by Lauren Layne
My hands are shaking when I straighten back up, although I’m not sure if it’s from feeling cornered by the frat boys or because of this violent, out-of-control side of Paul.
But that’s not quite right. Violent, yes. But not out of control. I think I’d prefer it if he was, because this Paul is a lethal machine.
The kid on the ground apparently realizes he’s not as injured as he initially thought, and with a sneer he starts to dive at Paul’s bad leg. Again, Paul is faster. With one hand he jerks the kid to his feet seconds before his other fist collides with the frat boy’s nose.
The cane clatters to the ground, forgotten, and the swagger slowly fades from the rest of the drunken kids’ faces.
“Paul,” I whisper.
But he’s not done.
“Apologize.” He leans down to where the ringleader is wiping his bloody nose.
“Fuck you, dude. You’re a freak.”
Paul gets closer. “Apologize to her.”
“Why?” the idiot says. “I didn’t do anything she didn’t want.”
My eyes narrow, but before I can tell this little twerp to learn some manners and get the hell out of Kali’s bar, one of his buddies finally finds his balls enough to defend his idiot friend and throws a punch at Paul’s stomach.
A mistake.
The next moments pass in a blur, and before I can tell the lot of them to get their testosterone under control, the fists start flying in every direction. A couple appear to connect with Paul, but for the most part he seems to dominate. Even outnumbered, a seasoned soldier is no match for beer-soaked kids.
Finally, finally they back off, one by one. The idiot ringleader looks like he wants to get in one last jab despite the bloody nose and soon-to-be black eye, but all he can manage is one more sneer and a muttered “Freak!” before he leads his band of drunken morons from the bar. As they walk by Paul, a few of them do that shoulder-to-shoulder jab that guys do, but Paul doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.
Belatedly I realize that the entire bar has fallen silent. Everyone is staring. Paul doesn’t seem to notice that either.
I start to move toward Paul, but he cuts me with that ice-cold look before slowly bending down to pick up his cane.
He doesn’t use it as he walks away, but he’s limping. And although I’m dying to help him after what I’ve just dragged him into, the least I can do is let him walk out of here on his own. Reluctantly I let him go.
I close my eyes. Damn it.
Belatedly I realize we need to pay Kali, but when I look in her direction she gives a little shake of her head before waving me off. I owe her. She should be throwing us out, not paying our bill. But a quick look around shows that Kali’s not the only one on our side. A couple of other people catch my eye and give me a quick nod.
I realize then what I should have known all along: this is a small town. Paul may not let himself be friends with these people, but he’s one of them. For that, they let him have his moment.
I give a weak smile in gratitude as I follow Paul out into the night.
“Paul?” I call, looking around the half-empty parking lot.
I hear the chirp of his car as he unlocks, it, but he doesn’t look up.
“Paul!”
I move toward him, but the look he gives me is murderous and stone-cold. I stop in my tracks, my heart twisting at the sight of the blood on his face.
“I’ll come with you,” I say lamely.
Instead of answering he lowers himself into the driver’s seat and slams the door.
Thirty seconds later I’m standing alone in the middle of a deserted parking lot, wondering exactly how much damage I just did to an already broken soul.
Chapter Eighteen
Paul
By the time I pull into the garage and storm into the house, my self-hatred threatens to choke me. I hang on to the anger like it’s a lifeline, because the alternative is despair. And despair might kill me.
I let the damned cane go flying with an enraged howl the second I enter the library. If my leg is hurting, I don’t notice it over the fact that my face feels like someone split it open. One of those little punks landed a shot. Not a solid hit, but enough to hurt.
I should have been able to wipe the floor with them. Just a few years ago, I would have. As it is, I did some damage, but I didn’t exactly dominate.
Hell, I shouldn’t even have been there at all—at the bar or in the fight. But I was. Because of her. Some fucked-up mixture of chivalry and jealousy had me acting like a boyfriend when those kids cornered Olivia in the bar. She’s not mine to protect, but when I heard their laughter and saw the tension on her face, I sure as hell wasn’t thinking of her as my caregiver or an employee.
I was thinking of her as mine.
I pour a generous measure of Scotch and start to toss it back, but stop myself. Tonight I don’t want to go numb. I need to hold on to my anger. I need to remember this exact moment so I don’t make the same idiotic mistake again. I need to remember that I’m not normal. I’m not a guy who can go out to bars and have a drink with a pretty girl and catch up with an old friend.
That kid’s words keep running through my head. What are you, an extra on a horror set?
I’m not even mad. Not at the kid. That little shithead understands the way the world works. It’s Olivia who doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s no big deal for us to go grab a drink in a public place. But the worst part isn’t that she believes it. It’s that she temporarily lured me into that dream.
I should have trusted my gut. I should have listened to the part of me that knows people aren’t kind and good.
I take another sip of my drink. It’s tinged with the metallic taste of blood courtesy of my split lip, but I don’t bother going into the bathroom to clean up. Like the pain, the blood is a good solid reminder of the lesson I just learned.
