Stan (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Stan

There was
something unnervingly primal about the way I was feeling.

After showing Max
where his cabin was, I had this urge to make up some excuse that the caravan
park was actually booked out and he would have to seek shelter elsewhere.

It was obvious Bel
had made the mess, and that Mr Knight in Shining Armour had come along and
gallantly taken the heat for her. My eyes rolled thinking about it, and then
again, I wondered why I was feeling so on edge about something so stupid.

I found my answer.

I paused,
momentarily observing Bel on the far end of the verandah, oblivious to me
watching her as she twirled the broomstick like she was a girl swinging a baton
leading a marching band. I smiled, leaning casually against a post, taking in
the sight of Bel wasting time. I put money on the fact that her actions would
miraculously change as soon as I came into view. I deliberately made a coughing
noise before starting to walk and, sure enough, Bel stopped twirling the broom
so abruptly, it nearly hit her in the eye. She quickly, if not inelegantly,
started to sweep the already spotless verandah, feigning surprise when she saw
me make my way up the stairs.

“Max settled in
all right?” she asked.

The question was
the equivalent to someone running their nails down a blackboard—it somehow
shifted my mood.

“Fine.” I
shrugged, looking to change the subject. “Toilets?”

Bel’s shoulders
slumped. “What?” she breathed in dismay.

I let the dread
seep into every part of her being before I smirked. “I did them this morning.”
I walked past her, pausing to take in the bemused wonder in her gaze.

“Seriously?”

“Looks like it’s
your lucky day.”

Bel smiled
broadly, a little glint lighting her eyes. “Something tells me I should enjoy
this feeling while it lasts,” she said.

I held the screen
door open for her. “You hungry?”

“Famished.”

***

“Cold pizza?
Seriously?” Bel’s eyes were cast downwards on her plate, dismay slumping in her
shoulders as she looked back up at me in horror.

“Geez, ungrateful
much?” I said, grabbing a couple of cans of Coke from the fridge.

“Your insides must
be rotten,” she said, stabbing her pizza like a science experiment with her
fork. “This is gross.”

I sighed, punching
the tab of her can and placing it in front of her, choosing to ignore her
complaining.

“I would ask you
to heat it up for me, but you know … that didn’t go so well for you last time.”
She smirked.

My brows lifted,
biting off a sizable chunk of pizza as I took in her devious smile.

Such a smartarse,
I mused.

“So what music do
you want to listen to tonight? I have some Clapton or Dire Straits.”

All of Bel’s
fleeting humour melted away. “Don’t you dare.” She glowered. “Or at least play
something decent.”

I all but choked
on my pizza. “Decent? Wash your mouth out, Bel Evans.”

“Oh, believe me,
after this lunch I plan to,” she said, pushing her plate away in distaste and
rubbing her hands on her thighs as if they were covered in grease. “Is there
anything else I had to do today?”

There was plenty
to do, always plenty. But I couldn’t think of anything for Bel to do;
delegating wasn’t my strongest point as I always just thought it easier to do
it myself. I could sit her in the office for the rest of the day but then my
mind flashed back to the glazed look of awe she had when she was watching Max
fill out his paperwork, and my insides twisted.

“No, nothing I can
think of,” I lied.

“Cool!” Bel leapt
off her stool and headed for the door; the action of her happiness jolted me
into action.

“Um, hang on, I
just thought of something.”

I had nothing.

Bel came to a
sliding halt at the door, her body language slumping into that of a
disappointed child.

“Whaaaat?” she
moaned, only making me more adamant in making an excuse for her to stay.

“There is
something.”

Think-think-think-THINK,
Stan.

Bel stood there
waiting, crossing her arms, and curving a brow, her foot impatiently tapping.

“Yes?”

