Hidden Scars (7 page)

       But if Tony wanted to find him, he would.

       Sara’s face brightened when she saw him, and she came bounding up, excitement radiating from her. “This is going to be fucking awesome.”

       Another thing he liked about Sara. Outside of work, she had a mouth like a trucker.

       She chattered on as they joined the masses entering the arena, spouting player stats and commenting on the dubious sexual practices of the opposing team’s starting five. Her level of knowledge was impressive, her snarky opinions pushing away dark thoughts of Tony and what he might want. The grin formed and stayed put as they found their seats, and she popped back up again. “Beers. Stay. I’ll be back. You hungry?”

       “You won’t be able to carry two beers plus food without someone bumping into you.” He gave her a gentle push toward the center aisle, and they inched through the crowd toward the concession stand.

       The throngs pressed in, and his hand found its way to the small of her back, keeping her close. Safer, he reasoned, than sliding his arm around her waist.

       What would she do if he’d done that instead? Would she let him, or ease away so she didn’t offend him?

       She’d stiffened slightly at the first touch, the tension dropping almost immediately. He’d made the right choice, then, waiting a while longer to hold her, press her against his side.

       He left his wallet in his pocket when it came time to pay. She’d insisted, after all. He always took her at her word. They had a deliberate, delicate balance, one he could sense was important to her. She needed a measure of control, an escape hatch.

       Hands full, they braved the crush to find their seats again. Any attempts to restart the conversation would have been cut off, because Sara leaned forward, beer clutched in one hand, hot dog in the other, and looked to be holding her breath while the players arranged themselves on the court.

       Dayton grabbed control of the ball at tip-off, and they settled into the hypnotic rhythm of the game. Dayton’s point guard was good, excellent even, running the show from the top of the key like a seasoned conductor, although Taylor was pretty sure Sara had said he was a freshman. The ball whipped around the court, sailing through the air, bouncing off the rim and landing in the huge hands of West Virginia’s center.

       Back and forth, up and down the court, the noise level rising and falling depending on the action below. Sara’s hand slapped down on his thigh more than once, and she caught his fingers and strangled them during a particularly fraught battle for control. The warm pressure of her hand on his imprinted on his brain, and he shifted her grip so he was more comfortable, waiting to see if she’d notice. She didn’t, merely squeezed and relaxed, squeezed and relaxed, as the intensity of the game kept her on the edge of her seat. She craned her neck when he edged past her and returned ten minutes later with two bottles of water. She smiled her thanks as she took it from him before giving her attention to the court.

       As focused as she was on the game, she didn’t catch him sneaking glances. He’d remember this for certain. Little Sara Andrews went nuts for WVU basketball. The way she lit up, her guard completely down, the pure joy on her face had him thinking of more ways to bring that out. Maybe they’d take in a Timbers match. He’d never been to a soccer match before. He wondered if her enthusiasm extended beyond college ball to other sports.

       Only one way to find out.

       Her energy level remained up after the game. “Want to grab a drink?” he asked.

       When she tried to talk, though, she winced, and he was right there with her. She’d screamed most of the game and her voice was shredded. “Ow,” she whispered. “Fuck fuck fuck
ow
.”

       He chuckled. “Hot tea. Hot water, at least. I’ve heard it’s what Hawks fans drink after games.” Or drank once they’d left the bar for the safety of their own homes. The decibel level in the Rose Garden was nothing compared to the volume at the CLink, home of the Seattle Seahawks. He’d gone to his first game the previous fall, and his buddy and tour guide had been mute by the time the game was over.

       Outside, a mist had settled over the city, dampening the streets. There had to be a quiet bar or cafe where she could get a cup of hot tea before he drove her home for the night.

       Hand at her lower back, they picked their way through the crowd and headed away from where most of the fans had congregated. It grew quieter as the blocks passed, the fans streaming in the opposite direction. Up ahead, glowing lights highlighted an awning. By unspoken agreement, they headed for the lights.

       It was a tiny bar, less than half full. He waited until she’d climbed up on stool at a high table in the corner and went to the bar. “Terminator and a cup of hot water with lemon.”

