Page 59 of Bend
My cheeks heat up, as if I’ve been sunburned; my stomach aches; and, swear to god, my pussy actually clenches like it’s saying “hey Hottie, right here.”
Then he takes a slow stride toward me, lifts his head a little, and I see his face.
Holy fucking wow. This man is brutally handsome.
He must be a fucking pirate. A short, scruffy black beard covers his face, begging for my fingers. His jaw is hard, as if maybe he’s clenching it. He’s got Elvis Pressley cheekbones, and his mouth, which twists when he sees me, looks made for naughty words. And his eyes. Holy shit, those eyes. They’re dark brown—intense and long-lashed—but that’s not what gets me. There’s something about them… About the way they sweep me up and down, as if assessing. Does he find me wanting? Find me satisfactory?
I can barely breathe. I forget to swallow and almost choke on my own spit.
My eyes flit to his mouth again as my finger twitches. Oh, how I’d like to touch those full lips.
I want to take a step closer and yank off his Mets ball cap. I want to run my fingers through his hair.
I notice I’m breathing fast and shallow, like I’m recovering from a panic attack.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He steps toward me and I lick my lips.
“You’re Red.” His voice is so low, I can feel the timbre of it in between my legs.
“You’re…not my grandmother.”
His mouth presses into a tight line. “Red,” he says slowly, “I’m afraid I’ve got some sad news. Gertrude passed a few days ago.”
“She died?”
He nods once. “She did.”
He swipes his cap off his head, revealing short, black hair.
I stare at it as if it might help me comprehend. I waited a lifetime to meet my grandmother, longed for her since my mother died, and came this close to knowing her? How could she be gone?
My eyes water—from shock or disappointment? Maybe from the wind.
“When did she die?”
“Earlier in the week,” he says.
“So the money…? It’s an inheritance?”
His face twists. “So it was the money?”
“What?”
“You needed money.” His tone is harsh and judging.
“What does my financial situation have to do with anything?”
He makes a face that starts out as a wince and turns into an angry smirk. “That’s how I got you here. Money grubber.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m not a money grubber. What do you mean ‘got me here?’” It hits me like a cannon ball that I don’t even know who he is, this man who’s suddenly so angry with me. “Who the fuck are y
ou?”
“My name is Race. I was Gertrude’s assistant.” He folds his arms in front of him, revealing thick forearms.
I look beyond him, down the dock, where a group of men are unloading fish into several large, white coolers. If I need to, I can run.
