BUFF (19 page)

“Like I said he trusts me. If I tell him I took care of it he won't ask again."

Compelled to dig deeper she makes herself ask,” And then what? We live under assumed names and start over again?"

She can tell he wants to end the conversation, stop talking, but he doesn’t. Something about the way he looks through her, almost like he’s looking over her, trying not to care, feel.

“Yeah.” His low reply fractures the thick silence.

Becky is the first to break away. Halfway in the living-room she peers out the window, hoping to God that this is some sort of sick nightmare her warped imagination has created. She remembers everything that's passed since she found Colt hurt in the attic. Rolling through the mental list she’s positive she won’t survive the rest. She doesn’t know how she has made it this far without collapsing into a messy heap of drooling spasms.

“I don't… I can't believe this,” she whispers to herself, muffling the words in her sweater-covered palm.

Her lids droop a bit, the weight of the past twenty-four hour's events falling hard on her shoulders. Outside, it’s light out still. The Sun isn’t as strong but there is adequate daylight left. She wants to run, feel the cool breeze caress her face as she gulps in greedy amounts of fresh air. She needs the space to think, to feel, to get a grip on what’s happening without being under the microscope of her watcher.

The soothing quality of his voice descends on her just as his warm palms mold her shoulders and gently squeeze the tension away. “You okay?"

No.

“I'm fine.” She sighs. “I think I'll unpack." She doesn’t move and neither does he. His body is still barricaded behind hers. The heat of him is filtering though her, making her dizzy for sleep again. It’s weakening and dousing like he has some natural elixir seeping from him to her, making her stay in place when she wants to remove herself more than anything. “I'm fine. Go do what you need to do."

“You don't look fine."

“Yeah, well, how I look is not exactly something I can help.” She juts her shoulder blades out, hoping he'll receive the not-to-subtle gesture and remove his hands. “You got a problem with it, talk to God." Light air and a soft amusing chuckle stirs the hair around her ears. It fuels the irritability inside her. "This doesn't exactly fit you, you know. Pretending to care. I don't need it. And I'm sure it's not part of you're job description."

She feel the loss of his hands immediately.

“You never give an inch, do you?” His soft tone is gone.

“I'm tired,”

“You're cranky."

“I think I have a right to be."

“Get some sleep then."

“I'd rather go for a run."

“If you want I can make some coffee—”

“Please.” She whirls around and for a second halts by his closeness, but she refuses to lose ground. “I don't need a babysitter."

“I'm just trying to help."

“Help? Is that part of some training course you guys take before you do your first kidnapping job,” she scoffs. “I don't need your help."

She watches his jaw working overtime, his teeth milling away as they grind together, but he doesn’t speak up to defend himself. His stare is a mixture of anger and empathy. Both she wants nothing to do with. She wants herself away from him. That's all.

“Like you helped me before... In my attic? Is that how you want to help me?" A blush shades his skin, but it isn’t from embarrassment. “Was that part of your job as well? Telling me you wanted me, making me think you cared—kissing me? What kind of bonus does that get you? How much did that fuck get you, Colt?"

He steps away and claws his fingers through his hair, turning and hitting the edge of the fireplace on the way to the kitchen. She flinches, feeling the vibration course through her body.

“What's the matter, Colt. I hit a nerve?” The power shift of control makes her body feel buoyant, shoving her sensibility away. “You don't seem like the bashful type and I'm sure you've done a lot naughtier things than messing around with someone involved in your to-kill-list." He throws the shopping bag on the counter in the cabinet underneath and goes back to the refrigerator opening it. “Why can't you look at me? You afraid of what you might see? Feeling ashamed?"

He slams the door shut, never taking anything out of the fridge. “If that's what you wanna believe," he mutters, "I can't stop you."

“So it's true?” She can’t stop herself. “You used me... You used me to get me to trust you."

Statuesque, unmoving, nothing is out of place as he finally delivers the words she knows are coming, “Yeah,” he swallows, “At first, I needed you on side... but…"

Numb.

She feels nothing but numb.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, the lump in her throat threatening to consume her. “Thank you for proving me right all along. I made a mistake.” She turns and heads toward her bedroom door.

"One I'll never make again."

*     *     *

THE COFFEE’S BITTER.
He sips the dark-brown liquid again; the sour feel stronger than the first time. Already standing over the sink he dumps the contents of what consisted of his breakfast and begins to clean it.

His sigh is harsh and unforgiving when it falls from his mouth. He rinses the soap off the mug and slams it into the drain board. He hasn’t slept all night. He’s ready to drop. His body aches, his mind is paste and his fingers won’t stop shaking. Even his side hurts.

He needs a proper caffeine fix. Black, no sugar or cream, just one sixteen-ounce cup in the A.M. and he’ll be set for the day. Rubbing his temple Colt braces one hand on the sink, making the skin redden under his kneading.

If he's honest with himself he’d spent the whole night avoiding the truth. His bad mood has nothing to do with lack of sleep or any other excuse. It has nothing to do with the pain in his head or the fatigue beating up his body.

It's her.

All her.

He spent half the night sitting in the dark of the living-room, the other half standing outside her door listening. Waiting.

The sound of the bedroom door shutting clicks in his ear, the soft
thud
is followed by the slap of bare feet. Suddenly he remembers he isn’t wearing a shirt. It’d gotten so hot in the living-room last night he was sweating like he'd been running for ten miles. His shirt is still in the living-room.

