Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Kit and I drive back to my apartment in silence.
I wasn’t trying to anger or upset him, and now I’m upset.
I shouldn’t feel bad, because, hello, he’s a demon, but guilt is gnawing at me.
He did an out-of-pocket—technically illegal—nice thing, and instead of appreciating it, I went after him.
But I want to know what our future looks like.
I mean, my future. If the day where he’s done with me ever comes.
He pulls into a spot in front of my building and parks the car but doesn’t immediately get out. His face is serious in the rearview mirror. Like he’s contemplating saying something.
But nothing comes.
He gets out of the car, locking it behind himself. Wow, considerate. He stomps up to my apartment, opens my unlocked front door, and then actually bothers to lock it behind himself.
He enters the bathroom, stations himself in front of the mirror, and exhales slowly. “Lacy?”
I consider giving him the silent treatment but think better of it. “What?”
We lock eyes through the mirror.
“There’s paint all over you. We need to shower.”
I knew this day would come. Whatever. I’m so done at this point, I don’t even care. “Well, turn the lights off and don’t wash my hair. It’s not ready yet.”
His brow furrows, confused by my nonchalance. “Okay. You’re all right with me…washing you?” He grimaces at the question.
“Ideally, none of this would be happening.” My voice is flat. “However, if this is the way it has to be, don’t linger on anything you don’t need to be lingering on.”
“Okay,” he says, eyes downcast. Then says more to himself than me, “I am the king of restraint.” He piles my hair into a bun atop my head so it won’t get wet.
Once the water in the shower is running, he whips off the T-shirt I’m wearing so that I’m standing before the mirror in a black, lacy bra. Asshole. He gives a sly grin and a wink then flips off the light, sending us into complete darkness. He continues to undress and then gets under the warm water.
“Lacy, I’m seeing one flaw in our plan of privacy.”
I click my tongue. “What would that be?”
“I can’t see the soap.”
A logical complaint, sure. I may as well help him out. “I know what all of my products look like. You can find them by touch. They’re in a basket on the wall opposite the water.”
“Got it.”
“Like I said, you don’t need to wash my hair so we can ignore the shampoo and conditioner. Find my body wash. It’s a cylinder shape. It’s the only bottle shaped like that.”
I hear Kit start to rustle around with my bottles. “Ah,” he says. “Here we go.”
“Good. Now find my loofa. It’s hanging from the basket. Squeeze the body wash on there.”
“Thank you for your guidance in that aspect, but I actually do know how to use soap.”
Even though I can’t see or feel it, I sense as he runs the loofa over my skin. I try not to think about him touching me. Or the fact that it doesn’t bother me as much as it should.
“This smells good. Vanilla?”
I gulp. “Yep.”
He lifts his arm and sniffs it. “Really good.” He continues to wash, scrubbing hard on a paint spot on my arm. “You have a beautiful body,” he murmurs.
“Kit…” I warn.
“Just an observation, babe. I promise I’m not lingering on anything I shouldn’t be lingering on…unless you’ve changed your mind?” He chuckles as he hangs the loofa back on its hook. “Done.”
My face is burning so hot Kit can probably feel the heat in his cheeks. I clear my throat. “Okay. Now face wash. It’s in the tube thingy. It’s sharp on top and comes down in like an upside-down triangle.”
Kit finds the bottle and squeezes it into the palm of his hand, rubbing both hands together before scrubbing my face. “This does not smell good.”
“Benzoyl peroxide wash. It’s for acne.”
“Ah.”
He reaches his hands back into the basket of products and pulls up something else. “What’s this? It’s in a jar.” He unscrews the lid, giving it a sniff. I know the answer by the scraping sound of the lid before he sticks a hand in to touch it. “It’s bumpy.”
“It’s body scrub. I use it to exfoliate my legs before I shave them.”
“Ah.” He dips his hand in and takes out a dollop of the scrub before carefully lifting my leg to the corner footrest in the shower.
He scrubs up and down my leg, making me fully aware of the fingers I can’t feel that are running over my skin.
While I want to tell him he does not need to do that, I refrain.
If I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, I can almost smell the floral scent and experience the satisfying scrub.
It’s calming. He switches to the other leg and repeats the process. “Shaving cream?” he asks.
“Square bottle. Ridged top.”
“Cool.” He finds the bottle, squeezes out some shaving cream, then smooths it onto one leg. He locates my razor from where it lives attached to my shower wall by a magnet and drags the blade up both of my legs.
As he’s guiding the razor up one leg, a sudden sharp pain sparks in my knee.
“Ow,” I snip, hand going to my knee, half-expecting to find it gushing with blood.
“Shit. Sorry. Did I nick you?”
“Feels like it,” I grumble.
“Sorry, Lace,” he says again. “You can’t feel everything in there, but one thing you’ll always be able to feel is physical pain.”
“Good to know.” All the bad sensations and none of the good. Typical. “Can you feel pain?”
“Not really.” He swallows. “If I’m being honest, I miss it.”
