All right, all right, I will.
Minutes tick by and I still can’t pee, knowing he’s outside the bathroom door listening. I can hear him breathing.
Since I have nothing better to do, I text him to pass some time.
If you’d leave, I’d be able to pee. Please go back outside.
I’m not going back outside. You needed to pee. So pee. Bridget won’t be home till late. So, I’m gonna fix you some lunch, give you your pills, then we’re gonna relax and enjoy the bloody day. Aye?
Insert the biggest eye roll in the history of the world, and add a long silent groan of defeat. That’s what I’m doing right now, staring at his message on my screen. It’s like those happy little daisies on my case are taunting me—Neiner-neiner-neiner, you’re stuck in hell.
I’m totally losing it.
What choice do I really have at this point? Bridget has apparently gone to her aunt’s bakery, and I can’t run away from him. So I’m only left with one option: suck it up and deal. But the whole time he’s around me, all I’m going to be thinking about is how much he actually saw.
Lifting my dress, I inspect that part of myself. It’s just as bad as expected. The strawberry blonde curls of female mockery have got to go.
Foregoing the reason Lachlan deposited me on the toilet to begin with; I grab my wheelchair, heft myself into it with a bit of difficulty, and set about my exploration of the bathroom. Inside cupboards, drawers, and under the sink, I search for a shaver. I don’t care if I have to dry shave with a little bit of water, this hair’s going bye-bye.
Ah, found it. A new, disposable razor in one of the many colorful tubs of girl crap under Bridget’s sink. Generally, when I shave this part of myself, I sit on the edge of the tub; it’s easier to rinse that way. And, that is exactly what I’m going to do, if I can manage to sit outside the tub without getting my hands or leg wet. Strict orders from my doctor and nurses, ‘don’t get your casts wet’. I won’t.
Shucking back the tropical shower curtain and stuffing my phone between my breasts, I set my wheelchair brakes and maneuver myself to the edge of the tub. If my doctors saw me now, I’m sure they’d be screaming for me to stop. But I need to clean myself, and I need to get this done and out of the way or I’m going to keep obsessing over it.
Casted leg out straight, other bent for balance, my bare butt sits on the ledge of the white porcelain tub. It’s freezing, and I shiver as goosebumps fly down my legs.
Pooling my dress around my waist, most of it draped behind me, I make use of the coconut body wash and add a tiny drop to my mound. I get a little water from the faucet on the tips of my fingers, and I massage it into my parts, through my cleft, and all around, getting a tiny lather. It’s not the best, but it’s better than nothing.
Quickly, I run the shaver through the fine hair and rinse it in the tub between passes. It doesn’t take long to complete. Just when I’m about done, the door cracks open. Panic fires through me, and I seize my dress, shoving it back over my lady bits. Lachlan’s head pokes around the corner, spotting me, and his brows pinch together, eyes narrowing.
“What the hell are ye doin’?” he scolds.
I lift the pink Bic to show him as my eyes lock on his.
“Ye shaved down there?” He jerks a nod to where my hand is clutching the base of my dress.
I bob my head in reply.
“Are ye shittin’ me?” he bites off.
Frowning, I shake my head. Why would I lie about shaving? That’s stupid.
“Ye doin’ that because of earlier?” He wades further into the bathroom, dragging my chair away. The wheels don’t move because they’re locked in place, so a loud screech echoes in the room as they skid across the tile. I wince at the noise.
Lachlan moves to stand in front of me, towering far above, shaking his tilted head, lips tight. His teal eyes are on fire.
“Why would ye do that? Women dinnae need tae shave down there.” He gestures with his eyes to my parts.
Is he kidding me? Don’t all men expect that? Not that I care what he expects. He’s a married man, after all. But I do care how I feel. I like to be clean down there, and shaving is just something I’ve always done. Even us backwoods country girls can shave, too. I enjoy the feeling, and it’s not like I shave everything. Not that you really care to know that as you’re sitting here with us, listening to this whole thing play out. You’re probably shaking your head, wondering why in the hell you’re here listening in the first place. I don’t know either. But I have to tell you, the support means a lot. Because this giant man’s scary as hell, and his breathing is growing heavier, sucking all the oxygen from the room, making it hard to breathe.
