By Her Touch

by Adriana Anders

“What? Is it Ive? Are you okay?”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s… You remember Cookie Lloyd? My neighbor? The woman I stayed with when I first got to town?” A voice rumbled in the background, and Uma responded with something about Steve having enough on his plate already. And a giggle. “Hey! I’m on the phone,” she said, the smile in her voice belying the scolding words. “Anyway, Cookie’s got a rash, and I’m not sure you recall this, but she won’t leave her house.”

  “Right. Didn’t I see her out on the stoop last weekend?”

  “Yes. Her being out there was a big deal. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d have time at some point to come by and see her.”

  “Sure. Of course. I’d love to.”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, but…” Another mumbled male interruption. “Yes, she’ll pay her, Ive; you know she’s not that tight-fisted. Stop being such a—” He said something else, and again, Uma giggled. George couldn’t believe this woman was giggling. Giggling, after everything that had happened to her.

  She smiled. “Is Saturday okay?”

  “Yes, great.”

  “Do you want to be there, or should I—”

  “You need me there. Trust me,” Uma said darkly.

  George smiled again. “Okay. See you Saturday then.”

  Jessie stuck her head outside after George ended the call. “Coast clear? Figured it might be a work thing. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Yes, thank you. Come on out.”

  “Wow. I had no idea a dermatologist had such an active professional life.”

  “Oh, you would be surprised. It’s…” She thought of Andrew Blane. “It’s actually even surprising to me how crazy it gets sometimes.”

  “Well, I get crazy clients. Some of the people I see, man… I’m not allowed to talk names, but, without citing particulars, there’s this…situation at work right now that I have no idea what to do with.”

  “Really? I’m all ears.”

  “I think my colleague is sleeping with one of our clients.”

  “And by ‘client’ you mean…?”

  “Probationer, yes. Offender.”

  “Wow. That’s… What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, George. I mean”—Jessie swigged her wine, leaned back, and shook her head—“I get it. I do. There’s a whole series of shit that happens with these people. We’re there to help them, you know? Contrary to what people might think. We’re here to ensure that they don’t go back inside. We want them to succeed, which sometimes drags us right into their lives—their situations. They also, sometimes, look at us like their saviors, which is one hell of a pull on its own, and… Shit. The guy is hot. I’ll give her that.”

  Oh. My. God. A shiver of shame ran down her back.

  “I have to tell you something.” The words burst out of her, hard, hot, and painful in her mouth, but she just couldn’t hold it in anymore.

  Jessie stopped talking, blinked, and waited. A good listener, this one.

  “I’ve… Crap, I mean, no… I mean shit! Just shit, shit, shit!”

  “Whoa, George, gettin’ all crass on me, girl?” Jessie moved her chair over to bring her right next to George. “Now I’m just dying to hear whatever it is that’s turned George Hadley, Medicine Woman, into a potty mouth!”

  George let out a halfhearted laugh-moan and dropped her head into her hands. “I’ve messed up, Jessie. I mean really, really messed up.”

  “I believe you mean royally fucked up, George. Come on, if you’re going to go potty mouth on me, please go all the way.”

  “Yeah, so. I’ve fucked up. Or I am fucked up. Or something. I’m not sure which, or… Yes, I am. I am fucked up, because I haven’t gone that far yet, but I really, really want to.” One hand still covering her face, George shook her head and groaned.

  “Oh. My. God. Is this a patient? Please tell me it’s a patient.”

  “It’s a patient.”

  “Yes! I mean, I’m so sorry, but…” Jessie sighed, sounding suddenly serious, and George finally looked up. “I want you to be happy, George. You’re a good person. You deserve it.”

  “Oh, well, I’m fine. Happy, I mean.”

  Jessie raised her brows at her—just that—and George knew she wasn’t tricking anyone.

  “Yes, so. All right, I’m not happy. And this…situation isn’t improving that. But…”

  “But? But what? Please don’t leave me hanging here! Okay, hold on. More wine. Here. And some for me. Now. Out with it.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She took a swig, trying to formulate it in her head. “I have a new patient.”

  “New since when?”

  “Um…a week, I guess.” George pulled out her phone. “No, that can’t be right. It must be longer, it’s… Oh my God. It’s been exactly one week. Today.”

  “Fast worker.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of him. Almost every day he comes in for his…treatment. Anyway, he’s…he’s interesting.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “It’s his…” George waved her hands in the air in front of her but couldn’t say the words—wasn’t allowed to, in fact. “Appearance. Tattoos and…scars. You know, a bad boy.”

  “Oh. Mmm-hmm. I’ve got some of those.”

  “He showed up last week, when I’d sent everyone home and the A/C was out, and it was just the two of us in the office.”

  “You saw him alone?”

  “Yes. I’m an idiot, right?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “So, he needed me. My help. Pretty desperately. I couldn’t say no.”

  “A dermatological emergency. Okay, I get that… Go on.”

  “Anyway, there’s…there’s more to him than his”—she waved again—“skin issues.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean, I think he has something psychological, and I don’t know how to deal with that kind of thing, but…I did something terrible last night.”

  “Wait. Psychological?”

