Authors: Maureen Willett
She slowly accelerated, which made him lose his grip on the passenger’s door. He straightened up and stumbled back to the sidewalk, where he fell down with a thud. He didn’t make a move to get up.
Horrified, Malia maneuvered the car to the right and pulled into the driveway of a nearby apartment building, not caring that she blocked the entry and exit point. She got out and ran over to him. She pulled him up to a sitting position and put her hand to his forehead but quickly took it away. His skin felt like a hot iron. Then his impossibly colored eyes locked on to hers.
“You’ve got to try to move to my car. I’ll take you to a hospital,” she said, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling him up by the waist.
“Is it really you? You heard me calling?”
“Yes,” she replied, knowing he was delirious and rambling nonsense.
“My beautiful girl, I finally found you,” he said in his odd accent. Standing slowly, he then slumped onto her. Malia dragged him to the car and somehow managed to get him inside.
Malia drove as fast as traffic allowed to the nearest emergency room, glancing over at him when she could. She thought he was about her age, in his mid-twenties, but it was difficult to tell. There weren’t many lines or wrinkles to mar his features, but there was an edge to him that spoke of an older man. His eyes were closed, and he kept mumbling incomprehensible things. She pulled up to the ambulance entrance but then hesitated, unsure of what to do.
“Do you have medical insurance?” she asked.
His eyebrows went up, but his eyes didn’t open. He laughed, but it was more of a snort. “No, no insurance.” His voice was hoarse. “I don’t need a hospital. I’ll be fine if I can just rest.”
“Where do you live? I’ll take you there.” She hoped for a response or a nod, but his eyes were closed and his body looked limp. Malia sighed as she drove out of the parking lot.
At the next stoplight, she looked over at her passenger and was surprised to see his eyes were open and held some clarity as he studied her.
“Who are you?” She tried not to sound too panicked. “Have we met before?”
He slumped down in the seat, weak from fever, but he gave Malia an unblinking, calm gaze. The unusual beauty of his dark brows and lashes outlining the light violet blue of his large eyes weakened her resolve to drop him at the nearest bus stop.
“I came here for you. I’ve been searching for you most of my life,” he said before passing out.
A romantic notion, but he was obviously out of his head with illness, she decided. Malia kept driving without thinking about where she was going. She barely realized she had pulled into her own driveway until she cut the car’s engine, but then she hesitated before making any further move. She never brought strange men home. Actually, there were never any men at her house at all, not since Alex was taken away. Malia tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and looked around, hoping none of her neighbors were outside. How would she explain this to them? How could she explain it in her own mind?
Malia glanced at the stranger’s sleeping form and then leaned over him. She felt his hot, ragged breath on her cheek, but it smelled surprisingly sweet, as did the moist heat of his body, even though she was sure he was filled with fever. His golden skin glistened in the late-afternoon sun, almost as if there were a fine shimmery film over it. Malia searched his face to make sure he was still unconscious before she reached down his long legs to grab the brown leather satchel on the floor at his feet. She hoped he had a driver’s license or something with his home address so she could take him there instead. Her head was practically in his lap as she pulled up the corner of the leather bag, which was much heavier than anticipated.
A vise grip closed around her arm, making a mark with his cruel hand as he locked her in place on his lap. “What are you doing?” His voice was flat, as if making any sort of inflection would cost him too much energy.
Her face pressed against his jean-clad thighs, and she could feel the muscles tense underneath the worn fabric. She figured holding his steel grip around her upper arm was probably all he could handle, so she tried to wriggle free, but his grip hardened. “You’re hurting me,” she said through clenched teeth. His hand relaxed as his head flopped back against the seat again.
“I just wanted to find your address so I could take you home.” Malia sat up without getting his leather bag.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. His long, thick lashes fluttered against his face.
It sounded as if he said her name, too, but that was impossible. “Where do you live?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t passed out.
“Nowhere.” His voice sounded strained.
