Serving Pleasure (19 page)

He relaxed one muscle at a time. This wasn’t different from any other time she explored him.

This is fine. This is good.
He repeated those words in his head as she traced the white lines. “It must have hurt so much. I’m sorry.”

No, he’d been in shock through most of the attack. The pain had come afterward. The pain of recovery, and then hearing the story rehashed, again and again. The pain of realizing his parents couldn’t look at him without fear in their eyes because they were suddenly aware of his mortality in a way they never had been before. The pain of feeling like an outsider amongst his friends. The pain of secluding himself away, unable to share himself with anyone. “I didn’t want you to see them because…well, like I said, I didn’t want the memories to intrude and ruin our time together, but also because you’re the only person who…who doesn’t watch me and carefully gauge everything I do.” His laugh was humorless. “God, everything’s a
step
. A step forward or a step back. No one lets me simply exist anymore. Except you. You see me. Not what happened or what I need to do to get over what happened. Not the scars. Me.”

Her fingers stilled against him.

Her voice was matter-of-fact when she spoke. “Micah. That’s because you’re so much more than a bunch of scars. You know that, right?”

A bunch of scars.

His attack, reduced to a few meaningless words. A weight he wasn’t aware he was carrying lifted. They were only scars, were they? But his life had revolved around them for years. Even people who couldn’t see his back looked at his face. They read the papers. They compared his old art to his new art. They studied him with a mixture of weariness and pity and sympathy. No one else thought they were only scars, some marks he had happened to pick up on his body over the course of many years on the planet.

You can’t fall in love with me.

For the first time, he doubted his cocky reaction to her condition. How would he be able to stop himself?

Micah knew he should be unnerved, but he couldn’t bring himself to be, not when the two of them were sitting together so comfortably. Besides, his feelings didn’t matter.

Tomorrow. He would panic tomorrow.

He tugged her closer, coaxing her legs to stretch out until he could grasp her foot. He ran his thumb over the arch. He’d noticed the way she sighed when she kicked off her shoes after work.

Her nails were painted a cheerful turquoise with a frivolous white flower decorating the center of each big toenail. Micah focused on that flower, counting each petal as he savored the feel of her slender foot in his hand. Then he dug in, massaging.

She groaned and instantly slipped her other foot into his lap. “Be warned,” she said playfully. “I’m on these puppies all day, every day, so if you don’t want to get into a habit, you should probably stop right now.”

He didn’t mind a habit like that.

He pushed the thought out immediately. This wouldn’t continue much longer. He’d realized that today, while going through his sketches of her. The preliminary work took him the longest. Another couple weeks, tops, and he wouldn’t need her modeling for him at all.

Her stomach rumbled, and his head came up. He was used to missing meals, but Rana hadn’t eaten anything for dinner after their aborted attempt to sit down for a meal.

“I ruined dinner,” he said. He had quickly paid for the food and drinks after Rana had stormed out. He would have had the pub pack up their burgers, but he’d been eager to track Rana down.

She wiggled her feet, and he obligingly moved to her other foot, rubbing the tender flesh. “That’s okay.”

He looked at her. Her hair was tousled and her makeup long gone, save for a bit of black liner smudged under her eyes.

It was the middle of the night, she was naked, and he had just bared his soul to her. This wasn’t the time for them to recreate their failed attempt at dinner. And yet… “Get dressed. I want to take you somewhere.”

M
icah didn’t miss
the way Rana eyed him skeptically as they slid into the cracked vinyl of the diner booth. He was a true hermit, but one night he had gone out wandering and stumbled across this restaurant.

“I’ve lived here all my life, and I didn’t realize this place existed,” Rana remarked. Her tone was carefully neutral.

He glanced around. He liked this booth, where he could sit with his back against the wall and study everything. It was a ’50s-style diner, not due to theme, but because the decor had stopped being updated sometime in the ’50s. The lighting was harsh and garish, everything painted a bubblegum pink or a bright yellow. A dented jukebox stood in the corner, its lights off. Somewhere in the back, an AM radio station was playing, giving traffic updates. Only two other patrons sat at the long counter.