  “Like PTSD. Or some kind of trauma.”

  “And he comes in at night?”

  “After we’re closed.”

  “His choice or—”

  “My suggestion. I’m seeing him off the books—pro bono. And…I don’t want my other patients seeing him,” she said, when really what she meant was I want to keep him secret. All to myself.

  Jessie sat up. “Whoa. George, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No! Of course not! But…but more than his skin or my compulsion to help people, there’s this…thing between us.”

  “Not his thing, I hope?”

  “Oh, come on, pl—”

  “Just kidding. Keep going, I’m…” Jessie waved her hand in front of her face, like a fan. “I’m actually kind of worked up by this. It sounds…intense.”

  “God, yes,” George said, almost in relief, because that was it. Exactly. Intense. “He’s intense, and between us, there’s this…chemistry. I’ve never felt anything like it. Not even with my husband. It feels like pain and excitement and titillation, and I want to hold him and… I’m mortified. The man is unwell, and I took advantage.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes! I’m a professional! But he needed help, and there I was, rubbing his back, and instead of doing the job he came to me for, I acted like a prostitute in a backstreet massage parlor.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “I mean, I gave him everything except the stupid happy ending!”

  “WHAT??!!” Jessie jumped up like a monkey, crouched on her chair, excitable as a child. “Tell me everything!”

  “I don’t know, but I started it. It was like I was possessed or something. Oh my God, Jessie, when he takes off his shirt, it’s like—”

  “He takes off his shirt? What the hell do you people do in that office?”r />
  “I’m examining his skin! I’m treating him; it’s all aboveboard!”

  “I know, I know. Just kidding. Geez, I’m flustered. It’s… It sounds sexy.”

  “Yes. Yes, it’s sexy. Painfully sexy.”

  “Why painful?”

  “He fired me. So that we could…continue to kiss, I guess.”

  “Kiss? So you kissed him?”

  “No. Actually, he kissed me. And then I asked him over last night. And he almost didn’t come, and then when he did, he…he freaked out. Or something. And he left.”

  “Oh, shit. Drama queen. Stay away.”

  George opened her mouth to protest but stopped. Stay away. Right. Good advice.

  Unfortunately, no matter how dangerous the man might seem, she didn’t particularly want to follow that advice.

  * * *

  After another sparring session with the sheriff, Clay left town. He headed to Norfolk, making sure he was a good three hours from Blackwood before turning on his phone and checking in with his boss, against his better judgment.

  “McGovern.”

  “Navarro here, ma’am.”

  “Na—Where the hell are you, Navarro?”

  “Rather not say, ma’am.”

  A pause. “Excuse me?”

  “I heard about Breadthwaite.”

  “Random accident.”

  “You don’t truly believe that, do you?”

  Another pause. “It doesn’t matter. I told you to lay low, not to fall off the grid entirely. I can’t have you disappear—”

  “I don’t know who to trust. I’m sorry, it’s not—”

  “You can trust me. Now, goddamn it, what is your location?”

  A pause while Clay decided how best to say—or not say—what he was thinking. “You heard anything about my whereabouts?”

  “No, I haven’t, Navarro.”

  “Just wanted to make sure I haven’t been compromised.”

  “Not here, at least.”

  “Okay. Good.” His body loosened, the burning in his gut lessened, and his headache eased off just a notch.

  “I should tell you about a couple of issues we’ve had here, Navarro.”

  At the dark tone of his boss’s voice, Clay waited, breath held.

  “You know the assistant U.S. attorney hired to the case?”

  “Hecker, yeah.”

  “His family’s been threatened. Locals too, and… Well, everyone involved.”

  “What’s that mean for me?”

  She breathed a big, exhausted-sounding sigh before speaking to him, fast and low. “Are you safe where you are?”

  “Believe so, ma’am.”

  “Anyone know who you are?”

  “No.”

  “Any sign of them?”

  He thought about the bikes he’d heard, all but certain they’d been in his head. “None.”

  Another sigh, slightly lighter this time, and he could picture her doing that weird chin raise she did when circumstances got rough.

  “All right. Good. You want to tell me where you are?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m…I’m safe. I’m alive. I’ll check in next week. In the meantime—”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me, Navarro. We need to at least set up a—”

  He hung up, cutting her off and probably destroying what was left of his career. Somehow, he couldn’t seem to muster up the energy to care.

  * * *

  George was tipsy.

  Tipsy turvy, her face hot, her brain out of focus.

  “I’m wondering,” she said to Jessie, who looked as flushed and fuzzy as she felt. “Do you know anything about motorcycle gangs?”

  “Motorcycle gangs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Jessie’s face crinkled up when she asked that, making her look exactly like her son.

  “Curiosity,” George said as nonchalantly as possible. At Jessie’s narrowed eyes, she went on. “Really. Just interested in finding out more.”

  “Hmm. Yeah,” she said slowly, doubtfully. “I’m not an expert, but I consult with a guy in DC when one of my probationers has been involved in a club. Got connections.”

  “Who is he?”