“Great,” she said under her breath. She looked at the flight of stairs leading to her front door, knowing he would never make it up them. There was only one thing to do, but she hadn’t cleaned that room for a long time, not since Tutu died.
Malia got out and walked to the studio apartment downstairs in the back of the house. The smell of dust and mildew assaulted her as she walked in and looked around at the tiny studio her grandmother had lived in for years. She searched under the sink for rags and cleaner and then wiped down the necessary places.
After she made the small bed, Malia went to the car and opened the passenger-side door. If she hadn’t wedged herself in the door opening, he would have spilled out onto the driveway. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “You have to walk a few feet because I can’t carry you.”
His eyes half opened and some recognition of what she said registered on his face. He made an attempt to stand up but then slumped against her, all the while clutching his brown leather satchel to his chest. She put her arm around his waist and dragged him inside the studio. She got him to the bed and let him plop down, but his feet hung over the end.
She wondered what to do next. Suddenly there was a stranger passed out in her studio. With some reluctance, Malia turned on the ceiling fan and opened the windows, and then took off his hiking boots and let them fall to the floor. He rolled onto his side, still clutching the precious leather bag to his chest, and passed out again. She felt his forehead, and it seemed a little cooler, but it was still too hot.
She decided the best course of action at this point would be to get some ice to help take down his body temperature. She wondered if she should try to get him out of his clothes, but the mere thought of seeing him naked made her run out the door and up the stairs to her kitchen. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, she went back downstairs with a bucket of ice and a washcloth.
Malia pulled a chair beside the bed and put some ice cubes in the washcloth, and then laid it on his forehead and held it in place. He didn’t stir, which made her worry even more, so she took an ice cube with her bare hand and held it to the back of his neck, ignoring the pain in her fingers against the biting cold.
As she sat there, Malia tried to remember if they had met before. Maybe they had known each other as children in grade school, or something? That must be it. She felt a familiarity with him, so he couldn’t be a stranger. The only crack in that theory was his accent. He didn’t talk like he was from Hawaii at all. He didn’t even sound American, but maybe British.
Every time the ice melted, she put a new cube in the washcloth and held it to his forehead. While she sat there, Malia had the chance to study his face—his beautiful face, she decided. His features came together in perfect lines and angles. Then added to that were high cheekbones and full, smooth lips that belonged more on a super model. Malia almost traced the outline of his luscious mouth with her fingers but then caught herself. That would be much too familiar, not to mention taking advantage of the situation. She wondered how his kiss might taste; how his lips might bring hers to life. The thought sent a hot wave through her body, prompting her to shift her weight in the chair.
To get off that train of thought, Malia studied his skin next, trying to find a flaw in his complexion, or one mark that betrayed a reckless childhood. It didn’t exist. His skin was smooth, even-toned, and an enviable shade of pale golden sunlight with a touch of rose around his cheekbones, though that could be from his high fever, she realized.
Next was his hair. It was a bit overgrown and thick to the point of being unmanageable, but it looked soft and fell to his shoulders in loose curls. The bronze and gold colors shimmered in the light, almost sparkling.
He parted his lips and swallowed hard. Malia placed a small ice cube between his open teeth so it would melt into water down his throat. Her fingers brushed against his cheek and lips, and she almost caressed his soft skin but then took her hand away.
“Perfect. You’re just perfect,” she muttered. He was her ideal man, as if every feature in his face and body was there for her personal pleasure. “What am I to do with you?”
“Help me.” His voice was a whisper, and his eyes fluttered open and looked into hers and then shut again.
Malia gasped and sat back on the chair. “I didn’t know you could hear me.”
A half smiled played across his face, and then heavy, rhythmic breathing took over.
She threw the ice down in the bucket and left, slamming the door behind her. She stomped up the stairs and headed straight for the shower, wanting to wash away any residual emotion she had briefly felt for him. Why had just looking at his face affected her so strongly? Malia had worked for years to suppress her emotions, especially hope and love, because what always followed was pain. She’d had enough of pain. She wasn’t about to let some stranger bring all that to the surface with just one glance. She vowed not to go back downstairs for the rest of the night.
