He seems to weigh my fears. Ponder my words. His gaze makes a cautious sweep of the living room before stopping on me again. “If you say so. Don’t you want to pack some clothes?”
I shake my head. “I have a panic bag in the trunk.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
~Grace~
We drive in silence. My hands, locked in a white-knuckle grip on the wheel, refuse to relax. My head suffocates with anticipation. I can’t pretend that confronting Rufus, speaking to him after all this time, won’t be the most difficult moment of my life. Any fantasy I’ve had of relishing revenge is blacked out by this reality: I’m going to see him in the flesh.
My gaze flicks out the back window, at the side mirrors to see if we’re being followed.
“Why do you have a panic bag?” Brenden’s voice is quiet.
“We all had them.”
He scrubs his jaw. “I guess I just don’t get the reason for it. Grace and Oscar were hardly in the position to pick up and take off. Wasn’t mobility an issue? Age? Health? What did you guys think would happen if Solomon found her?”
“Years of habit are hard to let go of, Brenden, and our privacy was something we guarded, literally, with our lives.”
“Yeah, but you make it sound like there’s still some real threat. Grace is gone. Solomon’s an invalid. He might bark loud, but what can he really do? Tell the world that she really, really is dead? Everyone already thinks that. He’ll just wind up on the cover of the STAR sounding like the psycho he is.”
I’m a mess of emotions—there are so many truths Brenden doesn’t know. What if he doesn’t believe me? How can he?
Reality has never seemed more impossible.
“You’re right,” I finally say to appease him. I can’t lose sight of what I must do: see Rufus and put an end to this forever. “At least we can make use of the overly cautious preparation. Did you get in touch with the airline?”
“I got us a flight at noon.”
“Thank you.” I’m overcome with relief. “I’ll pay you back as soon as—”
“Forget it. Why are you rushing to L.A., anyway?”
“Grace wanted me to take care of something for her after she died.”
We drive the next twenty minutes in prickly silence. It feels like Brenden doesn’t believe me. But how can I know? And, can I blame him? I haven’t been completely honest and I’m relying on a rusty set of social skills to convince him.
“Hey, it’s going to be okay.” Brenden’s tone is meant to soothe but it’s like a drop of water on a desert. He reaches out and I jerk aside.
His hand stops in mid air.
I’ve shocked him with my response. But I can’t tell him the real reason for my erratic behavior toward him is that I turn ravenous when he touches me. “I’m a little jumpy.”
A look of suspicion darkens his eyes.
* * *
I can’t figure her out and it’s driving me crazy. She always feels just out of reach—literally—like now, when she jerked away. So much for trying to comfort her.
Folding my arms over my chest, I try not to let her reply, I’m a little jumpy, annoy me. Even if it’s true, the words sting like the remnants of a slap on my face.
At the airport, we park in long term parking. She opens the trunk of the SUV. It’s empty.
“I thought you said you have panic bags,” I say.
Her hand slips beneath a lever, which clicks, and she lifts the entire floor of the trunk up, exposing two leather duffels, a first aid kit, blankets, flashlights and other emergency items.
I’m impressed. “Wow.”
She hands me the bags.”We’ll take them both.”
I wonder where the third bag is. “Okay.” They’re heavy. What’s in them? I feel a palpable weight holding them, knowing she’s lived in this constant state of fear. “Must have been hard, living like that.”
She closes the trunk and locks the vehicle. The grave look on her face makes me think she agrees.
In the terminal, we’re hit with a waft of stale air mixed with a drift of coffee. We check in, then head to our gate. Are we being followed? I can’t stop feeling watched. Or is it just that I’m traveling with a beautiful girl that I notice eyes following us?
It seems every male looks at her. Glances turn into stares, sending a crackling of jealousy down my spine. Soon, my arm brushes hers. I’ve unconsciously inched closer. Her gaze meets mine. I smile, trying to reassure her that it’s going to be okay. But the guarded look in her eyes reminds me of Grace Doll—like she’s not comfortable with this journey.
