by Ranae Rose
“Should be. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I’ll look.” She left him before he could refuse, taking care not to let the ball of her foot touch the stairs, just in case her small puncture wound was still bleeding.
There was a half-empty box of Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet, even a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She took both, plus a couple of towels from the closet – a full-sized one for Donovan, and a hand towel for his foot.
“We’re in luck – plenty of Band-Aids.” At least, she hoped they’d be up to the task – he’d definitely been bleeding worse than she had. “Here.” She held out the large towel.
For a few seconds, he stared at it like it was an artifact from a foreign planet. Then he took it, unfurling it and slinging it around his hips, but not before she got another eyeful of everything.
The slashing V of muscle, the tan line that signified he’d spent some time outdoors without a shirt on … and the dark crop of hair below, the thick cock she could still feel in the center of her being, delving and stretching, filling her so completely that even the memory sent a gasp rushing to her lips.
She held it back, of course. Didn’t make a sound. At twenty-five, she wasn’t about to go gasping at the sight of a penis – even his. “Let me get a look at your foot.” She raised the box of Band-Aids and clutched the bottle of alcohol.
A defiant look flashed in his eyes, and she expected him to refuse.
“Fine.” He led the way to the kitchen, his muscular butt flexing beneath the clinging towel, damning her attempt to lend him some modesty.
While he pulled out a chair from the white dinette set and sank into it, she ran the hand towel she’d fetched under warm water at the kitchen faucet. “Is the cut bad?” She glanced sidelong at her lightweight medical supplies. Hopefully he didn’t need stitches.
“I think I’ll pull through.” His voice was dry, but she didn’t trust his humor.
“Let me see.”
He raised his leg obligingly, propping his foot on another chair.
She wiped away the blood and dirt, revealing an inch-long laceration. “Looks like a lot to ask a Band-Aid to handle.”
His bare, broad shoulders rose and fell as he shrugged, drawing her eye away from his wound and to the black diamond of hair that was dusted between his pecs. God, it was hot. She’d always liked it, and there was more of it now than there’d been years ago. No surprise there – he’d only been nineteen last time she’d seen him. Last time she’d touched him for more than a fleeting second.
“I don’t suppose I can talk you into letting a doctor look at this?”
He shot her a level look she’d expected.
“No? Then brace yourself, because this is going to hurt like hell.” She raised the bottle of rubbing alcohol, unsnapped the lid, and aimed.
To his credit, he hardly made a sound when she squeezed, sending a stream of the acrid liquid flowing over his fresh cut. His entire leg stiffened though, and he whispered “motherfucker” so fervently that he might have been imploring a lover, if only his words had been different.
She snapped the lid back in place, dabbed his foot dry with a clean corner of the towel and began to prepare a bandage.
She ended up using two, crisscrossing them so they formed an X over his wound. “That should keep it from getting infected, anyway.”
“I take it you didn’t run away to medical school,” he said, lowering his foot.
“Business school,” she said, fighting the way her body stiffened when he said those words. “Sorry, a tender touch wasn’t required to earn my MBA.”
“I see they taught you some ruthless decision-making skills.” He paused, and the silence was so absolute that a stray drop of water falling from the faucet seemed as loud as an explosion. “Or maybe you brought those to the table on your first day of classes.”
She stiffened again, her entire body going rigid as his barb sank deep. Here it was – the anger, the rancor she’d expected.
Deserved.
A voice in the back of her head protested, but she didn’t dare let it speak. She hated herself too much for what she’d done to defend her actions, even if she had an arsenal of reasons, each backed by impenetrable logic.
The regret – the loathing – she felt at that moment was perhaps her deepest connection to him. The thought plunged her into a spiraling anger of her own, and she ripped off her sock, showing it the violence she didn’t dare take out on anything else.
Her wound was a fraction of the size of Donovan’s. She didn’t bother to take a chair, but rather leaned against the counter with her knee bent and foot raised as she hastily wiped the cut, splashed it with alcohol and applied a Band-Aid.
“You never told me you hurt yourself.”
She let her gaze flicker up to meet his. “It’s a tiny cut. No big deal.” She fought the absurd urge to snap, to say something that would pierce him where his words had put a hole in her. “Are you going to be okay if I go back to bed?”
She couldn’t stay and bear the weight of his accusing gaze, couldn’t fight.
“I’ve survived the last seven years without you watching over me after dark. Figure I’ll make it through another night.”
She arched a brow. “Do you usually go wandering naked outside after midnight?”
When he didn’t answer, she gathered her first aid supplies back up in her arms, careful not to stain her cami with blood. “I’m just saying – you might want to consider wearing underwear to bed, at least.”
“Nobody here but you.”
Heat flushed her cheeks, and she felt a stab of defeat, though he didn’t look like making her blush had been his intention. “Well, thanks for the eye candy, then. Goodnight.”
“Likewise.”
Was she imagining it, or did a faint smile curl one side of his mouth? Either way, she couldn’t pretend not to notice the way his gaze dropped to below her top’s lace-trimmed neckline.
