Going to the door, I don’t even ask her for permission to enter. I just squat down and pick the lock as if it’s not even there. Locks have always been like that for me, mechanical and easy to understand.
Humans are trickier.
If I could pick the lock to let myself into her mind and help assuage her in some way, I would. But I have no clue how to do that stuff.
I’m a fuckboy, honestly.
I’m the guy who fucks someone’s world to hell then disappears.
I find her curled into a ball, pressed up against the glass wall of the walk-in shower. Curled so tight she’s almost like a small, helpless child.
Fucking demons below, help me.
Reaching up, I tug my tie loose enough to pull over my head then just grab my dress shirt with both hands and rip it apart. Buttons fly across the bathroom. Some even strike the glass door, but the little pinging sounds don’t break through to her as she slowly collapses into herself.
It’s honestly not like my wet shirt would make any difference to her right now, but I once read something about tummy time with dads and babies.
I don’t even remember where it was or why I was reading it, but whatever I read said the closest way to bond is through skin-to-skin contact. Because of the intimacy of being vulnerable or something.
Kicking my dress shoes off, I carefully open the door so I don’t startle her. Not that I would with how sucked into her emotions she is. She’s so pulled into her own being, she probably wouldn’t notice an atomic bomb going off beyond the thought of it being a relief.
Grief is fucked up like that.
Stepping into the cold water, I slowly shut it off. I don’t want her scared of me. I don’t want her fearing me even more for intruding.
Kneeling down to her side, I wait a moment before figuring the direct approach will be the best. Taking her by the shoulders with as much gentle force as I can muster, I carefully and slowly unwrap her body from its ball.
Pulling her up to me, I guide one leg then the other across my lap.
Without warning, she buries her head into my shoulder and her naked chest pushes against mine.
Scooting up against the cold wall of the shower, I try to will the heat and warmth of my body to flee me and flow into her.
I think of every day I spent in the sands of faraway countries. The bullets whizzing all around me. I think of my early youth spent in the swamps and marshes of Louisiana, and how the heat just seemed to permeate every inch of the world around me.
Time loses all meaning as we sit, holding onto each other.
And fuck, does she hold me.
I feel like she’s trying to keep her body from spinning off the face of the Earth as it rotates us around the sun.
When the heaving of her body finally lessens to small, quiet shudders, I’m pretty sure she’s about cried herself out.
Standing us up from the floor, I help her gain her balance, and fuck…
I don’t even see the ghost of the woman I want as mine in those broken eyes. The shell before me is in need of nurture and care.
Not the stupid fumbling mind and fingers I have to offer.
Reaching behind me, I turn the hot water back on and try not to let it show on my face how fucking stupid I am for not getting some cold started first.
Dumbass.
Turning around, I set the cold just right and will my mind to blank. This is truly the first time I’ve ever seen Sophia naked and bared to the world…
And I don’t feel a single ounce of the all-consuming desire that has been building up inside me for months.
Showers with a woman like Sophia almost feel like a sin without any sexy time, but neither one of us is any shape for something like that. Each caress of the feminine shape of her body just feels as if I’m taking care of her in a way I couldn’t do with words.
With how fast I feel the hot water turning cold, I know I don’t have the time to do anything but give her the kind of shower I did in the Marines. Hair, pits, tits, and ass.
No hanky-panky or scrubbing down.
Thankfully though the warmth lasts long enough for me to finish her up.
Guiding her from the shower, I find the towels she sat out and wrap her up in them. Having no clue how to do one of those hair things women do with towels, I dry her hair the best I can.
Her body and face do nothing but stand in front of me, staring at me, as I methodically dry her off. Up one leg, down the other. Pat dry the middle and make sure her glorious breasts are in tip-top shape…
Fuck, I shouldn’t be thinking of those.
Her clothes come next and to hell with bothering with a bra. I’m counting myself lucky just getting panties and leggings on her.
Guiding her out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, I try to lead her to the bed so I can get her tucked in, but she doesn’t want to be led that way.
She shakes my hand off and scoops up Fluffers the cat. Then she does a zombie-like shamble down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the living room. Where she sinks herself into an old and worn leather recliner.
Like everything else she’s done since I got her out of the bathroom, she does it all without a word or noise.
Shock has probably set in.
Sighing, I look around the living room then back to her. It’s well into the evening now and I wonder when the last time she ate was.
“Sophia, would you like to eat anything?” I ask her.
Not responding to me, she just sits there.
Fuck.
A buzzing from the phone in my now very wet pants brings me out of the mode of just staring at her, willing her to do something.
Thank fuck we buy the good waterproof phones. Surprisingly, this isn’t my first time in a shower with one.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I’m going to fucking end your soul, little man. I swear to fuck I’ll eat every single fucking piece of it,” Johnathan snarls through the phone in a most unpleasant manner.
Well… I guess he’s not happy.
“Where you at?” I ask.
“Outside the front fucking door, dick-breath. You better fucking get here pronto or I’ll make little Mitzy a fucking orphan,” he growls again.
Staring at Sophia’s catatonic body for a moment, I try to figure out if there’s any risk of her leaving the chair. I end up determining it’s highly unlikely.
She didn’t even respond when I took the phone call.
Walking to the front door of the house, I internally debate on how long I should take before opening it up. I mean, honestly, everything that’s happened to me during the past seven months is this fucker’s fault.
Taking a deep, happy breath, I then look down at myself and sigh. Soaking wet suit pants. That’s all I’m wearing. Johnathan’s wife, Beth, will probably have an aneurism when he tells her what I look like, but it’s all I’ve got to go with right now.
Opening the door, I see the big burly motherfucker waiting in old jeans and a leather jacket. His big bushy beard and long hair completely soaked. He’s got scratches all over his face. And from the way he’s holding my poor Mitzy by the scruff of her neck, at arm’s length, I can see his hands also have bite marks all over them.
Really, he does deserve the pain.
But my poor Mitzy...
Taking my tiny Yorkie from his hands, I pull her into my arms and start murmuring calming words to her. “Poor baby, did Uncle John get in the way of your french fries?”
“I should have known you and Simon fucking set me up,” Johnathan snarls as he bends over and lifts up a gym bag.