       The bartender nodded and busied himself filling the order. Taylor took the opportunity to scan the space. Very much out of the way. No one they knew would see them here. It was the kind of place they could carry on an intimate conversation without the possibility of being caught by anyone they knew. Too bad her voice was shot. It was an otherwise excellent opportunity to learn more about her.

       “Five bucks.” There was a
thunk
as the pint glass was set on the bar, and he dug some bills out of his wallet. He carried his beer and the hot water over to the table.

       Her whimper at the first sip froze his hand to his glass. He could instantly imagine a hundred other scenarios where she’d make the same noise. All of them involved her at least partially undressed. Straddling him. Wrapped around him. Molded to him as he took her mouth, slow and deep and thorough.

       The beer did nothing to chase the images away.

       “Thanks,” she rasped out when her glass mug hit the half empty point. She winced at the words. “Scratchy as shit.”

       “Probably will be for a while. Sleep should do the rest.”

       On impulse, he covered her hand with his, curved his fingers around it. She stared at their hands, her gaze slowly coming up to meet his, awareness clashing with confusion in her eyes. No fear. Not even a trace of it. Pink flushed her cheeks, but she kept her hand in his as she finished off her water.

       He helped her off the stool, and she smiled up at him. His smile. The one she kept for him. A hot bolt of possessiveness lanced his gut, and he embraced it.

       The mist was still hanging around, the streets deserted now that the game was over. Time to make his offer. Cupping her elbow, he waited for her startled jerk and stiffness. It didn’t come. Instead, she stopped, a curious expression on her face.

       “It’s late.” His voice was quiet. “You can insist all you want you’ll be perfectly safe once you get on the bus, but I’d feel better if you’d let me give you a ride home.”

       She stared up at him, lips parted. Mist slowly became rain, the drops growing fat and hitting the sidewalk with a slight patter. He was willing to stand there until she gave him the answer he was looking for, wet clothes and all. A drop hit her cheek, and he clenched his hands at his sides to keep from brushing his thumb over her cheek. Too soft. Too intimate.
Not yet
.

       She wiped it away, frowning at the moisture it left behind on her fingers. Finally she nodded. “I’m out near Reed College,” she rasped.

       Bonus points. It wasn’t too far out of his way.

       He jolted as she threw her arms around his neck. She squeezed him in a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.

       He wasn’t sure if she meant for the game or the ride, and he decided he didn’t care.

       There was no reason for her to be nervous. Taylor was picking her up. Big woo. That didn’t stop Sara from pacing her living room, pausing every so often to peek through the sheer curtains covering the windows.

       The closer it got to two, the more nervous she got. Why, oh why did she have to hug him? It had been the wrong move. His arms had been hesitant as they’d crept around her, the embrace loose. All that had been missing was the awkward pat on the back. There, there. Now get away.

       It was really damn sad she’d gotten more out of the hug than she’d gotten from the handful of kisses she’d had over the last two years.

       She couldn’t understand why he’d been surprised. He’d held her frickin’ hand in the bar. Friends didn’t hold hands. Or at least,
she
didn’t hold hands with her friends. Hadn’t since kindergarten. But the hug seemed to have thrown him, and she’d spent far too much time wondering if she’d been misinterpreting the little signs he’d given her.

       Nerves had her checking, for the fifth time, that she’d remembered to stick her copy of
Invisible Wounds
in her purse. Her hands trembled as she glanced at the clock. Two minutes to go. He would be on time. It’s how he was.

       She could do this. Hug aside, Taylor never would have asked if she wanted to attend the reading if he wasn’t interested in spending time with her. If it turned out she
had
been wrong, and the attraction was all on her end, she’d still have made a new friend. In the weeks they’d been hanging out, she’d found herself a lot more comfortable around him — and that was a huge step forward for her. The strong possibility she could actually have a normal, caring relationship someday, thanks to Taylor’s patience with her anxiety, far outweighed the disappointment that said relationship might not be with him.

