Honey (12 page)

“I
own
you. Say it.”

Head bowed, she acknowledged she'd been right. This was going to be worse, a lot worse, than any physical pain he'd so far inflicted, harder and more soul-shattering, than she'd imagined.

“Say it!”

She dragged down a deep breath. The sobs she held in threatened to suffocate her. “Y-you o-own m-e.”

“Louder.”

“You … own me.”

“Again.”

“You. Own. Me!”

“Later you're going to suck my cock like you've never sucked it before, but first … ” He held out one foot, the wingtip dusty and splattered from walking on the city streets, and jabbed the toe into her crotch. “First you're going to lick my boots, Honey, every goddamned fucking filthy spot.”

 

“Anyone who does not believe in miracles is not a realist.”—Audrey Hepburn

 

Marc woke to pounding outside his apartment door and thunder claps outside his window. He'd been in a sound sleep dreaming about Honey. They were back at the IFC, only this time there was no holding back, no stopping, no regrets or guilty feelings. Hating to leave the dream haven, he rolled onto his side, willing the sound to cease. With luck, he could go back to sleep and pick up where they—he—had left off.

No such luck. The pounding persisted. As much as he wanted to blame the din on the storm, he couldn't keep ignoring the obvious. Someone was definitely at his door. He cracked open an eye, mentally reviewing the probable causes for waking him up in the middle of the night. Old Lady Barnes's cat crawled out onto the fire escape—again? A drug deal going down in the hallway—again? One of the older folks falling asleep with the stove on—again? His life was pretty predictable. Or at least it had been before he met Honey. He glanced over to the rain pelting his window and hoped that whatever the problem was, it wouldn't involve going outside.

He pulled on sweatpants and a T-shirt and headed out into the main room. Peering through the peephole, he saw that for once the cause of the late night commotion was nothing he could have foreseen.

Honey!

He unlocked the deadbolt, slid back the chain and opened the door. Soaked to the skin, Honey stood in his hallway leaking rainwater onto the linoleum. “Honey, what are you doing here? It's got to be—”

“Two a.m.” She all but collapsed against him, her bulky designer bag poking him in the chest. “I tried calling but you didn't … you didn't answer and I-I didn't know where else to go, where to take us.”

Her wild-eyed look freaked him out, and he was pretty sure her eyes were wet from more than rain. Fearing the worst, he pulled her all the way inside and kicked the door closed. “You came to the right place.”
You came to me
. And then it struck him. “Us?”

She slanted a look to the bag, which he saw was open rather than clasped. “It will only be for a few days until I can … return him to the rescuer.”

As if on cue, Cat poked his orange head out the top and yawned. Dumfounded, Marc stared.

“I know you don't care for cats, but he really is the best little darling and he's had … a really rough night.” Her face crumpled.

“I'd say he's not the only one.” Marc took the bag, set it and Cat on the floor in case he wanted to explore, and reached for her. Wrapping both arms around her, he tucked her head against his heart.

She burrowed against him. For several seconds they stood like that, wordless and still, Honey heaving silent sobs against him.

“That's it, let it all out,” he said against her wet hair.

He took the opportunity to check her out, running light hands along her shoulders, spine, and hips, searching out signs of soreness or damage. When she first entered, he hadn't picked up on any stiffness, though soaring adrenalin might still be masking any symptoms. Obviously some kind of damage had been done, and he had every reason to assume that Winterthur was once again behind it.

She lifted her face and stepped back. Whatever makeup she might have earlier worn had been scoured away. Keeping on his clinical cap, he searched for swelling, but other than puffy eyes from crying he couldn't find anything wrong.

“How did you get here?” he asked, not because it was all that important but because he wanted to satisfy himself that she hadn't blacked out.

“Subway. I've never taken the A train this far before. It was quite an adventure.” For the first time since she showed up, she sort of smiled.

“I'll bet.” The smile showed no teeth chipped or missing, at least none in the front. Relieved, he searched her red-rimmed eyes. “You need to tell me what happened.”

She hesitated, and then shook her head. “I've left him. I've left Drew. That's all that matters, all there is to tell. I waited for him to fall asleep and then I grabbed what I could without having to turn on a light, including Cat, and I left him.”

