rage and his helplessness. It wasn’t a new feeling. He’d hated that pretty much his entire life, he’d had to rely on someone or other just to communicate. Something that the rest of the world took very much for granted.
Effie set down two mugs of steaming mint tea on the small coffee table in front of the couch. She plopped down beside him after, a plate of toast in her own lap. She took a bite, chewed slowly and closed her eyes.
“This is heaven.”
He took a bite of his toast, stomach cramping, mouth-watering, at the first taste of salty butter and golden bread. He doubted he’d ever tasted anything so good in his life.
Effie stared out the window while she ate. He stared at her, unabashedly taking in her beautiful side profile. He remembered snippets of the night before. Holding it together just long enough to get off stage, collapsing in the back, her hands on his shoulders, lifting him and helping him, though she was so much smaller. She’d been the one to get him to the bus, put him in bed, change his sheets when he soaked them with his own sweat. He remembered a cool cloth on his brow, water brought to his burning lips. The trickle of it had been utter bliss down his parched throat.
His heart hammered violently. Effie’s touch had been so tender, like that of a true friend or even of a lover.
Jordan didn’t actually know what either of those things was like. A friend. A lover. He’d had acquaintances, even people he liked alright, but never someone he would go so far as to term a real friend. He’d certainly never had a lover. He’d had sex obviously, but he’d never loved anyone and he sure as hell hadn’t ever let anyone close enough to him that they could love him in return. Or hurt him.
When Effie slowly turned, Jordan realized she was done eating. She was looking at him, those crystalline blue eyes huge and round.
I hope I didn’t do anything that was more embarrassing than trying to kiss you.
He received the shock of his life when huge tears welled up in her beautiful eyes. Her blonde lashes, not always noticeable, especially not in the bright sunlight, darkened and thickened with the moisture. The tears trickled down her cheeks, leaving silvery trails on her pale skin.
He froze when she moved towards him. She leaned over and gently took the plate from his hands and set it down on the coffee table.
His heart beat wildly, as though it was the first time he’d been near a woman. Her eyes changed, darkened with desire and he knew she was going to kiss him. He was, at last, finally going to get to taste those heavenly pink lips that had invaded his mind. The craving and the temptation gripped him hard, commanding his attention.
His mouth parted, breath escaping roughly. He made a strangled noise in his throat, the closest he ever came to real words. The sound was ugly and he wanted to wince. She didn’t let him. Effie moved her face up, dodging his lips. She kissed his nose, moved up, to gently trail those silken lips over the too dry skin of his forehead. A tear splashed onto his cheek, tugging the most primitive anguish from the pit of his heart that he’d ever experienced in his life. That and the most wicked jolt of desire. His whole body turned into a mass of molten heat. His cock stiffened, and he just hoped Effie would stay away from his lap. He was glad he was wearing jeans, as they hid most of his discomfort.
She bent her head and kissed her own tear away from his cheek before she moved to his mouth and at last, her lips met his.
She was warm, tasted like toast and mint tea and sunshine and heaven and everything that was good in this world.
Pleasure swept through him, heat unfurling in his stomach, cramping, spreading, aching. His lips parted instinctively, in his hard search for more. God, if he had her forever, it would never be enough time. Her mouth was utter bliss, her lips as sweet as honey. Her kiss made him want to lose control. She shredded through his barriers, his sanity, everything he thought he knew and left him torn apart, tattered, in disarray.
Jordan had never experienced such a hard craving in his life. He felt utterly bereft the second her lips left his. She leaned back, her eyes wide, her breath as quick and raspy as his own.
Her lips are exactly like rose petals. Softer, even.
He wanted them back. Wanted them back like he’d never wanted anything in his life.
“Jordan, I’m sorry about that night,” Effie whispered. Her eyes burned with regret. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you kiss me. I just… panicked. It was stupid. I thought because you are technically my boss that it wasn’t right, but also- I- it’s weird. I’ve just- I’m s
orry. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Or regretting it. Does that make up for it?”
Jordan leaned back, putting another inch between them, between Effie’s beautiful face and her far too kissable mouth. He wanted to plunder that mouth. God, he wanted to do so much more than that.
Does it make up for it? It more than makes up for it. It even makes up the punches I took that night.
