Darkness Bound

61

“Did you know swearing actually helps relieve pain?” When Hawk just stared at her silently, she nodded. “It’s true. I read it in Time magazine. Some psychologist did a study where people stuck their hands in a bucket of ice water. The ones who were told to curse could leave their hands in the water up to forty seconds longer than the ones who were told they couldn’t curse. Apparently swearing activates the brain’s endogenous opioids.”

“Endogenous opioids,” Hawk repeated uncertainly.

“Pain-relieving chemicals similar to drugs like morphine and oxycodone.” Jack giggled, liking the sound of the word. Ox-y-co-done. It began to repeat itself in her head, echoing softly in the background as she continued to speak. “The only problem is, the more you curse, the more tolerant you become of the opioids, so you have to curse even more to get the same amount of relief. Isn’t that the most ironic thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Actually,” he answered quietly, reaching out to stroke a finger lightly down her cheek, “volunteering for a nasty punishment in place of someone you don’t even like and who isn’t worthy to wipe your shoes on is the most ironic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jack considered that, closing one eye to relieve the dizziness caused by the way the room was tilting to one side. “I think we’re using the word irony in the wrong way. Like that stupid Alanis Morissette song, “Isn’t It Ironic?” None of the things she sang about were actually ironic. They were just coincidences or bad timing or total misses. I’m sorry but a black fly in your chardonnay is in no way ironic. It’s gross. And a death row pardon two minutes too late is just freaking tragic, not ironic. Right?”

She paused, liking immensely the lovely weightless sensation snaking its way through her body.

I wonder if I could float? I bet I could float . . . I wonder if I could fly?

Hawk was looking at her with a combination of amusement and concern.

“And I do like you,” she sighed, smiling as the last of the pain leaked out of her body, replaced by wonderful, spreading pleasure, soft as a cashmere blanket. “You’re very . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”

His eyes darkened. The smile fled from his face and he sat staring at her in silence, his brows drawn together, jaw clenched.

“Broody,” she pronounced. “You’re very broody. You’ve got that whole James Dean/Mr. Darcy/Marlon Brando thing nailed. And you smell good. And you taste like the lottery. I mean, what I think I’d feel like if I won the lottery. Does that make any sense? Euphoric, that’s the word. Or euphoria, maybe? I’m not sure, my brain seems to be taking a little trip to the twilight zone at the moment. Either way, I like you a lot, which is a problem, considering you lied to me, used me, and basically totally screwed me over.”

She beamed at him, happy and pain free and just about as relaxed as she’d ever been.

Was it another effect of the nasty barnyard brew that made her think his breathing had changed? His posture had stiffened?

“Although since we’re being honest here, I have to admit I understand the motivation. You thought I was a major b***h. Which, let’s face it, I gave you good reason for. Plus you sort of apologized—actually you did, right? I think you did anyway, which counts. And you were all protect-y of me in the jungle—is that a word?—with Nando and those other guys, and you seemed really freaked out at the punishment tree, like you didn’t want to see me get hurt. And you offered to take twice as many lashes if Alejandro would let me go, which is totally chivalrous.

“So I don’t know. I’m in a pickle. I’m supposed to hate you but instead I think you’re interesting and soulful and smart, and probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And that’s not even getting into how incredible you are in bed—I mean, I thought we were going to light those sheets on fire—or the fact that I know you have just as many skeletons in your closet as I have in mine, and you hate to admit it just like I do, which makes us alike. Also . . . you’re the only man I’ve ever known who makes me forget about my f****d-up past. When you look at me, I feel . . . clean. Free of all the dirt, you know? As for being unworthy to wipe my shoes on, don’t sell yourself short. Any woman would be lucky to have you. Hell, any man would be lucky to have you! And even though in hindsight it was probably a stupid thing to do, I would do it again, you know. Offer belu. For you, I would.”

Jack inhaled a breath that felt cool and invigorating, like night air from an alpine woods. She’d never felt as free and careless, even if the room had become fuzzy around the edges and the only thing still sharply in focus was Hawk’s face.