My mind was blank;
I couldn’t think of a damn thing that would warrant keeping her here, and
furthermore, why did I want her to stay? Shouldn’t I have been glad to see the
back of her? Hadn’t I looked forward to the solitude, the quiet time? It was
the only silver lining I had found in the event of being stuck here. I had it
all worked out; get all my chores done as early as I could and then stick as
close to the main house as possible in case anyone came by. And now here I was
making up some lame excuse for Bel Evans, the proverbial pain in the arse, to
actually ‘hang’ with me. Was I so starved of company? This was Bel Evans. Not a
friend. Certainly not someone I’ve
ever
wanted to hang with.

My attention
snapped as a hand waved in front of my face, breaking my trance; I found Bel
standing right in front of me. She had stepped close, far too close. She smelt
like berry lip balm and sunshine; her inquisitive stare studied me intently.

“You okay?” she
asked, genuine concern softening her voice.

I swallowed
deeply, trying not to let my eyes dip to her collarbone, or the long feminine
line of her neck that was beautifully exposed, thanks to her cropped, silken
black folds that I wanted to push behind her ear.

Shit, Stan, get
a grip.

“I’m fine.” I
coughed.

“Really? Because
you don’t look so good.” Her hand lifted, pressing her palm onto my forehead. “You’re
burning up.”

Hell, yeah, I
was, no thanks to her.

Her cool skin on
mine did nothing to alleviate my sudden symptoms. No, I wasn’t all right, far
from it. I was in a diabolical state of insanity, and the moment I had realised
exactly what ailed me, I came to the certain understanding … I also knew I was
utterly screwed.

“Maybe you got too
much sun today?” Bel added thoughtfully, the back of her knuckles brushing the
back of my cheek to gauge my temperature some more.

“Yeah, maybe,” I
said, trying to keep my breaths even as her worried eyes were ever watchful of
me, her soft hands sweeping across my face.

Stop thinking
these things, Stan. Now
.

“You’re on fire,
Stan, and not in a ‘your pizza is on fire’ kind of way, but you are really hot.”

I flinched where
her other hand clasped my cheek.

“Seriously, I’m
fine,” I said, clasping her wrists and pulling them down.

Her eyes narrowed.
“Don’t try and be a hero, Stan.”

“I’m not.”

“Look, if you can’t
do everything on your own then don’t; I
can
help. You shouldn’t have
done the toilets for me. I could have done it.”

“Look, I
appreciate your concern, but I feel—”

“Sit on the couch,”
Bel ordered.

“Sorry?”

“Go!’ She pointed
towards the lounge.

A small line
curved the corner of my mouth with incredulous wonder. Was she for real?

But taking in the
stern look in her eyes and her unwavering finger pointing, I decided to go with
it, intrigued with what she had in mind.

“All right, all
right, geez, is this the way your old man speaks to his patients?” I mused,
making my way over to the lounge to keep the peace.

Bel didn’t answer;
instead, she padded her way around the kitchen, busying herself with opening
and closing cupboards. I wondered if she was in search of a first aid kit or
something dramatic, but then she finally located what she was looking for as
she placed a fresh glass on the counter and headed for the fridge, opening it
and grabbing the jug of water. I watched on silently—it was as if she was on a
stage playing out a scene before me, her captive audience. I took in the
crinkle of her brow as she concentrated on pouring the water into the glass so
as not to spill a drop. The no-nonsense way she returned the jug and slammed
the fridge door closed with her foot, before she disappeared down the hall,
leaving the glass on the counter.

“Don’t move,” she
called from the hall.

Umm, okay.

A moment later,
Bel swept back into view making a beeline for the glass and bringing it
carefully over to me.

“Here,” she said,
handing it over to me.

“Thanks,” I said,
trying to keep my humour under wraps as I took the glass from her.

“And here, take
these.” She held out her hand, motioning to take what looked like two small
white discs.

I inspected them
with interest. “No, thanks.”

Bel rolled her
eyes. “I am not trying to poison you.”

“Really? Because
some might say that your particular disdain for my late night music might be
the perfect motive,” I teased, before taking a sip of my water.

“The only risk you
run of poisoning is either by alcohol or food poisoning; it’s probably why you
have a fever.”

