Fracture

by Amanda K. Byrne

  He still says nothing, only continues eating his nectarine and watching me with cold, cold eyes. He stares for so long I start to squirm. Finally his gaze shifts to the shelf behind me. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a problem?”

  “Ha ha.” I know how it looks. I raided every English-language bookstore in the city. And by “raided,” I mean stole. When you have very little money, you get desperate for entertainment.

  Licking the last of the juice from my fingers, I wipe my hands on my jeans and stand, wandering over to the bookcase. It’s tall and wide, and the books cover every topic imaginable. Some of the books are Ryan’s, those pieces of him that melded themselves to me and I couldn’t let them go. I’ve thumbed through his copy of The Art of War so many times I can’t open it any longer, for fear of it falling apart. Others are mine, ones I picked up later. The End of Alice. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Night. Prisoner X. The Communist Manifesto.

  I’d never fully understood, nor paid much attention to, what Ryan’s thesis was about. All I know is that socialist theory was a part of it. Socialist theory and the renewed interest in a Communist state in Russia, building off the fears we’d see a regenerated Communist bloc in our lifetime. Not something I would have expected the US government to be wary of, although they’re so skittery these days, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d reconvened the House Un–American Activities Committee.

  After Ryan’s death, needing a distraction from all the desperate calls and letters and emails home, I started reading everything I could get my hands on regarding communism and socialist theory. It’s an endless source of fascination to me, and I thought — still do — that the more I knew about the subject that was barring me from American soil, the better off I’d be. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that shit. What if I somehow made it out of Bosnia and wasn’t allowed refugee status? I could end up in the hands of American forces and thrown in prison. If I ever had to explain Ryan’s thesis in an attempt to wiggle my way out of trouble, I didn’t want to make an even bigger mess of it.

  Whether this theory is correct is another question. I haven’t had much opportunity to pursue it, spending my time stealing medical supplies and avoiding grenades. Mostly it just makes me feel closer to him.

  “Anything catch your fancy?” I glance over my shoulder. He’s gone back to studying me, like I’m a puzzle he needs to solve. I shrug, covering my discomfort. “Or not.” My palms are starting to itch. I rub them over my thighs, the tingling growing until it’s almost painful. It happens when I’m nervous. “I need to go back out, get more food.”

  “No.” The answer is harsh and immediate. He struggles to his feet and hops over to me, pain etched on his face. “You’ve already proven your stupidity. You don’t need to keep proving it.”

  Why? Why does he care? Why would it matter to him what I do? He has a roof over his head and apparently the determination to get around on his own, broken leg and all. Murat, Ismael, and the doctor all know where he is now, and they’d be around to check on him regardless of what happens to me.

  “I’ve got a conscience,” he continues. “I’d rather not have your death on it, lass.”

  “We still need more food, though. I don’t have enough to feed two people.” I barely have enough to feed myself sometimes. “And we’ve no guarantee how long we’ll be safe here. I need to find a place to move to. You’re not exactly mobile. I am.”

  His entire body goes rigid, then relaxes. “Fine.” The look he gives me is blank, devoid of everything, coldness included. He turns and limps back to the couch, lowering himself with the care of a beaten man, old before his time.

  There’s too much pain on his face. “Sure you don’t want a book or something? I can see if I’ve got some painkillers. Don’t know how much good they’ll do, but it’d be something.” Without waiting for an answer, I duck into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets until I locate the ibuprofen.

  “Here.” Sitting onto the couch next to him, I shove a glass of water into his hand and shake out a couple of pills.

  He balances the glass on the arm of the couch before holding out his hand for the pills. Tossing them back, he chases them with water, draining the glass. A fat drop clings to his lower lip, disappearing when his tongue swipes over it. “Can you get this sling off?”

  “You’re supposed to keep it immobile except when—”

  “Except when I’m doing the exercises. I know. I’ve dislocated my shoulder before. It hurts like a motherfucker. I’ll live.” I help him unhook the sling. He jerks his head toward the book I set on a nearby table. “Keep reading. It’s a good distraction.”

  He’s probably right. We could both use distraction at the moment. I retrieve the book and settle into the corner of the couch, the space familiar in its ability to cocoon me. I locate the bookmark and start reading.