She glanced down briefly, pretending she was only rearranging the Band-Aid box and alcohol bottle, struggling for a better hold. And yeah, her nipples were poking like pebbles against the thin cotton top she’d never meant him to see her in. For some reason, knowing that he was staring erased some of her embarrassment over ogling him, left her feeling victorious and faintly lightheaded.
Which was immature. Selfish. Wasn’t it?
“Goodnight.” She meant it, this time.
“Goodnight, Clementine.”
* * * * *
The broken glass and spilled jam were gone from the kitchen when Clementine rose in the morning. So was Donovan, and the blood he’d left on the floor the night before.
She searched the house for him, peering around corners and calling his name softly, knowing he’d hear if he was there. All she found was half a pot of coffee – still hot – and a yellow sticky note on the machine, one corner scorched by its proximity to the carafe.
At work, it read, home by six. Probably.
She stared at the note for way too long, mesmerized by the sight of his familiar hand, all the letters printed in tight, squared capitals. She’d taken a collection of his notes – hell, an entire shoebox full – to college, and had reread them dozens of times during dozens of lonely nights in New York. It was a habit she’d quit – mostly – by the end of her freshman year, but she’d never gotten rid of the notes, and she’d never forgotten what his handwriting looked like. Each dotted ‘i’ and crossed ‘t’ still made her heart beat a little faster.
Unfortunately, the message they conveyed had a much less charming effect. Gone? Home by six? It was only twenty after eight now. What was she supposed to do all day, stranded alone at the house without a car?
No clear answer came to her, so eventually, she turned on the TV. It was a waste of time, and wasting time was something she hadn’t indulged in in a while. Back in New York, she’d been busy with her internship, busy trying to make ends meet, busy searching for jobs in DC, where she’d decided she’d rather live and work.
What she wouldn’t have given for a working car and a Starbucks.
But maybe a day of hanging out at the house with nothing in particular to do would be good for her. Already, she could feel her emotions beginning to settle, her sense of reason undertaking a tentative return. Alone, she felt more like herself – the self she’d become over the past seven years, a woman she’d worked hard to carve out of the wreckage of her girlhood, someone worth being. Balanced. Poised for professional success and self-sufficiency. Not crazy, not driven by every emotion that skittered across the surface of her mind and certainly not picturing Donovan naked as she pretended to pay attention to daytime TV.
Shifting against the cushions, she shoved rebellious thoughts of his sculpted ass cheeks from her mind, picturing his foot instead. How was it? Hopefully not getting infected. It’d need cleaning by the time he got home from work, maybe another splash of alcohol to kill whatever germs lurked inside his boots.
She’d make sure he didn’t let the wound fester. And then she’d leave, find a cheap motel to crash at until her townhouse was repaired. Because living with the man she’d betrayed wasn’t an option. Whenever he was around, he pulled her into his orbit, into the past. She couldn’t let herself be sucked in, where the weight of what she’d done would drive them further apart than seven years’ time had and send her hurtling back to what she’d been – what she’d hated being – again.
* * * * *
Donovan’s note might as well have been printed across her mind’s eye – she hadn’t forgotten his almost-promise to be home by six. In fact, she’d glanced at the clock above the stove more times than she cared to admit. So when the front door swung open at three, she jumped up from the couch.
“You’re home early,” she said, standing in the center of the kitchen, swallowing a thick knot that had formed in her throat the instant she’d caught sight of Donovan’s thick arms cradling a paper grocery sack.
“Finished up early. Floods have a way of slowing down business. Have a new paint job, but that’s Mike’s department.”
“So my car is fixed?”
He shook his head, setting the grocery bag down on the counter.
“But you said you finished up early.”
“Fixed the alignment. Had to order new tires. I’m sold out of the kind your car needs.”
“Well, tires aren’t a huge deal. I could drive the car around town for a few days on the ones it’s got, or I could buy a new set somewhere else.”
His expression darkened, his eyes flashing blacker than his hair. “You’re not driving anywhere on those tires – they’re as bald as an eagle. And for fuck’s sake, don’t go wasting hundreds of dollars somewhere else just so you can get away from me a day or two sooner.”
She stood tall, though her natural inclination was to shrink back. “A new set of tires is going to cost hundreds no matter where I get them. I was just trying to get out of your hair. Excuse me for assuming that you have better things to do than act like my chauffer.”
“You need to go somewhere?”
“I need an internet connection so I can job hunt.”
“Shoulda said so before. I’ve got Wi-Fi at the garage, and a computer you can use.”
“I’ve got my own computer, but I’d love to use the Wi-Fi.”
“Today?”
“I don’t have anything else to do. Maybe you could drop me off at the garage.”
A line appeared between his eyes, a shallow crease in his tanned skin. “You interested in having some lunch first, or are you that eager to get away?” He began pulling items from his grocery bag: bread and some kind of deli salad, then a rotisserie chicken that instantly filled the kitchen with its savory scent.