I wished it were
that simple, but the heat of my skin had nothing to do with a hangover and
everything to do with her. I cursed myself for letting my head get all fuzzy
with such ridiculous thoughts.

“Bel, I said I am
fine.” I went to get up but was shoved down by her hand on my chest.

“Just take them
already. They’re only aspirin; they will hit your temp on the head,” she
insisted.

Sighing, I couldn’t
help but admire her insistence; she would make an excellent doctor if her
bedside manner weren’t so …
violent.

I picked up the
discs from her palm, trying not to think about how soft her skin felt when my
fingers brushed against her. I chucked them into my mouth, smiling
sarcastically with the tablets wedged in my teeth as proof they were there,
before I downed them with a big gulp of water. I opened my mouth, proving to
her I had indeed swallowed them as if I was some kind of patient in an insane
asylum. My thoughts had me wondering if that wasn’t too far from the truth,
because as far as I was concerned, liking Bel Evans was absolutely, positively
insane.

Chapter Seventeen

Bel

Worst patient
ever.

Okay, so maybe I
was fussing, and maybe I was taking some kind of sick joy in bossing him
around, but when he zoned out so quickly and having felt the intense burn of
his skin, I knew it was more than just a possible hangover. He had been fine
all morning; I had actually thought him superhuman that anyone could function
on so little sleep and so much grog. And maybe it was the effects of all those
things catching up with him. I couldn’t help feel the edges of guilt creeping
into my mind knowing he had to look after everything on his own, when by all
rights, he should have been kicking back on a riverbank fishing somewhere
instead of here scrubbing toilets for me.

Stan finished the
last of his water. I instinctively took it from him and placed it on the coffee
table before examining his forehead again; he moved his head aside all too late
as I clasped my hand on his head again.

It was probably
overkill but I couldn’t help the way my skin tingled each time I touched him. I
could easily become addicted to the sensation.

“Unless you gave
me some kind of lethal dose, I don’t think they would work that quickly,” he
mused, and suddenly my cheeks burned.

“Just checking;
you’re still really hot.”

“I know, sucks to
be me.” He gave me a boyish grin, the very one that made me go all weak at the
knees. But there was no time for that, as I was enjoying the little bit of
power I had right now, and I was also hoping against hope that he wouldn’t
remember the chore he had wanted me to stay for. No, let’s just focus on him, I
thought. Shouldn’t be too hard, it was most boys’ favourite subject.

“Don’t move,” I
warned, making my way toward the hall door, glimpsing back to the couch to see
Stan adjusting the cushions with a sigh. He didn’t seem to be loving the
attention, which kind of bothered me a little. I wasn’t sure what was going on
here, but it suddenly wasn’t all about avoiding chores. I
wanted
to be
here with Stan?

Like in the
kitchen, I found myself cluttering around in the bathroom, this time looking
for a face washer. The only thing I had managed to find without hindrance was
the aspirin I knew was floating around in the bottom of my bag. As for light
switches, glasses, and bloody face washers, it was all a bit of a mystery …
ah-ha!

In the bottom
drawer of the cabinet, I lifted out a latte-coloured square, running it under
the cold tap, drenching it thoroughly, and twisting out the excess water.

I waved it in the
air all the way down the hall so as to give it extra chill factor before
folding it into a neat little squared parcel. I came to stand in front of Stan;
he had nestled lazily on the couch, his eyes closed, hands linked behind his
head as if he was in deep meditation. I jolted him out of his zen by plonking
myself on the space next to him, causing him to jump in fright.

“CREEPING BLOODY
JESUS!” he cried, clasping his heart.

I giggled, taking
immense delight in scaring him.

“It’s not funny.
Don’t do that, I am not a well man,” he said.

“Oh, so you
finally admit you don’t feel well?”

“Not now I don’t.
Bloody hell.” He straightened in his seat, and I tried not to let on the fact
his jean-clad leg was pressed up against mine on the couch, the heat burning
against mine.

