Raincheck (Caldwell Brothers Book 6)

by Colleen Charles

  “No.”

  She says it in a rush, so I guess that’s a positive sign. I shake my head. Jesus, it feels like I’m cracking up. I’ve gotten manic and jittery over projects a bunch of times, but never over a person. A woman. I realize that I’m still naked and lying in the middle of a strange woman’s bed. But not so strange anymore. Who the hell am I?

  As I look down at my body, I see something odd. Between my legs, there’s a small red spot on the sheets. At first, I figure it’s just a stain from something that got spilled – we tech-heads are an absent-minded bunch, known for staining floors, furniture, clothes, all because we’re too focused on the lines of code in our heads to pay attention to the drinks and sloppy junk food we’re holding.

  Then I examine it a little more closely, and I see that it’s still wet. In fact, it looks a lot like...

  Blood?

  I peek down at my cock, and yep, there’s blood on it. Not much, just a few spots here and there on the shaft. It’s a bit of a shock, but no reason to treat it like a big deal. Unless I hurt her. If that’s what this is, I’ll cut my own heart out with a dull fork and stab it.

  I get to my feet, figuring after I point this out to Waverly, I should probably hop in the bathroom myself. Even then, I should probably yank my underwear back on before we transfer to the couch. Despite our newfound ease with one another, I don’t think we’re to the traipsing around the house naked stage yet.

  And then...what? We talk about what happened? We avoid that by talking about coding some more? We “open up about ourselves,” since let’s face it, no matter how strong the attraction is, we still barely know anything about each other? It’s always like this with a new lover, a promise of only the things that come easily.

  The last option gnaws at my mind like a rat. Even though I told Caldwell about looking for my real mother, I’m not sure I want to tell Waverly. That’s a burden I’m used to carrying alone, and it’s saved me from a lot of pity and psychobabble from people who think they’re helping. I might not know exactly how she sees me or feels about me at this point, but I know I don’t need her looking at me like I’m some kind of lost puppy who needs to be saved. That’s not a solid dynamic to build a relationship on.

  Build a relationship? I’m making a hell of a lot of assumptions.

  I turn hot with embarrassment since I shouldn’t even be thinking these things after a one-nighter. I blast myself for it, and I blame her for resurrecting the uncomfortable emotion.

  Waverly walks in and stops. Her eyes move to the stain on the sheets and widen. Her jaw drops.

  “Did I hurt you, Waverly?” Part of me wants her to start screaming at me, pummeling me with her tiny little fists.

  She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. “No. Um. No. That’s not it at all.”

  It takes me a second to understand what she’s saying. When I do, it feels like a wrecking ball to my chest.

  “Waverly...was this your first time?”

  She opens her mouth, closes it, takes a deep breath, and nods. “I should have told you. You’re probably mad that I didn’t. Right? Are you mad? I probably would be...mad.”

  Am I? Maybe I should be. But I try to picture how that exchange was supposed to go for her. When would the right moment have been? What would she have said?

  Hey, I know we were mortal fucking enemies about three hours ago, but now that we’ve bonded a little, how ‘bout you punch my V-card?”

  “No, I’m not mad at all. But I would have done things differently. I would have gone slower. When I thought I’d hurt you, I wanted to beat the shit out of myself. I’d never, ever hurt a woman intentionally.”

  I suppose I must be smiling a little, because she looks at me hopefully. “So, you’re not mad, and you’re not running for the door. These seem like good signs.” The words tumble out again, betraying her anxiety. I want to rush forward and take her in my arms, because I know better than most how regret can burrow beneath your skin, take up residence and never leave. “And I know your first question is probably going to be something like, uh, ‘Why tonight, and why me, when we’ve only known each other for one evening and doing something like this is such a big deal to...to...to most people?’ Not that it’s not a big deal for me, too...I mean, it is, of course it is, but it’s not...I’m not going to suddenly be, like...” She gives her head a frustrating shake, banishing whatever thoughts she kept hidden. “And you’d be totally justified in asking those questions, um...because I’m asking them to myself too, and I’m not coming up with any answers that make sense, or at least, um, none that I could...you know...” She flaps her hands, searching for the right word.