Marc was half-afraid to believe his ears. He'd figured she was weeks, no months, away from making a move, if indeed she ever did, and now suddenly here she was. Whatever Winterthur had done this time, it must be seriously psychotic. And yet other than being upset and wet, she looked more or less all right. “Can I get you something?”

She let out a sharp laugh. “That depends, what do you have? Narcotics, wine … ”

“I was thinking more along the lines of warm milk. The tryptophan has sleep-inducing properties.”

She wrapped her arms around herself as though suddenly registering the draft. “Do you have tea, perhaps?”

“I might be able to rustle up a bag.”

If he had any on hand, it was either Lipton or Red Rose, purchased for his mother's last visit and not replenished since. Not the fancy stuff he'd seen her drink before, but at least it would warm her up. Speaking of which …

He hesitated and then lifted his arms, pulling the T-shirt over his head and off.

“I'll find you something to wear in a few but for now, put this on.” He handed her the shirt, not missing how her eyes widened as they lingered on his chest.

“The shirt off your back even—you are a good Samaritan, aren't you?” she said with a laugh.

“I try.” Mindful of how vulnerable she must be despite the stab at humor, he turned quickly away.

She slipped on the T-shirt and followed him into the kitchen. “So this is your place,” she said, looking around.

Marc tried seeing his apartment as she must—the herringbone patterned hardwood foyer floor, the broken kitchen tiles and rusted appliances, the temporary blind tacked up to the window in the main room, the adhesive strip on its last leg. Unlike him, Honey was used to “the finer things in life,” as his mother would say. Not only finer, but the finest. When push came to shove, would she really be okay with leaving her posh past and Park Avenue apartment to live with him in Washington Heights on a resident's salary? Whoa, that was putting the cart before the horse, more like the whole team of horses. She'd come to him tonight seeking safe haven and not a whole lot else. And yet he could feel her gaze going over his bare shoulders and back, not just curious but almost … caressing.

Filling the kettle and setting it on the burner to boil, he said, “Yep, it is. And as you can see, it definitely needs some love.” He turned away from the stove.

She managed a small smile. “It seems I may have more time and schedule flexibility than I thought.”

Addressing the future, even the foreseeable one, could wait. For now, he focused on the basics. “You need to eat something.”

He pulled out a chair for her, one of four set around the oblong table. His apartment was no show place, but it was roomy with an eat-in kitchen, all but unheard of in newer constructions.

Honey hesitated, and then sat. “You sound like my mother.”

“Do I? Where are your folks, by the way?”

“My father died when I was six. My mother is … back home.”

“Where is home?”

Avoiding answering, she gnawed on her lower lip. “Nebraska … Omaha.”

He never would have guessed. “Nebraska, no shit? What happened to your accent?”

A frown furrowed her forehead. “My accent? What do you mean?”

“You know, how folks talk in
Fargo
.”

She rolled her eyes. “
Fargo
was set in Minnesota, not Nebraska.”

He shrugged, hiding a smile. “Same difference.”

“Spoken like a native New Yorker. All of you act as though this city were the epicenter of the universe. Then again, I suppose it is.” She sent him a wistful smile. “So what is on the menu at Chez Sandler?”

“I thought you said you weren't hungry.”

“Actually what I said is you sound like my mother—which you do.”

He grinned. “She must be a very wise woman.”

He said it to be humorous, but she obviously didn't take it that way. Her gaze shuttered. “Actually, she's rather narrow-minded in her beliefs, but otherwise a very nice woman. Oh, and she picks bad men, though considering how I've spent the last six years, I'm not really in a position to be throwing stones.”

There was definitely a story there, but like future plans, it too could wait. “So back to breakfast: eggs and bacon, bagels and lox—pick your artery-clogging poison.”

“Don't do as I do. Do as I say?” she suggested gamely.

“Something like that.”

“I don't suppose you have any peanut butter?”

Peanut butter, that was easy. “I think I have a jar here somewhere, along with some grape jelly.” He just might join her. A full belly always helped him to think more clearly. At the moment, he didn't have a clue what to do with or about her.

She made a face. “I don't do jelly.”

“Seriously? No PB&J, not ever?”

She shook her head. “Never. I'm quite adamant about it.”

