BUFF (7 page)

MOTEL 66. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN.

He is right where she expected him to be. At a motel. With a prostitute.

Becky had phoned him, asking to meet, saying it was urgent. He had insisted she come meet him.

She sucks in a deep breath. She’s just about to undo five years’ worth of self-therapy.

“Emmett.”

He sways a little as he comes out from his motel room. “Rebecca Emma Appleton. Finally come to your senses. Ever had a threesome? I don’t mind paying.”

Emmett Irving is a decent looking man to any passing woman. He’s tall with chiseled good looks, blue eyes, dark brown hair. His jaw is sharp and strong and he has a great build. His all-American exterior will make any unsuspecting out-of-towner take a second and third detailed gaze. But if they find out what he’d done to her, they’ll see what lurks beneath is rotten. All the way to his blackened soul. Her skin crawls with an army of slugs and she wants to… run. Hide away. But…

This is for Colt. He’ll die if I don’t do something.

“I, um…” She just needs to do it. Time is not on Colt’s side. “I need a favor."

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “I must have heard wrong. You want what?"

“I don't have time for games, Emmett. I need your help and I need it now." After several slow seconds of stretched silence he steps toward her.

“So, Rebecca,” he says, his snake-like voice sends shivers down her spine. “You’ve come back for more, Petal." The nickname shoots through her core like a poisoned arrow. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It makes her stomach hurl.

He risked your life for you once; you owe him.

“I need antibiotics and a few other things."

“Excuse me?” Emmett pretends not to pay attention to her. She should have known he’ll make her beg.

She locks gazes with him as he leers over her. “I don't have time for this, Emmett. I need you to do me this favor. You’re the only doctor I know that can help."

He leans closer, scratching his eyebrow as he eyes the length of her body. “And what do I get in return?” he says, stroking a cold, lifeless finger down her neck.

She smacks it away. “I don't have anything you want."

“You'd be surprised."

Her response is terse, “Whatever. I need antibiotics and whatever else for an open wound."

“Open wound?” he asks, his brow lifting. “What exactly is this for?"

"None of your damn business. I'll pay you now but the favor will have to come later." His faux contemplation is well staged and lags on for several minutes. Becky twists her watch over to get a look at the time. “Emmett. Now."

“What about a doctors prescription.” He’s smiling so smugly she wants to kick his teeth in with her steel-toed boot.

She doesn’t cover the impatience in her voice, replying, “That's part of the favor. I don't have it.” She swallows, closing her eyes and she chokes up her next word, “P-Please."

“Well,” he smirks, “since you know how much I love it when you beg for me to do things for you."

He walks her over to his Porsche and pops the boot open. “You’re in luck. Got some with me.”

He shifts a few boxes before opening one. “Here's a topical antibiotic. Make sure to put it on twice a day. Here's an antibiotic, take it with food.” He extends out a paper bag and says, “All the other stuff is in this bag.” When she reaches to take the bag he snatches his hand back. “Who's this for?”

“That's between me and my maker.” She locks eyes with him again.

“And my favor?"

Becky grabs the bag. “For another time and place.”  She tries to hand him a one-hundred dollar bill—it’s the last of her saved money from her dinky summer job at the grocery store—but he closes her hands around the money with no intention of releasing her.

“Oh, Rebecca. Your favor is worth more than money.”

She yanks her hand away and takes long strides to escape his clutches, almost turning into a jog when he calls out, “I hope you're ready because you owe me now and I intend on paying you a visit real soon, Petal."

*     *     *

A DYING BEAST.

Her head cranes to the side, the attic door
thuds
softly behind her. His sickly presence grazes her vision.

Just... still.

Unforgivably aching beauty, so real and tangible, and yet the closer she comes toward him the further away she seems.

One slow foot moves in front of the other. Tiny beads of sweat break through on her forehead. The attic, her haven, it doesn’t even resemble her hiding spot. His presence wrecks the illusion her mind has taken years to build up. She wants to hate him. Hate him for stealing away her easy recluse life. But she can’t.

She keeps coming back.

She stops a foot by his bedside. He hasn’t moved. He’s on the floor with the mattress behind him just the same as when she left him. His whole face is lit up, there are no dark shadows, just a smooth, plain surface of skin and stubble. It’s impossible to tear her eyes away.

Do I have to wake you? Being awake makes the nightmares true...

Becky's fist tightens. The paper bag she’s holding crinkles. Colt stirs, his head turns to the side. She kneels watching him the whole time as her body trembles. She removes the blanket with ease, but when she looks at his t-shirt she licks her lips.

There’s only one way this can be done…

Forcing herself not to think she lifts and pulls the thin material back over his head. Her limbs, her arms, freezes for one, quick second.

She swallows the moisture in her mouth as her eyes trail over his lean hips, his narrow waist, his eight-pack and the sexy V-lines of his obliques. Everything from his chest and biceps is cut to perfection and rock-solid. His tattoos circle the exact point his bulging biceps and broad shoulders meet.

There’s a small circular scar on the side of his upper arm… It’s the bullet he took to save her life five years ago… Her thighs clench and a ribbon of yearning unfurls deep in her core.

But beyond all the beauty there’s so much blood. It’s an endless ring around the small puncture of flesh. The amount of blood soaked around the wound looks like a grenade has gone through his side.

She pours the rubbing alcohol onto the clean cloth, placing one hand above the wound and wiping with the other. Some of the blood is old and some of it is fresh just from this morning. Becky does her best to remain detached through the rusty smell of the blood and the deep black hole that begins to show once her strokes work through the mess. His shallow breathing picks up a notch and her hand tingles in awareness for a split moment, only to heighten when he groans.

