Chapter 11 #2
I turn to face her when she remains quiet. A weird look mars her pretty features. I could be wrong, but I believe it is the cruelty of jealousy.
Upon noticing that I’ve spotted her puzzled expression, Macy pffts before pushing off her feet to enter the central part of our room. “I figured you had a handful of baby mommies begging for a slice of your minimum wage.”
I laugh before shaking my head. She’s not wrong about the pittance we get paid for putting our lives on the line every day, especially after coming from a wealth like her parents clearly have, but I also find it amusing considering she dipped out on any chance of child support by using an anonymous sperm donor.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Macy whispers, well-versed on my stirring expressions, before she bends down to collect her stilettos from her suitcase.
When she groans, I race to her side like she’s in labor. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” When I growl in a silent reminder of the promise she made only this morning to be honest, air whizzes from her nose. “It’s difficult to put on shoes when you have a watermelon strapped to your stomach.”
When I chuckle, she shoots me a riled look.
If death stares could kill, I’d be a dead man.
“If you think it’s so easy”—her eyes bounce around the room before landing on the overnight bag I packed in a hurry—“put your shoes on while wearing that strapped to your midsection.”
“Sorry, freckles, I don’t have any tape,” I say with a shrug, assuming I can take the cheat’s route like my father did when my mother purchased a watermelon and two cantaloupes to teach him a lesson on the anatomy of a pregnant woman in the final trimester of her last pregnancy.
Macy would never fold in teaching me a lesson so easily.
“Please. Let me.” With my bag snatched off the bed, she shoves it into my stomach, then walks behind me, where she holds the bag in place by using the carry straps as restraints.
“Bend at the knees, Agent Rogers. We don’t want you getting a bulging disk. ”
I roll my eyes before bobbing down to collect the stinky socks I dumped onto the floor before entering the bathroom. They need to be changed, but with Macy holding my bag to my stomach, they’ll have to do for now.
“What the fuck?” I murmur when I’m not even halfway down before something jabs into my spleen. It is sharp and pointy, most likely the backup gun I carry anytime I travel.
Macy’s pout is as fake as the concern in her tone. “Oh… what happened? Are you okay?”
Determined to win, even if it kills me, I angle my hips and then gingerly lower my hand toward the stinky socks soiling the thick woolen carpet fiber beneath my feet.
This time, I make it two-thirds of the way down before I’m stabbed in the bladder so firmly that I’m seconds from pissing my pants.
“All right. I give in. You win.”
Macy hollers in victory before she dumps my bag back onto the bed and then heads back to the stiletto she dropped when her eagerness to teach me a lesson saw it slipping from her grasp.
“Let me,” I offer when she struggles to collect it from the floor.
I snatch it up before she can reply, then gesture for her to sit on the bed.
She does, albeit hesitantly. She hates appearing helpless, and it projects in her tone when she murmurs, “I can’t even put on my own shoes, so why the hell did I think I could take down Samuel by myself?”
She’s mumbling to herself, yet I reply as if she had asked a question. “You’re growing a child. That’s the most important job in the world. I’d feel invincible if I were you.”
“You’d be more than invincible. You’d also feature in every news article from here to Australia.”
Laughing, I kneel in front of her, pick up her shoe, and then gently lift her foot. While slipping the modest-heeled shoe over her toes, I hold up her leg from behind her knee. Her skin feels warm yet prickly, mirroring Macy’s conflicting emotions.
I mutter a silent prayer to stop being so easily readable when Macy warns, “If you utter a single word about the length of the hairs on my legs, I will stab you with my fork before you can eat a single canapé.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” I was, but I ain’t now.
Once I buckle her stilettos, I peer up at her. The vulnerability in her eyes is shocking, and it has me speaking before thinking. “Did you want help with that too?”
Macy can’t play the daft card. She’s too smart, but she tries hard to prove otherwise. “With what?”