The scent of coffee draws me to a shop serving croissants with egg and cheese. I order a breakfast sandwich and coffee. “You want anything?” I ask.
“No, thank you.”
I step to the counter, pay, and move to the side of the café to wait for my order. The man at my left is staring at her. It’s not the guy I saw yesterday in the airport. This guy’s suited up—a business traveler. He dwarfs her. I realize how helpless she’d be if he was there to do her harm. His intense scrutiny of her scratches me and I move closer.
“Where are you headed?” he asks her.
She pivots her head to him. The man is older—too old. She arches her brow and I snicker. He waits for her to smile, laugh, anything to ease the tension his come-on has created, but she holds his gaze until, red-faced, he looks away, running a finger along the inside of his collar.
I’m relieved. But why? She’s not mine. Why should it matter if some guy flirts with her? Because he’s too old, that’s why. And, let’s face it, the situation reminds me of Dad and Mom—the age difference, the inappropriateness of the man’s interest.
More than that, I’m jealous.
I hand her the food bag so I can carry the duffels. It wouldn’t have mattered how old the guy was. Deep down inside of me, fingers of possession reach out for her. I’ve never cared if another guy looks at the girl I’m with—not until now. Maybe he thinks she looks like Grace Doll?
We walk to our gate without speaking. Does she sense my jealousy? I hope not. I lead the way to a corner where the chairs are empty and we have a full view of the busy area. I search every face, every person for anything suspicious. After a few long, tense moments we’re still alone, sitting in the corner. I drop the duffels and my backpack to the floor.
“I think we’re safe,” I observe.“Nobody’s going to get past me. Try to relax.”
She sits erect in the seat, slips a pair of oversized black sunglasses out of her coat pocket and slides them on. She clasps herself in a tight hug. “I feel guilty for leaving Oscar.”
I set my coffee aside and lay my hand on her back, hoping she’ll feel confident that I can protect her. “You said he wanted you to go. Obviously, whatever you have to do is important.”
At my touch, her lips part, her back melts into an arch and her head slowly tilts back. The move shoots a blast of want through me. A low moan trickles from her lips, sending my blood into orbit. “Stop,” she whispers.
I withdraw my palm and her head snaps upright. The stiffness in her body returns.
Twice now, I’ve touched her and she acts like she doesn’t like it. I’m an idiot. Keep your hands to yourself. My stomach feels like I’ve taken a punch.
I’ll never understand women.
Confusing. As. Hell.
Grabbing the Styrofoam cup of coffee, I gulp the contents down, then crush it in my fists, startling her.
Hold on. You’ve known her for what—a day now—but it feels like more than that. Or maybe I just want it to, so I’m messing with my own head.
I thought we had trust. Thought I’d helped her through this. That’s all I meant by touching her. She probably thinks you want more. That you’re like the guy in the cafe, waiting to dive into the ocean and take her with you. I bite back a snort. We’re in an airport. Like I’d jump her in front of all these people.
She’s watching me from behind those black lenses. Penetrating. Yet so guarded. Deep down I
want her to watch. A warm sensation strokes my nerves whenever her eyes are on me. Forget it. She gave you the brush off, have some dignity.
I stand. The need to put some distance between us forces me take an aimless walk. I’ve liked girls before. But not like this. This isn’t even like. It’s beyond like. Part of me feels deeply invested in her, with a need that surpasses any other I’ve ever felt. It’s disconcerting. How I can want her this much when I’ve only known her for a day?
I can’t think of this logically. I’m off on some effed up wild errand. I’m confused by some sick bastard who thinks Grace Doll is alive. That’s not logical. None of this is.
Trying to shake off the weirdness of the situation is futile. The nibbling is constant. Insatiable. I’m only a few feet away from her and I can hardly keep myself from glancing over to make sure she’s still there.
Hoping she’s watching me.
I can’t resist. I toss a nonchalant glance over my shoulder.
She’s statue-still, those eyeless black lenses aimed my direction.
