Eleven
Tait
I do realize that I’m in a strange man’s house, in the middle of the night, after he has attacked me in the woods, felt me up, broken my camera, and playfully taken my (beloved) coat away… and I further realize that I hadn’t considered any of it until this point. I mentally shake myself while simultaneously hearing my own subconsciousness’s voice purr So what? He doesn’t give off that threatening vibe, and what’s the worst this could lead to?
Mmhm.
Clearly, he has more consideration for my self-preservation than I do, because he offers my coat back to me, looking a little disappointed. “I was kidding,” he says dully.
He probably assumes I’m into him, as I’m sure most other warm-blooded females are.
I attempt to wrap my coat around me and feel something pinch in my side again. Henry catches my wince.
“Go sit down and let me take a look at your side.”
Just then, because I haven’t been put through enough torture tonight, my stomach chooses to let out the most audible, long-winded, gurgling growl that has ever occurred, ever, and I’m reminded of what sent me out into the night to begin with.
Henry’s eyes go wide and he holds his hands up in surrender, as if I’m in charge of my stomach’s auditory tendencies. “Or, I can feed you first?” he says, eyes on my midsection.
I sigh. “Thank you. There’s not a scrap of food in my place.” And then I catch the complaint in my voice and try to cover it.
“… Not that I expect to be fed or the groceries to be stocked for me. I was invited to dinner and everything, and could’ve gone into town for food if I hadn’t fallen asleep. I just—I’m starving,” I elaborate.
He chuckles, the sound skating through me. “It’s alright, go ahead and sit. I’ll make a drink first. Assume you don’t feel concussed?”
“No, my head is completely fine, actually.” Minus the fifteen-year-old boy that’s taken up where my libido resides.
“Any preferences?”
“I’m not picky, thank you.”
I head over to the sofa. Everything is surprisingly tidy and nicely appointed. No detritus piled up anywhere. It makes me suspicious of how often he’s actually here.
He heads over to the kitchen as I’m mentally grappling with another wave of self-consciousness. I’ve been assuming he lives here on his own this entire time—maybe it’s so tidy because his girlfriend (or wife?!) keeps it that way?
“Are you alone?” I blurt out before I can think better of it .
“What?” He looks at me quizzically, head rearing back at my shout.
“I mean, is your girlfriend or anyone going to be woken up by us?”
“Do you plan on being particularly loud for any reason?”
“What? No!!” Then, realizing how loud that was, “No, I mean—”
He laughs again. “Relax, I’m kidding. Yes, I live alone. Just Belle and I.”
At the mention of the latter, I pat the seat next to me to get her on the couch before I blow out a breath. It’s not lost on me that he didn’t clarify being unattached. Unfortunately, being in the single world, even in the smallest degree that I have been, has taught me that some men choose not to be transparent about those things for a reason.
Scratching Belle’s ears and petting her soft fur calms my frazzled nerves. I’m pleased to smell something delicious coming from the kitchen, my stomach mewls in agreement.
Henry emerges with a grilled cheese and what looks like a cocktail, and I can’t help but steal a glance at his gray sweatpants effect . There’s something a little too intimate about him serving me food in his bare feet. When did he shed his boots? I’m genuinely annoyed at my baser attraction to him. It’s been so long since someone besides myself participated in my orgasm. I sigh, suddenly very aware of everything he’s doing. I remove my shoes and feel my eyebrows come together on their own accord as he brings the goods in front of me. The food, too.
“What?” he snaps at my expression. “Sorry I don’t have any fresh sushi on hand, Sunshine.” Ahh, yes, there he goes ruining it with speaking, again.
“No—sorry that my face—made a face! It looks fine. Great. Really good. Thank you,” I stammer. He plops the plate on my lap and the drink on the table in front of me before he sits on the end of the chaise.
I’ll wonder in a minute why he’s sitting so close to me, when I clearly exasperate him so, but for now the smell of melted cheese and buttery bread steals my focus. I’m shocked when I bite into it to find something sweet and tangy. I must wear that expression on my face, too, because before I can ask, he says, “Apples and cheddar. Mrs. Logan always made them that way.”
“It’s delicious, thank you.”
I wash it back with the drink, a whiskey and ginger ale number that warms me up from the inside. I have a swig after every bite, losing myself to the meal. The end comes too quickly, though, and I’m forced to look back up at Henry’s sour expression.
