What’s wrong with me? I work out hard. I have a six-pack that could quench your thirst. I’ve got the little hip dip that narrows over my pelvis and points at my dick. She can’t see that part of me, but still.
“You look ridiculous like that,” she states, taking in my pose. “Don’t do that again.” She’s teasing, but my hands fall to fists at my sides. I get it. She isn’t attracted to me. Despite the hard core of my body, it’s not a body she wants.
“Whatever,” I say, blowing off the hurt inside. I’m not a sensitive guy. Over the years, I’ve made my skin tough enough you could bounce a penny off me. Nothing penetrates me like it did when I was a kid.
Her shoulders fall, and I note the tub is almost full.
“Your forearms are your best feature,” she says, surprising me. I glance at my arms, one covered in tattoos, the other clean. “You’re strong, but you’re also gentle, even if you don’t want to admit it. You have serious arm porn.”
“Arm porn?” I choke out when I peer over at her. Her gaze leaps to my eyes.
“And your eyes. They’re this deep, rich dark color like the sky at midnight, and when you laugh, pinpricks dance in them like shining stars.”
I . . . what?
“They also look like they hold a great secret. Like something is locked behind the dungeon door, and I’ve often wondered what’s beyond them besides the creativity of your stories.”
Holy . . . nope. Not going there. There is no way Pam can ever know my secrets. The horrors in my memories. The scenes that torture me.
“That sounds a bit too romantic,” I mock, my voice rougher than necessary.
“Well, I’m not a poet.” Pam sits straighter, her fingers curling at the hem of my tee which she’s already tugged over her thighs. She knows I despise romance novels. Give me blood and guts, strange creatures and gore, and hate, anger, and demons and I’m all in.
When I don’t say anything else in response, Pam speaks again. “Never mind.” Crestfallen, she slumps her shoulders, and I sense I’ve hurt her feelings. She couldn’t mean any of it, though. Does she think the darkness is beautiful? Has she actually noticed my eyes that in-depth? Does she really see me as trapped inside myself?
One can only hope, but hope is also a romantic notion, and something I don’t subscribe to. I learned early on it’s dangerous to hope. You’ll be disappointed every time.
“Bath’s ready,” I mutter, stepping toward the door, needing to distance myself from her and the burning sensation of hope in my chest.
+ + +
Setting a clean T-shirt and the smallest pair of sweats I can find outside the bathroom door, I leave Pam alone. I’d love to ask her if she needs anything else. Me in the tub with her. Someone to dry off her body. A person to have sex with against the sink. But I decide against all those things, trying to wrap my head around what she said about me.
Is she attracted to my arms and my eyes? She hadn’t actually said that, just admitted that both body parts were attractive. And I’m being ridiculous. I have other things to do than analyze Pam’s comments.
Returning to my office, I read back what I wrote this morning. Time passes slowly, and I consider checking on Pam for the hundredth time. Suddenly, I hear a clatter from the other side of the house.
After quickly standing, I pace to the bottom of the staircase, which is right outside my office.
“Lilac,” I call out, thinking she’s still upstairs. When silence follows, I conclude the noise, whatever it was, was nothing. Turning back for my office, I hear another clattering sound coming from the kitchen, and I race across the great room, through the swinging door to the state-of-the-art kitchen, and stop short. Pam isn’t wrong. I don’t cook in here despite the top-of-the-line appliances.
A pot sits on the stove, and an unopened can of soup rests on the counter. Rounding the large island centering the cabinets, I discover Pam curled up on the floor. Her back leans against the cabinets while her knees are drawn up to her chest, and her head rests on her knees.
“Lilac,” I cry, squatting down next to her. She slowly lifts her head to look at me.
“The bath took all my energy. I should eat, but I can’t even open the can of soup.” Her voice trembles as if she might cry, and I swear if she does, I’m a goner. Despite the endless tears and drama of Mandi over the years, to see my strong Lilac fall apart would break me.
“Okay, angel,” I say, scooting forward for her and scooping her up again. “I’ll make the soup. Let’s get you back in bed.”
“I don’t think I can sleep,” she mutters, curling into me for the first time out of the three that I’ve carried her. Her arms wrap tightly around my neck, keeping her securely against my body. The sensation of her holding onto me does something funny to my insides, and my heart hammers at my ribs.
“You don’t need to sleep. But you do need to rest, though, and eat.”
“Can you handle soup?” she weakly teases, and I twist my neck. It’s the wrong thing to do. With her face only an inch from mine, and her body in my arms, I want to lay her out on my couch and have my way with her. I want to kiss those lips usually covered in hot pink or bright red. I want to touch every inch of her and enter her, repeatedly.
I shudder at the thought, and Pam’s arms loosen.
“You should really put me down. Let me walk. I need to stretch my legs.”
I don’t want to let her go, but I do as she asks, setting her back on her feet. Pam stumbles, and I catch her around the waist. Those innocent eyes look up at me, questioning why I’m touching her.
Isn’t it written on my face how I feel about her?
“I need to get you upstairs and back in my bed,” I give as my explanation. She stiffens under my arm, and I realize what I’ve said.
“I mean, back in bed.” Period. That little round dot that ends a sentence. Not emphasizing mine, with me, holding onto her. Just back to my room. End of.
“Okay.” The word catches in her throat as my arms slips tighter around her waist, still looking at me in this funny way. One day, she’s going to open her eyes, though, and slip from my hands when she finally discovers what’s in the dungeon of my head.
As I assist her back up the stairs, her leaning into me, I remind myself I’ll do everything I can to make certain she never sees the darkness in me. We’ll keep living this fantasy, where she works for me and I pine for her, and the conflict in my soul will not harm the brightness of her heart.
Chapter 4
Mom Calling
[Pam]
Once I’ve crawled back into Jacob’s bed, I lie on my side, angling myself in such a way so I can stare out the window. It’s strange that he has the bed positioned so the glass is at the foot of the bed. Then again, it’s peaceful lying here, looking out at the cold lake and the dormant trees. It’s a morbid view, and I wonder if visions like this help Jacob with his storytelling. He writes some dark, twisted stuff, and I’ve loved it and hated it over the years. I wouldn’t say I was a super fan, but I am. I blog under the disguise of Blood and Blossoms, incorporating the two halves of myself.
When I started blogging, I was an EMT for the local Elk Lake City fire department. Blogging was a stress reliever from the day job. I was reading books anyway, so why not discuss them? After a dozen years, two simultaneous accidents ripped me apart. I couldn’t recover from that night, and I stepped away from a job I loved to pursue another avenue of my life that I adore—flowers.