  It’s not as one–sided as last time. Declan interrupts on occasion, asking questions or musing on a particular point, the discussion and reading eating up the minutes. After about an hour, my already abused throat on fire from continuing to talk, I glance up from the page and see he’s asleep. His chest rises and falls in steady, even movements, the lines on his face faded.

  It’s the perfect time to get up, to leave, to go about all the tasks I need to accomplish. But the terror of the day has drained me as well, and I curl up in my corner and shut my eyes. Just for a little while.

  * * *

  I’m trapped by something warm and solid. Warm, solid, and smelling faintly of dish soap.

  Dish soap?

  My eyes snap open as a hand brushes over my arm. “Declan?”

  The hand on my arm stills. “Yeah.”

  Oh. His chest rumbles under my ear, his sleep-rasped voice with that lovely lilt slinking under my skin. Tilting my head back, I meet his gaze. Sleepy, yes, edged with discomfort. His arm. He’s got me pressed to his side, caging me with the arm he dislocated. “Declan.”

  “Shh. You were cold. Shaking with it. You don’t remember moving over here?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand you,” I blurt.

  His lips tip up in a wicked little smile. “I’m not that complicated.”

  I scowl, which only makes him smile wider. “Why do all men say that? ‘I’m not that complicated.’ Right.”

  “It’s the truth.” He tugs me back down, and because he’s warm and the flat is cool and growing cooler, I let him. “Being laid up, forced to sit around while you cluck over my injuries—”

  “I do not cluck!”

  “Yes, you do, although you’re trying not to. I can’t go out and get the food for you, and I can’t find a new place to stay. I don’t like the thought of you wandering around out there on your own, no matter how capable you are, because it’s not smart. I don’t like having to take care of someone else.”

  “How is that not complicated?”

  “It’s contradictory,” he says, nudging me a little closer. “Not complicated.”

  “Why don’t you let me up so I can get us a couple of blankets? Or dinner?”

  “Because I tend to go with what feels good, and having you right there feels good.”

  I snort, his words making no sense but sending a shiver down my spine all the same. “I’m lying on your injured ribs and your shoulder must be killing you.”

  “The ribs are on the other side.” He doesn’t say anything about his shoulder. Giving in, I settle my head on his chest, draping a leg over his thigh in an attempt to get more comfortable. It’s the closest I’ve gotten to a full body embrace in ages, and my skin sings at the contact, begs for more.

  This is enough for now.

  “Where are you from?”

  He chuckles again, and the vibrations hum through me. “The accent and the name didn’t give me away? Ireland. Galway.”

  Galway. Wild and open on the coast. Can he see the water from his house? Smell the ocean? “I wasn’t sure. Lass isn’t exactly Irish.”

  “Isn’t it? You look like a lass to
me.”

  “Hmph.” I trail my fingers over the cabled ridges of his sweater. “How’d you end up in this godforsaken city? Why didn’t you leave when all the foreigners were evacuated?”

  “Not all the foreigners. There are pockets here and there. It’s an assignment. Got here a few weeks ago. I’m a photographer.” His hand comes to rest at my hip. “You? You’re an American?”

  His warmth is intoxicating. I’m drunk on touch. “Yeah. Pittsburgh. In Pennsylvania.”

  “I know where Pittsburgh is.”

  A giggle escapes. “Yeah, well, that’s where I’m from.” God, I haven’t felt this good since Ryan…

  Since before he died. Before he was beaten to death in front of me, while I stood by and didn’t do anything other than scream and struggle against the arms holding me back.

  The heat’s unbearable and Declan’s touch suddenly heavy and unwelcome, but I’m careful not jostle him too much as I struggle to sit up. He resists, the two of us in a tug of war, and he lets me win, his hand dropping away. A part of me protests at the loss, the slight, possessive pressure a ghost fading with each second. “I should see about dinner.”

  I escape into the kitchen just as my legs start to shake. I grip the counter. Food. I came in here for food. Opening the fridge, I locate a package of chicken breasts and check the date. Over a week old. Using a knife to slit open the plastic, I examine them, sniff them, grimace at the slimy texture. But they seem okay. Or they will be, once they’re cooked. “Chicken okay?” I call out.

