Blue

Part#19

On the way back with a coffee, curiosity lifts my head. I glance into the nursery. The

pastel green is a nice colour but it is not what captures my attention. Declyn’s back is to me.

He wears tracksuit bottoms, bare feet, the ends on his pants are rolled up to midway of his

defined calves. A white cut-out vest exposes his shoulders and arms. A black skullcap ties

over the top of his hair leaving the silky strands dangling neatly in his neck.

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and take in every details, right down to the

earplugs attached to a thin white string which vanishes somewhere in the front.

A light spray of paint covers his hand with the paintbrush, all the way up his

forearm. I know he can do this is minutes for the speed with which he moves, but I’m glad

he does not. Every movement rolls the tight muscles across his shoulders. He’s not huge, but

he is toned and sculpted to perfection. An urge to touch his back and trace the lines with my

fingers nags in my head and spreads heat through my stomach.

I wonder what he listens to – it is not something I associate with him, nor any of the

vampires I lived with. Yet here he is, rhythmic movements, hips roll from time to time and it

ripples all the way up his back, across his shoulders and through his arm as he paints.

My fingernail finds my teeth to stifle a giggle when he plays air-drums, kicks his foot

out and throws his head back like a well-rehearsed rock star.

I may just have to find a lot of DIY things for him to do; it is a much better vision

than the serious guy and right now, I can stand being a nanny.

A minute passes, then he stops, drops his head to the side as if to listen. His hand

lifts to his ear, removing the earpiece. There is no point in running. He knows I’m here.

“Coffee,” he smokes before he turns around faster than I can follow to appear right

close to me, “May I have a sip?”

How? How is it possible to be mad at him and dissolve every time he looks at me – especially the way

he’s looking at me right now.

“I – I can make you a cup,” I offer, unable to look away from him.

“No, just a sip will do me,” his smile sweeps to the side.

“Oh,” I have nothing else to offer but the cup of coffee.

Declyn slides his hand over mine, the other, cups the mug and he lifts it to his lips.

His eyes fix on my face. The burn in them consumes me and my heart threatens to climb out

of my chest via my throat. All too soon, he pushes the mug back, his hand drags off mine.

“Thank you,” he puts the headphones in place and turns away to the wall.

In a daze, I leave.

I think I’m developing a crush on the monster-man. My cheeks burn and every step I

take, threatens to be the one taking me back to him.

Are there rules about this? I mean, I know as donors – which he says I’m not – we are warned about

skills which causes infatuation to gain access to more than the buyer is entitled to. Does he have such a skill?

Before I enter my room, I hear him sing under his breath.

It is modern, upbeat with Jamaican sounds in the way he sings it; but it is unknown

to me. Two things happen right then. I realise he wasn’t kidding about sound travelling and

a grin spreads wide on my face at the sound of his voice.

***

To draw out the task, Declyn paces himself and works slow. Blue’s insistence to stay

in the next room irritates him. He wants them close, to see them; her and the kids. He

realises his mood is selfish in nature but it changes nothing. Hearing them play, fuels the

fires higher. To cut off his escalating bad mood, he mixes music in the task and turns it all

the way up. It helps, but not much and the sultry songs works only to spark additional

desires.

The smell of coffee tugs at Declyn’s attention. He knows it is Blue’s favourite drink; it

is fast becoming an exclusive association with her. He ignores the scent with the assumption

she’s merely passing from the kitchen. But the aroma lingers and the strength of it increases

and fills more of the room; his senses turn up the dials to confirm she’s right behind him.

Drawn to her, he tries first to further ignore her, but he cannot. He removes the

headphone and joins her.

“Coffee, may I have a sip?”

It is not the coffee he wants. She had coffee just before the kids woke. During their

argument, he tasted it on her breath. Now, all he wants is to taste it; taste her.

“I – I can make you one,” she offers with a flush on her cheeks and a wave of her

hand over her shoulder.

“No, just a sip will do me,” he answers.

“Oh,” she holds the cup to him.

Looking in her face, he draws a mouth full of the warm coffee and swirls it around.

He imagines the warmth as that of her mouth, the acidic taste mixed with sweet sugar. He

savours the essence before he swallows it down.

The beat through her heart echoes in his head.

The burn in her eyes on him drills through his consciousness.

The coffee warms him inside as far as it travels.

He lets go of the cup, his hand traces over his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers, turn away quickly, replace the earpiece and continues to

paint. It takes tremendous effort to concentrate on a task as simple as this. He turns the

music all the way up and to distract himself from the urge to fetch her back, he sings his

own words to the pre-recorded beat. New words he makes up on the spot.

“Hmm-mmm-hmm … I’m in love and I do blame you … You push my boundaries

with your bad moods too … Every breath I take tastes like you … hmm-mmm-hmm … I’m

in love and I blame you …”

With a huge grin, Declyn does a walk-step in place, draws his arms in close and

makes a suave turn; the abrupt realisation of the exact truth in his words keeps the grin on

his face. He memorizes the words to write down later. Already the only thing churning in

his head …

“I’m in love and I do blame you …”