BUFF (5 page)

What have I gotten myself into?

She shakes her head. This isn’t helping. She can’t break down now. She can do this. She has no choice. Quickly she wipes the tears from her cheeks, pretending that the momentary lapse of weakness never existed.

She has a mission. And failure is not an option.

But… How to place his phone back without alerting him to her intrusion?

Praying his predatory eyes are not digging into hers she turns, slowly, her breathing labored. Relief washes through her. He’s still peacefully asleep. Her steps creak as she treads warily over to him. Becky doesn’t know why it’s always so hard to walk over to him. It feels like something is pushing her toward him, some magnetic force and it more than disturbs her.

His features are so soft and boyish in sleep. He looks nothing like the man looming over her from before, making veiled threats and scaring the life out of her. His eyes, his mouth, the plane of his high cheeks, appear almost delicate in their strength under the light of the Moon.

Her hand slips an inch of the comforter off, finding the pocket remarkably quick in the dark. The sigh of relief that slips from her lips breaks the pressure in her chest and her stomach eases inside her.

Her hand draws the comforter back up over his shoulder. Her eyes drift up again, for some odd reason needing to surrender into the impulse to look at his face. When they skim his chin something warm travels through her. Her glance unabashedly glances higher and her body freezes.

His stare, alert and cold, blasts hers.

She looks down instantly, heat prickling her cheeks.

She turns to the side stuttering over awareness that grows between them in the atmosphere. “How’re… Are you feeling better?” she asks, softly.

When he doesn’t answer she grinds her teeth together, annoyed at the nerves taking control. She tries to glare at him but the expression he is carrying kills her temper. Nothing else moves around him, his body doesn’t even look alive, but his crystal orbs scorch her speechless. She tries again to speak but it’s futile.

He’s angry.

Is he angry at her for keeping him here? But what can she do? He doesn’t want her to call for help and he’s too weak to leave… Maybe time alone will give him some perspective and semblance.

She turns to leave—

His hand whips up to catch her wrist.

The force of his strength throws her crashing over him. She uses her knee as balance against his side so she doesn’t fall on him completely. But he yanks her closer, bringing them a whisper apart. The tip of her nose bumps his and she immediately draws back a little, a harsh breath giving her fear away.

His face doesn’t change as he watches her. She makes a small try at wiggling her wrist from his bruising hand but it only seems to reinforce his hold.

“Let go of me,” she finally grinds out, out of breath.

His nostrils flare, his eyes glow and his body tenses. He’s showing her he isn’t some tame beast. That he’s been sent from Hell to stalk and terrify her every step. And it’s working.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice raw with emotion, “what the hell were you doing with my phone?"

HE’S A STATUE AGAIN.

The leap of anger in his eyes simmer below a very shaky surface. The patience being hold together behind the blue is waiting to burst free.

His hand remains encased around her, holding her over and around his body.

Oh God… breathe… Keep breathing… Think of something—anything—just say something!

“I-I, um… the phone was ringing, and, uh, I didn’t know where the ringing was coming from so I looked around and I saw in your jacket pocket that it was your phone… so…” she trails off, letting her words fade, praying to every god listening that he understands her intent.

Instead, his features darken further and he yanks her closer—harder. Her skull seems to shrink and she winces as her other hand wraps around his. His grip eases just enough for her to feel cool air breeze around her wrist.

“You always answer other people's phones?"

Everything that’s happened this evening—from Emmett Irving assaulting her to this intruder shaking her into fear every other minute—it all comes crashing down. She can’t take it anymore.

Something snaps inside of her.

“Excuse me, but I don't normally have unconscious men bleeding from gunshot wounds laying around. Guess I'm a little unclear on etiquette here. I'm pretty sure since you stumbled into my window and you're staying in my house, I can pretty much do as I damn well please."

She yanks her hand away and this time he lets her go. Her whole body trembles but she makes herself put at least a foot between them. It drives her mad how he can still look at her like she’s the one to have wronged him somehow. She needs to compose herself, get out of there quickly and come back when she has more control of what she’s feeling.

“Get some rest—”

“Answer my question." His tone is harsh and deadly cold, the fire in his eyes blaze when she shakes her head.

“
You're
the criminal. I'm the one who should be asking
you
questions not the other way around."

He ignores her as if she hasn’t spoken. “Answer me."

Folding her arms she tries to appear aloof. He’s the one who needs her. That gives her the advantage and, however little that is, she has to take it.

