CHERISH (44 page)

My dick is already giving me a fucking fist bump imagining freeing her from the soft, faded blue fabric.

She shifts from one foot to the other, and I realize I’m staring. I try to shake the stupid off and step up.

“Yes,
we are
ready. And,” I turn toward Dad, “it’s not stupid. You loved to read your whole life. Just do it for her. Not for me, okay?”

I know the man my father used to be is in there somewhere. I know he doesn’t really want the world to see him as he is. He’s just lost. He won’t push her away.

Me, yes.

Her, no.

“Fine.” He leans forward in his wheelchair, then straightens back up, puffing out his chest. “But I’ll probably be asleep in two minutes. They gave me those damn pills, and they always put me to sleep.” His grousing is a feeble attempt to seem disinterested, but he’s not kicking us out, so I’ll take that as a win.

I see Promise waiting for some sort of guidance, she blinks twice before she secures me in her gaze, and the way my pulse is racing you would have thought she just pulled out a gun.

“Sit here.” I stand up to give her the only chair in the room. “I’ll just stand out in the hall. Here—” I hold the hundreds out toward her, but she looks like I’m handing her a crack pipe. “What? It’s yours. Take it.”

She is utterly natural and the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. Her skin is calling for my fingers. She reaches for the cash, and a jolt rushes from my fingertips and up my arm as she brushes my hand.

Her fingers are shaking as she tucks the money into her front pocket.

“So, which book first?” I hear the chime of her voice again, and I have to take a deep breath in order to walk away and give them space.

“Don’t matter—”

I step toward the open door. Glancing behind, I can see she is far more comfortable with my father than with me.

As I hit the door, I glance behind again. The book is open on her lap, but her eyes are on my ass. Straight up.

That’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long fucking time.

You should have seen her cheeks light up the room when I busted her. You should also have seen my single-minded dick stand up about four inches in a damn half-second.

Luckily, that part of me was already angled away. She might have decided never to come back otherwise.

I’ve never been a bitch for a girl.

I’m honorable, respectful and treat my woman as they deserve, but I also like to be in fucking charge. I don’t play around. You’re either in my bed or not. I don’t wait.

But Promise has me re-thinking my game, and now that she’s tagged my ass with those swimming pool blue eyes, I’ve got to re-think my strategy.

Fate decided to give her to me yesterday, altering my course, and my head has been bombarded with what-ifs ever since.

As if I don't have enough decisions to make, Jesus, now I feel like I’m on a timed run in a fucking corn maze.

I can’t see up, down, sideways or out.

I have thirty days to decide if I’m going to re-enlist, and my head is in no condition to make a clear decision right now.

Three weeks ago, things were bad. Because, well, I’d been sitting in the desert for going on seventeen months and by the time you’ve been there that long, everything is just bad.

The food’s bad. You look bad. Your attitude is bad.

But, we had a job to do. We humped every day to watch each other’s backs and count six of us going out—and six of us coming back. Every day.

Only, one day, the plan got fucked.

Louis is right. My head’s not straight, but I also know myself well enough that now is not the fucking time for me to sit down and hug this out with anyone. I need to keep it in. Hold it tight.

It’s a bomb, and if I even touch it, I honestly have no idea what will happen. It’s too much. I’m leaving it alone for now.

Which brings me back to why I can’t make a fucking decision right now.

Add this girl who’s been haunting my life since that day in the courtroom, and there is not enough talking in the world for me to figure out what I should do next.

I’m just happy Louis gave me the loft. It’s a good open space. He’s got some weight equipment up there and a heavy bag. That’s about all the therapy I can take for now.

I listen to her voice reading the words, James Michener to be precise. But, her voice hits me like a melody. A sad, beautiful song that takes me back to the day I handed her that picture I’d drawn of her in the courtroom.

I fall back against the wall outside Dad’s room and let the sound of her voice wash over me. She could be reading a grocery list. Her voice is damn beautiful; she's beautiful. And inside, all the predator keeps saying is,
that’s all mine.

An hour and forty minutes later, I step inside the room again. “Thank you.” I take a deep breath as I look at her. “I think that was good for him.” I look at the wonder of her face as I talk, barely able to think of anything but my lips on hers.

I seem to have found my balls and the ability to have a decent conversation without seizing up like a bitch when I come within three feet of her.

“I’m not sure. He fell asleep twice. But, he did also smile a couple times.” Promise is fidgeting with the money in her pocket as she pulls her lips to one side, then the other.

“Eighth wonder of the world. You’re a miracle worker. So tomorrow, same time?”

She’s looked at the clock on the wall six times since we’ve been standing here.

“You need to go?”

I don’t want her to go. Anywhere. Ever.

“Yeah, sorry. I have another job. I need to get the bus.”

How does she have the energy for another job after taking care of so many people all day? She doesn’t just do a job. I can feel it, hear it
, see
it. She cares. It has to be exhausting.

“I’m heading out. Let me give you a lift. You stayed longer with Dad than you should have. I don’t want you to be late.”

I see the panic in her eyes. She was mid-inhale, and now she’s not breathing. She sets her teeth into her bottom lip.

