He Touches Me (7 page)

“You're upset with me.” I retrieve my blouse, the magic of the moment evaporating under the heat of his anger.

“I'm upset with myself,” Blaine admits. “I lost control with you, nymph.” He shook his head as though this concept amazes him. “I never lose control.”

He never loses control yet he lost control with me. My mood brightens. “And that's bad because?” I dress slowly, savoring his scent and feel of him on my skin.

“Because what we have is too important to risk.” His gaze meets mine, his green eyes glittering, his expression deadly serious. “You're too important to me. I'd never hurt you.”

“I know that,” I murmur, trying to soothe him, reassure him. “You wouldn't hurt me even if you lost control.”

“I won't lose control again.” His lips flatten and his face grows hard.

“Blaine.” I fear what he's decided . . . for us, for our tenuous relationship.

He looks away, his profile harsh, striking. “I'll return the sweater to Fran.” Blaine folds the garment slowly, carefully, his gaze fixed on the soft fabric.

I sigh. “I should have it cleaned.” I allow him to change the topic.

“I'll take care of that.” Blaine raps his knuckles on the window.

The driver opens the door and the hot, muggy night air sweeps into the interior. The rain has stopped, the driveway glistening with moisture. Although the driver's face is blank, his eyes glow.

He saw and I don't care. I'm preoccupied with his boss's dangerous mood, having never seen him this upset, this shaken.

Blaine exits first, the garment bag draped over his shoulder, and he holds out his hand. I grab my tote and clasp his hand, his palm warm and reassuringly rough.

A normal ­couple, a ­couple who goes to movies and eats at restaurants instead of swimming naked in pools and dry humping on limousine floors, would hold hands, linking their fingers together as they walk.

We don't. Blaine releases my hand immediately and we move toward the Leighs' steel and concrete bungalow as separate entities, not touching, not speaking, together yet alone.

This isn't normal. This isn't how relationships are supposed to be. I look up at the sky, searching for answers in the darkness, the moon and stars concealed by clouds.

Blaine looks up also, his chin jutted and his eyes hard.

I'm not brave enough to ask him what he is thinking. I take my key out of my tote and fiddle with the lock, the mechanism finicky. Blaine waits for me to open the door on my own.

No moths flutter around the front door's light. Did they all find shelter from the storm? I shiver, not wanting to consider the alternative, their wings too delicate to withstand the rain.

“The Leighs had many applicants for their house-­sitting posting.” Blaine changes the topic yet again, his voice flat. “Have you ever wondered why they chose you?”

“No.” I frown. Suzanna Leigh had told me I was the only suitable applicant, my references from my college professors stellar.

“I have.” Blaine skims one of his fingertips along my cheek, over my bottom lip. I quiver, my concerns melting under his caress. “No matter what happens, I'll protect you, Anna . . . even from myself.”

This sounds like good-­bye. I study his face, alarmed. “You didn't take more than I wanted to give, Blaine.”

“I wanted to.” A muscle in his cheek tics. “And you couldn't have stopped me. I'm bigger and stronger.” Blaine expresses my worst fears.

“I trust you,” I whisper.

“You shouldn't trust me.” He hands me the garment bag. “Because I don't trust myself around you.” Blaine turns around and walks away. His hands are stuffed in his pants front pockets and his shoulders are hunched.

I want to run after him, to tell him I wouldn't have stopped him, but this would be a lie and I don't want to ever lie to Blaine. I pull on the black ribbon looped around my neck, extracting the key from the folds of my blouse, and I close my fingers around the gold, the action reassuring me.

He promised to always watch me, to never hurt me, and Blaine always keeps his promises. I
do
trust him, even if he doesn't trust himself.

 

Chapter Six

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
I open up the garment bag and gasp. The suit Fran has given me is vintage Chanel in a classic navy blue and lavender stripe. The jacket has a scoop collar with the distinctive Chanel lions decorating the front buttons, and the skirt is slightly a-­line with a playful off-­center front slit.

