Chapter 23 A Gift Received
A GIFT RECEIVED
LUCAS
Never in his wildest dreams would he have predicted that he’d be allowed to help her with what she was facing.
Over the course of the past two days, he’d picked up on several pieces of information that she would never have shared with him except that she was under such immense pressure.
The fault lines of her psyche were shifting, and from between them, clues were emerging that she was built on a foundation of pain and separateness.
He wanted to be the force that pulled the layers back to realign and then sealed the cracks by pouring love and care into them.
Now that the entire two-door span was boarded over, he felt better about her staying in the house overnight, but he wasn’t happy about it.
However, he also knew that she would reject his offer to stay at his home until the door was completely fixed.
That meant that he was either staying up all night to help her clean, sleeping in her guest bedroom, or staying awake in his truck across the street to watch the house.
His conscience wouldn’t let him do anything less.
He took a walk down the hallway toward her room.
The door was open, but the one to the connecting bathroom was closed, and he heard the light churning of water.
Good. She was having a bath, and from the sound of it, she had a whirlpool tub.
She needed that, and likely a massage, too, but that would have to wait for an appointment with a professional.
An image of her soaking in the tub popped into his mind.
Her pretty blonde hair on top of her head in a loose, messy pile.
Bubbles floating atop the water, covering her athletic body, and tantalizing glimpses of her from the gaps in the froth.
Eyes closed, a peaceful expression on her face.
Her skin flushed pink from the steam coming off the water.
Groaning to himself, he turned and walked away from the room, afraid that if he didn’t, he’d do something stupid…
like go into that bathroom, get in the tub with her, and love her so thoroughly, they’d flood her bathroom floor.
She’d probably drown him if he even walked through the door, let alone tried out that fantasy for real.
Back in the kitchen, he swept up more glass from the shattered door as well as the dishes that had been smashed. The only ones left undamaged were the metal pots and pans, and those would all need to be washed and put away. “Start there, dumbass. Put your brain to work. Distract yourself.”
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, he’d disposed of the glass and other broken bits in a garbage-bag-lined box, sealed it, and labeled it so the sanitation workers would handle it accordingly.
All the unbroken dishes were either in the dishwasher, going through a cycle, or stacked neatly on the counter, waiting for their turn in the machine.
He also confiscated a box of lawn garbage bags and gathered the cushions, blankets, and other material items that had been slashed so they could be thrown out.
“Thank you,” she said.
Turning to her as he closed the latest bag, his tongue sealed to the roof of his mouth. She was dressed in a T-shirt and leggings, her wet hair down loose around her shoulders. He was reminded of the first night he met her in the emergency room.
He dropped the bag where he stood. One measured step at a time, he walked to where she stood, framed in the entrance from the hallway. He stopped just out of arm’s reach of her, afraid that if he went closer, he’d sweep her up into his arms and take her down the hall to her bedroom.
Her feet were bare, and she was curling her fingers into the palms of her hands and her toes into the floor, as if she were willing herself not to move toward him or reach out for him.
Well, that’s what he chose to tell himself, anyway.
Instead of telling her everything he wanted to say, he settled for asking a question. “Do you have slippers?”
She blinked. “Slippers?”
“I swept the kitchen, but you shouldn’t walk around barefoot yet. Just in case.”
“Oh.” The heel of her hand went to above her eye, as if trying to press a headache away. “Somewhere. Maybe? I don’t remember seeing any. There are still some boxes in the garage I haven’t unpacked yet.” She turned toward the kitchen, as if she planned to go there to get them now.
“No!” Before she could step onto the kitchen tile, he swept her off her feet. “I just told you not to walk around barefoot.”
Blankly, she uttered a quiet, “Oh, right.” Then she shut down.
“Okay, this is not happening.” He carried her back in the direction she came from.
Once inside her bedroom, he set her on the bed, then ducked into her walk-in closet.
A pair of flip-flops sat on a shelf with another pair of sandals.
He grabbed them before turning around and heading back to her.
Kneeling, he put one on her foot. When she didn’t move to help him or do anything herself, he looked at her with concern.
