Chapter 21
Fern slumped onto the foot of the small bed. “My parents must have called the police.” She stared up at him. “Did the radio announcer say anything about you?”
He raised a brow and gave a slight nod as if to say of course.
He shucked his jacket, exposing a blood speckled shirt. She shot to her feet again, but he plucked at the shirt. “It’s not my blood.”
Fern exhaled, only slightly relieved. It was a reminder of what had happened in front of Harris Looms and then at the farmhouse. How in stride Cal seemed to be handling it all.
“Listen, I couldn’t get you your own room,” he went on. “The manager might have wanted to meet you—she looks like the nosy type—so I just told her I was here with my wife. Okay?”
Her head bobbed in a wild nod, though she wasn’t sure if it was okay.
The less she was seen the better, but…that meant they would be sharing a room.
She avoided looking at Cal by inspecting the bathroom.
It was cramped and held only a pedestal sink and a flush toilet. So much for her getting a bath.
Fern ambled back toward the single chair and bureau. “How long should we stay?”
Cal unbuttoned his collar but kept his holster on. He sat on the edge of the bed, springs squeaking, and took off his shoes. “A few hours, tops.”
He kicked up his legs and laid back on one half of the bed. He threw an arm over his eyes, the other draped over his stomach. His fingers touched the black, polished handle of his gun; he’d be able to draw in a split second, if necessary.
Fern took her suitcase from the bed and shut herself in the bathroom.
Washing up with a cloth didn’t feel like enough, but it was all she could muster, so she made the best of it.
She rubbed the cloth over her face, arms, legs, and feet, using the French milled soap Margie had packed among her things for Young Acres.
Dirt darkened the water as Fern squeezed the cloth out into the sink.
Peering into the mirror, she was taken aback at first. She could never quite forget about her scars, but in the last many hours, ever since they left the Bluebird Diner, she hadn’t given them much thought.
And when she was with Cal, how he saw her—how he viewed them—wasn’t her first concern.
What Fern thought most about was the delicate, tenuous attachment that seemed to be taking shape between them.
She touched her lips with the cloth, thinking of his kiss.
How it had made her body thrum with wonder.
But now wasn’t the time to remember. The memory felt too big and hot and complicated, and ridiculously, she worried it would somehow seep through the bathroom door and alert Cal to her thoughts. Breathing out evenly, Fern toweled off and dressed.
She’d only packed a few things. The cream-colored, rayon dress with small black polka dots and flutter sleeves, which cinched at the elbow, looked comfortable enough.
The hose she’d been wearing went into the trash can, torn in too many places to mend.
She put on her other pair, a black seam running up the back of each leg.
The black, buckled shoes she’d been wearing were covered with mud and grime, but a quick cleaning helped.
Refreshed, Fern closed the door behind her and found Cal asleep on the bed, just as she’d left him.
Naturally, he hadn’t heard or felt her earlier thoughts.
Feeling absurd, she watched the rise and fall of his chest. His head was rolled to the side toward the window and away from her.
His left leg bent at the knee a little, his foot hanging off the bed by the length of one heel.
The urge to lie down next to him, just to be closer to him, confused her. Did he want her to? Expect her to?
She set her suitcase on the floor and carefully, as silently as possible, perched on the edge of the bed. Cal snapped awake, his hand gripping the handle of his gun. Instinct. But he saw it was only Fern and let go. He took in her clean clothes and propped an arm behind his head.
“You look nice,” he said, his voice groggy.
“Oh. I… thank you.” She’d hoped he would think so, but now the compliment flustered her.
He looked at the flat pillow next to his. “You should get some shut-eye.”
The bed had seemed wider a moment ago. She toed off her shoes and lifted her feet onto the cheap gingham blanket but didn’t lay back.
“Hey.” Cal’s warm fingers wrapped around her forearm. He gave a small tug. “We’re just gonna sleep.”
Fern relented, knowing now that she could take him at his word. Still, as she settled down beside him, she had to know something. “Why did you kiss me?”
He turned onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow. It felt awkward to hold his stare, but she forced herself to do it. She’d been timid far too long. She’d asked a bold question and should be bold enough to accept the answer.
His brow tensed with apprehension. “Did you not like it?”
“No, I did, it was…it was wonderful,” she replied shyly.