Holy fuck, that’s beautiful. I want to see her do that again, only for a very different reason.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” That melodic voice turns hard, and there’s an edge there that’s new.

Her curt reply is joined by a disagreeable sigh as she heads out the door and picks up a soft jog down the hall.

I hate to say it but my eyes focus on her ass as she goes, and that part of me that wants to claw those blue scrubs into shreds, comes roaring back to life.

Promise

Bruce is packing up his messenger bag when I drag my tired butt in the door to his—
I mean our
—apartment at almost one o’clock in the morning.

“Where are you going?” I ask, but I know the answer already. Poor guy.

“
Mr. Fitzgerald
is on the warpath. He managed to get out the front doors and halfway to the liquor store before anyone noticed he was gone. Someone called the cops when they saw him wheeling himself down the middle of Leonard Ave. So, now I have to go deal with the state investigation. You know how corporate is. They don’t like our patients eloping, and they sure as shit don’t like the State of Ohio filing a report on our building. So, the buck stops here, babe.”

“Dang, okay. Sorry.”

“Get some sleep. Oh, by the way, McSexdream Fitzgerald stopped by my office after you left. It seems he was very pleased with your
private duty.
” Bruce cracks himself up with a snort and a stomp of his foot.

“
Shut up
. I just read to the guy’s dad—”

“Maybe. When was the last time you had a date? Let alone a little
something
else.” He bobs one eyebrow up and down and gives me another of his snorting laughs as he tucks in his polo shirt. “Don’t you ever just want some dick? I mean,
I
can’t help you. I mean, I
could
but I
won’t
. But really, just quit thinking so much and get laid.”

“Jesus, what the hell? Why are you all about my business all of the sudden?” I dump my backpack on the floor next to the sofa and then dump myself onto the center cushion.

My exhaustion covers me like a lead blanket. I fight the weight of my eyelids as I listen to Bruce shuffle around the kitchen.

One of the many reasons our little roommate arrangement works so well is we stay far away from the other person’s business. With his schedule of servitude at Windfield, my other night job, and my aversion to conversation of almost any kind, we’ve managed to spend two years together without sharing much of anything significant about our lives.

“Hey, you opened the
friend-door
the other day, not me.” He gives me a scowl.

“I just told you I wanted more hours! You were the one who started quizzing me about why. I asked for more nights at the club
, I told you
, but apparently Darla’s E cups and her flogger are pulling in the customers more than my little angel act. They cut me back to two nights. And I need money right now. I’ve got some unexpected expenses.”

I’m pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes, and a thousand little sparks are dancing around behind my closed lids.

“Yeah? Well for you, that’s a lot of talk, so I figured our relationship was moving in a new direction.” His playful sarcasm forces a smile from my down turned lips. “And you can’t tell me you did not have an ovarian twitch looking at Mr. McFertile Fitzgerald today. You barely make eye contact with anything but the floor, and I saw you damn near staring his ass right off. So, don’t tell me you’re not feelin’ it.”

Was I that obvious? I close my eyes until all I see is black, and I exhale. Bruce knows me. I hate it, but he does.

I listen to his snorting chuckle as I open my eyes to see him checking his teeth in the mirror by the door.

“
Stop
. I’m not feeling anything.” I am usually a very good liar, but right now my skills are lacking. Besides, I’m sucking in far too many deep breaths trying to pretend he’s not right on the mark. There’s hardly enough oxygen left in the room for the both of us.

“Well, I know men, and I know that look. You deserve a little fun. You need some dang lessons in flirting and doing that hair of yours. You’ve got a little junk in the trunk.” His voice goes up an octave, and he points his finger down toward my seated behind. “But you have to
know
it’s good. They throw the money at you every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.”

“Only Friday and Saturday now. Darla took Wednesday.” I give him a huff. I’m relieved and upset about the club cutting me back. I hate it there, but I need the money more now than ever.

I take my hands off my forehead and pull my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on top. I can tell he’s not done, and I learned a long time ago, you don’t interrupt him when he’s on a roll. You just have to ride it out.

“Listen, little one. You’ve grown on me, what can I say? You’re trying to pretend that the miracle of god’s creation didn’t crawl up under those panties and leave a little wet mark, but I know better. Time to take a ride on the truth train. My work here is never done.” His sing-song voice meets a snap of his fingers, and he’s out the door.

He is the one person I think who could carry on an entire conversation with you, and you never have to say a word.

I glance around the living room and wait.

Whenever he leaves, there is a vacuum of absent energy in his wake, like the room has to fill back up because he’s taken it all with him.

It reminds me of Beckett. His energy shocked me when I touched his hand. I can’t stop thinking about how it felt. It was a split second. Barely a brush.

But the prickling sensation is still on my arm, and if I'm honest, it jetted up and landed smack between my legs like some school girl’s first tingle.

You don’t need this. Stay focused. That’s got trouble written all over it.

He does have that neck thing. That twitching thing he does.

Yes, that’s a flaw, right? Something’s
wrong
with him. That’s what I must focus on.

But there are so many other things so very right about him.

Stop. No, think of that twitch.

And those scars.