Never again. Even in my neighborhood bar, my very own goddamned backyard, there’ll be outsiders. They’ll look, they’ll stare, and they’ll remind me that people like me and people like Olivia do not belong together.
I’m tossing wood into the fireplace, slowly stoking the flames, when I hear her come in. It would be easy to turn my anger on her, but I’m learning that any emotion when it comes to Olivia is destructive. I’m better off ignoring her.
Easier said than done.
I brace myself for Oh my God, are you okay? But she doesn’t say anything.
I stay crouched in front of the fire, ignoring the fact that the position aggravates my leg. I do my best to ignore the pain in my face. I do my best to ignore her. I’m failing at the last one because, damn it, I want her to touch me.
I hear the familiar sound of the stopper being pulled off the decanter and liquid being sloshed into the glass. For a second I think she’s pouring me a glass, not realizing I already have one in hand, but instead she walks back out the door.
Thank God. She just wanted to help herself to a drink and leave the monster to his ugly brooding.
I tell myself I’m relieved, but the truth is, the only relief I feel is when I hear her come back. I keep my eyes on the flames, but I hear the familiar sounds of her curling up in what I’ve come to think of as her chair.
She sits there, silent, and I know what she’s doing. She’s waiting for me to let her in.
Fat fucking chance.
But I give her a slight glance over my shoulder anyway, for just a moment, and the sight of her takes my breath away. The firelight makes her hair glow gold, and her eyes are dark and steady as she watches me. Her legs are curled up beneath her the way she does when she’s reading, my favorite faux-fur blanket tucked around her like it’s hers to take.
But that’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is that I want her to be mine to take. And when she’s looking at me like that, I can almost believe it’s true. I can almost believe that all I have to do is reach out to pull her to me, to devour her…and that she’ll come willingly.
She continues to hold my gaze as sh
e idly lifts the crystal glass to her lips, taking a tiny sip of Scotch. I vaguely register the clink of the ice cubes in her glass. Ah, so that’s why she left the room—to get ice. It’s sort of a crime, given how much this liquor costs, but I don’t give a shit because she’s here. She saw me at my worst, and she’s here.
I carefully stand before sitting in the seat across from her, and then, because I know I can around her, I close my eyes.
I lose track of how long we sit there in silence, with only the crackle of the fire and the occasional rattle of her ice cubes breaking up the quiet. Both of us know without talking that she’s not here as a caregiver. She’s here as…what? A friend? Something more?
No, not more. When I walked into that bar, she was happy to see me. But not in the way a woman hot for a man would be. She looked like she was fucking proud of me, for God’s sake. Worst of all, her expression when I came to her rescue wasn’t relief. It was worry.
Olivia Middleton cares for me, of that I am certain. She doesn’t want me to get hurt, and more than that, she wants me to heal. But she doesn’t care about me for me, for who I am. And for reasons I can’t bear to explore, that hurts more than my leg and bloody nose combined.
I don’t open my eyes when I hear the rustle of her standing up, nor when I hear the door close quietly behind her. Apparently her patience for sitting with a pathetic invalid has its limits.
I take a large swallow of Scotch and tell myself I don’t give a shit. I tell myself that I want to be alone and that I need to get used to being alone. Although I’m half terrified that if she leaves—when she leaves—being alone will no longer be a respite. It’ll simply be lonely.
Five minutes later the door opens again. I don’t look at her as she approaches. I don’t want her to read the relief there.
Olivia doesn’t reclaim her spot on her chair. This time she settles on the arm of my chair, her small, perfect ass just inches from my arm. I tense. What the hell is she up to?
It finally registers that she hasn’t come back in empty-handed. She takes my drink from my hand and sets it on the table. I let her.
My eyes watch her hands as they dunk a clean white washcloth into a bowl of steaming water. I watch her long fingers wring it out. I’m bracing myself for what’s to come, even as I long for it.
Neither of us meets the other’s eyes as she slowly reaches out a hand,
She hesitates an inch away from my face before softly, carefully setting the warm washcloth against my skin. I let my eyes close once more.
She wipes gently at the cut before dipping the cloth back into the bowl. The process repeats. Dunk. Wring. Hesitate. Touch.
I don’t miss the fact that she’s careful not to touch my scars. I don’t blame her.
Finally she drops the cloth back into the bowl, although she doesn’t move off my chair. “I don’t think your nose is broken,” she says, finally ending our silence. “But I’ll get you some ice.”
She shifts her weight as if to get up, and I’m shocked to feel myself reach out with a quick, desperate touch to her leg. Stay. She stays.
The relief I feel at her continued presence doesn’t prepare me for what happens next.
She touches me. Not with the cloth, but with warm, gentle fingers. It’s harmless at first. Just a soft stroke along my hairline. She traces my eyebrow. My cheekbone. She cups my jaw, and I let my cheek turn toward the warmth of her hand. It’s been so long since someone’s touched me. As long as she stays on the left side of my face—my good side—I’d let her touch me forever.
But she doesn’t stay on the left side. My heart stops when I feel her other hand touch my right temple.
I try to jerk away, but now she’s cupping my face. Don’t, I silently beg her.