“I think this place looks exactly like I always imagined an old American diner would look,” he confessed. “Like a diner in
Back to the Future
, only more rundown.”

She squinted at him. “You watched
Back to the Future
?”

“Why do you sound so surprised? We do get American movies in England. Plus, I visited America often enough.
Back to the Future
was a staple amongst my cousins.”

“I’m not surprised English people have seen
Back to the Future
. I’m surprised you have. You’re so…”

“What?”

“Artistic?” she ventured.

He was equal parts amused and insulted. “Are you calling me pretentious?”

Rana wrinkled her nose. Wearing a gigantic sweatshirt of his, with her hair in a high ponytail, she looked so cute it hurt. “Not pretentious. Okay. Maybe a little pretentious. You don’t seem like the type to watch eighties movies.”

“You Americans think anyone with an English accent is pretentious.”

“Hey, like you reminded me, you’re an American too.”

He sniffed. Loudly. “I used to go to the movies quite a bit. Having an appreciation for art does not mean you automatically condemn all other forms of media.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She picked up the plastic menu and skimmed it. “So what you’re saying is I get to pick a movie for us to go to and you won’t be all snooty about it…even if it is a cheesy horror flick?”

He opened his mouth, but stopped. She had called it—he had always been a bit judgmental of certain films, often avoiding the big-budget blockbusters for smaller, independent movies. Like everything else in his life, he hadn’t gone to a movie in years. He imagined sitting in a theater now, his arm around Rana as she squealed and burrowed closer to him.

Micah didn’t care what movie she picked. He wouldn’t dare criticize it. As long as she was there.

He was saved from having to articulate that when the waitress came by and gave them a bored nod. “What can I get you two?”

“Ah…” Rana looked down at the menu. “Waffles? With extra whipped cream please. And a glass of orange juice.”

The waitress turned to him, and he balked. He usually only got coffee here, but it seemed rude to do that while Rana was eating. “Coffee, black. And the same, please.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered as the woman poured his coffee and then left. “You’re right. It’s such an old-timey diner. She was popping gum
and
apathetic.”

He had to smile, and he didn’t miss the way her gaze dropped to his lips. She didn’t make a big deal out of it, but he noticed that she liked amusing him. Made sense. He was growing addicted to that peal of laughter she rolled out.

She moved the menus to the side of the table. “I hope you’re going to tell me the food here is amazing.”

“I have no idea if the food is good or not,” he said. He was fond of this place because it was like being around people without being around anyone. Normalcy he could tolerate. “It’s quiet and there’s no one here. That’s all I care about.”

They were silent for a few minutes. Rana fiddled with a napkin before glancing up at him. “The pub was a mistake.”

Micah cocked his head. “What?”

“The pub was a mistake. I should have picked a place less like something from your past. That wasn’t crowded.” She nodded at the diner. “You have no memories attached to a place like this, I bet.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tone made it clear she didn’t believe him. “Well, I’m sorry about that. I should have thought about it.”

She was apologizing to him? When he was the problem? Unacceptable. He wrapped his hand around his mug to disguise its shaking. “You should have been a psychology major.”

She chuckled, but it carried a tinge of bitterness. “Oh, God no. As my mother will so fondly remind everyone, I barely graduated high school. No majors for me.”

It didn’t take a genius to pick up on Rana’s strained relationship with her mother. “Do you regret not going to college?”

“Not really. I was so terrible at sitting still in school, my parents had me tested me for ADD. Negative, by the way. Which I think only made my mom sadder, because to her that meant I was just flighty and dumb.”

“You’re neither of those things.” Thanks to the attack, he’d spent more than his share of time with people who presumably understood brains and how they worked. When he said she was brilliant, he meant it. She had an uncanny grasp of human nature.

