Page 16 of Love Always
The apartments look like townhouses from the front, but it’s an architectural illusion. 4C is on the ground floor. I wait for her to start climbing out of the car so I can brace myself and rise quickly.
“Secured parking? Not bad.”
“Colton Security has expensive vehicles.”
“And expensive tastes. Jeez. This is nice,” she says looking around the apartment. It is. Plain modern furniture mostly in grays and black, a dark leather sofa, two matching chairs, fireplace, a long kitchen with open countertop island, gas stove with grille, convection oven.
She sets her backpack on the floor.
“Come here,” I say motioning her to follow me down the hall.
“You know that day you found me I wasn’t myself,” she says, just standing in the hall.
“I know. We’ve been over that.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
Now I pause. “I’m not asking you to.”
“Oh. Okay. Sorry.”
She follows me into the bathroom. I put the toilet lid down and have her sit on it while I pull out two large self-adhesive gauze patches.
“I’ll let you wash that with this.” I set out a bottle of antibacterial soap and a towel. I step back so I'm not crowding her. Gingerly, she puts the injured arm under the running water then gently soaps the scratches. She’s not wearing a bra and her breasts, which are full and round and high, swing gently with the movents of stroking her forearm and rinsing the soap off. It must have stung like hell but she doesn’t even wince. I squeeze a little antibacterial gel on her finger as she sits back down on the toilet seat, and she puts a nice shine on those scratches. They are really angry now. I peel the patches out of their packets and smooth them gently on her arm and feel the sudden tug of her scent: lavender and something more muskily astringent.
As my groin tightens, it dawns on me maybe I was giving off some vibe in the car. “Why did you think I was trying to get you into bed a few minutes ago?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Because you were going to that day too.”
“But we didn’t.”
“I know, but—”
“But what?” There’s another shooting flare from heel to thigh. I bite back the last word.
“There’s just this … Never mind. I think I’m good to go.” She holds up her arm. She takes the doorknob and pulls but the door sticks slightly, then it gives and knocks into my leg. I can’t help the sharp intake of breath.
“What? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I need to sit down though and I have to work hard to eliminate any inkling of a limp. Her small voice trails behind me down the hall.
“Is that …”
Here it comes ...
“… a war injury? Is that why you’re not a SEAL anymore?”
There’s a kitchen chair to my left and the living arrangement with overstuffed cushions to my right. One means revelation, telling her the truth about me, showing her the truth. The other would make it easy to continue to be complicit with myself.
I choose revelation.
Chapter Five
Laurel
He’s lying. There’s pain in his eyes. Maybe he had a knee replacement, or has shrapnel lodged in a muscle or something and I just knocked it sideways. Mateus makes some kind of decision and then grabs one of four dining room chairs, swings it around and sits down hard. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“It’s not a war wound,” he says slowly. He’s dressed in a white cotton shirt and the sleeves are rolled up from when he was helping me in the bathroom. His arms, muscular and tight, are slightly damp still. He’s got beautiful hands—long fingers, even knuckles, strong. I love men’s hands. He runs one through his hair.