  “Yes.”

  The familiar rhythms of cooking blanks my mind, though the preparation doesn’t take nearly long enough. All too soon I’m dishing up the chicken and rice and carrying the plates into the living room.

  We eat in silence, utensils scraping along ceramic filling the void of conversation. More silence as I clean up the dishes. I take my time, wiping the counter aimlessly. Nerves rumble in my belly. I don’t like what he’s doing to me, making me remember, making me forget. He’s giving me thoughts and ideas I’m not ready to entertain.

  Steeling myself, I poke my head out. He’s staring into space. “Tired?”

  He startles. “What? No.”

  “Bored?”

  One side of his mouth tips up. “Getting there.”

  I wander over to the couch and plop down in my spot. “How’s your wrist?”

  He rotates it, the bandage hampering the movement, but he still winces. “Stiff.”

  I can’t stand this, seeing him so uncomfortable, his body protesting and trying to drag itself back together. I gesture to his wrist. He holds it out, and I unwrap it, running my fingers over the bones. Swollen and, as I press down, his mouth thinning, likely tender. I keep the pressure light, working the tiny muscles and ligaments.

  “Think you can do that for my shoulder?”

  I nod and withdraw my hands. His sweater comes up, inch by inch, revealing his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. Angry splotches of purple and red, the edges a sickening yellow, cover a lot of it, his flesh a grotesque canvas.

  It hurts to look at him, to see injuries so similar to what Ryan must have suffered, yet Declan’s alive and Ryan is not. Sucking in a breath, I lift my gaze to his face.

  There’s no trace of emotion. Utterly flat. And there’s comfort in that. “Scoot forward.” I stand up, and he complies, propping his broken leg up on the coffee table. He’s given me a few inches of space.

  I kneel behind him, thighs pushed up against his back. He groans as my fingers dig into his shoulder, and my breath catches. “Too hard?”

  “No,” he rasps. “Keep going.” I do, working my way up his back and over, the heat of his skin burning through my jeans, through my sweater. His head tilts to rest against my breasts. The massage gets softer, becomes faint circles over his pectoral, hands brushing along the line of his shoulder. I could do it. I could lower my mouth to his, slide around and straddle him, and the temptation of it shocks me and makes me want to whimper with needs long buried.

  He shifts away abruptly and grabs his sweater, pulling it on. Well. That tells me. I climb off the couch and resume my usual spot, avoiding his gaze.

  Awkward. Very, very awkward. The silence grows more and more strained the longer it drags on. He breaks it by picking up the book and flipping it open to the bookmark.

  Oh, dear sweet baby Jesus. Listening to Declan read one of my favorite books is a sinful, sinful pleasure. He has the perfect voice for it, gravelly and unexpected. Pages fly by, but it’s not long before I’m starting to shiver with cold.

  “Can we stop for a minute?” I want a blanket and maybe some tea. No. Tea’s too cozy.

  He closes the book and levers himself off the couch. “Bathroom?”

  I point to the far door. “Through the bedroom.”

  I grab a couple of blankets and settle back on the couch, an old wool blanket wrapped around my shoulders. There’s cursing, and I tense, waiting for him to call my name. He doesn’t, and a minute later, he reappears. He lowers himself to the couch, jaw clenched, knuckles white as they grip the back.

  “Want a blanket? The heat doesn’t work very well in here.”

  He suddenly looks exhausted. “Nora.”

  “What?”

  He squirms around so much I get off the couch. He lifts his arm, the one with the dislocated shoulder, and jerks his head toward it. “Come here.”

  No. Oh, no. I’m not doing this again.

  “You need it. It’s not uncommon for people who’ve lived through traumatic experiences to take comfort from one another. Now. Come here.” He glares at me, and I glare right back. We’ve done this already, our impromptu nap, but I can’t deny I need more. So much more than he knows.

  Careful of his cast and the bruises on his legs I know must be bothering him, I climb over and stretch out against his side, spreading the blanket over the two of us. I feel him sigh, feel the tension drain from his body. Then he picks up the book as his arm settles around me, hand worming under the blanket to splay over my hip.