  “ATF. High up. He’s on some gang-related task force, and apparently, motorcycle clubs are right up there with the worst of them. Worse than the mafia.” Jessie leaned in, her easygoing drunkenness replaced by a laser-sharp interest. “What’s going on?”

  Another sip of wine reinforced George’s sense of purpose—her zealous need to heal—and obliterated any worries about the very fine line she was treading. “Do you know anything about the Sultans Motorcycle Club?”

  “They’re out of Maryland?”

  “Yes. I looked them up, and they appear to be—”

  “They’re rough. Like insanely rough. That’s what I know.”

  “Rough. Yes.”

  “Stay away. Like, if you see one, turn right the hell around. They’re vicious, violent lunatics, George. These are guys who don’t kill just for money or whatever. They kill for fun.”

  “I…I’m not involved. I just…”

  “Is it that guy?” Jessie asked, proving that George had no knack for prevarication.

  “Who?”

  “You know who. Your patient?”

  “I’m really not in a position to—”

  “Okay, George, fine. I can make a couple of phone calls, but”—Jessie put down her glass and grabbed George’s hand, looking her right in the eye—“don’t get involved with this guy. Please.”

  George wanted to deny that they were talking about the same man, but it seemed pointless. And suddenly she was exhausted. “I want to help this person. That’s all,” George said, thinking as the words emerged that they were lies, all lies.

  * * *

  It was that special, syncopated double thrum of a Harley that pulled Clay from his vodka-induced stupor late that night. Not once or twice as you’d expect in a town like this, but over and over again, he heard them driving by. Two bikes, it sounded like, passing one too many times in the night.

  They’re here.

  The sound had his back tensing, his stomach burning, and his breath coming fast as he packed up his room, threw his shit in the back of the truck, and drove slowly, carefully through the otherwise quiet streets of Blackwood. He hunted them for an hour, watching, waiting, sure he’d catch sight of one of them. After long minutes of nothing, he headed straight to Jason Lane, pushed by a need to see George, to protect her. Maybe to be comforted just knowing she was close. He parked in an overgrown drive and jogged to her house. From the woods across the street, he watched, relieved, as she tripped her way over from the neighbor’s house and then stumbled up her porch stairs.

  After a while, the light went out, and Clay waited, wishing that ugly-ass cat would come out and keep him company.

  * * *

  George walked the fifty-two steps separating Jessie’s place from hers more than a little tipsy—something that was apparently getting to be a habit, but one she was enjoying.

  Just let me enjoy it a little longer, she thought, pulling a fresh nightgown over her head, her movements more languid than usual, her body relaxed. Starfished across her bed, she recognized, in a moment of drunken clarity, that the thought could just as easily apply to Andrew Blane. Let me enjoy him a little longer. She didn’t want him to stop coming to her, no matter how dangerous Jessie thought he was.

  She didn’t want to see his skin as an organ, couldn’t make herself if she tried. It wasn’t just work—it was a work of art, and ashamed though she was, at least tonight she could admit to her desire.

  Her hand followed the curve of her body, remembering the sensuous slide of him, the give and take of his shape—the ins and outs of him. Down to the place b
etween her legs which had, in the past week, experienced more intense sensation than in the past decade.

  Which is pathetic.

  Pathetic, but true, something analytical in her mind argued, and there—there was the reasoning she’d been looking for. She allowed her hand a stroke over the clean cotton, wishing for his rougher, unfamiliar touch. It would be good with him, even if it was bad. It would be good, she knew with absolute certainty, because she wanted him so badly.

  That was the thing about chemistry, wasn’t it? It was selective. You never knew when it would hit. One woman’s feast was another woman’s… No. That wasn’t quite it. More like cheesecake. George loved cheesecake. Loved it. But the men she’d dated had been…banana cream pie or something equally unimpressive. Not bad, per se, just meh.

  She had a feeling—wrong, probably—that the cheesecake didn’t have to be good to make her happy. It just had to be cheesecake, and she’d had cheesecake only once before in her life and—

  “Cheesecake is bad,” she moaned, removing her hand from the wetness and startling Leonard off the bed in the process. Okay, so definitely more than tipsy, if the cheesecake analogy was anything to go by.

  Her side table caught her eye as she leaned over to turn off the light, and her gaze fell on the bottle lying there, along with the pack of syringes. Oh, crap. She’d forgotten today’s injection, and it was…Thursday?

  How could she have forgotten? And yesterday too, she realized with the strangest, guiltiest jolt. What was wrong with her? Andrew Blane popped right back up in her mind’s eye, answering that question as surely as anything. Of course. She’d been distracted.

  Well, it was time to stop. The short needle she jabbed into her bruised belly was a perfect reminder of everything she’d worked for all this time, everything she had to lose. So, no. No.

  Tears rushed to her eyes, clogged her throat, and George fell back onto the bed, already regretting a love affair that was never going to be.

  When she fell asleep, teary and emotional, reaching for the image of that baby she wanted so badly, for the first time in forever, she couldn’t quite seem to find it.

  11

  “You ready?” Sheriff Mullen asked.

  Clay nodded. He was ready all right. Aching, in fact, to tear some shit up. Or maybe even get his shit torn up.