Malia set up her mother’s old sewing machine on the kitchen table and started restoring a dress she had found at a thrift store. It had some holes, but with the right fabric in certain places it could still be lovely. She let her fingers take charge so her mind could wander.
Around nine o’clock she began to get worried. What if he died down there? She might be responsible. As she sat at the sewing machine and looked out the open window at the clear sky and full moon overhead, she wondered what to do. As a child, she had hiked in the mountains with her parents on such moonlit nights as this. They were a happy family then. It was safe to be happy then.
The sound of running water brought her back to the present. She followed the noise of water swishing through the old pipes to the landing outside the kitchen door, wondering if there was a leak downstairs. She descended the stairs two at a time—a trick she had learned as a child—and ran through the door to the studio, afraid it was flooding. The noise of the water stopped. Although the room was dark, she could tell there wasn’t water on the floor. The door to the bathroom was shut, and there was a sliver of light underneath it.
Suddenly, the bathroom door flew open, and he stepped into the studio shaking his head to release water from his long hair. The light from the bathroom outlined his form, and he was completely, and gloriously, naked.
“You’re up?” she asked in surprise.
He raised his eyebrows and then glanced down at his body but didn’t make a move to cover himself, nor did he seem embarrassed to be caught in such a revealing situation.
“I mean. . . um. . . why are you out of bed?” She tried not to look at him, but it was difficult not to indulge a glance at such perfection in the shadowy light. Even though she couldn’t make out details, he didn’t seem to have an ounce of extra fat, anywhere.
“I’m feeling better. It was just a touch of travel sickness,” he said with a crooked smile that lit up his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would mind if I used the shower.”
“I don’t!” Malia wasn’t sure why she wanted to shout at him, but she tried to suppress the urge. Instead, she turned her back on him and crossed her arms over her chest, not wanting to think about how long it had been since she’d felt a man’s arms around her. “Would you please get dressed, or something?”
“If you insist.”
Malia saw him cross the room to the bed out of the corner of her eye and get in and pull the sheet up to his chest. She turned and walked to the foot of the bed with her hands on her hips. The moonlight shined through the picture window behind the bed, engulfing him in its soft brilliance. She took a deep breath. “You have to leave.”
He considered her for a moment. “Do I?” His voice sounded soft, seductive.
“Yes!” She took a step forward, ready for battle. “You can’t just stay here. I don’t even know your name.”
“Hunter.”
“What?”
“My name is Hunter.”
“Hunter what?” Malia hoped her heart would stop beating so furiously.
“Just Hunter.”
“Well, just Hunter, you can’t stay here. You have to go home.” Her hands were back on her hips.
He looked away for a moment and then leveled a steady gaze at her. A somber light came into his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I can’t do that. I can’t get back to home,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not just yet.”
“Where are you from?” Malia asked with narrowed eyes.
“Not from here.”
“That’s obvious,” she said, scrutinizing him closer. “So. . . basically. . . you’re homeless?”
“That’s a good assessment at the moment. Yes,” he answered with an absent nod. “But I could come up with some money, if you would let me rent this room for awhile.”
“Do you have a job?”
“Sort of,” he answered and then looked away. “I have access to money, anyway.”
Malia relaxed her stance and sighed, unsure of what to do. She didn’t feel right about kicking him out on the street, especially if he was still sick, but she wasn’t sure about letting him stay. He seemed a little on the edge of dangerous.
“Let me think about it overnight.” She turned to leave but then stopped to check the small refrigerator in the kitchenette. It still worked after years of neglect, but it was empty. “I’ll bring you some food and drinks in the morning,” she said, realizing the implications of her words meant she’d already decided to let him stay. There was a small trail of dust on the floor, so she made a mental note to do a thorough cleaning when he left.