She does.
I suck in a breath as she tenderly, reverently runs one gentle finger over the top of my right cheekbone. Then lower.
She’s touching my scars. And I’m letting her.
The three lines running down my face have always reminded me of a wolverine slash. As though some clawed animal swiped at my face instead of a cruel Afghani with a blade and an agenda. She traces each one gently, thoughtfully, as though she can heal them with her touch.
The touches finally stop, and I feel the loss acutely as her hands drop away from her face. I feel it even more when she stands, starting to gather the bowl of bloodied water.
“I’ll get you that ice.”
I touch her again, this time on the wrist, like before silently begging her to stay, but this time she gently pulls away, and I let her go.
I get up and walk to the fire, staring quietly into the flames, lost in thoughts of Olivia and the danger she represents.
This time, when she comes back, I’m ready for her.
She stands before me, offering the ice pack. When I ignore it she frowns a little, as though I’m a petulant child disobeying his nanny’s instructions.
Fuck that. I knock the ice pack out of her hand, and before it even hits the ground, one hand finds the back of her waist, pulling her gently but firmly toward me. The other hand slides gently beneath her hair, settling against the smooth skin of the back of her neck.
I’ve told myself over and over that I won’t kiss her again. That she’ll kiss me.
But I’m not above luring her in. I want her. I want her so badly it hurts.
My eyes meet hers, watching as her shock fades to desire. She wants me too.
I purposely move my gaze to her mouth. Kiss me, I silently beg. And then I say it out loud. “Kiss me, Olivia.”
She shakes her head once.
“Please,” I whisper. I don’t care if I’m begging. I don’t care if she kisses me out of pity. I need her.
Her eyes go dark, and I brace myself for her to pull away.
Instead she moves closer until we’re chest to chest, her eyes level with my chin. My arm goes more firmly around her back, my other hand toying with the soft hair at the base of her neck.
Her hands move to my hips, and my heart beats harder.
Slowly, slowly, she lifts her head, her eyes moving from my chin to my mouth.
I can’t wait any longer. I dip my head, tilting it to the right just slightly as I press my lips to hers, just briefly. Then again, longer this time.
When I move in the third time, her mouth collides with mine.
The kiss is hot and hungry, somehow managing to be slow and frantic at the same time. At my hips, her hands pull at the fabric of my T-shirt, holding me closer, and my arm is all the way around her now as my other hand presses at the back of her neck, keeping her lips fused to mine.
I dip my knees just slightly, bending to her height, wanting to get closer, but it’s not close enough. My tongue seeks and finds hers, shy at first, then bolder as the kiss becomes explosive.
My palms are itching to roam. I want to touch her everywhere. I want her naked by the fire. But for now, I let this be enough. It has to be enough.
Finally she pulls back, and I let her. Her breathing is low and raspy, her chest rising and falling as though she can’t catch her breath.
I sure as hell know I can’t catch mine. She makes me forget to breathe. She makes me forget everything.
“That was…” She breaks off.
I silently fill in the blanks for her. Stupid. Irresponsible. Crazy.
Amazing.
She says none of those things, instead shaking her head as if to clear it.
“I’ve got to go,” she says, her hands abruptly leaving my waist as though she can’t bear to touch me.
I release her instantly, even though I ache to pull her back, just to hold her.
She starts to turn away, but first bends down to get the ice pack. The hand holding the ice moves toward my face; she pauses a moment and starts to pull her hand back, but then she frowns and decisively but gently places the ice against my nose.
“Ice that for thirty minutes,” she says, her voice soft and bossy at the same time.
“Will do,” I
say gruffly. “Wouldn’t want a swollen nose to mar my otherwise perfect features.”
“No,” she says, giving me a little smile. “We wouldn’t want that.”
She turns away, and I stand like a fool, holding an ice pack to the center of my face as I watch her walk away from me.
“Olivia,” I say, the word out of my mouth before I can even register what it is I want to say.
She stops. Turns back.
Fuck. Double fuck.
I have no idea what I want to say to her. Actually, a part of me does know, which makes it even more imperative that I say nothing. This kiss needs to be a fluke. For both our sakes.
“Yeah?” she asks, the word just slightly impatient as I stand there staring at her.
Keep it light, fool. Let her know this was nothing.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I say.
Idiot.
She rolls her eyes. “Yup.”
“Five A.M.? By the trail?”
“Same as every other day, except when you’re having a tantrum.”
“Cute,” I mutter. “And hey—”
“Yes, Paul?” she says in her impatient schoolteacher voice.
“What did you think of Kali?”
Bam. There goes her smile. And the confidence. I hate myself for relishing her discomfort.
“She’s great,” Olivia chirps. “Super cute. Very sweet.”
“Very,” I say, my tone thoughtful. “Well, good night.”
I turn back toward the fire to hide my smile at her disgruntled huff.
Chapter Nineteen
Olivia
I kissed Paul. I kissed Paul, I kissed Paul, I kissed Paul.
It wasn’t the first time, of course. But this time was different. The first two times, he’d initiated with the intent to drive me away.