With our time limited, I get straight to the point. “With your legs.” I gesture toward the bag she left on the bed. “I have a razor and shaving cream in my bag. We could get them cleared away in a couple of minutes.”
She blinks three times before faint lines sprout from her tiny nose. “You’d do that for me?”
I downplay the shock in her tone, hating that my outburst last night led her to mistake our friendship. “I’m offering to shave your legs, freckles. It’s not a proposal of marriage.”
She stares at me as if even allowing for her to use the bathroom before me is too much to sacrifice. I hate how mammoth a simple offer is to her. I thought she knew she could ask me for anything.
Clearly, I was wrong.
“Or you can rock the hairy look. I’ve heard rumors Bigfoot is seeking a mate—”
She whacks me in the chest before all my reply leaves my mouth. Then she swallows harshly when I move for the bag I gestured to a second ago.
Her swollen belly shifts as quickly as her throat when I grab the towel I used after my shower and fill a canister with warm water. As I enter the suite, I suggest she scoot back against the headboard and extend her legs in front of her.
Her frustration is clear when she responds to my command before she can think of a reply, reinforcing my determination to help.
Macy has always been independent, so it’s tough for her to ask for help. Even when inundated, she acts as if everything is fine.
Starting at her ankle, I gradually work my way up her leg, gently applying a thick layer of shaving cream to her silky skin.
As I glide the razor toward the hem of her gown, I notice the slight tremor in her muscles.
It isn’t a fear-based shake. She relaxes more and more with each passing minute.
It is an unwanted response to a rapid heart rate.
How do I know this? My left hand is facing the same shuddering consequence, and it’s nowhere near the razor-sharp edge of a razor blade.
I never expected shaving a woman’s legs to feel so intimate, but this is the most personal act I’ve experienced in over seventeen years.
After I shave Macy’s left leg, I shave her right leg with the same care. Macy watches me, her eyes filled with gratitude and another gleam I can’t place. It’s a look that floods my head with a hundred questions and forces me to remind myself to stay focused.
I’ll never forgive myself if I nick her, especially so soon after being rewarded a trust I’m confident she hasn’t given anyone in an extremely long time.
Once I remove the few stubborn hairs behind her knees, I wipe away the remaining shaving cream with my slightly damp towel. Goose bumps follow the path of my hands, and they reflect the same glint I noticed earlier—except this time, it shines from my eyes instead of Macy’s.
“There you go. All done.” My words are deep since I had to force them through a thickened tongue. My body is acting as if it is doing something far more perilous than shaving a friend’s legs.
After returning my stare long enough to leave no doubt of the ownership in the bright gleam reflecting in her light eyes, Macy peers down at her smooth legs. A breathtaking smile spreads across her face, and then she murmurs, “I feel so much better. Thank you, Grayson.”
You have no idea how much it means to me that she says she feels better, not her legs.
Comments like that are how I’ve stayed in this industry for so long. It isn’t solely about helping the victims. It is also about supporting their families through one of the most difficult times in their lives and ensuring they emerge from the wreckage unscathed.
“You’re welcome.” I stand before gathering up the razor, shaving cream, and hair-riddled water. Then I enter the bathroom, where I stare at my reflection, puzzled by the unruffled image projecting back at me.
I don’t appear as lost or empty as I usually do, and the shock of my guiltless expression’s unexpected arrival has me recalling a quote my mother has often preached.
Only people who love strongly can suffer great sorrow, but that same necessity of love is what will ultimately heal them.
I never understood what she was saying until now, and although it should riddle me with regret, it barely breaks through the happiness that hits me when I spot Macy in the fogged vanity mirror.
Her dress hem whips up around her smooth thighs when she swivels side to side, her happiness growing with every silky, frictionless glide it completes.
Her smile suggests that a hair-free existence is the key to happiness.
She could be on to something. Her joy is addictive, and before I can talk myself out of it, I make a mental note to pick up one of those fancy leg-shaving razors the next time I do a grocery run, and to block out an hour of my day every third day for the next six weeks.