Electra
Cillian’s appearance throws me. He looks nothing like the man in the tux I met last night, or the easygoing teacher in sweatpants from this morning. How many faces can one person wear?
And yes, part of the effect stems from the absence of his glasses. But it’s also the scars marking the exposed span of his skin. I count five across his chest alone: one carved by a blade, the others left by bullets.
I trail my gaze over the plum gym towel knotted around his waist, for no other reason than to spot more blemishes.
“I wasn’t expecting a conjugal visit in the workplace.” Cillian steps off the shower step.
One of my eyebrows hooks up in response to his randy comment. “If I’d wanted a quickie, there are several other destinations I would’ve gone to before coming to you.”
He rubs his pec, tightening the tiny pink bud of his nipple. “Ouch.”
“I brought you lunch.” I tap the paper bag before leaning back and crossing my legs, the neon washing them in red. “What’s with all the scars? Are you part of some dance gang?”
He grazes the waxy blemish at his hipbone. Though I observe it, my stare eventually ventures toward the dark trail arrowing beneath the rolled waistband of the towel. In my defense, it’s at eye level.
“I lived on the street for a while,” he finally says. “But this one—” He taps the knife scar. “This one I got in juvie.”
My neck cracks from how fast I look up. “Juvie? You—Cillian Lowry—went to jail?”
“Not something I’m proud of.”
Talk about misreading a person. Never in a million years would I have pegged this man as a capital offender. “What crime did you commit?”
“I stole insulin from a pharmacy.” He pads closer to me, leaving large, wet footprints behind. “And not just once. Repeat offenders don’t get to atone with community service.”
Instead of sitting, he just stands there, close enough that I can smell the soap he used and spot a tiny smear of foam in between his left ribs. “Were you running some underground med shop?”
“No.” He slices a hand through his locks, making his bicep bulge. I suspect he could inflict a lot of damage with those muscles. “I was trying to save my diabetic sister’s life.”
My pulse twangs. “You have a sibling?”
“Had. The second time I was caught, I was convicted and sent to jail. My detention lasted a week. I kept asking the cops to check on her. They told me they didn’t have time for social work. When I got out—” His Adam’s apple jostles. “When I got out, it was too late.”
Well,fuck.
A deep sigh spreads his ribs as he finally drops onto the bench beside me and manspreads. “Not much worse in this world than losing the person you love the most. Especially when you’re the reason for it.”
“How is her death even a little bit your fault?”
“Because, if I’d stopped at taking only the insulin, I would’ve made it out of there and back to her before the cops could show up. But I took the time to fill up my duffel bag with pens, paints, and notebooks, because art is my sister’s—” His mouth tightens. “Washer passion.”
Silence settles between us, as thick as the steam that’s only just dissipating.
Even though Cillian didn’t ask how I found him, I volunteer the information. “Diego told me where you worked.”
“I’m surprised Casey let you into the employee locker room.”
Casey must be the woman at the front desk.
To avoid getting into the magical nitty-gritty of it, I fish one of the paper-wrapped sandwich halves from the paper bag. “Here.”
Cillian’s eyebrows flex as he takes my offering. “You brought me food?”
“I had an ulterior motive.”
“We said dinner.” At my frown, he adds, “This doesn’t count as the meal you owe me. Right?”