“No I won’t. As long as you’re under my care, it's my rules. You don't like it? Tough.” She’s playing with fire. His eyes sharpen but it doesn’t stop her. After all, it’s easy to talk brave when the animal is wounded. “Walk away if you don't like it—Oh, that's right you can’t. Guess you're stuck here for the time being but until you can walk out of here on your own and believe me, as soon as that's possible I will escort you to the nearest exit myself—I call the shots."

Neither back down as silence takes over. He narrows his eyes at her but he looks a little less lethal than before. He turns to look toward the small window above him even though he’s too low to look out.

“I'm going to make some soup. Just rest until I get back," she says.

“Not hungry."

“Too bad."

She walks toward the door relieved to be escaping the thick tension that has invaded her small, cramped place.

“I said I'm not hungry." His words hold so much anger Becky has to almost wonder if some of it’s misdirected—to some unknown thing or person that isn’t connected to her or this place.

“And I said too bad,” she mutters, moving closer to him against her better judgment. “I don't know exactly what your problem is and I personally don't care but I’m not going to have you die on me. Your fever is finally starting to come down… Just… You need to listen and let me take care of you."

He starts to move, wiggling under the blanket. He props his weight on his weak elbows, leaning his head against the armrest of the futon. His breathing is already labored and shallow.

“Got to get out of here.” He speaks with so much determination Becky almost believes he can.

“What’re you doing?” He doesn’t answer her, using his one good hand to try and unwrap the comforter from his side. She settles her hand on his shoulder. He pauses, his head angles down. “Hey… I know this is hard but you need to stay still or you’re going to start bleeding again."

His shoulders roll when he sighs and the warm large muscles under her, pulse, leaving nothing to her imagination. His fingers fold into his one hand and he hits the bottom of the futon, cursing under his breath.

She remains still feeling more than little over her head. Silly cliché encouragements are not going to settle him. She doesn’t know how to act or deal with any of this. Finally she drops her hands from his shoulders.

“What do you want?” she whispers, without thinking.

His head comes up and he finally looks at her. There is no bite in his eyes, just pure unbridled frustration. And for a split of a second Becky thinks she sees a flash of remorse. His face is red from exertion, his lips quivering as he licks them.

“I need to go home.”

“You will, I promise,” she replies, more softer than she intends to. “I don't think you'll have to be here much longer."

“Good.” She casts her gaze down twisting the ring on her finger as his face settles in on her. It’s like looking directly at the Sun. “I'm not a very good patient."

He seems genuine but Becky refuses to look back at him. “I kinda got that already."

She feels him shift slightly. “I don't like people… taking care of me."

She makes herself turn his way. “You could be dead."

His eyes remain intense but the corner of his mouth curves up. The smile is crooked but beautiful which makes it all the more devastating to take in without some kind of warning. And that dimple that appears… it’s the Devil’s temptation.

She frowns, all of sudden conscious of her state of appearance.

He leans closer. “What?”

“Nothing.” Her face is a hundred degrees warmer from his stare. She wants him to stop and go back to being the familiar brute. “I… The soup will be ready in about an hour."

“I’ve offended you.” His eyes widen, almost childish, like he’s looking for some guidance. He continues to look up at her. The dark cloud of emotions vanishes and what replaces them is far more unsettling than any monster he has been. His blue eyes radiate brooding intensity, making the outlining of him hard to look at while at the same time impossible to tear her gaze from. But behind that brews a quiet vulnerability, a curtain of strength that rocks her off her axis.

It’s an act but she just can’t believe how convincing it is. Becky has spent half her life pretending to be something she isn’t and in a matter of one night she’s being leveled by a couple of drops of charm and a few soft words. How disappointing.

“No,” she finally responds.

“Okay."

“Fine. I'll be back with soup later. Don't move too much."

With a cocky smile he replies, “I think you already know I can’t.” He rests his head down on the pillow and stares up at the ceiling.

She shakes her head, replying, “Right,” and leaves before his magic completely takes over her senses.

SHE DOESN’T KNOW
where to look
.

He won’t stop watching her. Unabashedly.

She’s been fiddling with the end of her dress for the past five minutes, ever since he started eating her soup. She tries to keep occupied by rearranging her junk and paintings, but it still looks a mess. Sitting down is worse because her hands never stop moving, her knee bobs up and down while her eyes latch on to every visible surface.

Anything but him.

And he keeps watching.

Finishing his meal he offers her the empty bowl. She clasps it in her hands but when she pulls away his fingers catch the ridge and he doesn’t let go.

“Soup okay?”