Meeting Lachlan’s eyes, I give him a look like he’s lost his mind, and mouth ‘what?’ praying he’ll be able to read my lips.
“Ye think I haven’t seen a pussy before? Ye think I’d care if I saw yers? Ye seen one, ye’ve seen ‘em all, lassie. Dinnae know why ye had tae go puttin’ yourself in harm’s way just tae shave it off. Women are supposed tae have hair down there.”
He’s not done. “And if ye remember, I’ve gotta wee daughter. And seein’ yers ain’t any different than seein’ hers. So quit yer worryin’.” He finishes with a long exhale.
Ouch! That stung a little. No different than if he’d seen his daughter’s? I realize I’m not much to look at. But come on; that was still harsh. My heart concurs as it begins to ache behind my ribs.
Shoving those terrible feelings to the side, I place him and his notions about women shaving on ignore. And I point, with the shaver still in hand, to the shelf that holds the towels and washcloths. Lachlan swings his head to where I’m aiming and then back to me.
“Ye want a towel?” he queries.
I shake my head.
He tries again. “A wash rag?”
I nod once, and he quickly retrieves one for me.
Mouthing a quick ‘thank you’, I lay the shaver on the lip of the tub and lean back to dampen the washcloth in the trickle of water coming from the faucet. I use it to wash off the tips of my fingers before I drape it over the edge of the tub and pull my phone from my dress.
I have three missed texts from him.
What’re ya doing in there?
Why aren’t you done yet?
What’s all that noise?
I disregard those and send my own.
Regardless of your feelings on the matter of shaving, I do need to finish and clean up. And I can’t very well do that with you in here. So, if you’d please leave, I’d appreciate it.
I’m trying to be polite. He's not intentionally being a jerk right now, so there’s no reason to sass him in return; even if I do kinda want to.
Lachlan slips his cell from his pocket and reads it, then he speaks. “Aye, I’ll leave ye be. But when ye’re finished, let me know and I’ll come back in tae help ya into yer chair.”
Fair enough.
Calmly nodding my reply, I mouth, ‘okay.’
Lachlan dismisses himself, shutting the door in his wake, and I get back to work. I could use a little privacy now. I’m all socialized out. See ya on the flip side.
Later.
How much more food are you going to feed me? I’m stuffed already.
Through text, I’m whining at Lachlan as I melodramatically rub my distended stomach, pretending I’m about to explode. Because I feel like I might actually do that. I ate way too much tonight.
Lachlan’s sitting beside me on the couch right now. A little too close for comfort, but I’m trying not to notice, or dwell on the fact that he smells ridiculously good. Like soap and spice and garlic.
Sideways glancing at me, he shakes his head in amusement and snorts. “Yer the one who had the second helpin’ of cheesecake, and I was only offerin’ popcorn,” he teases, bumping shoulders with me.
An electric current shocks my system, and my breath falters. He can’t be touching me. It’s one thing if he’s doing it mechanically just to get something done. That
, I can sort of withstand. But at this moment he’s doing it to be silly. And a silly Lachlan is a whole different side of him that I don’t know if I can swallow; it’s too much.
Across the room, the TV plays some sort of nighttime movie. One I’ve never seen before. Not that I’ve seen many. The sun has slipped below the horizon, leaving a beautiful afterglow as the moon hangs in the star speckled sky. I watch it through the uncovered window. Mother Earth sure puts on an even more peaceful and miraculous show than anything the TV could play. Pirate must agree because he’s lying in front of the sliding glass door, his nose pressed against the pane. I grin slightly as I watch him. He’s probably waiting for the moths and lightning bugs to appear so he can chase them with his eye. If I was a dog, that’s what I’d do.
Not wanting to be rude, I flick my eyes back to my lap and text Lachlan.
Cheesecake is delicious, and you had three helpings of it. More than me, buster.
Snuggling deeper into the couch, my propped up legs slide further down the coffee table as I try to get comfortable. It doesn’t work very well, but I make do.
The phone resting on my stomach vibrates.
I didn’t have three helpings. I had one.