Her stomach growled. She’d raided the fridge and thrown together a salad around noon, but lettuce and tomato could only sustain a body for so long. “Lunch would be nice. Thanks.” A shimmer of remorse rippled across her conscience as her gaze was drawn again to the crease between his eyes. Why did everything she said to him come out sounding bitchier than it had in her head?
He set out plates and prepared the meal in silence.
“Dr. Pepper?” she asked, opening the fridge, driven by guilt to make an attempt at smoothing the tension between them.
“Yeah.”
She retrieved two cans, popping the tabs and setting them on the dinette table.
“How’s your foot?” she asked after a couple bites of chicken and a mouthful of potato salad.
“Fine.” His expression was as flat as his voice as he ate, pausing occasionally to take long drinks from his soda can.
She made a conscious effort not to watch the way the muscles in his throat worked, the way the can’s aluminum rim split his full lips.
“I think you should let me take a look when we’re done eating. You don’t want it to get infected.”
He took another drink, his eyes connecting with hers. “Why did you come back, Clementine?”
The hardness was gone from his voice, but the line between his eyes was still there.
“To Willow Heights? Like I said, my cousin is letting me stay in her townhouse until the lease runs up. There are still three months left, and all I have to pay for are a couple utilities.”
“Your car tags and registration say New York. You lived in the city. No jobs there?”
She laid down her fork. “I’m done with New York – seven years was enough. It’s so expensive there, I’d… I’d just rather live in DC. That’s where I’m trying to find a job.” Besides, New York had been a training ground of sorts for her. A place to change, a place to shed her old skin and emerge as someone new. Just another place to leave behind.
“DC isn’t cheap either.”
“No, but I figure I have a better chance at being able to afford an apartment bigger than a postage stamp there.”
“You could always commute. Find someplace affordable outside the city.”
“That’s true. There are lots of options. Anyway, now you know – I came back for the free accommodations. I burnt through most of my savings while working an unpaid internship in New York. I wasn’t exactly eager to come back to Willow Heights, but I’ve got to pinch pennies until I land a job.”
Silence stretched, and she took a sip of her Dr. Pepper just to moisten her dry mouth.
“What about your mom – your step-dad?”
She stiffened. “I’m not taking money from them, if that’s what you mean. They paid for my college, and that’s it. I’d rather live under a bridge than sponge off of them.”
“I meant, why aren’t you staying with them?”
She felt her eyes go wide and had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something nasty. “I’d rather jump off a bridge than live with them. I figured you of all people would understand without me having to say that.”
His expression changed a little, and he looked almost satisfied as he finally sat his drink down.
“What about you – why did you come back?” The curiosity she’d been fighting since he’d pulled up behind her in his big black pick-up truck peaked as she waited for his answer.
“Came back for the first time eight months ago to handle my mom’s funeral. My brother was too strung out to lift a fucking finger, and my sister was knocked up again, pretending to be hysterical.”
“Your mom passed away?” The sight of the rust-eaten pink trailer flashed before her mind’s eye. “I’m sorry.”
Visions of his mother flashed inside her mind, too – a prematurely aged woman with big, frizzy blonde hair, track marks on her arms and the world’s most extensive collection of sweatpants cut off at mid-thigh to make shorts. Donovan had never been anything like her and hadn’t looked like her, either. Clementine knew his dark looks and sculpted features came fr
om his father, whose heritage was said to include Shawnee lineage, among other things.
Looking at him, she could believe it, could see those roots manifested in his appearance despite the fact that any cultural ties to that part of his ancestry were nonexistent, rumors of his heritage reduced by apathetic parents to something that was rarely even mentioned. She’d never met his father, though, and had no way of knowing if he’d ever been as handsome as his son. Donovan had grown up without a father, just like her.
His mother had turned to assorted drugs, primarily heroine, while hers had found a hero who’d turned out to be more of a villain.
Donovan shrugged. “She OD’d. Surprised it didn’t happen sooner, really.”
Clementine winced. No, Donovan wasn’t the type to forgive. The reminder pushed her a little further toward the edge of her seat. “What made you decide to stay?”
“Saw that Gerrity’s Auto had gone out of business and was up for rent. I’d been working at a garage in Miami and wanted to start a place of my own. A dollar goes a lot further in Willow Heights than it does in Miami. I’d saved enough to make it happen here, if not anywhere else. And then I saw that this house had been sitting on the market for years.” He took another drink. “Seemed like it was just meant to be.”
She didn’t ask how her mother had reacted when he’d placed an offer on the house. She didn’t want to know.
“I figured you’d never come back.” Her chicken was getting cold, but she only picked at it.
“Likewise.”
“Well.” She tried for a light tone. “I guess we’re both crazier than the other imagined.”
He didn’t smile. “Guess so.”
* * * * *
“Goddamn it, this is crazy.” Clad in clean pajamas and socks again, Clementine approached the darkened kitchen. Shuffling and banging sounds from the first floor had woken her, and she’d thought immediately back to the night before.
This time, when she flipped the light on, Donovan was there. He stood at the counter opposite the sink, a coffee mug lying in pieces by his feet. He’d clearly ignored her suggestion that he wear underwear to bed.
