By Her Touch

by Adriana Anders

  Had there even been bikes in town the other night, or had he imagined them?

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. Was he losing it entirely?

  Probably, he decided. Probably.

  A month. Four whole fucking weeks until his next laser treatment. He should go do something while he waited. Maybe head elsewhere so as not to remain in one place too long. Four weeks. After that, there’d be just over five months until the trial date. Couldn’t go by fast enough.

  Rather than hole back up in the hotel, peeking out from behind the curtains, or parking himself outside of the doc’s house like a messed-up guard dog, he needed distraction. Something. Anything.

  A good fight would do it.

  But as soon as he walked through the front door of the gym, he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake.

  Something was off. The noise, first of all, was at a volume he hadn’t experienced here before. Kids, it sounded like, and a quick glance around proved that to be the case.

  He should have turned and walked out right then and there. He should have, but he didn’t actually have anywhere else to go, so he stayed. The tickly, wrong sensation only intensified when Steve approached him, big smile on his face.

  “Good to see you, Mr. Andrew Blane,” the sheriff said, and on that note, Clay did turn. He didn’t wait to find out what was afoot but took four strides and almost made it to the door by the time the other man caught up to him and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Need a favor, son.”

  Clay stilled. “What?”

  “Got an instructor out today. Need someone to teach the class.”

  “Well, then you teach it.”

  “Can’t. Got someplace I gotta be.”

  “Yeah, well, me too.” He shook off the older man’s hand and walked outside.

  He’d made it a few more steps when the man’s voice rang out, too loud. Too damn loud. “Just hold it right there, young man.” Clay stopped, recognizing that law enforcement tone for what it was, knowing it inside out but obeying it nonetheless. Steve drew closer and planted his body right beside him. “Told you I needed a teacher.”

  “I’m not a teacher.”

  “Yeah, well, give it a try.”

  “No. Kids hate me.”

  “You think I haven’t looked into who you are?” Steve whispered. “Read about a case last night. Some big multi-agency biker club takedown up in Maryland.”

  “No, you can’t tr—”

  “Shut it.” This was serious Steve now, not the jovial old man, and this guy had the kind of authority you didn’t ignore. “I’m letting you camp out here because the arrangement suits me, got it? All I need is one little sign of trouble from you, and I’ll make a couple phone calls to some folks I know up near Baltimore.”

  “You’d give me up?” Clay asked, shocked.

  “Hell no, dumbass. You think I want a bunch of bikers in my town? No. But it’s a threat you can’t afford to ignore, ’cause I got media friends and ATF friends who might be interested in knowing where one of their own is holed up.”

  Clay shook his head, not looking at the man who’d figured him out way too fast. “What do you want from me?”

  “Want you to take on a couple of classes this old man doesn’t have the energy for anymore. Not a whole lot to ask.”

  “Can’t you hire another teacher?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do right here, son.”

  “Blackmail? That your recruiting technique?”

  “I’m an opportunist,” Steve said, smiling. “You get to be as old as me, you’ll understand.”

  How the hell’d I get here? Clay wondered a half hour later. For the millionth time.

  The gym was packed, and Clay hated, among other things, the scrutiny. Because, once again, he was center stage, only this time it was different. This time, he was in charge.

  Of a goddamned group of school kids.

  “All right,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Now follow through, Carter.”

  “What?”

  “When you see the guy that close to you, it’s too late. You’re not gonna have time to just slap that foot away from your nut—”

  “Groin!” yelled Steve. Didn’t the old guy have someplace he needed to be? He hadn’t budged since Clay took over the class.

  Clay turned to him and stage-whispered, “Who’s teaching this fu—”

  A loud throat-clearing from Steve this time, and Clay thought he might just give in to the irritation. Maybe throw a little fit and go for a run or a drink or something. Nobody had checked to see how Clay felt about kids or whether this was something he wanted to waste his Saturday on.

  Right, because he had so much going on.

  “Look, watch. Eyes on me!” he yelled, since the whispering had started up again. “From your passive stance, let’s go again.”

  “What’s pass—”

  “Neutral. From neutral. You know, like your basic jiu-jitsu stance or whatever it is you kids usually do here. Only, since this is self-defense, this is like…if you and your friends were hanging out on a street corner stance. Hands down at your sides, because we don’t all walk around in a fighting stance all the dam—all the darned time. Got it?”

  He glared at the kids, got a few nods, and went on. “So, first, when I come at you, you’ve got to get out of the way, right? We’re not trying to get kicked in the nu—in the groin.” A few kids snickered, and Clay threw them a look. “So, I come in slow, giving you time to sliiide to the side. Just a quick step-step. Good!” The kid finally got it.

  “All right, guys. Now that you’re out of immediate harm’s way, you hit my heel.” Clay kept his leg up in a low kick, but even that hurt like a bitch. “Yes! Smack it out of the way. Now punch me with your right fist and—yes! The best part is that you use your body movement and mine. You follow through, and I follow through ’cause I can’t help it since I’m recovering from my kick—and now I’m in pain, and you can run the hell away!”

  Another throat-clearing from Steve, and Clay had had about enough. “Steve’s gonna come back up and run through it with you a few times,” he said evilly.