One, my butt. He’s full of it.
See, that’s exactly how today’s gone. I can never tell whether Lachlan’s going to text me a reply, or say it aloud. It definitely keeps me guessing. And I’m not gonna lie; I do look forward to those times when he speaks to me instead. His accent’s incredible.
After the bathroom shaving incident earlier today, I’d texted Lachlan and he returned to help me into my wheelchair. Then we set about eating lunch together. He traipsed upstairs to grab some sandwich fix-ins, and we had ourselves a smorgasbord of deli sandwiches with big juicy slices of tomatoes, real mayonnaise, and that delicious sourdough bread that you buy in the bakery section of the supermarket. I was in heaven as we munched our sandwiches and kettle cooked potato chips in companionable silence at the bistro table in the kitchen.
Licking the last bit of mayo off my finger, I’d pushed my plate to the side and took a gulp of lemonade.
“Ye done?” Lachlan asked, pointing to my empty plate.
A soft smile curled at the edge of my lips as I nodded. He snatched it up, took it to the sink, and rinsed it off before slipping it into the compact dishwasher under the counter.
Afterward, I’d wheeled myself to the bathroom, used the facilities, and spent the next hour sponge bathing myself in front of the sink. I cleansed every part, aside from my hair, which I used dry shampoo on. That’s a product Bridget showed me yesterday. I’d never heard of the stuff before that. It smelled good and seemed to help. Although, my curls are still wild and crazy if I don’t tame them with a bit of water and TLC. I’d also slipped that blue dress on, throwing the yellow one in the hamper; and retied my hair into a low ponytail at the base of my neck.
The rest of my afternoon was spent back outside on the lounger, sipping lemonade next to Lachlan. This time, I remembered to wear panties.
Around dinner, Lachlan vacated his seat as Pirate stayed with me, sprawled out on the patio at my feet. It didn’t take long for the smell of spaghetti to begin wafting through a crack in the backdoor, followed by the mouthwatering scent of garlic bread as Lachlan prepared our meal.
Once finished, he’d wandered back outside with a blue dishrag slung over his shoulder, and scooped me off my lounger without permission. Sitting me in my chair, he wheeled me back into the house with one hand oddly cuffed over my shoulder. It made that feeling reappear in the pit of my stomach. Again, I tried to disregard it.
At the bistro table, yet again, we sat and ate in silence. This time over a hearty plate of spaghetti with meat sauce, garlic bread, and a fresh green salad that had more of those juicy tomatoes diced in. It was dressed with a light vinaigrette.
For dessert, we had store-bought cheesecake. As if dinner wasn’t already amazing enough, adding thick slices of moist, decadent cheesecake to it tipped the scales to mind-blowing. I had two slices, and Lachlan, as he so eloquently put it, had one helping of three hardy slices. Not that he wants to admit that. But the man can sure eat. And looking at me, you’d know I enjoy a comforting meal or two. Hey, what can I say? I’m not hard to please.
Bumping shoulders once more, Lachlan steals me from my thoughts. “Ye ever watched this movie before?” He thumb points to the flat screen TV mounted on the wall above a stone-faced fireplace. It’s not a real one. The fireplace, that is. It’s one of those electric ones with flame and heat settings that you can adjust. It’s burning right now, except it’s not emanating any warmth. Lachlan switched it on before we sat down.
My eyes focus on the flat screen where some guy is hopping on a motorcycle and a woman is jumping on behind him. They’re in some sort of high-speed chase.
Turning to Lachlan, I shake my head.
“What’s ye favorite movie?”
I’m not sure if it’s out of politeness or genuine interest that he’s asking. I decide not to ponder that much and go back to using my phone. It’s grown on me today. It gave me the ability to communicate without feeling like a fool. Not having a voice for this long has left me feeling incomplete. You don’t realize how much you use it until it’s not there, and you’re forced to use alternative methods of communication. The phone is a godsend. I’d be carrying around a pad of paper without it.
Never watched this movie, and I don’t have a favorite.
You don’t have a favorite movie? he clarifies.
Nope.
How’s that possible?
I’m not trying to delve into the whys, so I change the subject, moving the spotlight away from me.
