Grayson (5 page)

I had a hammering compulsion to crawl between his legs and lick every last drop from his body. So much so, that my taste buds leaked with the want of it.

His body jerked several more times in the chair and for a moment, I was afraid that it might topple backward or break. I held my breath, awed by this amazing moment. I looked down at my hands that were marked with fine tremors. When I glanced back up, I almost screamed in gut-wrenching shock. Sharp blue eyes glared at me. My palm flew to my mouth and I knew that my eyes must’ve been as wide as saucers.

The man’s piercing eyes narrowed, then his face pinched in tremendous anger.

“
GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!
”

The deep roar of his yell was deafening and I did not have to be told twice. With terror in my heart and adrenaline shooting through my veins like liquid fire, I scrambled down the stairs as fast as my legs would take me. I grabbed my laptop, carelessly knocking over the coffee in my haste. Still shaking like a leaf, I shrugged on my backpack and flew through the door.

I walked the fifteen blocks to my apartment with my laptop clutched to my chest, my body shaking. I was in a daze. I had no recollection of the route I took to get home, or of anything that I saw on the way. My mind was racing. I was mortified that I’d not only intruded on such a private moment, but that I’d stayed and eagerly watched.

I couldn’t believe what I’d done. To be honest with myself, it wasn’t only my actions that I had trouble wrapping my brain around, but also my reaction. Even now, my flesh still throbbed with arousal and my vaginal walls quivered with small burning spasms. I ran up the six flights to my apartment and burst through the door, thanking God that Jenny wasn’t home. I stripped naked on my way to the shower, leaving my clothes where they landed. My body teetered on the edge of an abyss, about to take a head-long plunge. I needed a cold shower. I hoped it would clear my head and cool my overheated skin. In the small stall, I let the icy spray needle my back as my hands soaped my slick skin. Reaching between my legs, I stroked a few times, and came harder than I ever had in my life.

CHAPTER THREE

A week later, I walked out of my physical exam class with Jenny. We’d been cooped up all day in the lab taking fake medical histories and listening to the normal heart sounds of our fellow classmates. Actually, one of them had a tricuspid valve murmur, so that was pretty cool to listen to. We’d practically attacked the poor girl with our stethoscopes.

Anatomy lab was the only place where you were celebrated for your physical ailments and oddities. Most of our training so far had been on plastic dummies and fellow students, who for the most part, were disappointingly healthy. We were always thrilled to find the occasional anomaly. Last semester, there was a girl in our lab with a third nipple. She’d become a superstar.

Jenny and I exited the building and were turning down Eighth Street when she asked, “Are you signing the Work Horse Petition?”I shook my head. Jenny was referring to a petition that a group of nurses had initiated at the hospital. It was in protest of working three twelve hour shifts in a row. This grueling three day schedule allows little time to do much else except work like a beaten horse.

A nurse had recently been terminated for making a medication error while working the long shifts. Although it had been her error, inarguably, working such lengthy shifts and the ensuing fatigue, had played a part in the nurse’s poor judgment.

My colleagues were petitioning the hospital to mandate that the shifts be broken up and not worked consecutively. There were pros and cons to both sides of the argument. Some nurses liked grouping their shifts together so they could have longer stretches of time off.

I personally never thought working the long shifts consecutively was a good idea. I’d worked enough of these hellish back to back schedules to know that my brain was fried by the end of the three days. But I didn’t want to get involved. I was happy to have a job and didn’t care to make waves. The hospital didn’t look favorably on staff who created dissidence. I was never one to toot horns or rally a crowd. I stayed far away from trouble. I rarely have a problem speaking my mind when asked my opinion, but I’ve always managed to keep my head low and stay under the radar.

I had too many responsibilities and obligations resting on my shoulders to get embroiled in something that could distract me from school, or pose a potential threat to my livelihood. There was too much riding on my income.

“We could really use your help,” Jenny said, seizing my attention. “It’s good to be proactive. I know you hate working the long hours.”

“Sorry, Jen.” I shook my head. “I’m way too busy with school and working two jobs.”

Jenny looked disappointed but didn’t push me. She knew my family situation. Abruptly, she stopped in her tracks, then grabbed my arm and leaned in, smiling.

“I think someone’s here to see you,” she whispered and nodded to the white Bentley parked on the corner.

