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1045 Words
The answer is so obvious, I don’t even bother with it. “But what about the tie? Doesn’t that get annoying?”
“No.”
“What about at home? You can’t sleep in that suit. What do you wear to bed?”
Holding my gaze, he says, “Nothing.”
Holy s**t. Inside my body, muscles I didn’t even realize I own have clenched.
He sets the book on the nightstand and folds his hands in his lap, resigned to the fact that I’m going to start grilling him about his wardrobe. But I don’t want to be predictable, so I change the subject instead.
“What were you reading?”
“Proust.”
I think for a minute. “I know that’s a person, but that’s about it.”
He silently hands me the book. The cover is worn. Inside, the pages are yellowed, and many of them are dog-eared. I lift it to my nose and sniff, flipping through the pages to get that good book smell. Then I turn to the front and look at the title page.
It’s in French.
“It’s called In Search of Lost Time,” says Liam. “What’s it about?”
His pause is reflective. “Life. Death. Love.”
“Hmm. So nothing too deep.”
He presses his lips together. I get the distinct impression he’s trying not to laugh.
“That’s the fourth volume of seven.”
“Seven?” I stare at the book with new respect. “That’s a bit intimidating.”
“It’s only six in the English translation, if that makes you feel better.”
I scoff. “Oh, much. I’m going to run right out and buy them as soon as I get out of this backless gown.” I set the book onto the nightstand, then look at him again. “Speaking of which, I want to go home now.”
His face darkens, losing all the amusement of moments before.
“Hospitals remind me of suffering,” I say softly.
When his eyes sharpen, I look away, swallowing. “Long story. Anyway. I want to go home.”
Silence takes the room. I feel him looking at me, feel his keen inspection of my face, but I don’t give him my eyes because I know how clearly he sees things.
He says suddenly, “When I take you home, that will be the end of it. Understood?”
By “it” he means “us.” Not that there is an us, but he’s obviously determined it’s not even an option.
I don’t want to feel hurt by that, but I do. I don’t want to be so intrigued by this dangerous stranger, but I am. I know in my heart there isn’t a future with him, that I’m better off staying far, far away…but he’s a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for so long, it’s disappointing to walk away when the pieces are finally starting to come together. “Tru. Look at me.”
Instead of obeying him, I look down at my hands, almost as pale as the scratchy cotton sheets they’re resting on.
I need a manicure. What a strange thing to notice at a time like this.
“Tru.”
“I heard you. You don’t want to see me again.”
“That’s not what I said. Look at me.”
His voice is too seductive to ignore for long. When I glance at him, he’s sitting forward in the chair with his forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped, staring at me with that blistering intensity of his.
“I wouldn’t be good for you,” he says, his tone soft. “I don’t lead a normal life.”
He means he’s not domesticated, as if it isn’t obvious. He only wears those beautiful suits to distract people from the vicious fangs and claws.
I say crossly, “I’m aware. Did you think I missed the part where you smashed two guy’s faces in and snapped another one’s neck like a twig?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw. “So we’re in agreement.”
Parroting him so he’ll discover just how irritating it is, I say, “That’s not what I said.” When he narrows his eyes, I feel vindicated. “But while we’re on the subject…” I lower my voice. “Did you…are all three of those guys…you know.” His answer is matter-of-fact. “Aye.”
I try to work up an appropriate emotional response to his casual admission that he killed three men right in front of me, the logical horror or shock that should be forthcoming, but all I produce is curiosity, which even in my injured state I know is all wrong.
“With your hands.”
He does his impression of a sphinx and stares at me, his gaze turning from blistering to coolly impenetrable. The man has perfected being enigmatic to an art.
Hoping he’ll give me some clue as to how he came to be proficient in the ass-beating, necksnapping, and life-ending sciences, I prompt, “I mean, you didn’t even need to use a gun.”
“I hate guns,” he says instantly, his voice hard. “And stop sounding so impressed.”
“Sorry, but I am. I can’t even twist the top off a pickle jar without help.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s fighting dueling urges to jump up and shake some sense into me or kiss me raw.
I study him for a moment, all his tension and iron self-control, the way he seems to have a chokehold on the chain that’s wound around his own neck. But underneath the careful control lurks resignation.
He looks like the conductor of a freight train traveling at full speed who’s realized the brakes are gone and the bridge ahead has collapsed and there’s not enough time to jump to safety. “Question, Mr. Black: why are you trying so hard to stay away from me?”
“I told you. I wouldn’t be good for you.”
“Yet here you are. Again. Giving the suggestion of major ambivalence.”
His expression sours. “Argumentative little thing, aren’t you?”
- Writer
