Chapter 6 #2
Maybe if we stay here all the way until Christmas, I could make some decorations. Unless of course Cesar was against it. It is his place, and he does seem to prefer decor that screams I’m-a-bachelor-I-don’t-need-trinkets’.
I’m about to explore farther down a corridor, when the door opens, and Cesar steps back in with the bags of our shopping in both hands.
I rush over to him so fast I almost stumble because of my stupid ankle, but I’m desperate to take some of the load off him.
He lifts the shopping as if I were a kid trying to wrestle a knife out of his hands.
“Your leg! Careful, we can’t go to the ER right now,” he scolds me before resting all the bags on the table close to the kitchenette.
Damn, we’ve been on the move for so long, but he still smells so good.
How am I to deal with this? I look up, but the air I’ve inhaled gets stuck in my throat when I notice the black eyepatch covering his injured eye.
It’s simple in design, sleek yet utilitarian, like the rest of his clothes, and something about it is turning me on, because that strip of leather makes him resemble a Bond villain.
“Sorry. I’m hungry again. Can I grab this?
Or do we have to ration?” I pluck a pack of five croissants out of the bag.
The pounding against the roof intensifies, making me glad Cesar’s not out there anymore.
This sounds like hail, and the poor guy’s already dusted with a dense layer of snow.
I raise my hand, about to brush it off his head but stop myself at the last moment.
I need to get a grip.
The pastry bag rips open in my hands, and I stuff my face. Cesar’s watching me, still as a statue. Did he notice what I was about to do and is now assessing whether he doesn’t want to let me sleep outside after all?
An arm slides around my waist, and he leads me back to the couch, no longer frozen. “Sit down and make us sandwiches. I need to set everything up,” he tells me, back to his patient self.
I want to protest, but he’s soon back and places all of the food on the coffee table. “There’s a store not that far away, so no, we do not have to ration.” With that, he’s out of the room.
I take a deep breath and make myself useful. At least he gave me a job so I don’t feel like a waste of space. As I spread ketchup on a very pale slice of cheese, I’m hit by the memory of blood splattering all over Sullivan’s white shirt.
I’ve barely had time to process what I’ve done.
I killed a man. Or did I slay a monster?
I glance at the butter knife in my hand, also covered with red sauce.
Am I just a man who was pushed to his limits, or have I always had this anger inside me?
If push came to shove would I stab someone to protect myself?
Would I kill someone who tried to call the police on me? Or a cop?
The turmoil inside me makes me a very slow sandwich artisan, but Cesar is gone for several minutes, so I think he doesn’t mind.
Unless he’s rethinking his life choices and considering suffocating me in a pile of snow.
I wouldn’t blame him. His footsteps echo behind the door close by, and I drop the piece of bread I’m preparing into my lap.
Of course it has to land with the buttered side on my pants, but it’s not as if I can turn back time and make myself not-an-embarrassment.
Cesar enters carrying a pile of wood. His facial expression is stern, impossible to read, so I hope for the best and assume he has resting serious face. Which, incidentally, I find stupidly hot.
“I started a fire in the bedroom already. It’s small, so by the time we lie down, it should be nice and cozy there,” my host says, kneeling in front of the wood burner close to the couch.
At this point, I don’t need the fireplace, because hot flames fueled by inappropriate thoughts lick my neck, my jaw, and then my cheeks. He didn’t say ‘bedrooms’. And I highly doubt there are two singles in there. Or maybe there are, but I’m too awkward to ask about it.
“It’s been a while since I slept in a real bed. Thank you. Again. Is there a shower here? I don’t feel so fresh after… everything.”
“There is, but you need to wait for the water to heat a bit.” He nods, leaning forward and blowing on the flames. His back is so nice—sturdy, wide—I wouldn’t mind using it as my anchor.
I haven’t had sex for even longer than I was homeless.
How pathetic is that?
I take off my jacket, which feels like removing armor.
It’s old, utilitarian, in a vomit color between green and brown.
I don’t love it, but it’s warm, and has a lot of pockets, even if it’s torn on one elbow.
Underneath I have a big gray hoodie which, unlike Cesar’s nice fitted sweater, does nothing for my body. Not that it matters. I wish it did.
I’m so greedy. It’s not enough that this man is risking his life to save me from prison, I also have to make him the object of my fantasies.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into all this. It must be such upheaval in your life,” I say quietly as the room fills with the warm glow of fire.
He glances my way, halfway through closing the wood burner, and the flames reflect in his dark eye like an echo of my lust. “I’m the one who should be thanking you,” he says, rising to his feet and approaching me.
I force myself to look up, because my instinct is to zero in on his crotch. It’s been far too long since I was touched, and after he freaking carried me, I’m a little smitten.
“For the sandwich?” I joke and hold it out to him. The better one, without ketchup dripping out of it.
He accepts it and sits on the old couch, so close his knee brushes mine, sending thousands of fiery ants up my thigh. “No. For doing what I couldn’t and taking care of that sonofabitch.” With that, he pokes his sandwich against mine, as if we’re toasting.
I’m so proud of myself I straighten a little as I bite in.