“Oh, don’t be such
a baby,” I countered, glowering.

“Pretty hard not
to when you’re getting treated like an invalid,” he mused.

“Ungrateful much?
Shut up and close your eyes,” I snapped.

“God, first you
drug me, then scare me half to death, and now you want me to close my eyes?”

“You have serious
trust issues, you know that?”

“Yeah, can’t
imagine why.”

I gave him my best
deadpan stare, and the bastard then gave me a cheeky grin as his eyes dipped
toward the face washer and then back up at me, before closing his eyes and
melting into the lounge.

“Be gentle with
me,” he said, his smile broadening.

“Oh, shut up,” I
said, glad he couldn’t see my smile.

I pressed the cool
cloth against his forehead, surprised he didn’t flinch against the sensation. I
swept it slowly across his forehead, over his closed lids, and down the side of
his face. I knew this was extreme, ridiculous to the fullest measure. I mean, I
simply could have just chucked him the face washer from across the room and
said, “There you go.” But I didn’t want to. I wanted to fuss, to touch, to
stroke him. He was letting me do it and maybe this was me taking advantage of
him, but I couldn’t help take great pleasure in swiping the cold compress
across his brow and face. He looked so young and sweet when his eyes were
closed, and it gave me a chance to look at him, really look at him.

The brown curl of
his hair was tinged with a hint of auburn presumably lightened by the sun’s
rays. His skin was slightly tanned but nothing too deep. A slight brushing of
stubble pricked the sharp line of his jaw, the jaw I was now sweeping the cloth
over and down his neck line. Only then did Stan flinch. I stopped, fearing I
had gone too far as I saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
Thinking he wanted me to stop, I waited as his lips parted as he spoke in a
gravelly voice.

“Do you want me to
sit up a bit?”

My heart leapt in
abandoned approval but I tried to calmly reply.

“Yeah, that would
be easier.”

Without opening
his eyes Stan shifted into a straighter sitting position, leaning slightly
forward to allow me access to the back of his neck. God, it was hard to keep my
shallow breaths in line, I was starting to feel like I needed a cold face
washer to swipe against
my
heated skin. I really hoped Stan would keep
his eyes shut, I didn’t want him to open them and see the flush of my cheeks,
how doing what I was doing to him was affecting me in such a way, my heart
pounding like crazy against the wall of my chest.

I traced the cloth
around the back of his neck, stroking along his skin, causing him to clench his
jaw; the delicate tension that pulsed there did strange things to me as my
stomach twisted at the sight.

I pushed the
fabric of the thick collar of his polo shirt aside gently, cursing the barrier
between him and me. The navy curl of the fabric was not helping.

“No wonder you’re
hot, this shirt is made out of lead,” I joked.

Stan smiled. “Well,
maybe I should take it off?”

I paused, sitting
frozen beside him, studying his profile with wide-eyed wonder.

Was he serious?

As if sensing my
stillness, Stan peeked open one eye and smiled broader. Opening them altogether
and turning toward me, his amusement turned into a more serious gaze.

“Would that make
it easier?” he asked in all seriousness.

Easier? Easier for
what? Him? Me? Define easy. Yeah, it would make it all the better to touch him
with, to use the cool cloth that was now not so cool over his neck, shoulders
and chest.

Good God!

I shouldn’t be
doing this, I shouldn’t be touching him like this. He didn’t belong to me, he
wasn’t mine because he was Ellie’s. She should be the one tending to his sick
bed, not me.

Don’t think
about the word bed right now, Bel. Not. Helping.

And then the
unreasonable side of me started to flood my thoughts. I wasn’t doing anything
wrong, as I was simply helping. Helping him break a fever even if it meant
giving me one, and that was the reaction that felt so wrong. That doing what I
was doing was making me react in a way I didn’t wholly understand or want,
especially when I looked Stan straight in the eyes and answered him.

“Yes, that would
be easier.”

Oh, God, help!