  “Verbalize?” I guess. “Articulate.”

  She nods, looking down at the floor. Her toes curl into the plush carpet.

  “Everything doesn’t have to make sense all the time. It’s hard for us because what we do has to fit together perfectly in order to work, but it doesn’t. Most of life doesn’t make any sense. It’s a hot mess.”

  “Yeah, but we’re coders, though,” she whispers. I want to gather her in my arms and start over. I want a do-over of her first time. I want to worship every inch of her sexy body, make her come at least once, so she softens. Dammit, with as hard as I fucked her, it had to hurt. “To us, everything literally does have to make sense all the time.”

  “I’m willing to call this the exception that proves the rule.”

  She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. A small smile plays at the corners of her lips. “I’ve never understood what that phrase means.”

  “Me either.” Her words riot through me, welcome in their strange truth. I see that she’s filled with self-doubt about what we’ve done, and I can’t bear the thought of everything beautiful about this evening suddenly being jerked away because neither of us will just let go and see where it takes us.

  But more than that – what she’s chosen to give me, to share with me, is monumental. And whatever her reasons were for the gift of her body, I want her to feel like they were valid. No one has ever given so much of themselves, bestowed something so precious upon me. Maybe it’s because I’ve acted like a prick to most people. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much of my life staring at the screen instead of living out in the world. But whatever it is, I need her to know that I understand how vulnerable she’s made herself to me and that it’s appreciated.

  I need to share an important piece of myself with her too.

  In a burst of fear and anguish, I tell her everything I told Caldwell. I tell her what happened with Darlene. I even tell her how tormented I felt after, how pulled in several different directions, and how badly I want to just give up on my search and make peace with never knowing my mother or why she abandoned me.

  And when I’m done, there’s no pity in Waverly’s eyes. There’s a little sadness there. Regret. A desire for closure for me. I’m drawn to that familiar emotion like a moth to a flame. And after a fleeting second, understanding settles.

  She takes my hand in hers. “Thank you for sharing that. I can tell how hard it was for you.” She pauses, then smirks. “I mean, it’s not, you know, taking-someone’s-virginity hard, but whatever, I’ll take what I can get.”

  We both laugh as my heart pounds at devastating speed. The weight that crushed my chest just moments ago eases off, and I inhale a strong breath.

  “I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve spent all this time trying to find her because you’re right – to people like us, everything has to make sense all the time. But people aren’t lines of code. I can keep smacking myself against a wall for the rest of my life trying to make that not be true, but it is. And whatever’s happening between us right now, I’m not going to fight it just because it isn’t rational. I don’t need to know why you chose to give yourself to me. I don’t need for you to know. All I need to know is how special it is that you did that, and believe me, I do.”

  Waverly touches my cheek gently. “Thank you. But seriously, ‘people aren’t lines of code?’
What kind of soap opera shit is that?”

  I shrug, a smile playing at my mouth. “Well, fuck it, what do you expect? I’m a software engineer, not a writer. That’s the best I can come up with on the fly.”

  We dissolve into hilarious laughter again.

  “So, what happens now?”

  It’s her turn to shrug, and for the first time, I notice how lovely her shoulders are. I’m possessed by a sudden urge to kiss her collarbone. Then I think of where that might lead and figure she might still be a little too sore for Round Two. If I don’t do anything else, I’m going to treat this woman with kid gloves from now on.

  “Tomorrow we start working on the project,” she says.

  “I wasn’t talking about that. I meant what about now...for us?”

  “Tomorrow...we...start working on the project.” She sighs helplessly. “I got nothin’. I don’t exactly give my virginity to a lot of people. In fact, I don’t exactly date a lot of people. Or...anyone, really. Ever.”

