Chapter 3 — Tate
I'm on the couch staring at the ceiling when I hear water running.
She's showering. In my bathroom. Using my soap.
The image that creates in my head is not helping the situation I'm currently dealing with, which is being half-hard and trying to convince my body that now is not the time.
My body isn't listening…
I met her just hours ago. Now she's in my shower and I'm on my couch trying to remember the last time I wanted something this badly that wasn't about keeping someone alive or keeping myself functional.
Can't remember.
That should concern me more than it does.
The water shuts off and I hear movement of drawers opening in the bathroom. She's looking for towels, probably. I should've shown her where everything was instead of just pointing vaguely and leaving.
Too late now.
I hear the bathroom door open, and then she appears in the doorway.
Wearing my clothes.
Every thought in my head stops.
The sweatpants are rolled at the waist but still too long. Bunched at her ankles. The t-shirt clings to her body, heavy tits with no bra, soft belly, the curve of her hips where the fabric tightens.
Her hair is damp, wavy, darker wet than it was dry. She's scrubbed her face clean.
Something in my chest that's been locked down for eight years cracks open.
I don't trust myself to move, if I stand up right now she's going to see exactly how I'm responding to her in my clothes and I'm trying to maintain some shred of control over this situation.
"Better?" I manage.
"Much. Thank you!"
I watch the sway of her hips as she walks toward the kitchen.
I'm so fucked.
She stops at the sink, fills a glass with water, drinks half of it, then sets it on the counter.
I stand up because staying on the couch means watching her and watching her is making everything worse.
Instead, I move to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame because it gives me something to do with my body that isn't walking over there and getting my hands on her.
"You need anything else?" I ask.
"No. This is good. Your clothes are warm."
"You can keep them."
"No need, I’ll give them back! I'll just wash them first."
"Don't need to."
She looks at me. Studies my face for a moment like she's trying to figure something out.
"You're very direct," she says.
"That a problem?"
"No. It's just different."
"Different from what?"
She thinks about how to answer that, and takes another sip of water.
"Different from someone spending twenty minutes saying what could be said in two," she says finally.
Fair enough.
She sets the glass down and I watch her hand on the counter.
"What do you normally do at night?" she asks.
The question catches me off guard.
"What?"
"It's eight-thirty on a Tuesday. What would you normally be doing right now if I wasn't here?"
I think about it. "Reading. Or working on the bike if something needs fixing. Sometimes I'm at the clubhouse."
"But not tonight."
"No. Not tonight."
She nods like this makes sense.
"What would you be doing?" I ask.
"If I'd gotten married today?"
"Yeah."
"I'd be at the reception. First dance would've happened around seven. Dinner at seven-thirty. We'd probably be doing the cake cutting right about now. Tyler would be making a speech about how he knew I was the one after our third date."
"Was he right?"
"What?"
"Did he know you were the one?"
She looks at me, and her expression grows heavier.
"I don't think he knew me at all," she says quietly.
The honesty in that hits different than I expected.
"His loss," I say.
She blinks, looking at me like I just said something in a language she's still learning.
"You don't know me either," she points out.
"Not yet, no."
She doesn't respond immediately, just looks at me with those light brown eyes that are almost amber in this light.
Then she walks toward me.
Close enough that I can smell my soap on her skin, to see that her eyes are red-rimmed like she might've cried in the shower but didn't want anyone to know.
"Why did you stop?" she asks.
"What?"
"On Route 9. Why did you stop for me?"
Honest question deserves an honest answer.
"Because leaving people alone on empty roads is how they don't make it home."
"That's happened to you."
She says it like a statement, not a question.
"Yeah."
"The person you told me about. The one who died doing what he was told."
"Danny. His name was Danny."
Saying his name out loud is something I don't do. Haven't said it to anyone except Clint in three years.
But standing here with her, the name comes out before I decide to say it.
"He was alone?" she asks.
"No. I was with him."
She processes this. I watch her work through what that means.
"You were with him and he still died," she says.
"Yeah."
"But you did everything right."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you're still carrying it."
The observation is so precise that I don't have a response ready.
She reaches for the glass on the counter at the same time I reach for the dish towel next to it.
Our hands almost touch. Maybe an inch of space between us.
We both freeze.
If I close that inch, if I touch her hand, I'm going to pull her toward me and find out if her mouth tastes as good as I've been imagining since the bathroom.
Going to get my hands under that shirt and find out if her skin is as soft everywhere as it looks.
Going to back her against the counter and see what sounds she makes when I'm pressed against her.
I want to close that inch.
Want it so badly my hand is shaking slightly with the effort of not moving.
But I don't.
I pull back.
She pulls back half a second later.
We both pretend it didn't happen.
She picks up the glass and drinks the rest of the water.
"I should let you sleep," she says.
Her voice sounds steadier than the air between us feels.
"Yeah."
She walks past me, close enough that I feel the movement of air when she passes and to catch that soap smell again.
She stops in the doorway to the hallway, and turns back.
"Tate?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you. For stopping."
"You're welcome."
She nods once, then disappears down the hallway.
I stand there in the kitchen for a solid minute trying to get my breathing under control.
I move back to the couch, lie down, and stare at the ceiling again.
The house is quiet except for the sound of her moving around in my bedroom. Drawers opening. The bed creaking when she sits on it. Small sounds that shouldn't matter and somehow do.
I close my eyes. Try to sleep.
Can't.
Every time I start to drift, I see her in that bathroom. Her hands on my skin. The way she looked at me when our eyes met. The shape of her body in my clothes.
The wound aches, I ignore it.
My cock is half-hard again, and I ignore that too.
I get up, walk to the kitchen, drink water I don't need, and walk back to the couch.
Lie down again.
This is going to be a long night…
The ceiling doesn't have answers. I stare at it anyway.
Light starts coming through the window. Gray at first. Dawn's still an hour away but the dark is lifting.
I sit up. My back aches from the couch. The wound pulls when I move. I don't care.
Stand up. Walk to the kitchen. Start coffee.
While it brews I check my phone and I see three texts from Clint.
Perry's stable. Hand's bad but he'll keep it.
Cleanup went smooth.
Check in when you're up.
I text back.
Up now. I'm good. Will call later.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
You coming to church this morning?
Church is at ten, wednesday morning meeting. I should be there.
I look at the hallway for a second before texting back.
Yeah. I'll be there.