Angel of Redemption (34 page)

I
smirk at her. The ten-year-old boy in me wants to taunt her with
“
I win, I win,
”
but luckily the twenty-nine-year-old that I am ignores him.

I
get Kayla a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. She changes in the bathroom while
I clean up my bedroom for her. I can
’
t remember the last time I changed my sheets. When she
comes out, she looks comical. The T-shirt is almost down to her knees and she
’
s gripping the sweatpants with both
hands.

“
You gonna lose
‘
em?
”
I laugh.

“
I need a belt.
”

“
I don
’
t think they make belts for sweatpants, sweetheart. I
changed the sheets, but I didn
’
t have any clean pillowcases. I swear I don
’
t drool or anything.
”

She
smiles almost shyly. As she walks toward me, I know what she
’
s going to do before she does it. And
I let her.

Soft,
warm lips meet mine. I want to tell her to stop. This is opening doors I
’
m not sure she wants open. I
’
m
no good for her. I
’
ll fuck up her life. But it feels so
good and I want to tell her to keep going. I want
…
I want
…

“
Good night,
”
she whispers, pulling away. She disappears into my bedroom
still holding onto the waist of her sweatpants
—
my
sweatpants.

As
usual when it comes to Kayla, I
’
m left gaping and speechless. What the fuck just happened?

Kayla

Ugh
.

I
feel like shit. My eyes are heavy. I
’
m
groggy and disoriented. Something feels off, but I can
’
t figure out what it is. I slide my
hand under the pillow and breathe in deeply.

The
scent that fills my senses takes me off guard. My eyes shoot open. There
’
s a dim light coming from a bathroom
on the other side of the room, and I stare at the unfamiliar surroundings.
Off-white walls, dark-blue curtains, a light-wood nightstand. The digital clock
perched on top reads 5:59 a.m.
—
too early to be awake.

It
takes me a minute to figure out exactly where I am, but when I do, the whole
night comes rushing back in a horrible, overwhelming way. Dropping Claire off
at Mom and Richard
’
s, the check, the mistaken phone call to Dean. Oh, shit,
Dean. He came and got me. Picked my sorry ass up, let me cry. Why did I cry? I
hate crying, especially in front of other people.

And
his story. How in God
’
s name did he let a girl like that take over his life? No
wonder he
’
s
so guarded. I wouldn
’
t want to let anyone in after that, either.

I
shouldn
’
t
have kissed him, but I wanted to comfort him and show him that no matter what
he tells me, he can trust me
—
I won
’
t run away. I wasn
’
t thinking about what would happen afterward. Getting
involved with Dean could be disastrous. He
’
s complicated and frustrating. I
’
m probably the most stubborn person on
the face of the planet. The fights we could potentially have would be epic. And
what would happen if we dated and then broke up? Logan and Matty would be
caught in the middle.

But
I don
’
t have to worry about it
—
he didn
’
t kiss me back. We can just be friends
—
assuming I didn
’
t
totally screw that up, too.

I
push down the lump that
’
s suddenly formed in my throat and take another deep
breath. The scent clinging to the freshly laundered linens isn
’
t strong, but it
’
s his. I slide my hand back and forth, relishing how soft
the sheets are. They are insanely comfortable. I really don
’
t want to leave this bed.

I
hear the faint sound of running water from the other room, which means Dean
must be awake. I wonder if he slept at all. I feel bad because I
’
m in his bed and he slept on the
couch. This isn
’
t
exactly how I
’
d imagined being in his bed
—
alone and unsatisfied. The more I
think about it, the more it sucks.

I
don
’
t
know if I should just walk out to the living room or wait. But wait for what?
Until he knocks on the door? I laugh at the thought. I saw the look on his face
when I kissed him
—
he looked completely freaked out. No
way is he going to step foot in this room while I
’
m still in his bed.

I
reluctantly slip from the sheets. At some point while I was sleeping, I must
have kicked off the sweats, because my legs are bare. I find them at the bottom
of the bed and put them back on, but they really are ridiculously huge. I pull
them back off and fold them up. It may be a little awkward to walk around in
just his T-shirt, but I
’
ve worn shorter dresses before. It
’
s far less embarrassing than having to
hold on to the waist the whole time so that they don
’
t fall off.

Cracking
the door open, I quietly tiptoe toward the kitchen and living room area. Now
that I think about it, I have no idea if Dean
’
s
awake. He lives in an apartment building
—
it
could have been the neighbor
’
s water I heard. If he
’
s asleep, I don
’
t want to wake him up; or worse, scare the shit out of him.
I know he
’
s jumpy.

I
hear shuffling and clinking, indicating that someone is indeed awake and moving
about in the kitchen. This is worse than those mornings in college when I tried
to do the walk of shame without being seen or heard. There
’
s no way I
’
m doing that with Dean, though.
Besides, I don
’
t
have a car.

Telling
myself to be confident, I take a deep breath, step around the corner, and
nearly choke. Dean is standing in the kitchen, his back facing me. His
naked
back. His shoulders are broad and muscular. The skin is scarred, damaged
and discolored across his back from his right shoulder to his left. His left
shoulder is covered in a tattoo. It
’
s an intricately designed band that ends mid-bicep. He
shifts his arm a little and I can see that the scarring from his back continues
down his side. I gasp unintentionally and then cover my mouth with my hand.

