Chapter 22—Payton
Breathe. Just breathe.
I keep telling myself the same thing. To take it one breath at a time. Things hurt. But it could have been worse if Tommy hadn’t shown when he did.
Closing my eyes, I steady my breath one last time before I bend and unwind the straps around both legs, then slide my shoes off. I don’t even check if Tommy’s back is still turned or if he’s watching me through a mirror before I unclasp my bra and lower my panties.
The tub calls to me. I can feel the heat radiating in the air around me.
The feeling of being warm all over is a welcome pull as I lower my body under the water, letting it rise to the top of my chest as I rest back against a towel that was positioned at the edge of the tub to use as a pillow.
Something he must have placed there for me.
I close my eyes and just feel the heat seep into my bones before a gurgling noise starts and then is taken over by a steady humming sound as jets of water massage into my back.
My eyes snap open, and I watch in soft amazement as the water shimmers under the pulsating jets around the tub. Bubbles form and take over the top layer of the water, covering the entire length of the tub and coming up to my neck.
“Better?”
I look and see Tommy is still facing away, still not looking at me, and a feeling of peace comes over me. I’m completely covered up, no one can see me, and I feel less vulnerable now than I did before. Somehow, the bubbles feel like more of a barrier than his suit jacket ever could.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Only then does he turn and take in my head poking out among the bubbles. After nodding once more, like he did when he looked me over, he leaves. I expect him to close the door, but he quickly returns with a small stool that he places beside me.
I watch him as he leans over and untangles my hair, pulling the tie from my ponytail before he massages my scalp.
Strong strokes of his fingers rub deep into my hairline.
I close my eyes as I sink lower into the tub and just focus on this.
Not before, not after. Just this. It quiets my mind more than anything else I can think of.
Warm. Cuddled by more bubbles than a grown woman should be. And strong fingers that push off the approaching headache.
And when the silent tears fall from my eyes, neither of us speaks about them.
I don’t hate tears. I know some grow to loathe them, but I accept them for what they are. Loss. Loss of whatever happened and grieving that loss.
I cried when I didn’t get a part in those first few years at dance school till I realized I couldn’t get everything.
I cried for my parents and losing my home with them.
I even cried after the first time I danced at the club.
I let tears blur my vision at the reality that I lost my dream, and this is what I am.
Because then, and still now, the idea of going back to what was seems impossible.
I owe too much money. I’ll never be able to repay all of it.
Even if I do, I’ll be too old to start again. The life of a ballerina depends on who’s willing to put up with you. Some can dance into their forties, while other companies end careers in their mid-twenties.
And honestly, I don’t know if I want that life anymore.
So much has changed for me. I once was a naive girl who didn’t know how to open a bank account and thought everything would work out for her because she had no thoughts as to the alternative.
Now? I still don’t have a bank account, but I know now that there’s a cold, cruel world out there beyond the four walls of a dance academy.
Once the water cools and the bubbles fade despite the jets still going, Tommy stands and leaves. When he comes back, I don’t even question the towel and clothes that I know belong to him that he puts on the sink counter.
“Take your time getting out.”
I don’t nod, barely even blink before he turns, shutting the door this time and giving me space I thought I wanted.
I should not want a person, let alone a man, this close to me after what happened, but I do.
Or at least I want Tommy close. I feel safe with him on more levels than I can describe.
And a warmth spread its way into my cold soul after he spent what felt like hours, but was probably closer to twenty minutes, massaging my head.
Not doing any more than just making me feel comfortable.
Not once forcing me to speak or calling out my tears.
Not even looking below my face to see if a bubble miraculously vanished and parts of me showed.
I pull the plug and let the water drop down past my shoulders before moving to rise.
I step out of the tub easily enough, surprised that pain doesn’t rack my body from moving like it did after the attack at my apartment.
But with the last one, I lay on the cold, unforgiving floor for hours as I cried about everything.
This time I was in the hot bath almost immediately after.
I never knew how much a hot bath could help until now.
I towel off and dress quickly, taking a full ten seconds to smell his shirt before putting it on.
There’s a scent that’s him, spice and something darker I can’t quite place.
I can’t identify it, but I also can’t stop wishing I could bottle it for my own personal use. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud.
My hair is just damp on the ends, not enough to need a blow-dry, but I don’t want to get the shirt wet. I twist it into a lazy top bun and secure it with the same hair tie he took out earlier.
I hang the towel up on the rack, next to his, and ignore the flutter of being in his bathroom as I exit. I expect to find him in his room, but it’s dark. The hall light illuminates the way out, which I follow as it leads me to the sounds coming from the kitchen.
The sight stops me in my tracks.
“You cook?”
He looks up from whisking something in a bowl with a smirk before setting it down and cutting something up on the other side of it.
“When it calls for it.”
“When what calls for it?”
I move closer to him, feeling a pull toward him as I take a seat at one of the counter chairs and just watch as he continues to cook on the stovetop between us.
“When a home-cooked meal is exactly what the doctor ordered.”
His smile is infectious, and I match his energy just a little.
“And the doctor called for omelets?”
He shrugs. “Essentially, he said to take pain medication with food. No specification. But it’s my mama who always told me that nothing helps medication go down better than a home-cooked meal.”
I watch as he pours the eggs into a pan before tilting his head and looking off to the side as if in deep thought.