  “That’s the only thing I actually find bizarre about all of this,” I admit. “I mean, you’re a virgin? You’re not exactly a teenager...and you’re hot as hell. Smart. Talented. Everything.”

  “Hey, I’m four whole years younger than you are, so careful with the age comments, old timer.” She sticks her tongue out at me. It’s adorable, and that’s a word I usually never even think, let alone use. “Oh, damning me with faint praise now. Thank you, kind sir.” She bows dramatically. “I’m guessing this is your ham-handed way of asking why no one’s fucked someone as pretty as me yet?”

  I nod.

  “Honestly? Dunno.” She appears to give it some thought for a moment, then shakes her head. “Jeez, when it comes right down to it, I guess I really don’t. I think there was a time when guys didn’t like me because I was too much of a tomboy, and there was a time when I just started shoving dudes away when they were interested because it seemed like they all sucked. But for the life of me, I can’t tell you which one came first, or how much of it overlapped. I never gave it a ton of thought, frankly. Maybe I figured it would happen when it happened. Or maybe I just got used to the idea that it never would, and it stopped being important somewhere along the line. Whichever it is, it’s left me, wow...utterly, hilariously, ridiculously unprepared to answer a question as simple as ‘What happens now?’”

  Damn. She is adorable.

  “I get that,” I assure her. “I haven’t exactly been the flowers-and-candy kind of guy myself. The projects we work on just...start to seem like the whole world, don’t they?”

  “Uh-huh. But this time, we’re working on the project together. So, we’ll be part of each other’s world. So...”

  “...what happens now?” I finish with her, laughing. “Well, starting tomorrow I suppose we’ll just have to find out together, won’t we?”

  She nods slowly, leaning over and resting her head on my shoulder.

  We stay that way for a long, long time. And when I look into my future, it doesn’t seem as bleak anymore.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Waverly

  Over the next six days, I have more fun than I’ve ever had in my life.

  I guess I’ve been coding alone for so many years that I’d actually managed to convince myself I enjoyed the isolation – just me, bathed in the ghostly glow of my computer’s monitor, wrapped in a comforting womb of silence with no one to distract me or ask stupid questions about my work.

  I’d even come to regard the sound of the keyboard as the friendly voice of a constant companion. I’d have a string of thoughts, and they would be answered reasonably by the steady clacking of my fingertips on the keys, unspooling my ideas, hashing them out, turning them into reality.

  Even after my night with Hawk, I still wasn’t wholly certain I’d be able to break out of this routine without my work suffering as a result.

  But oh, it feels so good to be wrong.

  Hawk and I spend almost every moment of every day just a few feet away from each other, until it’s hard to tell where he ends, and I begin. Between frantic, hours-long bursts of coding, we pace around Hawk’s workspace in tight circles – firing ideas at each other like machine gun bullets, finishing each other’s thoughts, sometimes even talking in unison. We interrupt each other constantly, but instead of annoying each other, we just become even more excited about the project at hand.

  We eat the same junk food and drink the same soda, until the wrappers and bottles and cans overflow from the wastebasket and start to overtake the floor. There’s no nagging, no disapproving looks, no eye-rolling, no recrimination about picking up trash. We’re both unrepentant slobs who are addicted to the work, and even without saying it out loud, it’s clear that each of us is overjoyed to find this out about the other. Cleanliness might be next to godliness outside this room, but inside of it, we are gods – creating and destroying entire galaxies of dense code, rearranging reality to be whatever we want it to be.

  We rarely stop to bathe, and when we do, we use the same soap, shampoo, and toothpaste, until even our scents begin to blur together. We almost never sleep, and even though it’s clear that we’re eager to pounce on each other again like we did that first night, the most we can usually muster is a passionate kiss or two before we pass out for a few hours in a tangle of arms and legs, bleary and bloodshot, our minds racing even as our bodies shut down.

  Because in its own way, this all-consuming work is almost better than sex. It’s something intense and intimate, something we both know we can’t share with anyone else alive. We’re two flames who have combined into a raging inferno of inspiration and creativity. All we do is burn and burn together, until our white-hot fire forges the iron wrought from our minds.

