by Ashley Logan
“You went from sucking face to silent treatment?” Jenkins shakes his head. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t share all my secrets and it pissed her off when I used the excuse that she wouldn’t tell me hers. Then she went and fucked someone else, because I can’t do that either,” I add, rolling out the paint with aggression. “Now leave it alone before I take it out on you.”
Staying quiet, Jenkins finishes his line of painting and trades me his brush for my roller, so I can cut in up high while he rolls down low. “You want to go for a beer after this?” he asks quietly.
“Maybe, if I have time before work,” I say, taking the roller back to finish the last bit faster than Jenkins can manage.
“You’re going to work yourself to death,” Jenkins mutters, wheeling backwards to look at our work from a distance. “Definitely needs two coats,” he says with a sigh.
“Knew it would; planned for it. Let’s go grab a lunch while we’re waiting for it to dry.” Wiping paint from my hands, I grab my coat and head for the door. “At least they keep the heat cranked up in here, so it shouldn’t take long. We might get that beer after all.”
“I’ll ask Shermansky if he wants to come along too,” Jenkins says, pulling on his own coat and taking out his phone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SCARLETT
“Enough is enough, Scar.”
“Huh?” I look up from my laptop to see Violet in my doorway, arms folded and fit to battle, but I don’t know what about. Deeply entrenched in the sexual tension between the characters of my romance novel, I stare at her blankly.
“Look at the state of your room,” she says, gesturing to my bare floor.
“What?” I ask, frowning. “It’s tidy. You’re always telling me to clean up.”
“But you never do!” she says, her eyes wide in explanation. “I’ve been waiting to see when you’d talk about it, but you’re not talking. It’s time.”
“I’m busy,” I say, looking back at my screen. “I’m at a part of this story I just can’t leave. We’ll talk later.”
“You’re hiding in a story? What’s it about? Two idiots who deny their love for each other so long they drive each other crazy? Have you seen the state of Bruno?”
Cringing, I save my draft and close my laptop, setting it aside. “I am not in love with Bruno.”
“Hmpf,” she says, closing my door and jumping on my bed to sit against the wall. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?” Shaking her head, she looks me straight in the eye. “How’d your night out go? You’ve been acting weird ever since.”
“Have not.”
“Have too,” she says, arching a brow at me.
Sulking a little, I bring my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. “I don’t love Bruno Jackson. I hate him. He’s ruined me for every other man.”
Vi studies my face, her eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying he drove me to find someone else to finish what he started, but when I tried to hook up with a guy I normally find very adequate, I might as well have been trying to fuck a corpse he was that undesirable. And it’s all Bruno’s fault. He won’t talk to me, or see me and I don’t want him to anyway, but everything is ruined like I told you it would be. We don’t even go to the gym together anymore.” I take several breaths to steady myself as Vi looks on in concern.
Her eyes widen again. “You two hooked up?” she says, crawling closer. “Like hooked up? The other day? When Bruno bolted?”
Sighing, I look at my lap. “Yeah,” I whisper.
“And?” Vi says, settling next to me.
“And it was unbelievable! He made me come three times in as many minutes. I didn’t even know it could feel that good, and our connection was so strong that it will tarnish every other man that even tries to compete.”
“And he bolted.”
Sighing, I lean back against the pillows. “That was my fault for pushing when I shouldn’t have. I thought we’d fixed it, sort of, but I pushed again and now we’re in this permanent state of avoidance, where we live less than ten feet away, but hardly see each other.”
“And you want to see him again?”
I’d like to do a lot more than see him. Kicking myself for even thinking like that, I straighten myself up. “I want a lot of things, but I know it’s best that he stays away. I’ll only hurt him.”
Vi squints at me again. “Why?”
“I’m not capable of loving him back and I don’t want him to waste his love on me. He deserves better.”
“Sure sounds like you love him,” Vi says, smiling sadly.
“Shut up, Vi.” I move my laptop back into position. “I’m doing just fine without love.”
“Maybe you are, but like I said before - have you seen Bruno lately?” she says, her forehead wrinkling. “I know he’s busy keeping his friend from losing it, but I don’t think he’s far from the edge himself.”
I sit up straighter. “What friend? Jenkins?”
Vi shrugs. “Didn’t get a name; you know how Bruno is with sharing details. All I know is that he’s essentially babysitting to keep the guy out of hospital, or the grave, or both. Anyway, I think he could use some support, if we can give him some.”
Nodding, I pull my laptop closer. “I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s what I was hoping. I know you don’t want to believe it, but he’s closer to you than anyone else.”
Scoffing, I shake my head. “I don’t know why everyone keeps saying that. The guy keeps me far enough away that I can’t even begin to work him out.”
“And yet you know so much more than the rest of us.” Smiling, Vi shakes her head. “I can’t believe you guys did it and you didn’t tell me.”
Blushing, I avoid her eyes. “To be honest, we didn’t actually do it.”
“You came three times and you didn’t even have sex?” Vi cries in disbelief. My cheeks flame.
“All I did was kiss him back when he kissed me. He took care of everything after that.”
Vi giggles a little as she scoots off the bed. “Well he is very good at taking care of everything, I guess.”