What is she trying to tell me? Fantasies kick in: I want you. Don’t be an idiot. She’s just lost someone. She’s not thinking about wanting anything. Rather than be satisfied I have her attention, I’m parched, like an icy glass of water is just beyond my reach.
I really need to draw.
I cross back to where our stuff is. I admit I’m conceding, returning to her after she told me to stop touching her. But I don’t care. I have to be near her.
She sits erect like a princess. Her lips are pursed, like a closed tulip. Her hands are clasped tight around the arm rests of the chair as though she’s trying to steady herself. Why does she always look like she’s trying to hold herself together whenever I get within two inches of her?
I sit, dig into my backpack and pull out my sketchpad. Racing through my blood is a need that slides like captured fire desperate to explode out. My pencil touches paper and that fire brands the first curve of her face onto the page. Second. Chin. Right cheek. Left. Forehead. I can’t draw fast enough. Light, full strokes create a blazing image of her head, hair pulled back in a knot. Face. Eyes. Feathered brow. My hand slows, so does my pulse. With care I sketch her gaze, shading the inexplicable guardedness simmering there. She’s watching me, I feel it. I hunger for it.
I need.
Her.
I spend excessive time on her mouth. As if drawing it will bring me the satisfaction of tasting her.
It doesn’t.
Skimming a half-dozen more strokes over her face, I taper down to her long elegant neck before vanishing into the white paper.
Finished.
I examine my work. Sweat coats my skin. I have her. My fingertips skim her lips, smudging lines into shadow and light, mystery and completion.
She clears her throat.
My likeness is more accurate than Dad’s impression hanging in her bathroom. I understand now why he’d done the drawing—he’d had to.
Like me.
“It’s…” Her voice is tentative. ”It’s…” She looks away.
”You,” I say.
Though her face is averted, she nods. When she finally faces me again, I see the track of a tear down her cheek. Why? I set the drawing aside, ready to reach out. But I don’t.
Chapter Twenty-Three
~Brenden~
I’ve never flown first class. And I only am now because she requested it when I made the arrangements. Not that this short jump to Los Angeles is anything to get lathered up over. It doesn’t matter anyway. She hasn’t said anything since the sketch. I’m confused, concerned. Pissed. I needed to draw her. I can’t make an excuse for that.
I follow her onboard. She floats down the enclosed ramp, through the small opening of the plane door and then pauses, surveying the craft as if deciding whether she wants to board or not.
She’s removed her sunglasses and she greets the flight attendant with a nod and ‘hello.’ Both the male and the female stewards’ eyes catch on her, as if double-checking to see if someone could really be that beautiful.
Yes, she can.
I pass two ogling stewards and take my seat next to her. I’m on the aisle, she’s next to the window.
After fastening her seatbelt, she studies each person who boards the plane. I hate that she’s still afraid, that she’s not confident I can protect her. I can, and would do anything to remove that fear from her life forever.
Finally, the door to the plane is shut. Next to me, her body relaxes. The muscles in her legs stretch out. Her arms unfold on the rests.
In ten minutes we’re airborne.
I want to know what she’s thinking. A tick in my gut tells me she’s keeping something from me. And there’s that matter about me touching her.
I want to know what that’s all about.
When the stewardess pushes the refreshment cart down the aisle, I order a Coke. The caffeine will help keep me awake.
She orders milk.
“Milk?” I try to lighten the mood as she lifts the plastic cup to her lips. “No one drinks milk anymore.”
“I have a glass a day,” she says. “And a glass of orange juice.”
I shudder. “One curdles the other.”
She smiles for the first time in hours. The sight rejuvenates my optimism.
“I don’t drink them at the same time, silly.”
How to proceed? What to say? Mom used to say honesty was the best policy.
“Did I do something wrong back there in the airport?” I ask.
The long pause she takes to answer nearly rips me apart. “No.”
“Was it the drawing?”