What’s yours? I type.
Don’t have one.
Is he messing with me? He asks mine, and now he doesn’t have one. Maybe he was trying to engage in small talk. Or in this case, small text.
Seriously? I probe.
Aye.
Maybe I shouldn’t type this, but I do, anyhow. What do you do besides work at the fire department and sit outside drinking lemonade?
Today, I’ve come to the conclusion that Lachlan’s favorite drink is lemonade. He sucks it down like an addict. Bet he’d have an IV of it tapped into his vein if he could. He seems to love it that much.
Workout. Spend time with the boys at the clubhouse. Ride. Not home much.
Likes to keep busy. That’s admirable. I do, too. Can’t help but wonder how Meredith and Bridget fit into that schedule, though. But I’m not gonna ask. It’s none of my business.
Instead, I inquire: Is that what you were doing in the barn this morning?
Workin’ out?
Yes.
Aye. I got a gym membership in town at Thor’s, too. Mix it up sometimes.
Thor’s? I question.
He’s got a wee gym in the middle of Carolina Rose. Street over from the firehouse, two stores down from Whisky’s, and across from Casanova’s Car Repair.
Interesting. . .
Sounds like Lachlan knows a lot of people. I mention that much as we lapse into a short texting conversation about nothing much.
It doesn’t take long for me to stifle a yawn, and the TV movie to roll the credits. Covering my mouth for the third yawn in a row, I feel a set of warm fingers dust over the bridge of my shoulders and cuff around my bicep on the other side. It startles me enough to gasp and jerk my head to the side to see what the heck Lachlan’s up to. I don’t get a chance to ponder that thought when he proceeds to tug me toward him in a downward motion.
“Rest yer head, lass,” he breathes.
Without putting up any resistance, Lachlan tips my head into his lap and helps me onto my back with both of my ankles resting on the arm of the couch. The heat of his short clad thighs burns the back of my head, searing its memory there.
Unable to spare a glance at him in fear of embarrassment, or possibly something else, my eyes remain closed as I feel him fan my ponytail over his lap. A finger snaps my
elastic band in two, unleashing my wild curls. I want to scold him for doing that, but that inclination quickly fades when ten thick fingers begin combing through my locks. I stifle a moan. It feels sooo damn good.
“Ye should keep yer hair down, Mags,” Lachlan whispers on a throaty groan.
I shiver at the sound, my nipples turning to sharp pebbles in my dress. In succession, an even deeper groan emanates from his chest. I bet he sees them poking out. I’m not sure if he’s disgusted, or being a guy and perhaps enjoying the show. I can’t pinpoint which I want him to feel. But after his comments about my vagina being no different than his daughters and that he’s married, I’d say he probably finds them an annoying occurrence. Although, if I'm honest with you and myself, I do kind of wish he thought they were pretty or something remotely like that.
I’m being stupid, aren’t I? Of course, I am. Why do I even care? That’s right; it’s because I’m a loser who hasn’t had any attentive male affection like this in years. It’s my own fault, though. I know that. I try to keep all men at an arm’s length, except Lachlan because he’s safe. For one, he’s married. Secondly, he’s just being nice. That’s something he does. Thirdly, he’s shown zero interest in finding me attractive, aside from telling me I should keep my hair down. And finally, if all those things didn’t compute—yet, again, he’s married. A wife plundering, bending her over the kitchen counter to have his way with her, kind of married. Or that’s what I’m insinuating, anyhow. Seems pretty spot on if ya ask me.
Shuffling below me, Lachlan gets more comfortable as his fingers continue their delicious assault on my hair, forcing this hungering ache in my gut to ease. The tips of his rough fingers move higher, tracing the edge of my forehead. Oh. So. Good.
My brain turns to sated mush as dreamland beckons me. The last thing to register is a quiet rumble in my ear as my head is curled closer to Lachlan’s warm abs, brushing the cotton of his t-shirt. Spicy cologne and those marvelous fingers drug me, making the world feel lighter. Soon, my body melts into the soft cushions of the couch, and the world gradually breaks away.
Beyond Her Words (Corrupt Chaos MC) Page 9