“But not so good at taking care of himself apparently,” I add, frowning as I think about the last time I saw him. A quick glimpse in the kitchen as he grabbed a handful of protein bars before running down the stairs. He hadn’t shaved in at least a day and there were dark circles under his eyes. I’d tried to dismiss it as nothing, but something is clearly wrong.
On the case now, I follow Vi out of my room and head next door to Bruno’s. Knocking on the door, I’m not surprised to get no answer. Opening it, I see wrinkles in his bed covers, and his stack of library books leaning haphazardly. Out of size order, one book has already fallen to the floor.
Bruno Jackson is definitely not himself.
THE SIGN SAYS do not disturb any further, and I can’t help but feel it’s all my fault he’s disturbed to begin with. At least if there’s a sign up, he’s home. Taking a breath, I knock on his door.
“What do you want Scarlett?” he growls through the door.
My eyebrows plummet and I open the door. “How do you know it’s me?”
Bruno sits on the bed surrounded by open books and a pencil and paper. Closing what appears to be a sketch pad, he sighs and looks up at me.
“Only you would see a do not disturb sign and charge ahead anyway. What do you want?”
The excuses I’ve rehearsed escape me as my eyes search his exhausted face, leaving me speechless. Bruno straightens, running a hand over his stubbled jaw that works as though he’s chewing something.
“Do I have something on my face?” he asks, rubbing at it. “Gum?”
“Trouble,” I mumble, wondering where my voice has gone. Clearing my throat, I try again. “There’s trouble written all over it,” I say, inching closer and lowering myself onto the corner of his bed.
“You came to tell me I’m trouble?” he asks, frowning down at his books. He closes the book
of birds and the garden book that had been open on a woodland glade.
I shake my head, watching him. “You’re not trouble,” I start, but have to correct myself. “Well you are, but your face says you’re in trouble.”
“Yeah, well. It’s nothing illegal, so don’t worry about it,” he says, beginning to stack his books, keeping his eyes low. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I need you to look at me.”
Taking a deep breath, he keeps his eyes low and exhales long and rough. “It hurts to look at you,” he says, still not raising his eyes to mine.
The lump in my throat is aching even more than my chest, but I choke it down.
“Sometimes it hurts when I look at me too, but it doesn’t stop me from looking for long. Do you think you’ll be able to look at me soon?”
Bruno’s gray eyes find mine. They’re filled with pain and love and I almost run, scared at the intensity of his quiet emotion, but I force myself to stay.
“I’m worried about you.”
Blinking at me, he seems confused. “Why?”
“You look exhausted and there’s a deep sadness in you that I don’t think is all my doing, though I admit responsibility for some. You haven’t given me any shit in days and I miss your snide comments. When are we going back to the gym together?”
Shifting uncomfortably, Bruno sighs again. “I can’t go with you at the moment.”
“Because of Jenkins?” His head whips up again, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“How is he doing?” I ask, not waiting for further confirmation.
“Hanging in there,” he says quietly. “He hates being babysat, but the alternative is worse. A few more weeks and he should be ready to resume control again.”
“And then we’ll go to the gym?” I press, bringing him back to focus on the us of his issues, now that I know things with Jenkins are tough, but manageable.
His voice is barely audible. “If you want.”
“I want. I don’t like what we’re doing.”
“Neither, but half of it’s self-preservation, Scar.”
“I think that’s bullshit. You already look lighter for having talked to me. Get your head out of your ass Jackson.”
Chuckling a little, he rubs his eyes and concedes a sigh. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m always right,” I confirm. “Now tell me what you’re working on.” I point to his sketch pad at the bottom of the stack. His quiet laughter stops.
“I can’t.”
Folding my arms over my chest, I glare at him. “So we’re back here again?”
Looking annoyed, he runs a hand over his hair as he punishes the gum in his mouth.
“This one’s not for sharing yet. Would you be satisfied if I told you that you’ll see it one day when it’s finished?”
Staring at him long and hard, I nod. “I suppose I could live with that.” I smile as he does. “If...”
“If?” he asks, rolling his eyes.
“If we braid each other’s hair a little. Right now.”
His eyes narrow at me and he blows a slow bubble, gathering the gum in again before it pops. “You want to know something personal now? As a trade off?”
I nod.
“That simple huh? I don’t buy it. What are your conditions?” he asks carefully, moving himself to a more oppositional angle.
“I get to ask three questions. You answer properly. No cryptic statements, no details missing, no one syllable answers. And we can actually have a conversation around those things that doesn’t require an interrogation because you’re keeping your lips too tight.”
“Three sounds like a lot.”
“We can start with one and go up to three if you’re not too chicken.”
“Me chicken? What about you?” he says, his face becoming more animated. “If I have to share, you do too. Up to three things.”
“Can they be the same three things that you share?” I ask, knowing he’ll be going after Kenny, when I want to avoid even thinking of that douche bag if I can help it.
“I don’t know. Are you going to ask me about my broken dick? Because I’m pretty sure your dick’s not broken,” he says in a completely serious tone that drives my urge to laugh deep underground. Tucking loose hair behind my ears, I tighten my ponytail and sigh.