I’ve not had this much substantial food within twenty-four hours for a while now.
I’m reminded of how Cesar dealt with four cops and a civilian with a gun, and my heart beats a little faster.
To have someone like that on my side? Wow. Just wow.
Unless he actually is a serial killer and I’m a sitting duck. No one will miss me but the cops itching to get a promotion following my capture.
We’re about similar height, but when he sits so close to me, I’m even more aware of how much bigger he is. The jacket could have created that silhouette through good tailoring, but nope, he’s just that well-built. No wonder, if all those protein bars and cans of tuna are his go-to snacks.
“You wanna go shower first? You deserve it after the drive,” I say between one bite and another.
Cesar glances my way, his gaze intense as if he’s trying to peek under my skin, but before I can feel self-conscious, he finishes one of his sandwiches and rises.
“I just might. Won’t use much water, and this way I’ll make sure you don’t freeze,” he says and pulls off everything he’s wearing on top.
I’m salivating, and it’s not because of the food.
I took him for a straight-laced kind of guy, at least as straight-laced as someone who is ex-special forces can be, but his whole upper body is covered by a massive tattoo.
Reminiscent of the ink I’ve seen on Viking culture enthusiasts, a huge tree spreads all over his back, sides, and torso.
Even his arms are adorned with the ink. Woven into its leafy branches are symbols that at first glance don’t seem to fit in with the main image.
I spot the Eiffel Tower, as well as some other landmarks from all around the world, as if he were collecting memories.
One space is notably left blank, right over the heart, but the skin below it is marked by a massive red scar descending from Cesar’s solar plexus to his navel.
I shouldn’t stare, but at least the scar gives me a reasonable excuse.
Not that I’m not interested how he got it, but I’m too busy admiring every dip between chiseled muscles, his pecs, his biceps, and oh-my-fucking-god, the V-shaped muscles at the hips? Yep, they’re most definitely there too.
The fire burns behind him, his body is a work of art, the eye-patch makes him seem hot-dangerous (which he is), and I’ve never felt more inadequate.
He’s GQ, and I’m the free local newspaper you get in the mailbox and immediately throw away.
He’s the main hero of a Marvel movie, and I’m the fifth guy in the Fantastic Four who didn’t make the cut.
He’s a wolf on the prowl, and I’m daddy long legs.
Even the fact that I dare fantasize about someone so out of my league is embarrassing.
“Um… That’s a big scar,” I point out, and he touches it, as if I could ever make someone like him self-conscious.
“I’ve had it for a long time,” he mutters and clears his throat. “I won’t be long.”
He’s gone before I can apologize for daring to soil his cabin with my presence, but it’s not like I can take my comment back. Couldn’t I have been normal and said something like ‘wow, that’s some gains, bro. Which protein shake do you recommend?’
As promised, he’s soon back, dressed in sweats and a long-sleeve.
Is it because it’s still a bit chilly, or because he doesn’t want to show the scar to the weirdo who pointed it out?
I’ll never know. I’ve already finished my food, and the fatigue of our escape is catching up with me, so I’m grateful that he’s willing to switch on the water for me in the tiny wet room.
“I don’t… you know. I don’t have anything to change into,” I say before he leaves me to it.
Cesar pats a pile of clothes on top of a wicker laundry basket. I hope the towel folded alongside them is his.
The shower itself feels heavenly, but the hot water is limited so I don’t overindulge, focusing on just a quick wash to be fresh.
There’s a mirror in the cabinet over the sink, so I do try to arrange my damp hair into something that doesn’t resemble a gray bird’s nest, but it is what it is.
There’s spare disposable razors on the counter, so I take advantage of that, since it’s been a few days. I’m sure Cesar won’t mind.
The white T-shirt hangs off me, and I don’t know if that’s hot, because it reminds me of how beefy he is, or embarrassing. The plain pajama pants have a drawstring, so I can tie them tightly enough that they don’t slide down my hips.
I take a deep breath of the warm air. I can’t believe I feel so good when I’m a fugitive who murdered a town mayor.
I glance into the mirror, and I don’t even feel so bad about myself for once.
Yes. I did that. I pulled the trigger. I didn’t cower, I didn’t let him get away with his crimes, I took justice into my own hands.
I walk out with my chin high, smelling fresh, and ready for bed, only to focus on the warm light coming from under the door leading to the bedroom.
A sigh escapes my lips when I imagine myself back-to-back with my hot savior, but it feels like too much of a risk, so I clear my throat and speak.
“I’ll take the couch.” I’m about to ask about additional blankets when Cesar cuts me off.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s way more comfortable here!”
My heart is in my throat, because… what if he does want to sleep with me? Wouldn’t be the first gym bunny who’s into skinny guys he can handle with one arm.
My mind drifts off to a scenario where (oh no!) I have to pay him for protection in blowjobs. What a life that would be… I don’t sleep around, because lately my life situation wasn’t exactly conducive to that, but I also need a connection to feel comfortable.
And boy, do I feel a connection with Cesar even though I met him yesterday.
If he wanted to, I would.
I lick my lips and open the bedroom door with my heart beating all too fast.
Can you get a heart attack from too much excitement?