I try the suit on, wearing a black tank top under the jacket, and I grin, pleased with how it looks and feels. Blaine wanted me when I wore my baggy blouse and roomy dress pants. He won't be able to resist me in this outfit. I solve my frizzy hair challenge by once again pulling the tendrils back into a tight ponytail.

I eat some of the vegetable stir fry for breakfast, savoring every morsel. After portioning out my lunch, I freeze the rest of the food, happy to have ready-­made meals for the future.

I fold the jacket into a protective plastic bag and place it in my tote along with my lunch and Fran's envelope of money. Feed Your Hungry has no air-­conditioning, at least not in the pit. If I wore the jacket, I'd pass out before noon.

Accustomed to hiding my body under loose fabric, I feel exposed in my black tank top and slim skirt. Today, everyone at work will see me. I won't be invisible.

I murmur a self-­conscious hello to the bus driver as I pay my fare. He smiles at me. I sit beside a middle school child. He has black hair, a tanned face, and a chin too pointed to be considered cute. While he plays games on his phone, he kicks the seat in front of us. The elderly woman glares at me as though I should be disciplining him, as though he's my child.

The strip of dead turf in front of Feed Your Hungry's building has been torn up, the soil already dry and dusty, the sun blazing. The receptionist glances up from her phone as I collect my call list. Lines furrow her forehead. She taps on her keyboard, frowns, and shrugs. She returns to her texting.

On the way to the pit, I place my lunch in the rattling beige refrigerator. The interior smells like old running shoes and curry, Goth girl's lunch vastly improving the aroma.

My rebellious friend whistles as she sees me. “Who died and left you her skirt?” Goth girl is wearing the same black leather and mesh outfit as yesterday.

“No one died.” I set my tote down and plug in my headset. I have my work cut out for me today. None of my donors have contributed funds during this decade. “I need a meet and greet,” I mumble.

“You need four more meet and greets, Moth,” Goth girl replies, her pierced nose wrinkling. “The requirement for an office, due to the blonde invasion, has increased from two meet and greets to five.”

“I'll settle for one meet and greet.” Keeping my job is a higher priority than snagging an office. I dial number after number after number. Not home. Voice mail. Voice mail. I'm sorry. This phone number has been disconnected. Not home.

Boss man stands at the edge of the pit. His face is red and his hair is moist. Both of these are indications he's firing employees today. I dial faster, hoping Blaine's donation is enough to save me.

He calls to a beret-­wearing girl seated in the front row. She bursts into tears, grabs her army green knapsack and runs out of the room, brushing past the now visibly sweating Boss man.

“He's got himself a crier.” Goth girl rolls her eyes. Michael Cooke swaggers toward me, his Birkenstocks pointing outward, a wide smile on his handsome face. “Crap on a cracker. The trust fund baby is here,” she mutters.

“Be nice.” I return Michael's smile. The man is so good looking, so fit, his ivory henley shirt barely containing his wide shoulders, and he's genuinely nice, a label I could never apply to Blaine.

“Hey there, kiddo.” Michael shoots me with his fingers, a cheesy move only he can pull off. “The gang's back and we're going to lunch. Grab your tote.”

I stare at him, torn between belonging and being financially smart.

Thanks to my second job, I now have enough money to buy lunch. I can tag along with Michael and his friends, be part of the popular group. Sure, they'll eventually find out I'm the daughter of a thief and look at me with disgust, but for one lunch hour I can belong.

I glance at Goth girl. She rolls her black-­rimmed eyes.

Also thanks to my second job, I have a lunch, a real lunch, food I can share with Goth girl, someone who thinks it's cool that Blaine has a criminal record. Hacking into databases, the crime Blaine was busted for, is different than stealing, though. I can't trust Goth girl will stand by me when the truth surfaces. No one ever has.

“What's there to think about, kiddo?” Michael's grin spreads across his face, lighting his sky blue eyes. “You have to eat.”

“I . . . umm . . . brought my lunch.” I nibble on my bottom lip.

“Oh.” He blinks, appearing stunned that I've turned his offer down. Other women seated around us shake their heads, their reaction reinforcing that I've made a mistake. “Then I'll join you.” His smile returns.