  Clay got a drink of water, just as an excuse to escape. He fully intended to leave before getting snagged again. On his way to the door, though, Steve’s voice rang out good-naturedly. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s right, Becky.” He sounded old and a little frail. “I think you’ve just gotta use your right arm for that.”

  “But I’m left-handed, Master Steve.”

  “Oh, well, then I guess you’ll just have to… I don’t know, maybe you could—”

  “They’re interchangeable,” Clay broke in. “And didn’t you have somewhere to be, Sheriff?”

  “What?” asked Steve, and right then, Clay understood just how much he was being played. Christ. The old guy was worse than the most manipulative bastards he’d dealt with in the line of duty.

  But instead of getting annoyed, he just shook his head and smirked a you dick smile at the guy. With a sigh, Clay bowed himself back onto the mat. “You’ve gotta run these drills on both sides. Over and over. But there’s a closer defense, using the outside arm, where you block and punch simultaneously. It’s one I’ve—” He cut himself off. One I’ve used numerous times in real life, he’d almost said, but what the hell kind of message was that for a class of kids this age? Like, You’ll need these moves, kids. It’s a shitty world out there. He lifted his eyes and met Steve’s and saw that the other guy knew exactly what he’d been about to say.

  But the kids had already turned to him with what looked a lot like anticipation, and Clay let himself get wrapped up in the moves, running through the same sidestep and into the counter. “With this one, you punch with your left arm, while the right shoves the fu—shoves away.”

  Over and over, he drilled it with the kids, and by the time class was done, his stomach had lost t
hat acid coating. The anxiety of the night before gone on a swell of…What? Accomplishment, maybe?

  Which was one hell of a thing.

  The parents didn’t give him the friendliest looks, of course, when they came to get their children, but their cautious, mistrustful glares brought home a fact that had, up until that very moment, escaped him—the kids hadn’t been afraid of him. They were treating him the way they’d treated Steve. Or, maybe not quite exactly, because Steve was an old guy and someone they were used to. With Clay, the kids had been curious, maybe a little bit awed, which was flattering and refreshing and entirely new.

  When he left the gym that afternoon, Becky’s voice calling out a last excited good-bye behind him, Clay felt tired but almost normal.

  * * *

  George cut short her usual Saturday visit to the in-laws, breathing a sigh of relief as she rushed to get out, with a promise to return the next week. She’d mentioned her upcoming doctor’s appointment—the fertilization she’d be undergoing Wednesday evening—and now, as she drove to Cookie Lloyd’s place, she regretted the urge that had led her to bring it up. She’d wanted to share something with Bonnie, felt compelled to give her mother-in-law something to look forward to.

  During the drive to Ms. Lloyd’s place, she ignored her nagging conscience, pondering instead what kind of diagnosis she might be facing. She knew from Uma that Ms. Lloyd was an agoraphobe. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about sun damage.

  She pulled up to see Uma awaiting her on the woman’s porch steps—a porch entirely devoid of furniture.

  After a quick hug, Uma turned and knocked, with a muttered, “Brace yourself.”

  The door swung open.

  “Well, don’t just stand there gawking—come inside,” Cookie Lloyd snapped at George and Uma, who gave George a wry glance before leading the way in.

  “As promised, Cookie, I bring you…a doctor.”

  The short woman squinted at George, giving her the urge to back up a step or two. Maybe walk right back out the front door and down the porch steps.

  “You going to check me or just stare?”

  George forced a brief professional smile. “First of all, Ms. Lloyd, would you like Uma here, or do you want her to go?”

  “Oh, I’ll go. Call me if you nee—”

  “You stay right here, young lady. I want you in the room. Lettin’ strangers in and then takin’ off to your man. My goodness, the fickle youth of today. Trusted confidante one moment, near stranger the next! What is this world coming to?”

  “Fine. I’ll stay.” Uma moved into the living room—a claustrophobic den of doilies and dahlias that had George itching to run home and throw away every print she owned. She helped Cookie settle onto the sofa before taking an armchair and leaving George to choose her poison: armchair or sofa beside the somewhat terrifying Cookie Lloyd? George, being a masochist, perhaps, opted for the latter.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on first, Ms. Lloyd?”

  “I got an itch, don’t I?”

  “Okay. What kind of itch?”

  “It’s…it’s just uncomfortable.” The eyes behind the woman’s glasses blinked, slow and strange.

  “Where is this itch?”

  “It’s…” The eyes flicked to Uma and back to George. She bent toward George in a waft of starchy, floral talc. “It’s on my va-jay-jay.”

  “Okay. Okay, we can deal with that. I might not be the right doctor for this, but we can talk through it.”

  “It’s since I started takin’ that sheriff to bed. The man. I tell you, he—”

  “Whoa. Cookie!” Uma said, standing up with a gasp. “Look, you do not need me here for this. It’s—”

  “Why don’t you go, Uma? I’ll stay and talk to Ms. Lloyd. We’ll figure this out. I’ll be over to see you when I’m done here,” she added and waited until her friend left before speaking again.

  “Now, tell me exactly where it itches. Is it on your vulva, Ms. Lloyd?”