I followed her gaze to Charles, who was leaning casually against his Bentley charming the panties off two sorority girls—something he was apparently very good at considering the collection in his apartment. The girls could’ve been twins with their gleaming blonde hair, matching purple Alpha-Phi-Beta sweaters, and indecently short plaid skirts.

I’d told Jenny about Charles, and she’d thought it was hilarious that this youngster was my boss. Apparently, he had quite a reputation around campus. Immediately, Jenny burst into a low chorus of Rock-a-bye baby, and I shoved her playfully. I wasn’t in the mood. I hadn’t told anyone about what had happened at the house. Guilt and shame were still riding me hard about my inexcusable behavior. I hadn’t been back to the house since the day I’d spied on Mr. Whitmore. All week I’d been anxiously waiting for Charles’ call or text to tell me that I was fired.

Charles spotted me and said a few words to his fawning entourage. He headed in my direction with a long legged stride, but instead of the arrogant smile I was used to, his face was serious. I gulped, beating back dread.

“You better tuck the girls away,” Jenny chuckled, her chin jerking toward my cleavage. I was wearing a T-shirt with a V-neck, and although you couldn't see actual cleavage, the neckline was low for me. I groaned and shot her a look that silenced her.

Charles stopped in front of me and I introduced them. Smiling, Jenny made an excuse about needing to be somewhere to
baby-sit
and took off, giving me a wink behind his back. I suppressed my smile and focused my attention back on Charles, who was now regarding me through narrowed eyes. His anger was obvious, tinting his fair complexion. I didn’t know what to say. The look on his face was scattering anxious flutters in my belly.

“I just came from the house.”

I bit my lip hard and waited.

“What the fuck happened?” he glowered.

I felt the blood drain from my face. Usually, I’d be pissed that he’d spoken to me so callously, but I was so full of shame that I couldn’t even bring myself to look him in the eyes. “I…I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Why haven’t you been there? Didn’t you get my text?” He looked exasperated.

“No.” I frowned, confused, my heart still pounding like horses hooves in my chest.

“I texted you to let you know that the supplies are there. They’ve been there for a few days now. I thought maybe you were still pissed or something.”

“No, no.” I shook my head, relieved. My pulse finally slowed.

“I’ve had to work and study. I’ve been taking midterms.”

His gaze zeroed in on my face. “You didn’t mean to what?”

I blinked. I blinked again. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I just never got your text.”

“Okay.” He smiled, his anger dissipating quickly. His mood shifted with the wind. His gaze brushed over me and I had to force my eyes not to roll. “We good?”

I nodded.

He smiled again and handed me an envelope.

I looked inside, shuffling through the crisp bills. It was significantly more than what he owed me.

“I think there’s a mistake.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I know the house is in pretty bad shape. I’m sure this job hasn’t turned out to be what you expected.”

That was certainly true…on many levels…

“It’s a lot of work. You’ve already made progress. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, and yes, the house
is
in bad shape,” I said slowly, thoughtfully, trying to tread carefully. “I still can’t believe that your father lives there.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Like I said, he’s been there forever. He likes it there.”

“But it’s not safe. It’s a fire hazard. There could be mold.”“There’s no mold. We’ve had it tested.” Charles swiveled his gaze around, as if he was looking for something or trying to avoid eye contact. “I’ve tried to get him to move, but he doesn’t want to. He’s not well.”

A knot pulled tight in my throat. I shouldn’t pry, but I was obsessively curious about his father. “What do you mean?”

He looked around the busy street again then brought his gaze back to mine. “He’s schizophrenic. Paranoid sometimes. It got worse after my mother died. He stopped taking his medication.”

My skin paled as the activity of the street dulled and faded into the background. White noise rushed between my ears, filling my head. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, but an acute sadness ribboned through my chest and wrapped tight around my heart, squeezing.

After what happened at the house, I’d gone online and looked up the Whitmore family. Anna had gotten the story only partially right. Charles’ parents, Grayson Whitmore and his wife, had been in a terrible car crash four years ago. They’d been hit by a drunk driver. His wife had been killed and he’d survived.

There were nonspecific reports of Grayson’s hospitalization after the crash, but no follow up news. This was strange because I’d found numerous articles about the business tycoon before the accident, but it seemed he’d just dropped off the face of the earth. There’d been no mention of any mental illness, and surprisingly, no pictures of Grayson Whitmore.

