33. Hailey
“Are you okay?”
I pause halfway between my desk and the bathroom and swing my gaze over my shoulder, careful not to shift my torso. Nat’s head is canted. Her brow is crinkled. I’ve just finished with my last patient before lunch, and I really need to pee, and grab an ice pack for my crotch and a nap if I can swing it.
“Yes.” My grin gives me away.
Nat’s brows shoot high. She chances a look over her shoulder, lifts a hand as if to get someone to hold tight, and then shimmies into my office, clicking the door behind her.
“Stamina for days, am I right?” She beams.
I laugh, and the muscles in my abdomen and legs make me pay the price.
“Too right.” I hobble to the door, grab the frame, and prop myself up. “I’ve never had this much sex in my life. Day after day after day.” I fan myself. “I’m not complaining, but my body is.” My grimace is real. “She can’t keep up.”
It’s been four days since we started fucking, and we haven’t stopped, except for the essentials.
“You’re going to have to tell him to calm down.”
My lips poke out.
“Or I will,” she adds.
I flip her the bird.
“Seriously, your bodies aren’t used to all the handling. Now that you’ve found each other, I suspect you’ll have plenty of time to break each other in gently.”
There hasn’t been much gentleness about our handling, which I’m totally on board with. My body, on the other hand. Not so much.
“I’ll bring you a bottle of electrolytes and a couple of pain pills.”
“Who’s in the waiting room?”
“I’ll tell you after you take care of business.” She shoos me toward the bathroom and slips away before I can say more.
I take care of my business and wash my hands. When I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize the bubbly, smiling woman staring back. She has bright eyes and glowing skin.
When I come out, Nat waits by my seating area with a bottle. I take it and swallow a few gulps. Then she hands me a couple of over-the-counter meds. I pop them back and swallow them down with more of the tangy liquid.
“Thank you.” I wipe my mouth and let my gaze slip to the entrance. “So who’s here?”
It’s not Arlo. He wouldn’t wait quite so patiently. It’s not Astor because she came to see me before business hours for her first sexual reprogramming session. Plus, we’ve been texting all day. I’d know if she was here.
“A surprise.” Nat practically glows. “Have a seat. I’ll send them in.”
For a second, I think it might be Laurent coming to ask for my aunt’s hand in marriage. Their talks have been deep and frequent. Still, she’s not that happy. If he were here, she’d be bursting out of her skin.
Nat disappears through the door. I try to sneak a peek, but it’s no use. I sit, facing the door, and wait.
The more time passes, the closer I am to the edge of my seat. To hell with my well-worn insides. I’m about to jump up and run out there. A noise filters in, like something hard hitting the door. Then it swings open.
Hotaru hefts a tall wooden crate and shimmies through the doorway. Nat reaches in to close the door for him. He gives her a nod of thanks before turning toward me.
I’m struck by his beauty as though it were a baseball bat to the chest. Sure, I’d seen him before, but I was occupied with the hellscape of my past breathing down my neck. Sure, I’m with Arlo, and some people think that I shouldn’t notice, but I’m not dead.
The man is tall and wide, with a trim build. He has a captivating presence. It can’t compete with his face. He has a model pout paired with an aristocratic nose, accentuated with a sharp jaw and even deadlier cheekbones. Still, his eyes take the win without trying. They’re dark and soulful, as though if you get too close, you’ll be able to see his every thought and desire.
“Hotaru.” Despite the impact of his presence, I jump to my feet. “Konnichiwa.” I offer him a small bow, ignoring the pain in my body.
Arlo’s guy leans the odd package against the side of the chair opposite mine and faces me once more. His gaze is warm and kind. He bends at the waist, lower and deeper than I did. It gives me an opportunity to study his ink black hair pulled back at the top of his head into a small bun.
“Hailey.” He straightens and pins me with a look I can’t quite discern. “I apologize for interrupting.”
“Not at all.” My hands go up in a cupped fashion, aiming for the chair. “Please, sit with me.” He unbuttons the jacket of his three-piece suit and sits. I follow. “Can I get you anything to drink?” Then I remember it’s lunchtime. “Or eat?”
“No. I won’t take much of your time.”
I wonder why he’s here. I doubt it’s to warn me off his friend since he called me Arlo’s heart the first time we met, which was consequently the last time I’ve seen him. “I have an hour and a half until my next appointment. Take as much time as you need.”
“I’m not here for therapy.” He says this with a grin.
“We could all use a therapist.”
“I have one, actually. I’ve been seeing them for five years now.”
“That’s wonderful. So many people don’t think they need therapy when we can all benefit from it.”
His smile goes wide, showing straight white teeth.
I can’t help but smile back. “What?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome?” I laugh. “What exactly are you thanking me for, Hotaru?”
He interlaces his fingers. They’re long and smooth, well-manicured. He braces his forearms on his knees. The breadth of his suit is tested by the move. I scoot closer and cross my legs at the ankle.
“I’ve known Arlo since we were fourteen, nearly fifteen.”
“At the boarding school.”
His smile falters, and his face turns glum for the barest of seconds before bouncing back.
“When he was still being abused by his uncle?”