You shouldn’t get so close to me. I’m not at all presentable. I just went through hell. That night definitely would have been better. You’ll probably be sick by this evening just for coming near me.
Her eyes still glistened with tears, though her cheeks had dried. She blinked hard, refusing to let them fall. “Too late. I was with you all night, remember?”
Why?
Effie sighed, her dainty shoulders heaving with her breath. “Because you needed me. Because I wanted to help.”
He thought he was done with surprises for the night until she reached out and took his hand. The heat of her dainty fingers burned right through his palm. Her heat went straight up his arm, right to his heart. It warmed the horrible dead spots that had been cold and icy for so very long.
She guided his hand right to her breast. He froze, awed by how bold she was, but then he realized, like a true dolt, that she’d placed his hand right over her beating heart. It pounded wildly beneath his palm.
“You’re not as alone as you think you are, Jordan.”
He pulled his hand away a minute later and slowly signed the question he didn’t want to truly ask. What do you mean alone?
She hesitated. “I… Ted told me about your grandpa… why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice wasn’t accusing, just soft and gentle and sad. More tears spilled over and trailed down her cheeks.
Jordan panicked. He did what Effie had done the night he’d tried to kiss her, and she wasn’t ready. He sure as hell wasn’t going able to do this; bare his heart to her. He barely even knew her. He had no reason to trust her. He wouldn’t let her get inside his heart, where she could do the most damage if she decided to betray him.
He broke away, stood so quickly that black spots danced in front of his eyes. He took a few halting steps, breath ragged, his heart bleeding, his mind and body a foggy, aching mess.
He’d almost made it down the hall, to the bedroom where he could shut her out when Effie’s hand closed over his arm.
He was weak from the fever and everything else.
Her fingers curled around his wrist, halting his forward progress. From her iron-like grip, it was clear she wasn’t letting go. He whirled, ready to sign something angry to her, even if he had to do it with one hand, but when he moved he nearly fell, the black spots closing in again.
“Jordan,” Effie whispered, so very sadly that it nearly broke him, nearly shattered right through the walls and the doubt, the years of loneliness and pain and hurt.
She released him, and her arms wrapped around his chest, steering him into the bedroom. His head cleared as they neared the bed. He sat and she plopped down beside him. Her arms didn’t fall away. Instead, they actually tightened.
“Jordan,” she whispered again, his name oddly soothing on her lips. She raised her head and looked up at him and he was struck by the fire, the flames and the heat and the raw burn in her eyes.
His wounded heart responded violently, yearning for her touch, yearning for her. He wanted to trust her. He wanted just one person he could turn to and depend on. He wanted to love and be loved. He’d wanted it all his life, but it had never happened, it was never right or true until he looked into Effie’s eyes.
“I saw the scars when you had your shirt off. They’re everywhere. All over your chest. Your neck. Your throat. I don’t know why I never noticed them before.”
Because I always keep them hidden. High collared shirts work wonders.
“You weren’t born mute like you said you were in your books. Like you tell people at shows. What happened?”
Her words and the way she looked at him, her eyes so full of tenderness and feeling and passionate heat, broke through his last defenses.
I’ve waited my entire life for this moment. This is what I was missing. This is what grandpa meant when he told me to find myself out here.
He didn’t even realize he was crying until the tears turned into silent sobs that shook his shoulders. He knew shame then, real, honest shame. She didn’t deserve this, to have to deal with his weakness, his brokenness, with everything that was so fundamentally wrong with him.
She never left and those dainty arms that contained all the strength in the world never fell away. It wasn’t until a few seconds later, when the worst of his sobs subsided, that he realized she was crying right along with him.
CHAPTER 14
Effie
Effie was aware of two things. The first, that her heart was breaking, not for herself, but for Jordan. The second, that she’d never felt that way about anyone. She’d never cried for anyone in her life.
She wasn’t entirely surprised when he placed a strong, warm hand on her shoulder and pushed her gently away. She brushed at her tears, hiccupped ungracefully and stared into Jordan’s red-rimmed eyes. She’d never seen a grown man cry before. Or at least, not like this, not so close. There were none of the horrible sounds of grief she’d once seen on a movie. No shrill keening or raw sounds wrenched from the soul. Just because Jordan physically couldn’t make them, didn’t make his grief any less acute.