  It’s late when he lays the book on the table. He reaches above his head and flicks off the lamp, then slides down on the couch. He should move to the bed. More comfortable. Warmer. His hand slips under the blanket and gropes around, curling around my thigh and pulling it over his.

  One hand on my hip, the other on my thigh, I’m surrounded by Declan, his broken body protecting mine from whatever approaches in the dark. Tomorrow he might back away, or I will. But I think he needs this, and I can give this to him.

  Tonight, I’ll take what he’s offering.

  Chapter Seven

  “Baby, where'd you put the soap?” Ryan never put it where it belonged.

  He slipped his arms around me from behind, tracing kisses along my neck. “Where you'll never be able to find it. Leave the dishes. Come to bed.”

  Tempting, very, very tempting. I leaned into him and shut my eyes, body absorbing the delicious shocks as his hands roamed under my t-shirt. “Someone's gotta do them,” I murmured.

  I gasped as he tweaked a nipple. “Later. Right now I need you.” He spun me around, lifting me so I was balanced on the edge of the counter. “Mine.”

  “Yours, huh? Didn't you learn how to share in kindergarten?” His hands cupped my breasts. His blue eyes were hard and possessive. “No.”

  That wasn't right. Ryan's eyes weren't blue. I blinked, and they were Ryan's again, the golden brown gleaming with desire and love. “All mine,” he whispered, dipping his head, his lips hot on my jaw. “All mine forever. Beautiful Nora.”

  All his. Forever. Yes. Forever Ryan's.

  “Nora.”

  I burrow further under the blankets. It’s too damn early to get up, too warm, too comfortable.

  “Nora. Get up.”

  On a whimper, I open my eyes. Grey light streams through the living room window. Living room? Did Ryan and I fall asleep on the couch again? Bad habit. I thought we’d broken it.

  His shoulders are all wrong. Too broad
. His scent is wrong, too. Not Ryan. Ryan’s gone, and Declan is not. I’m plastered against him. At his request, I remember, sleep clearing from my brain. For comfort, he’d said. Lifting my head, I try to focus on his face. The swelling’s gone down some more, the bruising around his eyes a gruesome yellow mask tinged with red. I trail my fingers over the bruising on his jaw. He doesn’t flinch, the hard gleam in his eyes not dissipating in the least. Such a difficult man to understand, Ryan’s opposite in every way. Yet here I am, molded to him like this is where I belong and I have no desire to leave.

  “Fuck,” he mutters. Heedless of his sprained wrist, he slides his hands under my arms and jerks me up, his mouth closing over mine before I realize what’s happening.

  The contact is a lightning bolt, piercing the last of the dream and the sleep haze and scattering it like mice before a cat. It leaves no room for doubt that this is exactly what he means to do, kiss me, no, ravage my mouth, his tongue slipping past my defenses when I part my lips unconsciously. His mouth moves with the confidence of a man who has been kissing women for a long, long time, kissing them and getting kissed in return. There is no asking in this kiss. He tells me with his lips, his teeth, his wicked tongue that we’re doing this, and we’re doing it now, so I’d better hang on. My mind threatens to blank as my body takes over, reveling in the increasing heat.

  Our noses bump, and he hisses, breaking the kiss. Shit. I’d forgotten about his injuries, the broken ribs and nose, the deep, throbbing bruises along his torso and thighs. A lapse. A side trip into insanity. Two people who’ve been thrown together by circumstance and nothing more, warm bodies to draw from. That’s all it is.

  I guess Declan’s not done being crazy because he grips my hips, positions them over his groin, and pushes up. I can’t stop the moan from escaping. My body’s completely taken over. It wants what’s between my legs and covered in layers of fabric.

  I dive for his mouth again, craving more. Needing more. He gives it to me, tongues thrusting and parrying in a primitive dance echoed by the rocking of our hips. One hand curves around my nape, his teeth nipping into my top lip as his other hand grips my hip, further encouraging their movement. It’s the sweetest, darkest kind of madness. I want to drown in it. I want it to sink me, sate me, whip me into a frenzy I haven’t felt in years.