“I don’t even care about your broken dick, though I imagine it must be terribly frustrating, and I’m very curious about whether or not you’ve had an orgasm since your accident, but I don’t need to know, if it makes you that upset. Which it probably does because it’s been like six years, of your prime, and you get pussy dangled in front of you all the time and...” I stop when I see his face, and clear my throat. “Like I said, it must be terrible, so no, we don’t have to talk about it. Sorry.”
An awkward silence ensues and I wonder if I’ve pushed him too far, but he adjusts his position and settles in.
“What if other things we talk about are terrible? Do we still have to talk about them?”
“It depends how terrible,” I say, thinking selfishly of avoiding Kenny questions. “We should have a derailment scale. Out of ten, any subject scoring eight or higher may be avoided. If the thing is so bad it will cause distress of a degree over eight, it is immediately squashed.”
“And you’re sure you wouldn’t rather leave me alone? The sign says do not disturb any further. You already recognize a degree of disturbance.”
“We’re all disturbed. It’s why we’re here,” I say gesturing around me at the club that keeps us all safe. “I miss you pushing my buttons. No-one challenges me like you do and it’s hard to prove you’re right all the time if no-one bothers to test your theories.”
Bruno laughs and his eyes travel me in that way that makes me feel naked and desirable. “I miss pushing your buttons too.”
“Uh uh,” I warn, waggling a finger at him. “We’re not doing that. Last time it ended up in you avoiding me all week and looking like a train wreck.”
“You still look good,” he says with a sad smile.
“Because I have been living vicariously through the characters in the novel I’m writing. I can avoid reality by leaving it behind. You don’t have that luxury right now, though that brings me to my first question, if I may?”
Taking a deep breath, he nods. “Fire away, Scarlett. I can always plead the ‘eight or higher’ rule.”
My eyes narrow at him. “I’ll know if you’re lying.”
“We’ll see. Ask the damn question.”
Making myself more comfortable, I reach over and take a book from his library stack. “Why do you get romance novels out of the library?”
Laughing quietly, he smiles. “They’re not really for me, though I do quite enjoy some of them,” he says, not really answering the question. I motion for more information.
“I read them to people stuck in hospital; the ones who need company, or who’ve lost the ability to read for themselves. They’re also an interesting gateway to the female psyche and what it takes to please a woman.”
I laugh out loud. “Maybe keep reading!” I joke, but he arches an eyebrow at me.
“Are you saying I don’t know how to please a woman?” My laughter immediately stops and I fidget with the edge of his blanket.
“Is that one of your questions?” I ask softly, causing him to laugh. Another thought occurs to me. “This woman pleasing is something a lot of veterans are concerned about?”
“Some, I guess. What do you mean?”
“Don’t you do this at the Vet hospital?” I ask holding up the book with a long-haired, musclebound man holding a swooning, gown-wearing, wisp of a woman. “Do old men really like hearing about heaving bosoms and throbbing loins?”
“It brings a smile to their faces,” Bruno says, grinning. “Mainly people like hearing about happy endings. Especially if theirs is unknown. And I read to the ladies at the rest home I dance at too.”
I watch him a moment, trying not to smile. “I bet they love that.�
�
“What?” he asks absently, his eyes trained on my lips. My heart rate quickens and I keep perfectly still, trying not to dwell on what he might be thinking, but I can’t help myself.
“They must love having the stories told by their very own super-spunk.”
“Super-spunk, huh?” he says, those eyes wandering again. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head ever so slightly. “So why romance novels?” he says, interrupting my own enjoyment of his physique.
“Come again?”
Regarding me with those steamy gray eyes, he smiles knowingly. “What are you writing about in your new novel?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Me thinks you might already have guessed.”
“You’re enjoying it?”
Taking a moment to consider, I nod. “I really am. I didn’t think I would, but it’s like being a puppet-master and making the characters perform this bizarre dance where they skirt around the truth, scared of what it will do to their relationship, but all the while, they’re hopeful that it will all be okay in the end. It’s like you said. It’s nice to think there can be happy endings.” I laugh a little. “When you suggested I write something different and that lots of different genres can be inspirational, I didn’t think I’d end up being inspired by romance. Weird, huh?”
Bruno shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s weird at all. Maybe one day I’ll be getting your book from the library.”
“Like one day I’ll see your art in a gallery?” I counter. He laughs.
“I’m not that good,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s really just therapy; something I do for enjoyment and relaxation.”
“What have you been painting?”
“Haven’t we been over this?” he says, giving me a tortured look.
Shaking my head, I point to the mint-colored smear on the back of his elbow. “It looks more like house paint to me, but you finished the kitchen, and that was white. Inside the club was charcoal. What did you paint mint?”
Frowning as he examines his elbow, he begins to scratch the paint off. “A wall in the rest home I volunteer at. Jenkins thinks mint is ugly as sin and that we should paint a mural so it’s not as depressing in there. I’m seriously considering asking the manager, because I think it’ll give Jenkins something positive to focus on. Was that an official question?” he asks, folding his arms defensively. “Because I don’t know why mint would be important enough for me to ask you about.”