He started to sign since she was finally able to clear her eyes enough to see the gestures.
Please leave. I can’t stand for you to be here right now.
She blinked hard, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Just leave me alone for an hour. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry.
“What are you sorry for?” She asked incredulously.
For… His hands fell silent, dropping to his lap. He couldn’t look at her and turned his face away. It broke her heart all over again.
“Jordan, no,” she whispered raggedly. His hands rested uselessly on his knee and she covered them with her own. “Please don’t say that. Don’t say you’re sorry for this.”
He broke free of her hold and signed agitatedly, his hands hard and punctuated like he was yelling. You don’t understand. I am the one who is supposed to have answers. I am the one people look to. I am the one who is supposed to be strong enough to get through this. This is weakness and I know that I can’t survive by being weak.
“No.” She touched his face, forced him to look at her. “No, sweetheart, this isn’t weakness. This is strength. I have never seen a man cry before. Never in my life. I can’t imagine how on earth you could keep all that sadness locked inside. It’s ridiculous that society tells men that they can’t have emotion, that they can’t cry. That’s insane. This, right here, right now, this is the strongest thing I have ever seen. It’s the most human thing anyone can do. I believe in real emotion. You don’t need to be whatever it is you think you should be or have the answers. You just need to be you. You loved your grandpa and he’s gone. You need to allow yourself to feel that loss or how will it ever get better?”
Jordan shook his head, eyes tearing up again. He moved away, putting a few inches of space between them. He swiped at them angrily with the back of his hand.
I don’t talk about this shit. Ever.
She thought at first that he meant the tears, but then he went on.
I don’t talk about anything that really matters. The real me isn’t the guy in those books. If I wrote about what really happened, people couldn’t handle it. They wouldn’t think it was true because it’s so awful. I didn’t need to put every single detail in there to make my point.
“What do you mean?” She’d almost forgotten completely that she’d asked him about the scars she’d seen until his hands started moving, a flurry of signs.
When I was born I was addicted to heroin. They had to wean me off. Go figure as to how that happened. It says a lot about the home I was born into. It pr
obably wasn’t a surprise when I was brought in at a year old. They aren’t even sure who took me in. I was covered in blood. Cuts everywhere. The doctor who put me back together figured I’d fallen through a glass coffee table. There was glass in my throat, shoulders, chest, hands, arms and face. They don’t even know how I survived it, there were so much damage and so much bleeding. They put me back together, but unfortunately, no one could fix my shredded vocal chords. I was in the hospital for months. No one ever claimed me.
Effie’s stomach cramped violently. A hard wave of sorrow swept over her, dragging her down further and further in its storm-tossed current. She waited, because that was all she could do.
I was in foster care for four years until the people who are my parents now adopted me. They were old. In their forties. Couldn’t have kids. They tried their best with me, but they were old-school people. They didn’t know how to tell me they loved me, but they knew how to discipline me. They didn’t know what to do when I started getting bullied in school. It went on for years before it finally escalated to where I was physically beaten. It took me over a month to recover and they pressed charges. It was a small town, not the good kind of small town like you said you were from. It was a mean area, where people held grudges for their entire lives. Pressing charges only made it worse. People treated me like a real freak after that. Like I had the plague. The physical violence stopped, but the things people said- I’ll never be able to erase them from my mind.
“Jordan…” He shook his head though and Effie clamped her mouth shut, helpless to say anything that would do an ounce of good or make one single thing right for him.
My grandpa was the only person who kept me sane. He kept me going. He moved to the farm when I was fifteen after it was advised that he should go into some home. He didn’t want to do that, so my parents took him in. He was my only grandparent who was still living, my mom’s dad. He never learned ASL, but he was a champion lip reader, oddly enough, and the rest of the time I wrote things down. Even without words, we got along fine. It was his idea that I try something different to get through what was happening. He was an old guy, raised old school, hard, grew up dirt poor, but he had this idea, later in life, to be peaceful. He told me to create a shell, a barrier between all that raw hurt and bleeding emotion and the other side, where I wanted to be. He told me I was the only person who could help myself. I did what he said, researched great thinkers, ideas, meditation, reading. It was my escape. I started journaling, writing it all down to get it out of my head. It was my escape. I enjoyed it and I decided that’s what I wanted to be, a writer.