  The only times we’re apart are when we need more food. We take turns driving to the nearest store for supplies, and whoever makes the trip generally comes back with a few quick bits of news from the outside world – gleaned from the headlines of newspapers and magazines in the check-out aisle – before we tear open the snack wrappers and get back to work. Every time I run this errand, I find myself blinking and recoiling from the sunlight, like something pale and blind that’s crawled out from under a rock.

  We don’t dare make these trips together, after what happened to Hawk’s original work. We set alarms on our cell phones reminding us to save our progress at regular intervals, and whoever leaves the house even keeps the valuable external drive with them. We can’t take the risk of leaving what we’ve done unprotected in case someone tries to sabotage it again. Someone with greasy hair, Armani suits, and goons that look like the gorilla exhibit at the San Diego Zoo. Setting a fire in an empty workroom is one thing, but the odds are against someone trying anything when there’s someone there to guard the project.

  That’s our theory.

  But based on my tense meeting with Dante, that thought doesn’t comfort me entirely. If he was really willing to pay so much money for a program like this, what else might he be willing to do? Violence? Is it beyond the realm of possibility that he’d set his next fire with Hawk still in the house, or have a couple of his men beat Hawk up...or worse?

  Every time I leave, I find myself driving a little too fast, trying to get back to him in time to prevent something bad from happening. I try to keep my mind on the work I’ll do when I get back, but instead, I find myself fighting off intrusive thoughts – graphic scenes of Hawk being brutalized while our software is stolen.

  Then I open the door and see his handsome face twisted into a grimace under the weight of his thoughts, and I realize that up until that moment, my heart has been racing and my breath has been tight in my chest.

  And every time he leaves and comes back, I notice the same relief in his eyes when he sees that I’m fine.

  I freely admit it. Even with my laser-like focus on the project at hand, another thought nudges its way into my brain here and there. Hawk’s birth mother. It’s sad that he hasn’t been able to find her, but more than that, it’s surprising.
Adults from foster homes find their real parents every day, don’t they? Sometimes these reunions work out and sometimes they don’t, but either way, there must be a million ways to dig up this kind of information so there can be closure.

  Hawk just hit one too many brick walls while trying, and yeah, the fact that the records were burned up in a fire was extremely bad luck, not to mention discouraging. Based on that, it seems like he feels that giving up is his only option. But how much of that might be coming from fear and self-sabotage? Doesn’t he at least deserve a chance to make this decision for himself, to either find and confront her or let it go and move on with his life?

  The more I keep picking at the knot of this problem in the back of my mind, the more I realize how important it is for me to do something about this for him, and the impulse surprises me. I’m not exactly the kind of person who goes out of her way to do favors for people – and this thought catches me off guard, reminding me of how solitary and self-sufficient my life has been up until now. After my first meeting with Hawk at that convention years ago, I had decided on some level that I should never ask anyone for anything, and that no one had any right to expect anything from me either.

  He started as my curse but ended as my blessing.

  Now I want to fix this for him, more than I can remember wanting anything in a very long time.

  And what’s more, I think I can.

  I don’t know how yet, but I’m positive there’s a way. If life has taught me anything, it’s that there’s no problem I can’t solve with a computer and the right combination of ones and zeroes. As soon as we finish this project, I can devote all of my attention to coming up with a solution.

  “What is it?”

  Hawk’s voice breaks through this cloud of half-formed thoughts, and when I glance up at him, I see that he’s been looking at me.

  “What’s what?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “You had kind of a weird look on your face for a second there.”

  For a moment, I consider telling him about this train of thought. Then I dismiss it. He doesn’t need this stuff distracting him from the work we’re doing – in fact, he’d probably resent it. Worse, he might think my mind isn’t on the job and regret telling me about his search for his mother in the first place. And anyway, there’s always the slim chance that I won’t be able to accomplish this for him, in which case, getting his hopes up could be extremely cruel.