13. Marley
THIRTEEN
MARLEY
I don’t know how long I’ve been watching Bennett and the dogs but I’ve been so distracted that I didn’t notice the sun dip behind the clouds until huge drops of rain began to fall. Bennett looks from me to the dogs, and I yell for him to take care of them first. A little rain never hurt anyone. He nods and whistles, and I watch as he leads the pack down a narrow, fenced pathway towards a barn that looks brand-new. My concern about the dogs having to sleep in some dilapidated structure now seems unfounded. But of course there’s no way in hell that Bennett would kick the dogs out of a nice warm house if they didn’t have somewhere equally lovely to go.
By the time I see him jogging back towards me, a movement my brain seems to transmit in slow motion, the sky has opened and we are caught in a full-on downpour. I stand as quickly as I can so that I can just jump on his back without him having to squat. I’m trying to be as efficient as possible, and perhaps a little ignorant about the physics of how exactly I’ll manage such a move. He doesn’t squat, though; instead he grabs me in mid-stride, and I instinctively wrap myself around him. When he’s almost at the porch stairs, disaster strikes. I feel him slip, swear, and then feel gravity pull us towards the earth. Before I’m turned into a human crash pad though, Bennett flips us around so that he’s the crash pad. The sound we make hitting the ground is a humph from him and some kind of weird squeak-snort from me.
We both seem a bit dazed as we look at each other. His eyes are wide, and he’s searching my face, his hands coming up to cradle my head.
“Are you hurt?” he asks in an echo of our first meeting, except this time he seems on the verge of panicking.
I shake my head emphatically. “I’m okay, you?” I sound like I’m the one that was running. Adrenaline sends my heart rate into dangerous territory, and I love it.
“Yeah, yes, I’m good. Shit.” He sets his head back on the ground and closes his eyes, his hands still at my neck and in my hair. I watch as the rain lands on his face, catching in his beard and eyelashes, and I lean forward a touch so that my head is blocking it. The small movement has him opening his eyes, and now we’re staring at each other as our bodies remain in a very compromising position.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi,” he whispers back.
If we were together, this would be romantic as hell. If I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m not sure our relationship status makes it less so. I watch him swallow, and something passes across his face. The urge to lean down and press my lips to his is almost overwhelming, and it takes a monumental amount of effort to not give in to it.
I swipe my hand across his forehead and smile. “I’m not sure I can be blamed for today’s wardrobe change.”
He bursts out laughing, his chest bouncing beneath mine, and it’s the very best feeling in the world .
Eventually, Bennett slides himself back from me so that I can keep my right knee on the ground with my ankle lifted. I imagine I look like someone who has only heard the names of yoga positions but has never seen them. Once he’s up, he crouches in front of me and offers his hands. Together we manage to get me up on one leg, and while I’m prepared to hop like that to the door, Bennett has other ideas. In one swift motion, he’s got me in a bridal carry and up the stairs and through the kitchen door before I can even process it.
He doesn’t say a word as he walks up the stairs towards my bedroom, or the guest bedroom, rather. He takes us right into the bathroom and sets me down slowly, making sure I’m steady before pivoting to turn on the tub’s faucet.
“I’ll grab you another towel,” he says, then he’s gone before I can reply.
I stare at the tub as the room begins to fill with steam, replaying the past few minutes. Bennett comes back carrying a huge fluffy towel, and he slips it onto the rack beside the tub. Then he’s bending in front of me and pulling my leg toward him to remove my sock and the tensor bandage. While he’s concentrating on the task, I notice a splatter of mud across the tip of his ear, and I slide my thumb over it, wiping it clean. He stills immediately and leans into my touch a bit more until his forehead is resting against my thigh. We stay like that for a moment, my finger gliding over his ear, his head against my body. After he releases a shaky breath, he stands and carefully guides me to sit on the toilet seat so he can remove my shoe and sock.
“I can’t believe I’m letting someone touch my feet,” I say quietly, half to myself.
He looks up, the intensity in his eyes catches me off guard, and fuck me, I’m starting to question if I’m safe around this man anymore. When he blinks, his expression clears. But that look will forever be seared into my brain.
“Your ankle is still pretty swollen,” he says, standing, his eyes glued to my ankle.
“Mm-hmm.” I look down at it briefly.
He winces. “You’re not supposed to apply heat to a sprain if it’s still swollen.”
I’m not sure what his point is here, I’m not not-bathing. “So I’ll hang my right ankle over the side. Not the end of the world.” He still looks worried so I lay out my plan. “I’ll sit on the side of the tub to undress, then using my very strong arms, I’ll gently lower myself into the water. If my foot goes in, it goes in. But I’ll do my best to avoid leaving it submerged.” He still looks ridiculously concerned. If he can’t handle this minor thing, he definitely wouldn’t be able to handle what I do for my day job. I raise my hand to cup his cheek, drawing his attention back to my face. “I’ll be okay, Benny.”
His eyes snap to mine, and he scowls. “I fucking hate that name.” I’d believe him more if his tone matched the scowl on his face, and he hadn’t leaned ever so slightly into my touch.
The fact that he’s still holding my hand while my other one rests on his face is no doubt adding to the whole vibe of the moment. I look down at where our hands are joined, and when I look back up, he’s tracking my lower lip as it disappears behind my teeth with that predatory gleam back in his eyes. And I kind of love that this man, who has asked for permission to touch me since we met, seems to be fighting with himself. Or it’s all in my head and I’m projecting because I really want him to touch me. I release my lip, drop my hand, and nod towards the tub. “Help me over, then you’re free to go.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says as he helps me balance so I can hop over.
When my ass hits the side of the tub, I pull my hands from his grip and steady myself on it. “Go!” I laugh as he looks like leaving me is painful. “You’re covered in mud.” He looks down and seems confused for a minute before remembering that he fell on his back.
