Varian Krylov (23 page)

Khalid brought her a glass of water and they settled onto the bench swing on the generous porch.

“Are you angry with me, Vanka?” he asked, his gaze steady, direct.

“I can't decide,” she laughed. Then she gave him a stern look, only half kidding.

“I'm glad, mostly glad, you and Galen are still around. But I think you knew what I wanted. And you, you and Galen both, ignored that. You had no right to use that piece of paper, to give it to Galen.”

“No, I didn't. “

“Well, say you're sorry.”

“I admit that you have a right to be angry with me, that I did something . . .

unethical, in undoing a choice you had made. But it would be hypocritical of me to apologize to you, because I do not regret what I did.”

“The ends justify the means, do they?”

“Yes, sometimes. But also, it would have been very hard for me, to live with it, if I had never seen you again, knowing I might have done something to keep your friendship. And, even more, it would have been very hard to live with Galen's sadness, with him wondering what had happened to you, while I would always know, and know that I had let you go.”

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* * * *

“Yeah,” she felt low. Melancholy. Like she'd wronged a saint.

“I learned a long time ago, and I've learned it over and over since. It's not possible to stay angry with Khalid. Now, come out back with me.”

He was obviously up to some mischief. She stepped through the slider and rounded the corner. At the center of her little patch of lawn was a deck chair, flanked by a table with three pitchers and a couple towels.

"What's up?"

"I'm going to wash your hair."

"Ooh, how Out of Africa.

"Please say you're not telling me you have syphilis."

"Well, I didn't when I met you," she said pointedly.

She'd almost forgotten about the model. The boy she'd used in her film, then fucked. But he was a virgin. Supposedly. And it was just a joke anyway. She didn't have syphilis. She had cancer.

"Naughty girl. You shouldn't tease a man who, in just a minute, is going to be holding a pitcher of water over your head."

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She sat down, letting herself be suspended by the strip of canvas looped into the frame of the chair, resting her neck against the thick layers of towel folded behind her, tilting her head back slowly, tentatively, waiting for a hint of pain to tell her to stop.

"Your hair's so soft," he said, running his fingers through it as it hung loose behind the chair.

"Enjoy it while it lasts. It's bound to be the next casualty. By next week, I'll be shopping for wigs."

"Mmmm. That could be fun." She felt his lips brush her ear. "You could become a mistress of disguises." Suddenly, his lips and his voice were at the other ear. "And I would be sleeping with a different girl every night."

His playful voice had dipped into a low growl. She suddenly felt incredibly sad.

What was he doing? With her? This man with such appetite. Her the invalid.

Invalid.

It had been a one-night stand. A couple of fucks. A fling. What was he doing nursing her, cooking for her, doing her household chores?

His lips brushed over her neck and left a little kiss just behind her jaw, and a pleasant tickling trickled down her nerves. Next liquid heat washed over her scalp, tugging gently at her hair, dripping into the grass below. Then she heard the click of a bottle cap being flicked back, and she smelled her shampoo, like sweet almonds. There was warm sun and a cool breeze on her face as she heard the slurp of the bottle sucking at the shampoo and the air, then his hands rubbing together, smearing and slicking the liquid. Then his hands cupped her skull, cradling, fingers spread, working into her hair, rubbing slippery and lathery against her scalp.

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"Galen," she sighed, her lids closed, the sun glowing brick red through them.

"Hmmmm?"

"You're so good. I'm actually happy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Me too."

He massaged her scalp a few minutes more, sending a shower of tingles down her neck and arms when he used his nails. Then he rinsed, conditioned, and rinsed again, never sending the river of suds into her eyes, as she'd expected, knowing how things that look romantic in movies tend to turn out like comedies—and tragedies—in real life. Even the towel felt good in his hands, pressing, rubbing. She was glad to lift her head and straighten her neck, though.

"Did you like that?" he purred warmly, massaging her neck now.

"Yes," she sighed, feeling like she might melt into the grass, a puddle to merge with the water and bubbles under the chair.

"Good," he said in a playful, husky voice. "Then you're going to love the sponge bath."