Charles must have seen the look on my face because concern pleated his brow. “I hope you’re not afraid. He’s harmless, really. You probably don’t even know he’s there. He keeps to himself.”

“No. I’m not afraid,” I responded truthfully. One other question had been gnawing at me. “How old is he?”

Charles thought for a moment. “Forty-three…no forty-four now.” He looked at me directly. “Why?”

I shrugged and looked away, trying to hide my surprise. The numbers on the painting must have meant something else.
Shit
, he was only a year younger than my father. I floundered for an excuse. “I—I was just picturing a frail, little old man. I’m just concerned about him being in the house by himself.”

He laughed loudly at that and shook his head. “My father is not frail physically. Only mentally.”

“I’m sorry.” I said genuinely, wondering what could be remotely humorous about that. Guilt ballooned inside me. The man was mentally ill. Somehow that made my actions even more inexcusable.

Something else had been bothering me. “Don’t get me wrong. I really want this job, but I’m just curious why you haven’t hired a professional cleaning crew, a company that could come in and sort everything and clean? They’d probably be done in a week, two tops.”

“I don’t know how he’d react to that. My primary concern is his mental stability. I don't want to frighten him with too many people crawling about the house, so I haven’t done it. Like I said, he’s very particular.”

His eyes shifted away and I had the feeling he wasn’t being entirely honest.

“You have time for lunch?” he asked.

The topic detour pulled me from my thoughts. I shook my head.

“I have class soon, sorry.”

He nodded, but skepticism dropped his lids as his gaze probed me. I really did have class, although soon was a relative term. Three hours to me was soon.

“I’ll catch up with you
soon
then,” he said, before turning toward the Bentley. I noticed then that the two sorority sisters were sitting in the back seat.

The rest of my day drifted by in a fuzzy haze. Only half of my brain was devoted to thinking. The other half had shut down. I took my sketchbook to the park and tried to get lost in the form and texture of the world. After several failed attempts, I balled up the drawings I’d created, and slam dunked them into a nearby trashcan. Although I didn’t think they were any good, there were a few sketches I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. Sketches that filled me with both longing and deep sadness.

My heart stayed heavy for the rest of the day. By that evening I’d  come to a decision. I needed to apologize to Grayson Whitmore. I felt horrible for what I’d done, especially now that I knew he was mentally ill. I needed to release the contrition locked tight in my gut. Maybe then my mind could rest and I’d stop thinking about this man.

It was still light out when I keyed in my password and entered the house. I had to make a conscious effort to regulate my breathing. It wasn’t from the mildew this time. It was from the nervous tension skipping inside me. I saw the stack of my long-awaited cleaning supplies piled in a corner: rags, mops, dusters and a vacuum. I meandered through the clutter to my cleared area and was surprised to see that the coffee I’d spilled during my hasty exit had been cleaned up. Had Charles cleaned it up when he’d come to the house? Somehow I doubted that.

Everything else was how I’d left it a week ago. My eyes moved toward the picture of the beautiful man and I swear his gorgeous blue eyes smiled at me. So different from real life. He’d been angry when he’d caught me spying. Livid. Ferocious. Crazy.
Was he truly crazy? Would he accept my apology? Would he scream at me again to get out?
The thought had my stomach doing somersaults.

I slowly climbed the back stairs with my heart in my throat, my breath puffing out shallowly. My hand curled around the knob and I pushed. The door was locked.

I swallowed hard, thinking I should just go away. But I’d come this far. I had to do what I believed was the right thing.

“Hello?” I yelled through the door, my finger pads pressed lightly against the wood.

What was I doing?
Obviously, the locked door was a sign for me to go away.

“
Hello?
” I yelled louder. I knew he was there. I somehow knew he could hear me. I took a deep breath, feeling a swell of undefined emotion.

“I—I just wanted to say I’m sorry…for…for…the other day. I’m sorry,” I said again. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, knowing I was talking about much more than my inappropriate spying.

I’m sorry that you’re sick,
I wanted to say.

I waited, feeling like an ass. Maybe he wasn’t even listening. Maybe he was asleep, or out?
Did he ever leave this house?

Nothing but silence greeted me, a stale, cumbersome weight leaking from the walls. Dejected, I turned and headed down the stairs and out of the house.