“Which side hurts and where?”
I roll my eyes and lean onto my side, exposing the one that’s pinched. A burp escapes me in the motion, but I’m either too sated or too immune to being embarrassed tonight to care.
“Sexy,” he says flatly. I lift my arm to pinpoint the area, then use my opposite hand to lift up my shirt to look at it.
An angry, reddish-purple bruise has already mottled the skin over the front of my ribs, but it’s the back that hurts. I roll onto my stomach to grant access to the area in question.
The awareness hasn’t dulled with the meal, so when he slides the hem of my shirt up a bit further, I feel the touch of his rough fingertips shoot right through me, my stomach somersaulting.
He gingerly prods at the area in question, eliciting an annoyed and muffled “Ow” from me.
“Nothing’s broken, but you’ve got a nasty bruise, and…” He chuckles softly, chuffing out a breath of air that hits my side. “… It’s in the shape of a perfect circle.”
“What? Let me see!”
“Not sure how to do that, unless you’re an owl and can turn your head all the way around,” he replies dryly.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
He gestures to the hallway, and I remember that our cabins are essentially the same layout. I’d only been here a handful of times as a kid, but it has definitely been updated since. He doesn’t offer more help than that, so I go off on my own. As soon as I open the door to the would-be hall bathroom (at least from what I recall at my place), Henry is up and behind me, his very large hand over mine, awkwardly taking the door handle. “Not that one, next one on the left,” he says gently.
His proximity throws me off again, close enough to see chest hair poking up from the neckline of his shirt, oddly obscene… and he’s so tall and warm, smelling like grilled cheese and something else that’s just… man and/or man soap and warm leather. Actual warm leather, like the best books always say, and why is it always warm leather? How is warmth encapsulated in a scent?
My musings are cut short when he turns around and heads back toward the living room. Mercurial might be an understatement with that one.
I get to the bathroom, flip on the light, and audibly gasp because ohmygod it is the bathroom dreams are made of. The slate floors are heated under my feet, the room itself larger than my kitchen back home. A vanity with a sink dons either side, with there being a second arched door past the vanity on the right, and a built-in stocked with fluffy towels just past the one on the left. Straight ahead to the back are what appear to be large double sliding glass shower doors that lead to a slight step up and into a shower room, with a massive freestanding tub inside the shower, toward the back. There are two large windows over the tub, no doubt looking out and over the pond. On the left wall there are multiple shower heads, one handheld and one rain head that looks like it’s big enough to wash an SUV. On the right side is a built-in bench. I suppose you’d end up spending so much time in there that you’d like a place to sit down.
I’m not sure how long I gawk, running my hands over the marble slab walls in the shower room (yes, I let myself in), but it must’ve been awhile because Henry stomps in, irritation written all over his face. I opt for honesty again.
“I don’t even remember what I came in here for, but I’m having an out-of-body experience in this bathroom,” I tell him. His hands go on his hips and he spares me another one of his exasperated looks.
“Do you even appreciate all this?” flies out of me, incredulous.
“What?”
“I mean it—there’s no body wash or anything in here. I assume you shower?”
“I use mine, in my room. I’m sorry if your facilities aren’t up to your standards, though.”
It takes me a minute to process what he says, but I snap a little more, then.
“You really assume I’m some kind of snob, don’t you? You’re taking a compliment and reading into it as some kind of complaint or comparison, when it’s not.”
“You’re the one who asked me if I even appreciated it, Tait.”
True. I did do that, so I hedge, “You just did it over a facial expression not fifteen minutes ago, though. You’re the one who tackled me in the woods, in the dark, and told me to come here, yet you’re continuing to act like I’m up to something.”
He sighs, and I see thoughts processing on his face. He seems to struggle with something, grasps it, and then finally spits out, “I’m sorry.”
Realizing that I’ve been talking to him from his shower, I mournfully step out. This puts me back at an even greater height disadvantage, so I’m forced to look up at him.
“It’s fine, I don’t exactly assume the best of people myself. Especially being here. But , I’m going to be stuck here for a month and a half, and honestly, Henry, I could use some kind of friend. One who’s not related to me.” I’m not sure what about him—given that he’s especially cranky, menacing, and rude—elicits such transparency from me, but it feels almost good to be recklessly vulnerable this way. Knowing that there’s an end date, and that he’s not sharing any of my DNA, helps.