Cal’s cheek twitched, a hint of a grin there and gone again. His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Why do you think I kissed you?”
“It felt a little like a goodbye.” A tightness in the base of her throat turned her voice hoarse. “You said that I didn’t belong with you.”
A muscle along his jaw rippled. Had he forgotten saying those words? They had been pinging around inside her mind ever since. Alongside the blistering kiss, the statement had left her utterly confused.
Cal cupped Fern’s cheek—the scarred one—and stroked his thumb along the curve of her chin. “You don’t. My world wrecks beautiful things like you.”
Stung, she jerked her head away from his touch. Was he teasing her? “I’m not beautiful.”
He pulled his hand back and rested his open palm on her stomach, over her navel. Rebellious heat rushed to that one spot. He held her eyes. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”
He had to be joking. He certainly wasn’t telling the truth. Disappointed, Fern shook her head. “I thought you never lied.”
Cal’s palm tensed and slid lower to her waist. “I thought you trusted me.”
“I do.”
“And I don’t lie.”
His fingers rubbed gently upward, along her ribs as he held her gaze, daring her to challenge him again. Beautiful? Fern knew every weal and pucker that marred her face by heart and, while her scars were only skin-deep, beautiful was something they would never be.
Yet, on his surface, Cal wore an ever-present scowl and a hooded, dark glare.
He appeared dangerous: a brooding storm cloud sneaking up on a summer party, a man in black in a crowd of pastel linen.
But she’d seen what was beneath Cal’s surface.
She’d seen his breaks of sunlight and blue sky.
The vulnerable parts of himself he kept hidden away.
Had he shown them to anyone else? Her guess was no. Not even to Rodney.
His palm rubbed up her ribs, creasing the rayon of her dress.
How could just his touch make her feel this way?
Like a lump of hot liquid, pooling beneath him.
Like nothing that had worried her seconds ago mattered at all.
The fervent pressure of his hand as his fingertips brushed ever closer to the underside of her breast, the tracking of his eyes down the length of her body, that jumping muscle in his jaw… Fern reached for it.
The shadow of Cal’s beard was rough as she ran her finger lightly, hesitantly, over his skin. His eyes closed, and he released a small gust of breath. She’d never noticed how black his lashes were. She swept her thumb over them gently, then did the same to the gash on his cheek.
He covered her hand with his, curling his fingers around hers.
Cal slid her palm to his mouth and pressed his lips against it, then lower, to the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. Fern’s pulse thundered in her neck.
Inexperience left her blind as to what might happen next, to where this was leading.
“A girl like you doesn’t belong with a bum like me,” he said, his breath fanning down, along her arm, his eyes still closed.
His heavy leg had bent and curled around hers. She wanted him closer, and yet that desire frightened her too.
“You’re not a bum.” He let out another gust of breath, this time a mirthless laugh. He opened his eyes.
“Compared to what you come from? Yeah, I am.”
“I don’t care about that.” What Fern came from had been an illusion, a lie.
With his hand still covering hers, Cal lowered her arm to rest against her chest. His weighted it down, as if barring her from him. He shifted his leg off to the side too.
“I can’t have you around Rod. I don’t trust him—not with you. So that’s a problem.”
He lifted his arm from hers and rolled onto his back again to stare at the water-stained ceiling tiles. It was a problem, considering he worked with Rod. Considering he was Rod’s right-hand man. More importantly, Cal was his big brother. They were blood.
Fern turned onto her side, facing him, and put her head on his shoulder.
She did what she’d wanted to do as soon as she’d stepped out of the bathroom—Fern closed her eyes, let out a breath, and melted into him.
There was no answer to this problem. No easy fix.
But tucking herself next to him, resting against the solid muscle of his shoulder like it was a pillow, helped make things not feel so impossible.
Later that afternoon, as they stopped for gasoline at a station on the outskirts of Chicago, the KYW news announcer read out an alarming bulletin about Fern’s kidnapping. It was brimming with lurid, falsified details.
She’d gone from being “kidnapped from a home for the disfigured by Clean Calvin Rosetti” to “dragged away kicking and screaming, while Clean Calvin laughed maniacally and fired off his revolver toward the superintendent who’d tried to stop him.”
“What a bunch of baloney,” Cal muttered.