“I’ll be fast so shout if you need anything,” he says, backing out of the room, those hazel eyes glued to me until the door shuts. I stare at the door for a bit longer before looking into the tub.
Okay, so my arms aren’t nearly as strong as I think, and I am far less graceful getting into the tub than I had imagined. The saving grace is that I’m the only one who needs to know just how much I invoked all the elegance of a seal on dry land.
The water is so warm, and keeping my lower right leg over the side is a special kind of hell. In my head, letting my sore ankle soak makes the most sense. But medically I am aware that it doesn’t, and the last thing I want to do is disappoint Bennett. Eventually, I reach the limits of what a tub can do for me so I pull the drain and gingerly stand before turning on the shower. There is a bottle of shampoo sitting on the corner of the tub, a brand I don’t recognize but I’m not exactly in a position to be picky. The shampoo is clear, and the only scent I can think to label it as is “clean,” yet despite the barely-there odor, I know this is what Bennett uses. I’ve smelled the man more than I’ve smelled another human being, and I’d have an impossible time waxing poetic about how he smells. He doesn’t smell like sandalwood or mahogany, even though I wouldn’t have a fucking clue what mahogany smells like. Bennett smells like a man who has good hygiene and isn’t concerned with turning himself into a human candle. I wash my hair as quickly as possible. I hear a soft knock as soon as I turn the shower off and do the reverse of how I got into the tub. I tell myself that I did a better job getting out than in—certainly less seal-like, anyway .
“I’m here when you’re decent,” Bennett says through the door.
I dry myself off with the smaller of the two towels and then wind it around my hair. I use the new towel he brought to wrap around my body. I do a quick look at myself to make sure nothing is peeking out anywhere and let him know I’m good to go.
When he opens the door, his hair is damp and sticking up in all directions. I smile at that, which seems to make him self-conscious because he rakes both his hands through it. It takes everything in me not to reach up and run my own hands through the wild strands.
“How’d it go?” he asks, offering me his arm. I’m somewhat surprised by the disappointment that blooms in my stomach. I’d expected him to pull me into his arms and carry me to the bed.
I’ve never been someone who wanted romance. Not witnessing it growing up can probably be blamed for the lack of interest. But right here, right now I want to lean into this new desire and see what all the fuss is about.
“Well,” I say, looking up at him, “I don’t want to brag, but I nailed it.”
“I had a feeling you would.”
“Really? You looked about ready to call in reinforcements when I told you how I planned to get into the tub.”
“My face doesn’t always convey what I’m thinking.”
“That’s good to know. But just so you know, I’m the opposite. My face usually tells everyone exactly what’s on my mind.”
“Noted,” he says, briefly studying my face before leading me to the bed.
As I’m turning to sit down I feel his touch on my back, just above the towel.
“What happened here?” he asks quietly, his fingers skimming across the twelve-inch dimpled scar that covers most of my upper back. It takes a lot of effort not to give in to the pleasant chill that spreads through me. But just for a moment, I lean back into his touch.
I take a deep breath. “I was with a team of journalists covering some protests in Paris. Things were going okay—I mean, ‘okay’ is relative, I guess. But it was just a lot of yelling and flag-waving until it wasn’t.” I stop to collect myself because his touch is distracting me, and what I want more than anything is more of it. “An anarchist group showed up, and things went from being non-violent to violent in about two seconds. They had Molotovs, except they weren’t using just alcohol. Someone in their group thought it would be a good idea to mix whatever they could find for maximum impact. You know, cause as much damage as possible, and really get their message across. One hit a van I was standing next to, and the liquid splashed across my back. It ate through my clothes and then my flesh.” I feel him move closer. His body heat reaches me before he does, and I continue as his arms wrap around my shoulders, my hands automatically rising to rest on his forearms. “It’s probably worse—no, I know it’s worse because I didn’t go get help right away. I was so caught up in everything I barely noticed it. I was running on pure adrenaline at that point, and the only reason I stopped when I did was because the police fired tear gas into the crowd. When breathing became hard, that’s when I noticed the burning.”
Bennett is silent behind me. The only sound is our soft breathing, and I relish the stillness of it.
“I’m sorry you had to experience that to do your job,” he finally says. I think he’s going to let go of me and step away, but he stays exactly where he is.
I shrug, and because I’ve lost all sense of propriety, I dip my head and run my nose along his forearm. I can practically feel the goosebumps form under my touch. “Without the chaos, my job isn’t all that, I don’t know, meaningful. And without it I’m not sure I’d have much of a job. It feels wrong to need something like that in order to get a paycheck.”
“When are you going to tell me about it?”
“Why do you want to know about it so badly?” I ask, feeling at once defensive that he’s prodding and grateful that he cares.
“I want to know why something you were once passionate about is now just a job. I want to know how that happens in your world.”
I drop my arms and turn towards him, his arms still around me so we are chest to chest. “I’m not sure you’ll like me much after I tell you.” And it’s true. I don’t even like myself much these days because when I evaluate who I’ve become I don’t see much of the person I was.
“Have you killed someone?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.
I shake my head.
“Stolen?”
“No.”
“Knowingly taken advantage of someone’s generosity?”
“I don’t think so.”
Now it’s his turn to shrug. He releases me and steps back. His hands run down my bare arms, leaving chills in their wake. “Then I don’t know how I wouldn’t like you much after.” He gestures to the bed. “I brought you some fresh clothes. Holler when you’re ready.”
I watch him leave, and it’s not until I hear him on the stairs that I suck in the oxygen I’d apparently been depriving myself of. As I get dressed, I wish I had his confidence that he’ll feel the same about me after I’ve opened up, after I reveal the scars that aren’t so visible.