She sat there, eyes downcast at her hands in her lap, not even seeming to register that he was helping her.
“Elyxandre?”
She didn’t respond.
“Elyxandre.” This time it wasn’t a question. He put force behind the words. This quiet, lost version of his SRO was scaring him. When she still didn’t respond, he shifted closer to her and reached up to turn her face toward him. “Hey. What’s going on in there?”
All she did was stare at him. No expression. No emotion. Just empty eyes.
“You’re too exhausted for cleanup.” He removed the flip-flop that he’d just put on her foot, then stood. He pulled the covers back, then helped her slide under them. The fact that she didn’t try to argue with him meant he was right in his assessment.
As soon as the covers were tucked around her, she turned on her side, her back to him, and shivers began to course through her body. Within seconds, she was full-on shaking.
He didn’t say a word. “What can I do?” he asked.
“St-st-stay with me.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the nightstand. He unbuttoned his shirt, shed it, and threw it onto the chair in the corner. Next, he removed his boots and belt, then slid into the bed behind her.
Arms around her, big spoon to her little spoon, he pressed himself to her, willing his body heat and strength into her. He said nothing—just held her close, hoping it was enough to help her through whatever had finally triggered her into collapse.
Thankfully, the shaking stopped relatively quickly after that, but he wasn’t moving away until she told him to.
Her voice, when it finally emerged, was solid but quiet, as if she were afraid that speaking too loudly would ruin what little control she had left. “Have you ever felt like you had all your shit together only to find out that you didn’t? Not even close?”
He brushed his jaw against the back of her head. “Most days are like that, actually. I wake up most mornings feeling like I’m on top of it all. Then something happens, sometimes the most insignificant thing, and it feels like I’ve fallen to the depths of despair. Work. Parenting. Existing.”
Her fingers brushed back and forth across his forearms. “I don’t expect everyone to love me. I don’t even expect most people to like me. I’m happy with being tolerated. Just let me do my job and live my life. But this is starting to feel like someone hates me.”
“I don’t think it’s that anyone hates you.”
“Then why would they do any of this stuff? It feels pretty hateful.”
“I’m not going to lie. I definitely sense rage, but my experience has been that feelings this strong are usually directed at oneself. The person feels impotent to solve something that’s unsolvable, or helpless against things beyond their control. That’s what they’re really mad about.
“Fighting against the impossible is a losing battle, so they need someone to hold in front of them as a talisman of sorts. But instead of that representative holding good luck, they direct all their negative emotions, thoughts, and energy toward this person they hold responsible. That way, when they act out, they have a way to make an enemy for themselves to fight against.”
“I would help them if I knew who it was, what they were hurting over.”
He couldn’t help but smile as he kissed the spot his jaw had been rubbing against. “And that’s why I’m pretty sure their rage isn’t really directed at you. Whoever it is, they could do all of this to you, and you’d still want to help them.”
She shifted in his arms so that they lay face-to-face. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’d planned to stay in your guest room anyway. If you gave me a difficult time, I’d have spent the night in my truck.”
He felt a gentle pressure against his semi-hard cock through his slacks. It responded by hardening fully as her fingers curved along his length, slowly rubbing against it. “What if I want you to spend the night in here? In my bed?”
“Elyxandre.” His voice was husky. He tilted her face upward, their eyes locking. “Please don’t take this the wrong way. I would love to act on what you’re doing right now. Two, three days ago, I wouldn’t have questioned it. Tonight? I’d feel like I was taking advantage of you.”
“You think I don’t know what I want?”
“No, I think you definitely want me, and I more than want you. But you’re exhausted and emotionally bankrupt.
I need you to want me because you want me, not just because I’m some sort of safety net.
Right now, that’s what it would be, and I refuse to have you wake up in the morning and regret what we’ve done for any reason. ”
The hand cradling him disappeared, and a sigh escaped from her. “I don’t like it when you make sense.”
He snuggled her into him, a smile on his face. “Go to sleep, woman. We can revisit this discussion in the morning.”