He smiled. “I can see that.”

“Have you any Fluff?”

“Any … Sorry?

“Marshmallow Fluff. It comes in jars, giant-sized jars. It's like biting into a cloud, a sticky, gooey cloud. I love it.”

“Where do you buy this … Fluff?”

She paused as if considering the question. “Supermarkets, I suppose. I wouldn't imagine most bodegas stock it.”

“I can see you're a woman of very … discerning tastes, Ms. Gladwell.”

For whatever reason, his comment seemed to amuse her. At last those beautiful lips broke into a true “Honey” smile. “You, Dr. Sandler, have no idea.” Her gaze skimming over his pectorals left no doubt that she was no longer talking about sandwiches.

“Maybe I don't, but I'd … I'd like to. Now that you've left Winterthur, maybe we can take some time and—”

Behind him, the kettle blared. Marc reached around and switched off the burner.

“Don't let's say another word,” Honey broke in, her smile gentle. “Right now what I want is to eat peanut butter sandwiches and drink tea and cuddle until we go to sleep. Is … is that all right?”

Marc nodded. His unfinished question was way out of line. He had no right to press her. The last thing he wanted was for her to think she had to trade sex for safety. What she needed right now was a friend.

Pouring boiled water into a mug, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, Honey, that sounds perfectly fine.”

*

Honey hadn't thought she'd be able to eat a bite, not now or ever again. Her throat still stung from the mouthwash she'd used to gargle. Even with the bottle emptied, she hadn't felt close to clean. But she'd surprised herself, devouring her peanut butter sandwich and most of Marc's, which he'd also made without jelly in deference to her sensibilities. Though not necessary, the sweet gesture warmed her. They were just finishing when Cat found his way into the kitchen and joined them. Because of Drew, he'd missed not one but two feedings, which could be dangerous given how little he still was. Honey had considered grabbing the formula from the refrigerator before going, but she'd been too afraid of waking Drew. Once he'd … finished with her, he'd hit the scotch pretty hard, too hard to manage getting himself home. Honey had huddled on her side of the bed, biding her time, waiting for his snoring.

Fortunately Marc came through yet again, this time with a jar of chicken-flavored baby food left over from his niece's last visit. They stirred a little warm water into the mix, and Cat licked it greedily from Honey's finger before falling asleep in her lap. A shallow foil pan and some potting soil hastily dumped inside would serve as a litter box until morning.

Though she was still probably in shock, Honey didn't feel so much numb anymore as she did drowsy. And, against all odds, strangely content. Even though she was seeing Marc's apartment for the first time, she couldn't help feeling as though she'd finally come home. Watching him clear their cups and plates, the low light glinting on the sculpted planes of his breathtaking chest, the same chest that had represented safety and shelter when she'd first shown up, she owned that she wanted to do a great deal more with him than cuddle.

They left Cat snoozing on an old dish towel and got up to go to bed. Slipping her hand into Marc's felt like the most natural thing in the world. Fingers threaded with his long ones, she let him lead her through the warren of high-ceilinged rooms to his bedroom. An antique four-poster sat in its center.

Stopping at the foot of the bed, he slid his hand from hers. Earnest hazel eyes scoured her face. “What I started to say earlier … I was out of line. It's important to me that you know you're safe here. I'm not going to force myself on you or press you in anyway. We can get in bed and cuddle if that's what you want, or I can grab a blanket and sleep in the next room. I'm good either way.”

“I don't want to cuddle.” As soon as her words were out, his face fell. “And I don't want you to sleep in another room, either. I want you to stay and make love to me. That is, if you want to.”

“If I want to?” He stared as though he couldn't quite believe her. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I saw you that night at the hospital. I tried, but I couldn't. When I first saw you tonight standing at my door, I thought I might be dreaming.”

Honey blinked back tears, happy ones this time. “I feel like I'm the one who's been dreaming, sleepwalking through the last six years. It took you to wake me up.”

How could she have known that a night that had held so many horrors could end so sweetly? In the midst of it all, envisioning Marc was all that had sustained her. Wearing his too-big T-shirt, she slid into his open arms. Despite the difference in their heights and sizes, they fit like two halves of a Chinese puzzle.