“Actually, she specifically said ‘her home cooking,’ but it’s too late to go over there. So omelets it is.” He tosses in the cut ham and onions with some cheese. “That and I haven’t been grocery shopping in a while, so this is all I have.”
I shrug as I put my hands between my knees. “All I know how to make is ramen, so this is gourmet to me.”
I meant to keep it light, but he frowns anyway.
“We’ll have to correct that too.”
Too? What else is he planning on correcting? And why do I like that so much? That he wants to help me learn something new. Things I can do on my own. Without him. Even if the sudden thought makes me almost not want to eat for fear of throwing up.
“And voilà. Home-cooked food with a side of pills.” He hands over the omelet on a plate after putting two pills on it, along with a glass of orange juice.
I take a moment to just appreciate the hell out of this.
I can’t recall the last time I felt so taken care of.
When I was younger, I know my parents must have cooked for me or something.
When I got into dance school, the food was cafeteria-style.
Cooked for you, but you picked it. No personal touch involved, just what was needed.
And when I saw my parents, well, they were so busy with work that they spent more time ordering takeout or eating out at restaurants in places between their home and dance school.
“Eat.” He pushes the omelet toward me with a warm smile as he makes another for himself.
Somehow, seeing that he’s making his own omelet makes this even better. Sharing a meal with him shouldn’t make me feel special, but it does. Hell, everything he does makes me feel special.
By the time Tommy plates his food, his phone is buzzing continuously. He apologizes for it, which confuses me. It’s not like this is a date or anything. He has a business to run, and this is the second time I’ve taken him away from the job.
Honestly, I’m more surprised that he’s putting up with me. I’m nothing but a problem. Not only for his work, but I seem to keep getting into situations. Sure, none of them are my fault beyond that I’m a woman, and that seems to be the only catalyst that I can find in all of this, but still.
“Fuck. I’ve got to take this.” He picks up his phone and answers it as he puts his plate in the sink and walks down the hall, past his bedroom and into another room, shutting the door behind him.
Not wanting to be even more of a problem, I take the time to clean up the kitchen. It takes little work, and despite what my past career attempts showed me, I can figure out how to clean up after myself.
Once that’s done, I go to the room I was in before. But I don’t stay. I don’t want to sleep. I know if I close my eyes and let my mind drift, it’ll go someplace I don’t want it to go.
Instead, I grab my phone and the sweater I borrowed from him earlier, pulling it on as I sink into his couch.
I play a game on my phone, but it doesn’t hold my attention.
Besides, my phone is the cheapest out there.
A pay-to-play type, and the games aren’t anything beyond following a snake around the screen and trying not to die.
I look around, but for all the sides I’ve seen of Tommy—mostly that he holds your attention no matter if you want to look at him or not—there are very few things to do in his home. No magazines lying around, no books out in the open.
I grab the remote and turn on the TV, turning on the closed captions to not disturb him as I flip through stations to find anything that will hold my attention. I never knew there were so many sports channels.
Finally, I settle on some old reruns of a sitcom I watched a time or two before. Nothing action-packed, just a group of four older women living together in Florida and dealing with life after fifty.
I focus on the words, reading every line. My eyes droop at the intensity and warm feeling, not only from the clothing but also the meal that was beyond amazing. Best thing I’ve eaten in years… maybe ever.
I hold off as long as I can, fear of sleep pushing me long past the first episode and into the second and third.
But then I can’t fight it anymore. And when sleep takes me over, I accept the inevitable.
I just hope I don’t scream and disturb Tommy’s call when I eventually start my nightmare.
I really don’t want to be a bother for him.
I feel my body being lifted and reach out to grab for the ground to keep from flying away.
“Shhh. Go back to sleep. I got you.”
His words settle me, and I stop fighting him as I snuggle closer, letting his arms wrap around me as he carries me.
When he puts me on the mattress, he doesn’t let me fall back right away.
Instead, he holds me up and pulls one arm, then the other through the sweater before finally tugging it over my head.
“Good girl,” he murmurs close enough to my ear that I feel his breath against me.
I keep my eyes closed as we keep moving. At one point, I feel his lips against my forehead, though it could have been my imagination. Wishful thinking and nothing more.
A few moments later, he once again sets me down on the bed, and I uncurl from around him, rolling away to find comfort. Settling into the mattress, I take a deep, heavy breath before going back to slumberland.
That same warm, unfamiliar spice hits my nose.
My eyes pop open as I realize that the scent is coming off the pillow. My eyes take a moment to adjust to what I’m seeing—or more appropriately, what I’m not seeing. Not the guest room. His room.
I don’t move as I listen to him behind me. I’m facing away from the entrance, looking at darkness but hearing him move about. The clatter of his shoes hitting the floor followed by a belt buckle coming undone. More noise and then nothing. My heart is beating too fast for me to hear anything else.
But then I feel it.
The dip of the bed behind me has my breath stalling as I feel him get closer. But he doesn’t touch me.
Just lies beside me.
In his bed.
That he put me in.
I keep still, not sure what’s going to happen next. After the night I had, I don’t want anything. And yet.…
A small part. A tiny, little part is begging for him to hold me. To keep me locked in his arms and safe from the people out in the real world.
I expect to stay up a long time after realizing where I am, but sleep pulls me quickly under again. And when I dream, it’s not about what happened. No attacks come as nightmares. Instead, it’s eyes and smells that haunt me into thinking I could have something I probably never will.
And that should scare me more than what Carl almost did.