Dean
whips around, his posture stiff. He relaxes momentarily when he realizes it
’
s me and then tenses again.

“
Shit. I didn
’
t expect you to be up so early,
”
he mutters.

My
eyes glide over his bare torso, drinking in the lines of his well-defined
muscles. There
’
s more ink across his chest. A pair of
black-and-maroon flannel pajamas hang low on his hips, emphasizing the chiseled
abs and deep
V
. There
’
s scarring there, too, but it doesn
’
t take away from how beautiful he is.

I
walk forward and nervously rest my hand on the back of the couch. I don
’
t think he meant for me to see him
this way.

“
I didn
’
t mean to startle you,
”
I apologize.

“
Don
’
t worry about it,
”
Dean replies, shaking his head.
“
I just
…
You were exhausted. I figured you
’
d sleep longer.
”

“
I am,
”
I admit.
“
I don
’
t know what woke me up.
”

Dean
scratches the back of his neck and then walks across the room toward where I
’
m standing. I fight back the urge to
meet him halfway because he
’
s not making eye contact with me. He stops in front of me
and pulls a T-shirt from the end of the couch.

I
want to stop him from putting it on for several reasons. First, because he
’
s hot. I mean really, really hot. Second, this is his
place. He should be able to walk around half naked if he wants to. Most of all,
though, I want to see what he
’
s been hiding from me. I know it
’
s none of my business. If he wanted me
to know, he
’
d
tell me, but my curiosity outweighs my manners, and I reach out to touch his
wrist.

“
Hey, you don
’
t have to
…
I mean, if I make you uncomfortable
…
”

“
You don
’
t,
”
he corrects, fiddling with the fabric in his hands.
“
I can
’
t sleep with it on. I don
’
t usually have people over so I
…
I probably should have worn it.
”

We
’
re in an awkward sort of standoff,
staring at each other less than two feet apart, trying to figure out what the hell
to do next. I
’
ve
never felt so unsure about where I stand with a guy. I glance down.

“
I
’
ve wanted to see these,
”
I admit, reaching my other hand
forward. Now that he
’
s turned toward me, I notice his
sleeve. On the top, from shoulder to elbow, is an angel. She
’
s kneeling in what appears to be a
graveyard next to a cracked and crumbling gravestone, her hands together in
prayer. Dark branches from a dead tree hang over her head. Her body is clothed
in loose fabric, wings hanging limply behind her. Her eyes are downcast. The
feeling it evokes makes my chest ache. My fingertips dance over the detail in
awe. It
’
s
stunning. I
’
ve never seen such artwork on flesh.
It looks like a painting.

I
freeze when I feel the distorted skin just above his elbow. This must be why he
stopped me from looking before. I slip my thumb over the damage, following it
halfway up the underside of his arm. I can see his Adam
’
s apple bob out of the corner of my
eye. He hasn
’
t
otherwise moved since I put my hands on him.

“
Dean,
”
I whisper.
“
This is just
…
Wow. They
’
re amazing.
”

He
doesn
’
t
respond, but I can feel his gaze on my face. I lower my exploration to his
forearm. I
’
ve
seen this one before, but wasn
’
t able to figure out what it was. Now that my full
attention is on it, I can see.

“
Is that a sacred heart?
”
I ask, turning my head to see his
guarded expression. He nods slowly.
“
I didn
’
t know you were religious.
”

He
nods.
“
I didn
’
t used to be
”
is all he says.

A
dove is perched above the heart, its wings spread wide. There
’
s writing across the heart in a
banner:
Wilde
. I want to know what it means, but I
’
m afraid he
’
ll pull away, so I don
’
t ask.

I
reach down, threading my fingers through his left hand before releasing his
right arm. His tongue darts out, licking his lips as he watches me. I continue
to hold his hand as my focus shifts across his chest. It says
Psalm 51:2-3
. I try to burn it into my
memory so that I can look it up later and then move on to the band at his left
bicep.

“
A dragon?
”
I ask, biting my lip and staring at the angry, beaked
creature in the center of a Celtic knot. Below are two smaller dragons facing
each other.

“
Uh, yeah,
”
Dean acknowledges. His tone is guarded, and I
’
m afraid to look at him. I have no
idea if he
’
s
annoyed with me or not, but he hasn
’
t told me to mind my own business yet, so I keep going.

I
can feel the tissue damage under the ink. The design of the band makes it hard
to see, but it
’
s
definitely worse on this side. I try not to linger too long. Dean lets out a
heavy breath, and I get the impression that I
’
m pushing my luck. I can tell this isn
’
t comfortable for him. I slide my hand
down to his forearm, to the scorpion I
’
ve seen before. It seems like it might be the safest to ask
about.

“
Do all your tattoos symbolize something?
”
I wonder, glancing up at him. He nods
slowly and runs his free hand through his hair.
“
What about this one?
”
I tap on his forearm.
“
Why a scorpion?
”

“
Scorpions are aggressive, defensive,
and solitary,
”
he says simply. When I look up for
further explanation, he shrugs.
“
That
’
s what I felt like after I found out
about Steph and Abigail. I felt poisonous,
”
he explains quietly.
“
Like my whole life was just
…
wrong.
I learned from her early on that I have nothing good to offer anyone. I just
wanted to be alone
—
to isolate myself from everyone else.
”