He still doesn’t relent on his grip. “It was fine."

‘Fine?’ Why did he have to use THAT word? Everyone loves my soup!

She yanks on the bowl again but it remains rooted in between them. The spoon falls, clattering on the wood floor. She looks at it. Angling her head slightly to the right she asks, “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.” His eyes reveal little except pure animal satisfaction as he watches her face blush. He waits, almost like he’s caging her into her nervousness. His eyes trail back to her profile and they lower and darken just as her front teeth catch her bottom lip.

All of a sudden he drops his hand away as though she burns him.

He wipes his hand on the comforter turning away from her. “I'm done here."

She draws the bowl to her tummy as she stands. “Okay. I'll be back to check on you… in a couple of hours—"

He shakes his head before she can finish. “No. I'm fine,” he replies. He sounds mad and she’s no idea what made him switch.

She makes a point to sound absolute in her tone, saying, “You're in my care. As long as you are I am responsible for you."

“Never asked you to."

She leans her hand on her hip. “Would you rather the police because I can arrange that? But you should know—I hear their soup isn’t ‘fine’."

He levels her with an impenetrable glare. “That a threat?"

“That's your alternative to me.” She rests the bowl on the edge of the futon. Pursing her lips she feels the temperature of the attic rise.

“Calling the cops then?"

She shrugs her shoulders. “Don't know."

“You mind filling me in before you decide?"

“How about you answer me a few questions?"

“You like asking a lot of questions.”

“And you like avoiding a lot of questions.”

His cold eyes dart in between hers. “Like?” he asks, his voice like stone.

“Like…” The need to know if he really doesn’t remember her from the past has been weighing on her mind since she discovered who he is. “…Why you chose my house, my window and why this ‘gang’ shot you in the first place?"

His lips pucker out and he assesses her with one thorough sweep. “The less you know the better."

“I saved your life. I think I'm entitled to a few answers." His eyes bore through hers like lasers. She knows she’s dancing on the edge of the cliff, but she just can’t help tipping over.

“Didn’t ask you to save me,” he says, indifferent. She opens her mouth but he continues, “When I'm well enough I'll be out of your hair."

“Listen—"

“Colt. Call me Colt. It’s my name. Not ‘Listen’ or ‘You’. Colt. Use it."

Her eyebrow slants up. “I don't think so.”

“Whatever. I'm not answering your questions. The less you know the better.”

“Because of this ‘gang’?”

He doesn’t bother to respond with words, just a nod of his head. She clutches the bowl from the edge so hard she nearly breaks it. “Has anyone told you that you're a real jerk sometimes?"

“Yeah.” He smirks as though she just complimented him.

“Do anything to remedy it?” Her blood simmers in her veins, but the piercing color of his eyes dance around, shifting her insides, and her tummy twists and turns.

“Do I look like I care what people think?"

“That's too bad,” she answers, lowly.

“Why?” His interest seems almost genuine.

“Nothing... it's just… if you don't care… I mean...” Her words stumble around in her mouth, never quite fitting into a coherent phrase. His head angles up. “I mean… who cares about you then?"

Something flickers across his face, but he conceals it too quickly to discern what it is. A casual shrug masks whatever she had seen. “Why’d you care?"

“I don't,” Becky answers, a little too quickly.

I don’t care… I don’t… It’s just this horrible situation giving me a bad case of anxiety.

He stares across to the end of the futon, a weary sigh escaping the hard line of his mouth. Becky has been so preoccupied with the magnetic aura that flows around him she’s forgotten how tiring her questioning might be to his recuperation.

“You should sleep… I'm sorry.” She can’t stop her voice from carrying a soothing quality to it.

He keeps his attention on the ceiling above when he replies, “No you're not.” The quiet rumble of his voice is velvet soft to her ears. “Don’t worry. Nothing bothers me."

His words ring truth and instinct kicks her in the gut, but she fights it down with every bone inside her. “I'll be back in a couple of hours. If you need anything..."

His stare strays back to hers. “And how will that work—ESP or something?"

She ignores his subtle sarcasm. “My room’s right under yours. If you fall or anything I will hear it."

“Good to know.” He scratches at his scruff, his eyes lighting a bit. “What if someone else hears?"

“My room is the highest room in the house so the noise will never reach past my floor."

He nods. "Okay."

“If you're worried or if you need anything just knock twice on the floor. I should hear you... I'm a light sleeper anyway."

“So this is some Morse code or something. Knock twice for food, one for bathroom.” He seems displeased, but his features remain soft.