Waiting for Wyatt (Red Dirt #1) (12 page)

“Okay,” I replied, not sure what I said that agitated him. His dismissal was evident in the tone of his words.

I turned the hose on at the faucet. My legs had mud streaks from ankle to thigh. Bending over, I washed the dirt off my skin. I stood up and scrubbed my arms. Pulling the shirt over my head, I wore just my yellow bikini top and shorts.

I dipped my hand under the cool water and washed the dirt off my stomach from where it had crept under the edges. Hearing a noise, I looked over by the tub.

Wyatt stood completely still. His chest moved up and down under his wet T-shirt. It clung to his skin, showing off a solid chest. His green eyes held my brown ones in a twisty stare. And then my breath caught in my throat.

Wyatt allowed his eyes to leave my face and continue to drift downward. They lingered over the wet bikini clinging to my breasts.

I was held captive by his stare, feeling him trace each piece of my exposed body. I was afraid to breathe. I was afraid to do something to push him away. The longer he watched, a slow, agonizing burn developed under my skin. It was an achy physical pain. I didn’t know it was possible to be this attracted to someone. He set my skin on fire with just the brush of his eyes.

I swallowed hard, and the green eyes jumped back to my face. Fear flashed across his cheeks, but the reaction only amplified his real feelings. Wyatt wanted me. He wanted me bad, and that desire scared him.

The hose stayed in my hand, causing a steady stream to run out all over the place. Turning to the side, I grabbed the faucet, shutting off the water. I looked over my shoulder. He stayed in the same spot. With my back to him, I pulled my wet shirt over my head. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself before turning around to face him.

I wasn’t sure if I should just leave or say something. In a normal world, I think Wyatt would make the first move, but nothing about us was normal. Nothing about him resembled a normal guy, which is the part that pulled me to him. It’s the reason I was here.

I took a few steps in his direction, stopping close enough that his head was forced to tilt down to see me. “I’m . . . um . . . leaving.”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

“Um, thanks for letting me come back. I had a good time.”

“Me too.”

“Okay. Well. I’m going.” But my feet stayed planted in the dirt. The invisible pull between us came out stronger as it pushed me toward Wyatt.

“You missed some.” Wyatt touched my cheek. Or rather, he rubbed my skin with his thumb on a splotch of mud. A burning jolt traveled through my body, feeling him work at the dirt. Wyatt had his fingers on my skin. He was touching me on purpose. His hand stayed on my cheek, then suddenly dropped like my face had caught on fire. “Sorry. I think it’s still on there.”

“That’s okay. You . . . um, mind if . . . I . . . um, I brought stuff to change? Could I use your bathroom?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Wyatt mumbled.

“Okay. Well, bye, I guess.” I stumbled through my parting words for a second time.

“Bye.” He took a step backward and then another. The distance got larger, but the electric pull remained the same. I wanted to touch him so bad my muscles started to clench up under my skin. “You can let yourself in. I’m just going to stay out here and keep going so I can get finished.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, Emma. I guess I’ll see you Monday or Tuesday?”

I nodded in his direction. The humid air grew hotter the longer I looked at him. “I work those days, but I’ll see what I can do. You’ll be here?”

“Yes,” he muttered in his raspy voice. “I’ll be here.”

I walked in a daze toward my car. A smile slipped on my face as I thought about what finally had transpired between us. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him watching my backside as I walked away. My heart flipped a little, and I fell deeper for Wyatt Caulfield, the mysterious guy who said he was dangerous and bad.

I saw what bad people did out in the world. They tied puppies up in wire and pulled their teeth out with pliers and shredded their skin with knives. Dangerous guys didn’t scrub them in porcelain tubs and wrap their little bodies in towels. Bad guys didn’t undress me from five feet away and then let me go.

T
HE GROCERY STORE LINE WA
s long on Saturday morning, which caused me not to get home until almost one. Getting the bags out of the car, I heard a noise and spun around to find Kurt practically touching my butt. I sidestepped, moving away from him. My nose pulled in a whiff of sweaty body odor. The man oozed disgusting in the way a sewer flowed with trash.

His black T-shirt fit snug over the barbwire tattoo on his large bicep. Instead of fixing things in our apartment like the dishwasher that quit a month ago, Kurt spent his time lifting weights in the manager’s office.

“I’m just curious.” He reached out, running a large finger down the side of my car. “Where does the dirt come from?”

I looked at the clump of red he shoved in front of me. “Why do you care if my car is dirty?”

“I don’t give two shits that your car is dirty. I’m just curious about where you go that makes it covered in that damn dirt. Every couple of days, you pull in here with a fresh layer of this shit.” Kurt rubbed the dirt between his fingers before dusting it off on his jeans.