  “No. On my thighs.”

  “I don’t understand, you said vagina and—”

  The woman smiled. “I like to keep Uma on her toes.”

  “Ah. Make her uncomfortable, you mean?” Ms. Lloyd gave a little shrug, and George nodded. People did the strangest things for a little attention. “Okay. Is it bumpy?”

  A sniff. “Yes.”

  “All right. It’s probably not something you contracted from…anyone. Why don’t I take a look at it, and I’ll prescribe you something if you need it.”

  Another sniff before the woman rose and pulled off a pair of dark polyester trousers circa 1978.

  A quick look confirmed what she’d already assumed.

  “It’s a fungal infection, Ms. Lloyd. We’ll get you set up with a cream to apply, and that should be—”

  “Did I get it from him?”

  “Ah…not necessarily, but it does sometimes occur. I would recommend treating both of you at once. I also would recommend more…breathable fabrics, if possible, this time of year in particular. Cotton underwear and cotton pants would be best. Would you like me to include a prescription for your, ah…partner?”

  “He’ll get his own.”

  “Fair enough. Is there someone who can pick it up for you?”

  Ms. Lloyd gave her a duh look before answering. “Uma, of course. Don’t call it in—just give it to her, will you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” said George. She’d seen the state of the house outside. This wasn’t a rich woman, and there was no point charging her for what had turned out to be a pretty routine, if somewhat atypical, visit.

  After taking her leave, she headed back over to Uma’s house, scrip in hand.

  “Knock knock,” she called in through the front screen door.

  “Come in! We’re in the back.”

  George walked inside, loving this house, so similar to hers, only bigger, and in much better shape.

  In the kitchen, she found Uma and Ive sitting at the table, looking at…oh, crap. A book of baby names.

  “Oh, wow. Are you guys…?”

  Uma smiled, bright and happy-looking. “Yes! We’re having a baby!”

  “My goodness, that’s wonderful!” George said, meaning it. Really meaning it, because she couldn’t imagine a more deserving couple. A more loving pair.

  “We just found out, and Ive drove all the way into C’ville to buy this book.”

  “Yeah, didn’t want the Blackwood gossips spreadin’ the news.”

  George smiled, hard. “Any ideas so far?”

  “Oh, no. I mean. I’m only nine weeks along, so…”

  “Don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet, but I’m hopin’ for twins,” said Ive in his slow voice, and the sweet, happy look on his face made George want to cry. With joy, she was pretty sure. With joy.

  * * *

  Clay hurt worse than usual—probably from all the workouts. Not something the doctors back in Baltimore had recommended.

  The pain, he told himself, was why he headed over to George Hadley’s house that evening around dinnertime, clutching a sad bouquet of grocery-store flowers and an overpriced bottle of Virginia wine.

  He stood on the doctor’s front porch, wearing a neat button-down shirt and jeans, as if they had an actual date, when in reality he was just busting in on her night. The woman probably did have a date. With an entirely different kind of man.

  She came to the door at his knock and greeted him with a wide-eyed “oh,” which he could take as either a good omen or a bad one.

  “‘Oh, what a pleasant surprise’?” he asked. “Or ‘Oh, get the hell outta here’?”

  It took her a second to decide, apparently. Not the best of signs, but…hey, he’d take what he could get.

  “Come in,�
� she said with a friendly air, if not quite the smile he’d wished for.

  He followed her into the now-familiar main hall, again bypassing the front rooms and heading straight to the kitchen—the heart of the house, he surmised.

  “Those for me?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Here.” Gracious as always, he thought. Man, aren’t I a prince?

  She smiled her thanks and plunked his bouquet into a vase that far outshone the flowers themselves. A look around reminded him of all the other flowers strewn about—and behind her, through the screen porch, daylight revealed the bright, happy disarray of growing blooms the moonlight had washed out the other night. Right, no flowers next time. Chocolates. Or something.

  Next time. There probably wouldn’t be a next time, judging by her expression—all closed up and professional like he’d never seen her. That was just what he deserved for running away before.

  She set the wine on the counter, pulled a corkscrew from a drawer, and placed it beside it.

  Instead of opening the bottle, she turned to him, arms folded across her chest, and he saw new, tight lines pulling her eyes down, puffiness beneath. Had she been crying? Shit. He hoped not.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Blane?”

  Jesus, he hated that name. Hated it.

  “I…” He wasn’t sure, actually. What was he doing here, again?

  “I needed to see you” was all that came out. Thank God, because in his current state, Clay could see himself spewing some of the crap rotting out his brain. And no, that wouldn’t be a good thing. Not at all.

  She stood there, looking…sadder? Oh hell.

  “Why?” she asked, and fuck if her eyes didn’t look a little too shiny.

  He swallowed, glanced out back at the woods and the raging cicadas there, and said the only thing he could think of: the truth.

  “It’s better when you’re around.”

  * * *

  The man standing in George’s kitchen was broken. Broken and alluring and, apparently, the answer to the emptiness eating up her insides.

  “What’s better, Andrew?”

  “There’s all this…shit, you know? My life. Crap I’ve done and… It’s in my brain. I just want quiet.”