“Yes.” He growls. His shoulders roll, and he sits straight. “Arlo has only allowed me to touch him a handful of times in all eighteen years I’ve known him. Two of those times he was so sick, he didn’t have a choice. Well, not much of one. Me or the first responders.”
My heart lurches, thinking of Arlo so sick and so abhorrent of touch.
“He’s only ever reached out and touched me twice.” I see the pain in his eyes. I can hear it in his pretty voice. “That was until yesterday.” His jaw flexes as though trying to keep himself in check.
“What happened yesterday?”
“He hugged me.” Hota gives a half laugh, half choke. “He wrapped his arms around my chest and hugged me to his.” He swallows, and his prominent Adam’s apple bobs.
I hadn’t realized my hands are clutched together until I cover my mouth with them. “Oh, Hota.” I blink, trying hard to keep my emotions at bay. “That is wonderful.” It’s great for him. It’s amazing for Arlo. It’s even better for their friendship.
He clears his throat. “You’ve settled something in him I never could. So thank you, Hailey.”
My tears come with a smile plastered on my face.
Hota moves from his seat, grabs a tissue off the coffee table, and kneels in front of me before I can blink. “I don’t mean to upset you.”
“You’ve made me happy.” I take the tissue and blot at my eyes. “So happy,” I reassure him. “I was truly afraid that my touch would be the only touch he would withstand. I’ve seen him shake a few people’s hands in the past two weeks, but a hug is vulnerability. It’s expressing emotion through touch.” I wipe the tip of my nose. “He deserves to experience touch from others who love him and those he loves.”
I look into Hotaru’s sweet and shockingly deep eyes.
“I haven’t known him long. I know he loves you.”
His head bows. A deep sorrow suddenly weighs on him. His shoulders expand with a deep breath. I put my hand on his collar. With the shirt and suit coat between our skin, I’m careful not to touch his neck, but I give him a reassuring weight. He exhales slowly, seeming to center himself with little effort. Just before he lifts his head, I withdraw my hand.
“Now, for the reason he sent me.” Hota’s eyes gleam clear again.
“He sent you?”
“Yes.” The corners of his lips kick up.
“And you came, just like that?” Before the words have fully fled my mouth, I realize the error in them.
He’s a gentleman and doesn’t smirk at what could be construed as a double entendre. My cheeks heat anyway.
“Arlo asks. I do.” He shrugs as though it’s the easiest equation in the world.
My head tilts, curious but a little too befuddled to speak.
Hotaru stands with a dancer’s grace and moves to the crate. He hefts it, turns, and sets it at my feet.
“He wanted to give it to you this evening, but he’s suddenly the most impatient man I’ve met.” Hota produces a small pry bar from his back pocket.
Realization dawns. “Oh, the painting for the auction.”
Shrewd eyes meet mine. There’s a smirk on his face. “That one will be delivered to the venue Saturday morning, along with the rest of the silent auction items from storage.”
My mouth falls open. I snap it closed and narrow my gaze.
“Boss’s orders.”
I stare at the stunning man standing before me. There’s nothing meek or mild about him. “You strike me as the type to give orders, not take them.”
“Don’t be fooled, Hailey. I’m very good at taking orders, if the person giving them is worthy of dispensing them.” He winks.
My cheeks go hot once more. “Are you a sub?” I whisper the words, scared of their impact.
“I’m whatever I need to be.”
“You’re a chameleon.”
His shoulders bob. He slips the metal in the seam of the wood, shoves and pries. The top groans. He shifts the pivot point and repeats the process. Still, my eyes stay on his face. When the top comes off, he finally looks at me.
A person who finds they need to shift and mold themselves a great deal depending on their surroundings, usually learned this trait out of necessity. An alcoholic father or an emotionally abusive mother. My heart pinches, but I don’t let an ounce of pity show. He wouldn’t appreciate it.
I wonder what brought Hota to that boarding school all those years ago. I wonder where his family is now. I wonder what connects Hota and Arlo beyond being roommates once upon a time.
“Even chameleons have a true color. Do you know what yours is?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Good.”
“Now pull,” he demands, tipping the contents toward me.
I reach inside and do as I’m told while he wrenches the crate away. My wide eyes blink at not one but two wrapped canvases. I let my gaze jump to Hota’s. He points back at the contents.
With eager fingers, I slip the first from its wrapping. My gasp is loud in the quiet room. The haze of tears is back. I blink furiously, so I can clearly see the Lovers , negative space painting by Jarek Puczel. The painting I confessed in front of. The painting that depicted us just a few short months ago.
“Keep going.” Hota holds the first painting where I can see it and jerks his chin toward the second.
I rip the paper from the second painting.
“Oh my God!” I slap one hand over my mouth and stare at a second painting, clearly by the same artist. Only in this one, the lovers press their foreheads together. Their eyes are level, as well as their noses and mouths. They are mostly complete, save for the definition of each feature. Most importantly, they are touching.
“It’s called Lovers Connect .” Hota takes both paintings, props them up against the coffee table, then hands me a familiar envelope with familiar writing. I take it, and then he gathers the crate and heads for the door.
“Thank you!”
He turns, bows deeply, and exits as he came while I rip into the envelope. It’s the same rich, bold handwriting as the last two. My heart rate kicks up a notch or five.
“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.”
Helen Keller
And you are!
Love, Arlo