Chapter Six
W hen Serge parked in front of her house, Aubrey closed the curtain and exhaled the trapped breath. Was she doing the right thing?
She pressed her hand to her stomach. Maybe she should've waited to call him until the morning. She was always braver in the late hours. Lack of sleep always brings regret.
Serge banged on the door instead of using the doorbell. She tightly wrapped her sweater coat around her and opened the door to let him in.
Looming in the doorway, Serge's troubled gaze locked onto her. She gasped. His handsome face was battered and bloody. He wore no shirt, only a pair of jeans and boots. She quickly pulled him inside.
Studying him, she looked for more injuries. "What happened to you?'
He remained silent, his upper lip encrusted in dried blood. She reached up and stopped herself from touching his face. His cheekbone was also swollen under his right eye. She guided him to the chair in the living room.
"Sit." She hurried out of the room.
In the kitchen, she grabbed two hand towels. As she let the faucet run, she scooped a handful of ice from the freezer and placed it in one of the towels. Then, she ran the other towel under warm water and wrung it out.
She returned to him and kneeled at his feet. "Did you get in an accident?"
He shook his head, or maybe he flinched away from her. "No."
"Should I call the police?" She dabbed at his upper lip.
"No."
Her gaze dropped to his bare chest. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"No."
There was smeared blood on his upper abdomen, but she found no visible wounds. But there were old scars. White, raised scars on his chest, his arms, and stomach. The kind of scars someone would have if they self-harmed.
Her hand trembled as she cleaned the cut on his lip. She glanced into his eyes and cringed. He watched her as if she had caused the injuries on his body.
"Why?" He showed no sign that he was in pain.
She picked up the other towel filled with ice and handed it to him. "Why what?"
When he let the cold pack fall to his lap, she held it to his cheek for him. When he let her help him, she tried getting answers again.
"I don't know what you're asking me, Serge," she whispered.
"Why didn't you open the door earlier?"
She used her free hand to clean his chest with the other towel. "I was next door at Mrs. Sullivan's house. She called me because her breaker flipped, and she's unable to go down the stairs to the basement. That happens at least once a month, and it's easier for her to call me than a repairman who'll charge her."
He touched the back of his hand to his mouth and stood. She fell back on her ass to get out of his way.
"You didn't fucking open the door," he muttered.
She scrambled to her feet. "I told you. I was—"
"I know what you said." He whirled around and faced her. "You were supposed to be here. Say it."
Angered over his outburst, she scooped up the towels. "I think it's best if you go home and take care of yourself."
"Say it," he said.
She shook her head. "I don't answer to you or anyone. Please leave."
He remained.
Used to avoiding arguments with those who came to the shelter and became combative, she marched out of the room, down the hallway, and entered the laundry room at the back of the house. She threw the towels in the empty washer and slammed the lid down. He had no reason to be mad at her.
She wasn't home when he came by the house. Yesterday, she'd told him not to come over, and he'd shown up anyway. It wasn't her fault he ignored her wishes.
His behavior made her regret calling him.
Deciding she'd rather stay in the laundry room than face Serge, she folded her leggings, which she pulled out of the dryer before helping Mrs. Sullivan. She should've thrown away the business card he'd left at her house the first night and never called him. That's what she got for wanting to thank him for the flowers he'd left out on the porch.
She'd thought of nothing else but him since he opened the fire door and set off the alarm at the shelter, and she both hated and loved the feelings he brought out in her. But she wasn't going to encourage him to come to her house. More and more, he represented the kind of man she'd sworn to stay far, far away from her whole life.
Men who were out for only one thing. A love 'em and leave 'em kind. Apparently, the Haydon women had a weakness for asshole men because her mom had fallen in love with one and the moment, he found out she was pregnant, he left. She wasn't going to continue the cycle.
She eyed the stack of clothes. Someone had to put a stop to her insanity, and considering he was in her house, the responsibility fell on her shoulders. She walked out of the room to send him away.
Serge stood in front of the living room window, gazing out into the night. She hesitated, studying his back. Still shirtless, his muscles twitched. From all appearances, he hadn't calmed down.
"Serge?" She walked to the side of the couch, thinking a piece of furniture would keep her from touching him. "I'm not sure what happened tonight, and I'm sorry you were hurt, but I think you need to leave."
"Why?" He remained facing the window.
His voice, unemotional and flat, gave her goosebumps. She blew up her cheeks, held her breath, and slowly let the air out. "Because you're not the type of man I normally date. I don't want to lead you on. I'm sorry. I know I did, and I feel bad—"
He turned around. "Bad?"
She stepped behind the couch. Her heart raced.
He held up his arms. "Jesus, will you stop that. I'm not going to hurt you."
"You're angry." She glanced at the floor before meeting his gaze. "You're freaking me out. We slept together. That's it. Then you show up pissed off and bloody as if someone beat you up, being a jerk to me, and expect me to want you again. What am I supposed to think?"
"Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" he asked.
She closed her eyes for a long blink and then told him the truth. "I don't know. You scare me."
He looked up at the ceiling, and when he returned his gaze, he had masked his anger. "You would've opened the door earlier."
It wasn't a question. He stated the obvious. She nodded. Despite her better judgment, she knew deep in her soul she would've let him in. Then she would've regretted it. And even later, she would've missed him when he left. At that point, she was part of the problem.
She stepped around the couch. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah." He held up his hands as if seeing their condition for the first time.
"What happened?"
"I—he scoffed harshly—visited my past."
"I don't understand." She crossed her arms. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine." He stood taller. "It doesn't matter now because you called me."
She stepped closer. "You're not making sense."
One side of his mouth lifted, the side that wasn't split open, and he shrugged. "You're right. I should go. I'm not the type of man for you."
In the silence, she stared at him. Half of her wanted to agree with him, and the other half wanted to understand why he believed they weren't good together.
Truth be told, she'd experienced something wonderful last night. She was afraid of letting him slip away.
Her feelings contradicted everything her brain told her.
Her mother, despite the inconvenience of raising a daughter, told her often how being involved with a man more powerful than her would suck the life out of her. She had no idea who her father was—her mother took that secret to the grave. But whoever he was, he must've hurt her badly because her mom died believing that one man had ruined her life, and she let Aubrey know that she was the result of that awful man.
She would not sell her soul to the devil or Serge.
Serge broke away from her gaze. "Goodbye, Aubrey."
She watched him walk out of her life. Proud and strong, he carried himself as if he'd battled his demons tonight. Why he'd shown up at her house bloody and broken, she'd never know. She chewed on her bottom lip.
From all the research she'd done on him, he'd grown up on the streets since he was six years old. Just a baby. That had to have some lasting effects. Some serious PTSD or addiction problems.
She hurried to the door and grabbed the handle before he could shut it. "Serge?"
He turned.
"Take care of yourself, okay? Put some ice on your—she pointed to her face—you're going to have a black eye tomorrow."
He stiffened and seemed to study her. Whatever he thought confused him, for he leaned toward her and kissed her forehead. It was not a peck, nor a practiced move that conveyed thanks for cleaning up his face. No, he laid his lips on her skin and lingered there. Then he inhaled deeply before pulling away.
"Lock the door," he whispered. Then he walked away from her again.
His leaving wasn't a break-up. They weren't in a relationship that required a formal goodbye. She leaned against the closed door. If what they had was one night of great sex, then why was her heart breaking?