Pain is very human, but I won’t say that and risk him getting angry again.
Kit finishes up then reaches in the basket again. He pulls another bottle. “What’s this?” he asks. From the loud popping sound it makes as he snaps open the top, I know.
“Nothing you need to worry about. Put it back.”
He continues to examine the bottle with his hands. “But what is it?”
I cover my eyes. “Oh my god, Kit. It’s soap for my vulva.”
“Oh.”
“Oh. Put it back,” I demand.
He hesitates. “Well, don’t I need to use it down there?”
“Nope,” I say quickly. “I do not need your hand between my legs. I’m sure the body wash cleaned me sufficiently.”
“Are you sure—?”
“Yes.”
He resigns. “All right. All right.” He puts it back and cranks off the shower.
He flings open the curtain and reaches an arm out to blindly feel for the towel hung on a hook on the wall.
Once he finds the towel, he wraps it around himself and steps out of the shower.
He flips back on the bathroom light when my body is covered, and as soon as we lock eyes in the mirror he says, “Well, that truly was an adventure.”
My face falls flat. “One we hopefully won’t have to repeat.”
The doorbell rings, and our heads simultaneously snap toward the sound.
“Any idea who that could be?” he asks.
I chew my lip as I think. “Not Meggie since it’s the middle of the day. A package, maybe? I didn’t order anything, but I have fans that send things. Normally they go to my PO box, but sometimes they show up here.”
He huffs quietly. “People know your address?”
“They’re not supposed to, but they find it,” I admit.
“I don’t like that.”
My heart twitches at his words—the concern in his tone. “Me neither, but what am I going to do?”
He flips off the light so he can switch from the towel into my robe then exits the bathroom, tiptoeing toward the front door as the bell rings again. “Keep me around to protect you from creeps.”
“Wild that you’re not including yourself in that category,” I deadpan.
“I’m not a creep. I’m evil. There’s a difference.”
“Sure.” Though, I do agree. Kind of a weirdo, but not a creep.
Kit peeks out the peephole. “Recognize them?”
I get closer to my window and squint. It’s a man with buzzed, jet-black hair and black gauges the size of a dime in his ears. “Shit. Yeah. That’s Matthias.” Weird. I don’t have a clue why he would be here.
Matthias rings the doorbell a third time, calling, “Lacy? You home?”
My instinct is to ignore the bell and protect him…but I don’t believe Kit will harm him. I request, “Open the door.”
“We’re naked,” Kit protests.
“In a robe. It’s fine. Please open the door. He’ll worry if I don’t.”
Kit huffs and puffs about that, but does open the door, saying aloud, “Hey, sorry. Was in the shower. Why are you here?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Be less confrontational.”
Matthias doesn’t react to the tone, though, lifting the reusable shopping bag in his hands in a gesture. “I brought you things to make you feel better. Can I come in?”
Kit steps aside, letting him enter. Matthias is a couple of inches taller than me with chipped black polished nails and a bit of stubble on his chin. He’s not threatening in the least, but Kit tenses as he glares at him.
Kit closes and locks the door. In the void, he asks, “Who is this guy?”
“Coworker. I told you.”
“I don’t trust him.”
I shoot back, “I don’t trust you.”
“That’s rude.”
Matthias has only been over to my apartment once before, but he remembers it well enough to head straight for the kitchen. On my island counter, he places the bag down and starts to pull things out one by one. Ice cream, a face mask, shower steamers.
As he puts the ice cream in the freezer, he says, “Joanne said your brother was hurt—do you have a brother? I thought it was just you and Meggie?”
I say for Kit to repeat, “It is just me and Meggie. Meggie was the one in the accident. Joanne must have misheard me.” My stomach churns as I spit out that lie.
If my sister ever got into an accident, I don’t know what I would do.
I wouldn’t be standing, that’s for sure.
I’d be curled in a ball somewhere, unable to move. She is not allowed to leave me too.
Kit adlibs. “She’s okay, though, but I’m…I need a bit. It freaked me out.”
Matthias’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I’m sure it did. Anxiety like that, well, it can be possessing.”
Possessing. A memory slams into me like a truck. Oh my god. The night after the club rushes back to me, when I had control of my body. I texted him I was possessed. Does he know? Matthias has always been into spooky things—it’s why we bonded in the first place. He…he could save me.
“Right,” Kit says, crossing his arms and still glaring.
Matthias offers a small smile. “I’ll get out of your hair.
” He makes his way to the front door but rotates back before he reaches it.
“Oh, before I forget, I’m covering some of your sections while you’re out.
Remind me, are fiction novels in other languages shelved in fiction or in the individual language sections? ”
My brow furrows. Matthias trained me, so he knows the answer to that question. To test a theory, I say, “In fiction,” which Kit repeats. That’s not true, though. Spanish novels get placed in the Spanish section, same with French, German, etcetera.
Matthias’s eyes flash almost imperceptibly. “Got it. That’s what I thought. I’ll see you later, okay? Text me if you need me.” Then he’s out the door.
Holy shit. Matthias knows.