Stan didn’t break
his gaze from my eyes; instead, he sat there for a long moment, studying my
face as if he was waiting for the cracks to show. Maybe he was looking for an
ounce of guilt, regret, amusement maybe. But knowing what would have reflected
to him would be the crimson flush of my cheeks and the heated betrayal of my
eyes looking into his, I stayed still. It was then he shifted. Slowly lifting
his arms to grab at the fabric at his back, he pulled the polo shirt over his
head, the way boys always do.

It took every
ounce of strength in me not to let my eyes roam, and I allowed only a brief
moment of pause when Stan had pulled the material over his head, showing me the
glimpse of skin until he had peeled it all off and chucked it aside, revealing
the smooth lines on his chest and skin. So much skin I was now going to touch
because he was allowing it.

He sat up
straight, thankfully closing his eyes as he waited for me to continue. I took
in a deep breath, and refolding the wash cloth to a new side, I began at the
side of his neck, sweeping down and across his collarbone. The cold sensation
across his skin caused his shoulders to melt from their tense stance. Stan
stretched his head forward as I swept around the back of his neck, this time
with no barrier except the cloth itself. A sigh of approval breathed out of him
as I swiped across his shoulder blades, a sound that made my heart leap at the
thought of such a sound coming from him directly as a result of my touch. I did
it again, seeking the same approval before moving over his chest. Even through
the material of the cloth, I felt the rapid beating of his heart, the shallow
laboured breaths, as I glided gently across his skin. My eyes were affixed on
the bow shape of his lips, lips I so desperately wanted to touch. Maybe I
would, maybe they were hot too? Maybe I could cool them down for him, would that
be strange? This whole afternoon had been anything but normal. Here I was,
sitting sideways next to Stan on the couch—a half-naked Stan—running and
exploring every curve, every fine-tuned muscle. Me doing this to him seemed
acceptable, but then I thought about me having a fever and the need of a face
washer compress, and somehow the thought of Stan running a wet cloth over my
body seemed sinfully wicked. Maybe the innocence in this situation wasn’t so
innocent. I knew from the tingling of my skin and the butterflies that danced
in the pit of my stomach. I knew it affected me in the most un-innocent of
ways, but how was it affecting Stan? He seemed relaxed, more than accepting. It
had been his idea for the shirt to come off. In a trance, I swept the cloth slowly
over the toned line of his flat stomach, the cloth grazing the top line of his
jeans, something else that was probably making him hot too, but I didn’t dare
mention that fact to him. Stan sighed deeply, either he was relaxing in a whole
new way or maybe I had gone too far?

I bit my lip,
failing to read the signs of whether it was torture, or actual pleasure he was
experiencing, whether what I was doing was actually helping at all. Because I
sure knew it wasn’t helping me. It was anything but relaxing, it was its own
kind of torture; the barrier of the cloth between my hand and his skin was the
line that was drawn. I desperately wanted to shed that last barrier and explore
of my own free will, but I didn’t dare. I had to fight the devil on my shoulder,
the very one that whispered:
Lower, lower, go lower.

Instead I stopped,
folding the cloth, and placing it on the coffee table. I stood slowly, averting
my eyes from Stan. He stood so fast he nearly knocked me over, steadying me as
he stood before me.

“What’s wrong?” he
asked, eyes wildly cast down on me.

“Nothing,” I said
quietly, trying not to be swept up in the heated, questioning expression of his
eyes.

“Why did you stop?”
His hand still touched my upper arm, still steadying me, which was not
necessarily a good thing. Skin to skin was definitely a torture.

My eyes lifted to
stare unapologetically into his. His brows furrowed in concern, as if the
weight of the world was dependent on my answer.

My mouth was
suddenly dry. I swallowed deeply, not once tearing my gaze from him. I managed
in a small but steady voice.

“Did you want me
to stop?”

Something in Stan’s
eyes lightened, and yet his expression was still cast of stone; the only thing
that moved was the rise and fall of his chest, followed by the slow shake of
his head.

“No. Don’t stop.”