Her melting body froze. Was he fucking kidding? She looked to see. He was grinning. But he wasn't joking.

"Have you been dipping into my meds?"

He laughed. "I know you like being a dirty girl, Vanka, but there are standards of hygiene that must be observed."

"What? I miss one day of bathing, and I smell?"

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The humor was gone from her voice. As if she didn't have enough to feel selfconscious about. Now she was a smelly androgynous anorexic.

"No," he chuckled. "No." His look softened and warmed. "No doubt you could skip a week of showering, and I would only get pheromones off you. But I know you shower every day. So let's get you scrubbed down."

"You’re not dumb, Galen. I know you get it."

"What?"

"I'm not ready."

"For what?"

He was making her say it.

"I don't want you to see me."

"You've still got a bandage, don't you?"

"It's not enough."

She was starting to cry.

"Vanka," he said, not pulling her body to him, because it would have hurt her, but bringing her head to his chest, holding her that way, "your breasts are gone. I can see that, even when you're dressed."

Her face flared hot, and her gut froze cold. Like he'd slapped her. He was cruel.

She was angry. She hated him. For saying something so brutal. Hurting her.

True. He'd only said what was true. Her breasts were gone. It was true. It was obvious. She didn't look the way she'd looked five days ago. Part of her body was gone.

Cut away. It was done. Irreversible.

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She cried, and he held her, stroking her wet, just-washed hair. Oscillating like a fan, holding on to each other, bare feet in a square of grass wet with shampoo-scented water.

Then she let him take her in, let him undress her, let him sit her in her tub. It was a way of letting go. Of accepting that he wasn't her lover anymore. He was her kind, good friend.

The cool ceramic of the tile and porcelain of the tub felt good against her anger-inflamed skin. He washed her face first, bringing the damp cloth to her cheek, touching her almost like a caress, but with the rough terrycloth texture between his skin and hers.

Soaked up her warm, salty tears, left her forehead, her nose, her lips, her cheeks fresh and cool to the air. He kissed her. She was sad. Bare. Exposed. She let him.

He rinsed the cloth under the faucet and brought it back to her damp and cool and clean, and pressed it to her throat, washed her neck, her ears, her shoulders, her arms, her hands. He took his time with her hands, and she thought it was either careless or sweet, because she could wash those herself. Back to the faucet, back to her. Her back. The rough, soap-slick fabric felt so good on the back of her neck, the back of her shoulders, between her shoulder blades.

Back to the front, the cloth freshly dampened, freshly soaped. He touched her above the bandage, along her collarbones and above and a little below, being careful to keep the bandage dry, being careful with everything that might be tender.

Below the bandage. Her ribs. Her waist. Her belly. His touch was softer now than it had been as he'd washed her shoulders and back. Like a caress that left her wet and 220

a little sudsy, her skin slick and shiny with a trail of translucent, milk-hued bubbles here and there.

She loved that hand. The look of it, large and strong, but delicate in shape and texture, the fingers long, the skin smooth, soft. The feel of it as he touched her, the way he could caress her skin so softly she hardly felt more than his heat and the faint, tickling stirring of the invisible down on her face, her back her thighs. The way he could touch her more deeply, softening taut muscles. Forcing her body to feel him.

Acknowledge him.

Now, though, his hand didn't touch her. The warm wet textured cloth traveled between his skin and hers. Across her ribs, just below the bandage. In an oval described around her belly button, below and between her ribs, between pelvic bones, above public bone, leaving a faint swirl of lather in one orbit, wiping it away in the next.

Then down. Down the length of her thigh, just gently scrubbing the skin in a long slow sweeping stroke, and she was quiet when the limp wet edge of the cloth being dragged along beside his hand trailed over her sex, slipping between her thighs, touching her a brief second before it was pulled taut and pulled along, down her thigh, then double back, back to her belly, innocently brushing against her again.

She let herself feel it, those accidental touches that weren't him but were caused by him, the man bathing her. The man who'd been her lover. She even closed her eyes for a second and focused on the fleeting feeling, then the memory of it. It surprised her, somehow, that her body was still able to experience that kind of pleasure. It seemed incongruous with the pain. With how she felt about her body now.