“Yes.” Her gaze turns to mine. “It wasn’t about the quality, you’re a wonderful artist.” She studies me. So many facets in her eyes. So many emotions. I’ve never seen a face so expressive and mesmerizing.
“I’m sorry—whatever it was that you didn’t like about it.”
“You spend a lot of time apologizing,” she says. Is that awe or annoyance in her tone? She looks straight ahead, her profile cold and unreadable.
“I guess I never thought it was a big deal.”
“It’s admirable,” she murmurs. “It’s not something I can do.”
“Why? It’s just two words, and they purge you.”
Her hands tighten on the armrests. “When I was young, I never felt validated after apologizing. Certain people in my life made it difficult. So I stopped.”
“You’re still young. I guarantee life will throw you plenty of opportunities to be validated. Trust me.”
She smiles, feminine, inviting. “It’s true,” I laugh. “Right? We’ve got years for all the validation we want.”
Her laugh lights the area around us. I want to kiss her—on the mouth—but I’ll start on her cheek and make my way over.
I lean toward her. Her rapid breath teases my heartbeat into an eager pound, her chest rising and falling to the rhythm of my heart. I’m so close her breath slips into my parted lips. I expect to see surprise in her eyes—maybe warning. Instead, her blue gaze is heavy-lidded, almost dreamy. This isn’t a dream. I’m going to kiss you.
Her scent drifts into me.
“Brenden.” Her whisper floats around my senses. No, don’t wake me. This is my dream.
“I can’t,” she says.
“Why?”
She swallows. “I don’t have relationships.”
“It’s a kiss. Not a relationship.” But that’s a lie. I’m not here on Dad’s errand anymore, I’m here for her. For me. The realization that my heart has changed fills me with thrill and desire. For us.
“I don’t kiss,” she whispers.
She can’t be serious. No, she’s just being seriously harsh to send me a clear message, and it hurts more than I want to accept. But the look in her eye confuses me—regret—and conviction. I’m pressed into the seat by disbelief. What happened to this beautiful, healthy, vibrant girl to make her want to choose life without relationships? We’re silent fo
r a long, long, time. The deafening roar of the plane engine fills my head. Does this mean she’s resolved to never have love? The thought is like the riptide, pulling me into dark suffocation.
“How…” Words crawl out. The comment stings my brain into dullness. “Is it because you’re in mourning?”
Her expression is vacant. Dead. “I’m taking care of Oscar,” she says, resignation heavy in her voice. “You, of all people, should understand what that means.”
“What about when Oscar’s gone? What then?”
She turns away. I know how it feels having to accept fate, to face being alone.
My hopes and fantasies take her answer like a sledgehammer to my heart. When Mom was dying, I wanted comfort I couldn’t have. I didn’t want to feel alone.
Gently, tentatively I lay my hand over hers, bringing her face round again. Her hand trembles beneath my palm, and the shuddering moves. Fascinated, I reach over with my left hand and gently cover her wrist, just in time to catch the traveling vibration up her arm. Her eyes close, her head falls back against the seat. Her body soon looks as though it’s gone completely lax. Beneath her shirt, the rise and fall of her chest grows more rapid.
“What happens when I touch you?” I whisper.
Her lips part, but she says nothing. Her eyes remain closed. Euphoria draws over her fine-boned features like she’s in the middle of a blissful dream.
I lean close.“Tell me.” I squeeze tighter hoping to urge the words from her lips.
“Let me go. Please.”
Whatever is happening to her whether it’s pleasure or pain, I can’t, in good conscience hold her prisoner so I release her. Her body appears to regain strength.
What can I say after this? She wants nothing to do with me, and I’ve humiliated myself. Still, the question: What’s going on? pounds in my brain. Whatever it is, I’m going to figure it out.
~Grace~
The warm comfort from Brenden’s hand streams through my arm in an electric current, igniting, stimulating, building into a frenzy. A parched desert dares to bloom. It’s difficult to allow myself to enjoy these feelings. The struggle is immense, like a butterfly stuck in a cocoon that won’t give.