12. Chapter 12
For some reason, my stomach is a mess of moths over the fact that I’m in Reaper’s house and as he so foolishly told me, the first woman ever to be here. That kind of information is what will turn me into a stalker. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna crazy glue myself to his side so he can’t get away.
I think about the house. It’s small and barely furnished. Like a bachelor would have, but too neat. Since I’m the first woman across the threshold and am very aware I’m generalizing, I figure he’s the one who keeps it this way. I’d think maybe he hardly lived here if it weren’t for the lack of dust.
Too sparse though and as I strip off my clothes, I think of my stuff in it. I like his couch, so we’d keep it and get rid of mine. But we’d need one or two armchairs. Definitely, his coffee table has to go. It’s glass and I hate glass, mostly because I hate cleaning glass. So we’d keep mine. My bed too because while his looks in good shape, and I’d probably sleep on top of him anyway, it’s a double and Spot will want to curl up next to me.
I pause as tears burn my eyes. I don’t have a bed anymore. Or a couch. I’m not sure I can ever go back to my apartment. No one touched me, but for some reason I feel violated anyway. I think about everything’s that happened to this point and decide to turn lemons into lemonade. I gotta live somewhere and Reaper will realize that sooner or later. We’ll get a new bed.
I turn on the shower and rifle through his stuff while I wait for it to warm up.
He’s a guy, that’s for sure. Nothing much interesting. There’s a razor with disposable blades and I decide to use it to shave my legs, pits, and the unmentionables. It’s cliche, but that’s me in a heartbeat.
I shower, celebrating the fact that I’m going to smell like him, which is practically like wearing matching shirts.
When I’m done, I towel my hair, then since there’s no blow dryer, I shove it into a messy bun, dress in a pair of jeans and a sleeveless tee, then slip my jean jacket over top of the shirt.
No make-up because mine was thrown everywhere, but I don’t really need it. I smack my lips anyway, and then head out.
The scent of coffee and eggs wafts in the air as I enter the kitchen. “Aw, you’re cooking for me.” There are two bowls on the floor by the door, one filled with water and the other, cereal. So domestic it makes me shiver. No Spot in sight yet, but I’m not too worried. Spot’s smart. He won’t go far.
“I’m cooking for me, you lunatic,” he says blandly. “Got no milk for the coffee, but some bread. Eggs are scrambled. Make some toast. I’m gonna shower.” He disappears and I try not to feel too sad about the fact that we aren’t showering together.
I’m pouring the coffee when he bellows, “What the fuck!” It makes me jump and the coffee spills onto the counter.
Reaper’s stalks into the kitchen looking like a volcano about to blow. He spies the spill on the counter. “Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with you?”
“You’re yelling made me jump,” I reply defensively. “What’d I do now?”
He shoves a finger in my face. “What did you do? You actually have to ask! I give you a perfectly neat bathroom and now it looks like a hurricane went through it.”
I think about how I left it. Towel in the tub, shaving cream and razor on the vanity. Hairbrush… where did I leave it? “Pfft. That’s what people do. They use a room and then they clean it up on Saturdays.”
“No. No. No. That’s not the way it works here.”
“Ooookay,” I reply. I’m not going to argue with his weird logic because he’s got the gun and also, I think as far as lunatics go, he wins hands down. I pick up my coffee and take a sip. “It’s good,” I tell him.
He stares at me like he’s bewildered. “Aren’t you gonna wipe up the mess you made?”
I glance at the few splashes of coffee on the counter. “Yeah. After coffee and breakfast. What’s the point in wiping the counter twice?”
He huffs as he grabs a neatly folded dishcloth from a drawer, wets it and swipes at the coffee like it did something to offend him. “You’re making me crazy,” he growls as he rinses the cloth and hangs it over the tap. “Eat your fucking breakfast at the table and stay there until I get back. Don’t fucking move.” He stomps out of the room.
He’s a nutcase, but he’s my nutcase, I decide as the toast pops. I butter it carefully to keep the crumbs at a minimum, then shove it on my plate with the eggs and carry it over to the table like I’m seven years old. Two hands. Slow steps. Steady as I can get. God forbid I drop an egg on his shiny hardwood floor.