My backside pressed against the trunk of my car, trying to get farther away. Something wasn’t right with his questions. They were strange and pointed. Kurt usually didn’t care about my comings and goings. Ever since Charlie had disappeared, his causal obsession had turned into borderline stalking. He watched me every time I came outside on the second-floor landing like a bell had alerted him of my movements.

His eyes drifted over my skin to my breasts. I’d changed into a sundress in Wyatt’s bathroom before I’d left his place. I stepped out of Kurt’s way, feeling the violation of his groping eyes. A repulsive gag lingered in the back of my throat. Grabbing the bags, I took another shuffled step in the direction of my apartment. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to make Mr. Hughes some lunch.”

“Tell that old man he’s not getting a different apartment. He’s just gonna have to stay up there and rot. Nothing on the bottom floor is opening up until next year.”

“Well, thanks for checking.” I cringed at his harsh words. Racing up the steps, I ignored the pain. My knee hurt something awful as I let myself into my neighbor’s apartment. I took a deep breath, trying to shake the nasty feeling of Kurt. Dusting the dirt off the back of my dress, I faced my neighbor.

“Hi, Mr. Hughes.” I greeted the elderly man. He was sitting in a recliner, watching some hunting show on television.

“Emma, what are you all dressed up for?”

“You, of course.”

“Aren’t you the sweetest.” He balanced against his walker, pulling himself out of the chair. I paused for a moment to make sure he got all the way to standing. He moved at a slow pace into the kitchen as I unloaded the bags on the counter.

“What do you want for lunch?” I always made Mr. Hughes something to eat when I dropped off his groceries.

“You get potatoes?”

“I always do.”

“I want some of them fried potatoes you make.” Mr. Hughes pulled out a kitchen chair and studied it for a moment.

“Okay, but you need something else besides potatoes. I got you a bottle of ranch dressing. You want a salad?”

“I guess I would eat one if it was on my plate.” He grinned at me, showing his gums.

“Before you get all comfy in here, go put in your teeth. I’ll have it done in a few minutes.”

I could easily go get his teeth. He always left them sitting in a glass by the lamp in the living room. But I wasn’t sure how much moving he did these days. Mr. Hughes needed to get the blood flowing around in his body before it turned to sludge.

“Will do. Be back in a jiff.” He leaned against the walker, going at a slow pace into the living room. “Oh, and don’t forget the potatoes. They always remind me of the time Priscilla and I were down in Biloxi.”

“I won’t.” I smiled. He always liked to tell stories about his wife Priscilla. While she was alive, they seemed to have a wonderful life, traveling all over the United States.

Taking out a knife, I chopped a few potatoes. The skillet was hot as I dropped the wet chunks into the oil. Splatters hit my arms, causing a few burns. I’d just finished the salad when Mr. Hughes pushed his walker back into the kitchen. He leaned heavily on the metal handles as he eyed the bowl of leafy greens.

“So where did you go this morning? I saw your car leave when I was having my coffee. Pretty early. Even for you.”

“It’s not that exciting.” I dumped the potatoes onto his plate and piled a heap of salad on the other side. Mr. Hughes examined the chair for a moment before lowering himself down on the wooden seat. I sat down across from him, putting salad on my plate. “You want some ketchup?”

“Nah. That stuff just hides the taste of the grease, and that’s the best part. So tell me about this boy.”

“How do you know there’s a boy?”

“Well, a girl only gets herself out that early on a Saturday for a boy.”

“He’s not exactly a boy.” I grinned at Mr. Hughes. The flutter picked up in my stomach as I thought about Wyatt. He stopped being a boy a very long time ago and had turned into an attractive, very lonely guy.

“Well, you’re too young to be spending all your time with old people like me.” His crooked fingers grasped the fork, pushing the salad away from the potatoes.

“His name is Wyatt.”

“So tell me about Wyatt. He must be pretty interesting to catch your attention.”

“Yes. He’s interesting.”

An image of Wyatt flooded my mind. A warm feeling trickled through my body as I remembered that Wyatt had looked at me today. It was the kind of look that ingrained in a girl’s head forever, making her imagination run wild. I grabbed my cup, taking a drink so Mr. Hughes didn’t notice the pink on my cheeks.

A
T THE STOPLIGHT, I CLOSED
my eyes, rubbing my forehead, thinking about Wyatt. Almost a whole week had slipped away since bath day. The last couple of days had been long and tedious. The bookstore had lost an employee. I covered as usual, knowing we would eventually hire another student who possessed the same concept of being responsible. They would either show up late with bloodshot eyes and hungover, or they just wouldn’t show up at all. My manager had a strict policy. No show, no job, which caused our high turnover rate.