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She came back to herself, back to the present. She'd missed a few seconds. He was washing the other leg now, the top of her thigh, her knee, her shin, her ankle. Just sliding along the surface. Then up again, and another incidental brush of fabric as he moved his hand past the crease between thigh and pelvis, to circle her navel again.

Astonishing. She was aroused. The way she'd felt when she was in junior high, and just feeling the closeness of a boy's body at a dance made her ache and want, when that was everything, because nothing was going to happen. So the throb, the pull, the heavy ache went on and on, never disturbed by a real touch.

His hand moved down again. The textured cloth slid over her again, disturbing, stirring all the expectant feeling pooling there. Now, with the cloth still keeping his skin from hers, he was massaging her thigh, first gently, then deeper and deeper, his strong fingers working her muscles, his thumbs working her outer thigh, the other fingers working her quads and lightening up as they massaged the more delicate muscles at the inside of her thigh. As he squeezed and rubbed, the fabric bunched a little between her thighs, and when it brushed against her as his grip descended over the curve of her thigh, or ascended again, it was startling. Powerful.

He worked down her leg, and the naive cloth abandoned her sex. She didn't mind. It was nice, just remembering that kind of feeling. Knowing those nerves still worked. That the wiring to her brain was still intact.

He kneaded her calf muscles, deeper and deeper until his touch was a soothing pain. His hands jumped the gap, worked the other ankle, calf, thigh. Again the extra fabric grazed her, left her, brushed against her again, firmer and firmer as he worked 222

higher and higher. There was no question of seeking climax. She just basked in her secret thrill.

Galen rinsed and warmed the wash cloth under the faucet, then, and brought it back to her belly. Even though her body was still eagerly drinking in the coolness of the tub, the heat of the wet cloth on her belly felt good. A soothing contrast.

The wet heat slid down, the cloth moving down under his hand down. A little yearning pulse of anticipation throbbed just below his terrycloth-sheathed fingertip. The gentle tug of the fabric over her delicate skin was excruciating. She fought not to gasp or groan. To breathe normally. To leave her thighs still, parted. Let him finish. But, as he had with every part of her, he was taking his time. Letting the friction of the fabric stimulate her sensitive nerves as the wet weight of the cloth pulled downward, then resisted as he pulled it up, across her delicate skin, the washcloth sliding over and back like a bow over the strings of a viola.

That was all he gave her. The touch of the cloth. Not even the pressure of his hand behind it. Then he was washing her. Rubbing the soft texture of the cloth slowly between her thighs. She flinched. Went taut. That was all. He bowed his head until his forehead touched her temple and his lips touched her shoulder. A kiss. Then words.

"Soft. Vanka. Be soft. Let it come."

He was doing it on purpose. She hadn't wanted to know. But now she knew. She didn't clamp her thighs closed. She made herself soft and open and let him touch her.

With just one finger he moved the cloth against her, so slowly it was like her sex was a vast landscape of hills and valleys to be explored, one nerve, one cell, one tiny millimeter of flesh at a time.

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When he finally rubbed her gently, back, then forth, then in a tiny, slow circle, the anxious, throbbing want swelled, swelled, then fell apart, dissolving in a thousand scattering quivering ripples through her sex and belly and thighs.

His head was still nestled in the curve of her neck, his brow pressed to her temple, his lips at her shoulder. She felt them move against her skin.

"God, it's good to hear that sound. Your sweet moan. From pleasure, for a change."

He lifted his head and smiled at her, his eyes looking happy and melancholy at once. A self-pitying rage descended on her, smothering her like a plastic bag over her head. She started shaking. Jaw clenching. Eyes stinging.

"Vanka. Vanka."

He nuzzled into her neck. Her hair. Put a towel around her shoulders. Helped her up. Dried her off. Got her dressed. Tried to hold her. Walked her to the living room, helped her get settled on the couch, covered her with a blanket. Left her alone. She wanted to be alone.