Colt makes a mad dash, jumping over the four-foot counter that separates the two rooms before heading straight for the couch. His eyes do a quick thorough scan for the dark-blue shirt, throwing the cushions off then flopping them messily back in place. It's a waste of time. Becky’s already entering the kitchen. He can feel her eyes on his back and he does another fast skim, but in such a rush he comes up empty.

When he faces the kitchen, her back is to him. He hears her gentle hum, the soft pad of her feet shuffling against the floor tiles. Her hair is still damp from her shower, waving and free from its usual ponytail style. Her skin has a flushed tint from the steam and he can smell the clean soapy scent of her soap. She smells like sex and sweet sweet sugar.

He faces back to the window. His mood just goes from gloomy to homicidal. He breathes out, his chest tight.

It's okay... He is pretty fucking sure she’s never gonna speak to him again anyway. And since he's leaving it really—

“I'm making breakfast. Want some?"

His backbone tingles for no reason but the simple fact that she’s so unaware of how erotic she can be and how clueless she is of her own power over him. Her innocence provokes him, makes him want to toy with her. But she despises him and he’s not going to play Russian roulette with himself. He isn’t that much of a masochist. Maybe he won’t be so agitated and moody if he had just—

“You want some or not?"

His eyes shut. “No.”

He hears her whisper, “Okay,” and his eyes squeeze down.

He’s the Devil incarnate and she’s... an angel.

He’s such a bastard.

Deciding to sit but not turn he leans back into the couch. He has a while before his shift is over. He needs distance. Desperately. Being this close to her for such a long period of time is starting to gnaw at his insides.

Her
hum
drifts into the living-room, rising a bit, like an entrancing aroma of sound, hitting his senses, dulling his strength and reserve.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks.

The moving of pots and pans halts. She sighs before she continues, finally replying, “Fine, thanks."

He shakes his head, the pressure on his chest plate lessening a scant. “Good.” He licks his dry lips. “I'm glad,” he whispers, only for him to hear.

“What?"

“What?” He turns his head.

As though suddenly shy she brings her attention back to the stovetop. “I thought you said something.”

“Oh. No.” He sits up, straightening his shoulders. This is ridiculous, not to mention unlike him to be so aware and unsure of the fact on how to deal with her.

She's just a woman. An eighteen-year-old girl for fuck’s sakes.

He makes his way over to the open kitchen, her delectable smell mixing with the eggs she’s whipping in the bowl. Becky, for the first time, seems to be completely unaware of him. Her humming continues.

He notices she’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday sans the ugly, bulky sweater. Her jeans are too baggy for his taste as well, disguising her whole form from view and from what he can remember of her shape she has one. A very cute, sexy one.

The first time he fully saw her body in all its glaring beauty was when he was on death's door. But even shot and semiconscious he could still, now, recall that white dress and how the fabric cupped and hugged her lush breasts and how the sheer fabric strained as she bent lower... and there, in the dark he could almost make out one ripe red cherry—

A zip of electricity buzzes under his skin. He shakes it off and looks away. He remembers her skin is luminescent, like angel wings. The ultra femininity of her body leaves a paralyzing image that’s forever seared in his memory. It's something he wishes to forget.

Fuck! Think of mud, think of Kulich butt-naked, anything else...

He tries, he forces, but he always strays back. The plain white t-shirt she’s sporting now is tighter than her usual attire. The material between the valley of her breasts stretches every time her arms move, even an inch. It's sick and not like him to be so distracted by such a small insignificant thing.

But he is.

Clearing his throat and hopefully the effect of his wandering mind, his attention goes back to the present. “You like to cook?” he asks.

“I guess,” she mumbles, pouring the scrambled yokes into the frying pan. “It's definitely something I can do without messing it up." Her chuckle at the end of her comment doesn’t sit well with him.

“You cooked a lot at home?"

She pauses, only for a split second, but he sees it and immediately tastes his damn foot.

“I cooked three times a week. It was part of my chores."

“Chores…?” The word sounds foreign coming off his tongue. “What can you cook?"

“Anything. I can't make fancy stuff. I do make a great meatloaf and my mashed potatoes are always the creamiest. At least Toby—” She trips a bit on her last phrase. Her baby brother’s name fades into the air, evaporating into nothingness; kinda like the blank sheet of paper her face morphs into.

“You okay?” He doesn’t like the way she pauses as her body sways forward a bit.

“Fine,” she answers, a little too quickly.

His feet are up and he’s next to her before he realizes it. “Let me finish."

She turns her back slightly to him, not relenting in her cooking. "No. I'm fine."

She’s a terrible liar. Her face is paler than her t-shirt, her eyes are hollow, rimmed red, shadowed blue, her lips are bloodless and chapped and her body is doing that trembling thing again.

Colt isn’t a man accustomed with having to be delicate with his words, but he fights to remain relaxed with her. It takes all the strength inside of him.

"Maybe after this you can get some more sleep. Looks like you could use a couple more hours."

“That bad,” she mumbles. Her face remains hidden by her curtain of hair.

He pauses before replying, "No. No I mean—”

“I know what you mean, I get it."

”No, I don't think you do."

She turns, pulling a one-eighty with her ambience. “Sure you don't want me to make you some?” She forces a smile.

“No.” His reply is severe. “What's wrong?"

“Sorry?”

She fakes dumb even worse than outright lying. “Why you acting weird?”

“How am I acting weird?” She shrugs her shoulders.

“You just are.” He moves closer. “What's going on?"

She backs away almost immediately following his step. “I'm making breakfast. That's all."

“Last night you were a mess. Now you're acting like a goddamn pod-person. Something's up. What?"

Her back stiffens. "Last night was last night."