God he sounds so sexy, so manly when he makes those deep, low noises... There is something wrong with me…

“Stay still, okay,” she whispers.

He doesn’t answer but she knows her words haven’t fallen on deaf ears. His body becomes like a living statue underneath her again. Alive but as posed as a flower on a windless day.

She leans back, finished with the cleaning part. The bullet wound doesn’t appear so threatening without all the blood covering it. She’s never realized something so small can cause so much damage.

Looks certainly are deceiving.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

Colt swallows a few times before he hisses out, “Fine,” as the alcohol seeps through the open wound.

The topical medicine soothes the injury before she places the gauze over, using the medical tape to secure it in place. He isn’t bleeding. She hopes it stays that way. Becky pulls out the antibiotics from her bag.

“You took my clothes off,” he says. “Always the quiet ones.”

Is he smirking at me? Is this all a game for him?

“I'll get you a clean shirt when I get the chance and I didn’t take everything off…"

He doesn’t say anything for five minutes. Her eyes finally roam near his face. His eyes are shut but he’s definitely awake. His face is way too tense and straining now to pass for slumber.

“You don't have to lie, you know.” She waits for his reaction, each ticking of the clock seeming to grow louder each second.

“I'm… fine.”

‘Fine’. Always fine.

Becky shakes her head, lifting the bottle of pills in front of her and reads the label carefully. “I don't believe you."

He coughs, his hand covers the harsh sound, but she sees the burn it causes in his eyes. When it subsides he dares a quick glance her way, but instantly looks back at the ceiling. “Well, how nice for you."

She sighs, hovering closer to his top half. “I got some medicine.” She holds it up but her words fall onto nothing. “Colt. Please sit up. You need to take this." The look he gives her catches her off guard. The unfound intensity is blinding. “I... uh… this will help."

He tries to sit up on one elbow but like a domino he nearly topples back down. She catches him from underneath his arm and supports him the rest of the way. His eyes never leave her.

The bottle cap pops open and she hands him two white pills. “This is an antibiotic for the fever and if there’s a possible infection... If there is any fever it should—"

“I know what antibiotics do.” He discards the pills in his mouth like it’s candy. She looks away for a second, his eyes on her.

“I brought you some...” Her words fade as he groans again. It does something to her; the noises he makes. “...water." She scratches her nose. There is nothing left to do now but wait. “Well, there's, uh, water up there if you'd like some. It's good to have some fluids in your stomach especially with the antibiotics in your system."

“I'm good.” She finally returns his stare after she pretends to appear busy with something in the medicine bag.

“No you're not. You know you could be dying, right?"

Tightness creeps around the corners of his eyes. A smile forms but none of it reaches beyond the slight, but very sexy dimple on his right cheek. But it’s enough to makes the unknown inside her react.

“What’d you care?"

“You're not used to people taking care of you, is that it?"

His stare frosts into an unmistakable glare. “Don't like it, is all."

“Why not?”

He heaves out a long breath. “What's with the twenty-one questions?" She winces slightly at the bite in his voice.

So much for letting my instincts take full reign. Why do I even bother?

The more she sits there, the more outraged she becomes. “Fine. I'll be back in an a couple of hours to change your dressing and give you more meds.”

He nods at her, his profile rigid and his gaze fixes to the attic wall. “Try and restrain yourself from taking my pants off, now.”

Huffing at his immature remark she gets up, collects everything and stuffs the bag with the bloodied rag and paper towel. He struggles to lay back down, gripping his side as he rests on his back, finally letting himself breathe once he’s pressed into the comforter. He falls asleep soon after.

The day passes by quickly and soon it’s night time. She’s attended to Toby all day making sure he’s fed and changed regularly but she spends most of the day in the attic looking after him. She really should have spent the day packing for college or something… It’s late and she doesn’t know why she’s still up here. She should ring her parents to find out when they’ll be home.

But she’s fixated on watching him sleep.

His face, his features, as before, are disturbingly angelic and a bit devilish. His hair is ruffled from fevered sleep, matted and tousled, but for some reason it fits him. A stray strand lays across his sweaty forehead. Sweat is a good sign. It means the fever is going down, the pills are working. More rest, more medicine and hopefully he’ll be back to himself in no time. And more importantly, out of her life.

Her hand separates from her straying consciousness when she smooths the small silk piece from his head. She sighs, knowing, if he was awake she wouldn’t dare be so bold. She almost laughs imaging his cold, sour response.  Her fingers feather across his thick eyebrow as they fall from his face. She moves to walk away, but something warm wraps around her wrist.

The cry clings to her throat and she turns, guilt staining her blazing cheeks. “I—I was just…” Her gaze locks with his. His cold blue eyes liquefy. He waits patiently. “I, um, well I can’t sleep so I was just… I mean I was thinking—”

“You were watching me.” A ghost of a smirk fades to nothing.

Her temper picks up a gear as he draws out his little game. “No… No of course not. I was just checking on you.” He lingers, not revealing an inch of what’s stirring beneath the surface. “I wasn’t trying to bother you. Go back to sleep.” She moves but he holds on to her wrist, gently but possessively. “You mind?” She jerks her arm but it doesn’t move a centimeter from his strong clasp.

“Thank you…" His whisper is barely audible.

She pauses. “Wh-What?"

He glances down at their physical connection and then back at her. His voice is so naked, so textured, so deep in honesty, that Becky believes she’s hallucinating.

She’s never heard a human sound so ghostly. It makes goose-bumps pinch all over her body, even in places she never knew existed.