Five minutes later, I wash the counter (again!), put my plate in the dishwasher, think about it, pull it out and rinse it off, then put it back in the dishwasher. I know he didn’t tell me to, but I have a sneaky suspicion he would if I didn’t do it.
The shower is still going as I hover in the kitchen. I look through the sliding doors and see Spot digging a hole in the ground. At least it’s dry enough that he won’t get muddy and track everything inside.
I check my manicure - seems okay, tug at the bun in my hair, think about reading a chapter or two on business management, then decide I have better things to do.
Like check out Reaper’s bedroom. I tiptoe inside the room, inspecting it as I go. It’s neat, but only because there’s barely anything in it. It’s like a monk lives here except there’s no crucifixion on the wall.
I wander over to the tall dresser and open a drawer. Clothes inside, sort of folded, but not expertly, which gives me hope that Reaper hasn’t got psychological problems, well, apart from the obvious ones. The bed’s unmade too, so that supports my theory. There are five drawers and no surprises. It’s irritating. Miguel had little notes from an old girlfriend hidden under his jeans. A few pictures. A few unmentionables.
The disappointing search leads to the closet, which again has nothing much, but again, not serial-killer neat. Running shoes, a pair of work boots, or maybe motorcycle boots. His cut is neatly draped over a hanger and I finger the soft, pliable leather. There’s a strong scent of motor oil and a faint trace of cigarette smoke. It’s weird. The first time I met him at Hook’s, I saw him smoking, but not since.
I’m about to rub my cheek against the material when Reaper’s voice interrupts my reverie.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I nearly jump through the roof. I swing towards him in indignation. “Why are you always shouting at me? I’m only…”
My words fade when I see the man in all his glory, and yes, I’m not ashamed to admit a little drool pools in my mouth. He’s naked but for a towel hanging low on his hips and holy Mother of Mary, he’s built like a quarterback. Strong upper body with biceps and pecs and abs and all those other male muscle parts that women around the world rejoice over. His hips are slim, which I knew already because his jeans hang loosely. His legs, thighs, calves. So perfect it brings tears to my eyes.
He’s watching me, lips pursed when I finally make my way to his face. His close shave reveals a strong chin, his wet coffee-brown hair curls around his ears, and his whiskey eyes are full of promises. Such strong features that some might suggest average, but from my POV, a freaking Greek god.
I gulp as my eyes make their way back to the towel. “What’s under it?” I ask him.
He tilts his head. “Under the towel?”
I nod.
“You obviously slept through biology class if you have to ask.” His voice has gone from cool to husky and I lick my lips in anticipation.
“Could you, umm. Kiss me? I just want to…” I trail off as I see Pops in my mind, shaking his head at me.
Reaper steps up to me, grips my chin, looks in my eyes. “I asked you a question. What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?”
I sigh as I pull out his grip and move past him, my hip bumping his thigh. “I was curious, is all. Don’t you ever get curious about girls you like?”
“No,” he says bluntly, then when he sees my face fall, he adds more gently, “Listen, X. I like you. You’re this gorgeous little package that any guy in the world would want to tap.”
My heart swells at his compliment, but even more so at his admission. “Thank you,” I say shyly, though I don’t really have a shy bone in my body.
He takes a few steps away from me and runs his hand over his head. “Your dad’s right. I’m a criminal. Spent nine years in prison for voluntary manslaughter.” He takes a deep breath and slowly blows it out. “I’ve done things that you can’t even begin to imagine. You’re a good girl. I’m not going to fuck with that.”
His revelations don’t really surprise me. “Not that good,” I protest.
He inhales deeply as his eyes stroke over me. “Not gonna happen.”
I know he doesn’t mean it but I feel crushed anyway. “Right,” I manage to croak. I turn towards the door. “I’ll go get Spot. He’s probably?—”
Then his arms are on me, twisting me towards him. His lips find mine and he greedily kisses me. Not gentle, but not an all-out attack either. It’s sensuous, his mouth pressed against mine. It’s a kiss at first, then his arms wrap around my waist, forcing my body into his. His erection — huge, I might add — presses into my belly.
My hands sneak up his chest, resting on his pecs, but I’m careful not to intrude on what he’s doing to me. He’s entered into a lust-induced coma and I definitely don’t want to disturb him.