She lifted her shoulder. “Anyway, I barely made it through high school. My dad died not long after graduation.”

“I’m sorry.” His chest tightened to think of his big, gregarious father dead. He may not be able to live near his parents right now, but he couldn’t imagine them not in the world.

“It’s okay. It was a while ago. But with him gone I knew my mother would need help. Both of my sisters were planning on higher education. And I…I adore that restaurant.” She gave him a vaguely sheepish smile, as if she were confessing something shameful. “I like waiting tables. I like talking to everyone who comes in and making sure they have a good time. The restaurant being one-third mine is like an added benefit, not the main reason I work there. If we closed tomorrow, I’d go be a waitress somewhere else.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Her smile grew brittle. “You know when someone says they were the first person to go to college in so many generations? I was the first person in three generations
not
to go to college.”

Academics had been important in his family, but his father had tempered his mother’s tendency to push him. Papa was a teacher by profession, but if he’d had his way, he would have spent his entire life surfing and chatting with tourists. He’d been happy to have a son who wanted to explore art.

Rana shifted. “Most of my extended family thinks I’m cashing in on the family business and coasting through, not working at all.”

“Coasting?” He was vaguely insulted on her behalf. “I’ve seen how physically tired you are every day. I can’t believe you aren’t mentally exhausted as well.”

“Eh. They don’t get that. Education’s like a…” she made a helpless gesture, “…like an asset in my family. So of course I get flack for not having it.”

“I tried to get an art degree,” he confessed. “I quit after a year to focus on painting full-time. I suppose I have no assets either.”

Her smile grew stronger. “You have plenty of assets. I mean, honey. Really, that ass alone.”

“I could say the same,” he growled, her silliness awakening a frivolousness he’d thought long dead. “Your buttocks are worth two diplomas, at least.”

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with their food, her face carefully impassive. Micah avoided looking at Rana, certain she was watching him with dancing laughter in her eyes over what the older woman may have inadvertently overheard.

The waitress placed two plates with waffles and mounds of dripping whipped cream in front of them and left without a word.

Rana unwrapped her silverware from the napkin. “That’s what my family says,” she responded lightly. “At least I’m pretty.”

Micah knew he should turn the conversation to more shallow topics. They were getting in far too deep. Yet he couldn’t stop. He could tell himself he merely wanted to learn more about Rana to aid his painting her, but that was a stone-cold lie. “You have more going for you than your ass.”

“Says the man who wants to paint my ass.”

Her words remained joking, but he caught the bite under them. “I may not have the clout I once did, but I could make a few phone calls and find supermodels who would be happy to pose for me. For free.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened over her knife. “Your arrogance is showing, Micah.”

When he chose a model, Micah did so only partially on looks. The rest of his selection was based on some mysterious combination of qualities he couldn’t begin to verbalize. “My point is that I didn’t want you to pose for me because you have a pleasing face and body.” He leaned over the table and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I wanted you to pose for me because you’re you. You have this…intriguing mix of good and naughty. Silly and sexy.”

She froze as he touched her, her eyes deep and soft and wary, as if she wanted to believe him but couldn’t. “Good? I’m not a good person,” she blurted out.

His lips turned up. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.” She shook her head, suddenly looking upset. “You know that, right?”

She was serious. “No. I don’t know that.” She wasn’t a good person? He had seen the worst of humanity, the very bitter dregs.

Rana was so far away from that, it was laughable.

“I’m shallow and vain and blunt and flighty. I’ve slept with more than my share of men. I…” She looked down at her knife.

She could have been describing him, before the attack had changed him. He’d been all of those things. Shallow, vain, blunt, something of a player with women. Only people had praised him for those qualities. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Her voice was so low, he had to lean forward to hear her. “I almost slept with my baby sister’s boyfriend.”

He absorbed her confession. Did she honestly think he would tsk at her and walk away, certain she was a terrible human being? “Why?”

Rana didn’t look at him, but scraped some of the melting whipped cream off the waffle. “Why what?”