He seems a bit flustered at that too, but responds, holding out his hand. “Truce?”
I take it, shake it firmly. “Truce.” I grin, not one to miss an opportunity. “Especially if you let me have this bathroom to myself sometime, for like, three hours.”
I expect him to laugh at that, or even roll his eyes. He does neither, just intensifies his look, and his grip on my hand and says, “I think I can do that.”
I inhale sharply when a vision comes, unbidden, of those rough hands on my bare hips, piloting me as I grind on his, him seated on the shower bench, steam billowing around us. His face and chest are covered in sweat or water or both, mouth open and brow furrowed in pleasure.…
“You want another drink?” he says, and I’m jerked back to reality, where I am still holding on to his hand and awkwardly slow-shaking it. I whip away as if burned, but recover nicely with a two syllable “Ye-es.”
I go to leave when he grabs my arm with his obscenely large hand, and I very briefly wonder if the tension was felt mutually, but he says, “Your bruise—did you get a look at it?”
“OH! NO!” Overly loud and frantic, I hop over in front of one of the mirrors and lift up my shirt, turning around as much as possible. He’s right, it is an insanely perfect circle, already welted and purple with red dots.
“Oh, God.” I groan. “It’s from my lens… the one in my backpack.” The hilarity of it all—the last 24 hours, the reality of where I am, the fact that I have yet to even see my estranged father—it all hits me then, harder than in the woods, and I bust out laughing uncontrollably. It’s my ugliest laugh: cackling, bubbling, frothing at the mouth. Eventually Henry grabs me, gives me a little shake, but when I look up at him, I see him fighting a laugh too, and it begins anew—this time with him losing it alongside me. His laugh is pleasant though, deep and rumbling… Mine is a psych ward unto itself.
Spent, panting, and wiping tears from our eyes, we eventually make our way back to the living room, with the occasional aftershock chuckle between us. It’s the same feeling of old—the one like having a friend over for a sleepover, and staying up too late, when you can’t stop laughing even if it’s at nothing .
I decide to sit at the island this time and watch him as he makes us each another drink.
“Your laugh. It’s awful,” he says, but he smirks appreciatively at me.
“Thanks, I know. How long have you been working here?” I ask, feeling like the ice likely broke alongside my camera.
“About fifteen years now. Grace is my aunt.” He slides another drink on the counter in front of me. He grabs one of the stools next to me and swings it to his side so we are sitting across from one another.
“Ah, I see.” And then I recall something he said earlier. “Wait, you call your aunt ‘Mrs. Logan?’”
He lets out a disgruntled noise and shoves a hand through his hair. “No, uhhh, your grandma—Emmaline, Emma. She’s who I call Mrs. Logan.”
Oh, wonderful. Dear Grandma. I have blessedly blocked her from my mind until this point. I manage a nod and take a sip of my drink. There goes another attempt at small talk, barreling to the ground in a ball of fire.
God, I’m tired, but not tired enough. I know if I head to bed, my thoughts will keep spinning.
“You like cards?” Henry asks, looking at me beneath a raised, sympathetic brow, and I could kiss him for his deflection.
“Love them.”
We play card games for what feels like hours. Gin, 5 Card Draw, High Spade/High Hand. We even make an attempt at Cribbage until we both decide there’s too much thinking and math involved, and switch back to Gin. He regales me with light, funny stories from some of the outfitting trips he’s guided on. One in particular leaves me in stitches, about a man from Seattle who thought he was lost and actually blew a foghorn despite being twenty-five yards away from a gravel road, and from Henry. I’m not sure if it’s the image itself, or the put-out face he makes while he repeatedly says, “He thought he was lost after maybe ten minutes. Ten minutes! Not to mention, it was still fucking daylight!” By the time he finishes, I’m wiping tears from the corners of my eyes.
The conversation stays light, both of us cleverly avoiding anything that could turn heavy; sticking to our work, places I’ve been to and seen. He’s an active listener, asking for pertinent details here and there, seeming genuinely interested. I find that I enjoy sharing, actually. Having the chance to talk about some of the places I’ve seen reminds me of their beauty and wonder, again.
Eventually, I simply cannot hold my head up any longer, though, and put my face to the cool countertop. Henry gets me up at some point and shuffles me to a bed, where I pass out before my head hits the pillow, and fall into a dreamless sleep.