“I’m sorry, George,” he croaked out, body already far removed from hers.
“What? Why?”
“Your neck. I hurt you.”
Avoiding her gaze, he focused instead on her hand as it flew to examine the place where he’d marked her. He quickly pulled his jeans back up, yanked at the zipper, and worked to close the belt, shaking, shaking with shame.
“I’m sorry. You won’t ever—”
“Stop that and come here,” she interrupted, grabbing his hand and tugging him down. She covered his mouth with hers, giving him another dose of that medicine he couldn’t seem to get enough of—tenderness, understanding, feeling, or whatever it was. He had no idea what he’d call it. All he knew was it made him raw and open, its newness blinding. “Come upstairs, Andrew. Come to bed and hold me.”
“Okay,” he said, helpless before her, and let her drag him up the steps.
They did the normal nighttime things that he usually took care of blind drunk nowadays. She brushed her teeth and loaned him her toothbrush, which should have been gross, but instead felt like a tiny slice of trust. Intimacy that was painfully real.
After, he followed the light to her room, where she waited for him in one of those antique-looking wooden beds. Jesus, he’d never slept on anything this fancy before. Bright-white sheets, a faded quilt folded down at the feet, the window wide open, and nothing but the ceiling fan to press out the heat.
He didn’t care, though, as he lay down naked beside her, switched off the lamp, and let her scoot right up into his side.
Enveloped by the heavy air, he wound his arm tightly around her and enjoyed knowing he could watch over her here, tonight, even if he didn’t deserve this unexpected sense of security.
Within minutes, he felt heavy, sleep nearly shocking him at how easily it deigned to come, the woman beside him something solid to latch on to as his heart slowly began to unfold.
* * *
Hot, can’t breathe. Hot, hurts.
He was caught, trapped on the bed. They’d found him. How’d they find him? Fuck, it was hot, searing pain through his back, his leg paralyzed. Holes in his skin. The noise, the fucking roar of fire.
Clay pushed and hit and somehow worked his way out of the bed, as he’d done so many times before. The fall to the ground was harder than he remembered, the bed higher. Shooting him in the back hadn’t been enough to kill him apparently, because he was here, here, alive, hurting. And yet…
They know. They know, his brain told him over and over. How the fuck do they know? Who the fuck told them? And where the fuck’s the team when I need them?
He was screaming, he thought, although he couldn’t hear his voice through the sawing in his brain, the acid in his sinuses. Something was on him, then, cold and wet, and he reached out to whack it off, but it came back, and with it, a thread of a voice—clean and clear and magic. It pierced the fog, the mush in his brain, and he opened his eyes to see a shadow of her there in the dark.
“George,” he croaked, and she curled into him. “George.”
It was a whisper this time. A whisper of relief as his arms found her, her body already sturdy and familiar in the dark, hot night.
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14
Clay woke refreshed, on an unfamiliar floor, alone. Or actually, not quite: a hot, little rumbling radiator of an animal lay curled up against his belly. Quietly, he sat up to find the bed empty; he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.
Last night had been completely different from any other experience he’d had with a woman. Nothing stilted or awkward after they’d fucked. No hard or hurt feelings—just that peaceful feeling of comfort, until he’d finally fallen asleep with her wrapped in his arms.
And then the Dumpster dream. The one where he found Kathy, thrown out behind the clubhouse like somebody’s garbage. And as if that weren’t bad enough on its own, in that particular nightmare, Kathy always turned into Carly for the usual epic grand finale where their deaths and his tangled into a single, soul-destroying moment. He wasn’t sure his heart could take many more dreams like that. You only had so many heartbeats in a lifetime, right? If that was the case, he’d use up his quota in his sleep.
He rose, threw on his clothes, and made his way downstairs. The smell of coffee led him to the kitchen, and then to the screened-in porch, where George sat sipping from a steaming cup and staring out at the yard, looking so young and innocent, her face puffy and creased with sleep. A face I shoved into a stair tread.
“Morning,” he said, cutting through his inner voice, stepping down onto the porch and taking a moment too long to decide between the sofa next to her and the armchair on the other side of a low table. The air outside was filled with the sound of those fucking bugs, holding their once-in-a-lifetime megaconference.
Her smile was soft, sweet, her eyes sleepy when they met his.
Her shy “Hi” gave him all the impetus he needed to go sit beside her and follow stunted romantic instincts that told him to plant a soft kiss on that warm, fragrant neck.
“Sorry about last night. I—”