       The knock at the door had her springing off the sofa, heart slamming against her rib cage.
Breathe, you moron
. Air went in, air went out. She repeated the process twice more on her way to answer the door.

       Taylor stood on her porch, hands tucked in his pockets. His lips tipped up in a quiet smile when he saw her, and she had to remind herself to breathe again. Passing out would give him the wrong idea.

       Her own lips stretched in answer, and she stepped back and waved him inside. If he’d been anyone else, she would have taken a few precious minutes to show him the house, rambled on about the plans she had for painting the rooms, replacing the cabinets in the kitchen and bathrooms, fixing up the yard once she learned a thing or two about gardening. She said none of these things, pulling a jacket from the hall closet instead and slipping it on.

       She loved how they didn’t need to talk. By now, any one of her friends would have been nattering away, and so far he’d managed this entire exchange without a single word. It was calming, in a weird way, his silence. It went a long way toward eliminating her jitters over the botched hug from the other night.

       She set her alarm, locked the door, and walked down the steps to the car.

       Powell’s was crowded. Far more crowded than she’d expected. Rebekah Cross might be a best-selling author, and a homegrown one at that, but Sara’d seen the difference between genre author signings and snooty book award winning author signings, and Rebekah Cross definitely fell into the snooty book award winning category. There was a line out the door when the author of an insanely popular series of vampire books had stopped in, and she hadn’t even done a reading.

       They wove around tables and other patrons to the room where the reading would take place, Taylor’s hand on her lower back. She was getting used to it there. And if she found herself wishing he’d maybe slide his arm around her waist, well, the man wasn’t a mind reader.

       She wished she had the confidence to move his hand to her hip, snuggle into his side. Someday. Maybe someday soon.

       While the room wasn’t crammed full, all of the seats were taken. They found a spot in the back, and he stood behind her, ensuring her personal bubble wouldn’t be violated. The sweetly protective gesture made her smile. She took off her jacket and folded it over her arm.

       She could feel the heat of him behind her. Close behind her. Closer than he needed to be. What would happen if she stepped back, leaned against his chest? Better not tempt fate. She faced him instead. The reading wouldn’t start for another ten minutes, and she didn’t particularly want to carry on a conversation over her shoulder. “Thanks for mentioning this to me. I doubt I would have remembered if you hadn’t said something.”

       He nodded once, his face in its usual inscrutable mode. Carefully blank. Meant to appear non-threatening. To melt into the background. Like the rest of him. If she hadn’t seen his tattoo all those weeks ago, she might not be here.

       No, she would. Just not with Taylor.

       “How did you know I liked Rebekah Cross?” She was almost certain it had never come up in conversation, although she’d talked about books often enough, it was possible. And he had this uncanny ability to remember the tiniest detail.

       For a split second, he looked uncomfortable. It smoothed out as quickly as it came on. “You were reading one of her books at lunch a while ago.
Invisible Wounds
.”

       He
really
remembered the tiniest details. She’d reread
Wounds
almost two months ago.

       Someone tried to squeeze past her, sending her stumbling forward. She threw out her hands on instinct to catch herself and they connected with Taylor’s chest. Heat flared over her cheeks when he caught her hips, steadying her. “Sorry,” she mumbled, jerking back and peering up at him through her lashes.

       His hands stayed on her hips.

       His expression didn’t offer an explanation. Stupid to expect one there. Stupid to expect an explanation at all. By now she knew he didn’t do anything unless he meant it. Tilting her chin up, she took a step forward, forcing his hands to slide from her hips to her lower back, the steady buzz of the room around them muting to a low drone as their eyes remained locked. She could stroke a hand up, over his chest, along his neck, tug his head down to hers. Find out if his lips were firm or soft or both. Find out if he ever lost control. She wanted to see it, wanted to be the one to make him lose it. Their kiss wouldn’t be tentative and searching. It would be pure heat, setting fire to the blood. Heart pounding furiously, mouth dry, she let her gaze drift to his mouth. Need trickled in and warmed her, softened her, had her leaning forward and inching a hand up his chest, imagining what he’d taste like. Temptation, she decided. Temptation and freedom.