He'll choose me over his friends? A warmth spreads across my chest. “Okay.” I smile shyly at him.

“Okay,” Michael repeats, bobbing his golden head. He strides away, his gait fast.

“Moth's got game,” Goth girl quips. “I'm warming up my food. You need anything or are you bestowing the honor of running your errands upon your new lunch buddy?”

“I need to use the microwave also.” I hurry to match her fast and furious pace. Her green Mohawk bobs as she moves, her hair defying gravity.

“What?” Goth girl widens her eyes in mock horror. “Did you score a sample package of cheese or something?”

“I have a real lunch.” I beam, her sarcasm unable to dent my good mood. “It's a vegetarian stir fry.” I take the Chinese food container out of the refrigerator and we stand in line for the microwave.

“Your new boyfriend will like that,” she says, too loudly for my comfort.

“Shhh . . .” I look around us. Heads turn. “It's not like that.” I wriggle the metal handles off the food container, not wanting to blow up Feed Your Hungry's single microwave.

“Not like that, huh?” Goth girl grins. “If I remember our last discussion correctly, that means no BDSM and no foot fetishes. Too bad. A little kink would make golden boy more interesting.” She tugs on the collar circling her pale neck.

We shuffle forward in the line. “I think he's interesting.” I defend Michael. He's handsome and nice and everything a normal woman should want. Unfortunately, I'm not normal.

“Of course you do.” Goth girl laughs loudly and a pinched-­face redhead glares at us. “You're destined to tolerate once a week vanilla sex . . . in the dark . . . with your eyes closed. Have you ever even had an orgasm?”

I came twice last night on the floor of Blaine's limousine. “I'm not talking about this.” I place my food in the microwave and press the button for broccoli. Three minutes display on the small screen and the microwave hums to life, the glass plate rotating around and around.

“Your response says it all.” Goth girl snorts. “You're too repressed, Moth. Let me guess. You come from some sleepy little midwestern town with more cows than ­people. Your mom is a schoolteacher. Your dad is an insurance salesman.”

Goth girl yammers on and on, building a past for me I wished I had. I watch the numbers on the microwave change and wonder if Blaine is thinking of me. I'm thinking of him, counting down the hours until six o'clock.

I stop the microwave with four seconds on the timer and remove the container. My food steams, smelling as delicious as it had yesterday.

“Is that about right, Moth?” Goth girl finishes the detailing of my imaginary past.

“That's exactly right,” I lie, giving her a big smile. I grab some plastic utensils and leave Goth girl at the microwave, gaping after me.

I hurry back to the pit with my food. A phone is ringing and I grimace, personal phone calls against the rules at Feed Your Hungry.

As I approach my chair, I realize the ringing is coming from my tote. Only Blaine has my phone number. I drop my lunch on the tabletop and search through my bag. The ringing stops. I glance at the phone's screen. There's a message. I press on the tiny envelope symbol.

Have to go to New York.

Be a good girl, Anna.

Blaine

I sit down. I know Blaine. I know what he's really saying. I pushed him too far last night and he's putting physical and emotional distance between us . . . perhaps permanently.

I dial his number. Even though he called me mere seconds ago, my call goes straight to voice mail. Blaine's message is curt, cold, impersonal, and I disconnect the call without saying a word.

I slump in my chair and reread his message. He didn't say he'll be watching me, and he always says that. Always. Has he stopped watching me? Has he stopped caring? Has our relationship or arrangement or whatever we have ended?

I should have known it would end. Every relationship does. I shouldn't have foolishly believed this was the one exception, that Blaine was different, that he wouldn't abandon me as everyone else had, as my mother had. I take a ragged breath, the pain too much to handle.

“Hey kiddo,” Michael calls. I look up and his wide smile fades. “Hey, what's wrong?” He pulls a chair close to the table and straddles the back, genuine concern reflecting in his handsome face.

He cares. Had Blaine cared about me? I thought he had but I also thought he wouldn't hurt me and he did.

I summon up a smile. “Nothing, work stuff,” I lie, because that's what I do. If ­people know the truth, they can hurt you. I drop the phone into my tote, having told Blaine too much, given him too much power over me.

“Work stuff? Was someone mean to you?” Michael places his soft palms on my forearms.

“I'd have to talk to someone for that to happen.” I brush a teardrop off my cheek with the back of my hand, feeling like an idiot for falling apart over a man. I'm stronger than this.

“You can't get through?” Michael picks up my donor list. “No wonder. These are their listed numbers, silly girl. You have to call their private numbers.” He takes out his phone and scrolls through his address book. “I only have Mrs. Williams's number,” he says apologetically. “She's a friend of my mom's.” He writes the digits beside her name using my pen.

He's giving me his private contacts. I gaze at Michael with suspicion. “Why would you do this for me?” No one does anything for free and I don't want to owe anyone anything, not even Michael.

“I like seeing your face every day, kiddo.” He winks, his blue eyes sparkling. “Mention my name.”

“Are you two lovebirds sharing a moment?” Goth girl wrinkles her pierced nose. “Should I leave you alone?” She sits beside me.

“Yes, please leave us alone.” Michael flips his fast food box open. “I have the Portobello mushroom burger today. Kiddo, you want a bite?”

“I'll trade.” I hide my pain under a false cheerfulness, lying to my friends as I lie to everyone else. “I have vegetables over rice.” I hold out a fork loaded with red peppers, broccoli, and the white rice. “Try some.”

Michael meets my gaze, bares his straight perfect teeth and slides the food off the tongs. He smacks his lips dramatically. “Delicious and good for the world.” He glances at Goth girl. “What animal did you kill today?”

“Says the man who is eating fungus,” she mutters.

They natter back and forth, exchanging insults and glares. I slide some of my vegetable stir fry into Goth girl's plastic dish and I eat quietly, a numbness settling over me.

During one heated exchange, Michael pats my hand, as though drawing support from the touch, and when we're done eating, he takes my empty container to the kitchen's trash can. I gaze at his broad shoulders, confused and weary, so very weary, unable to deal with more than my pain.

Goth girl leans toward me. “I don't think pussy is considered vegetarian.” She flicks her tongue. “No oral for you.”

No nothing for me. “You're disgusting.”

I focus on the job, dialing the other numbers first, working my way up to Michael's contact. Goth girl lands a meet and greet. She hoots, pleased with her success, and coworkers clap. I pretend to be happy for her. It's another lie. I have no joy left in me.

Coworkers leave one by one. I call all of the numbers except one. I take a big breath, count to five, and exhale, dialing the digits quickly before I chicken out. The phone rings once, twice.

“Darling,” a sexy voice purrs. She sounds as though she just woke up.

Darling? “Ummm . . . Hello, Mrs. Williams. This is Anna Sampson from Feed Your Hungry. We'd like to thank you for your past donations.” I recite the carefully crafted script all Feed Your Hungry employees memorize.

“How did you get this number?” Mrs. Williams demands. Flesh slaps against a hard surface.

“Ah . . . ummm . . .” I don't want to use his name but I can't think of a good lie and my caring level is low. “I was talking to Michael Cooke and—­”

“Michael Cooke.” The sexy voice returns. “He never told us he had a girlfriend, that sly boy.”

“I'm not—­”

“Honey, you're calling this number.” She doesn't allow me to correct her misconception. “He wouldn't give it to just anyone. Oh.” Mrs. Williams claps. “His mother doesn't know about you, does she?” She crows. “I'm coming in tomorrow at two in the afternoon, after my mani-­pedi. We'll have girl talk, you and I.”

I don't have the strength or willpower to deal with this. “Mrs. Williams—­”

“Don't worry, honey.” She laughs. “I'll bring a check too. I know how this works. Oh, Philippe is here. Ta-­ta. We'll talk tomorrow.”

The phone clicks. The dial tone buzzes. I remove my headset and glance toward Michael's office. I have to tell him about Mrs. Williams's mistake.