20. Wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
WIDE UNCLASP THE TABLES OF THEIR THOUGHTS
For once, Rafael let me drive, though he still chose the music—mellow jazz. It took five solid minutes to move the seat, the wheel, and the mirrors to accommodate my much shorter stature, but the bus-like SUV drove fine. Luckily, the parking spots under his building were large.
It definitely wasn’t like the fights on TV. If the people who organized those events knew Rafael hurt people that badly, why did they let him keep coming back? Just for the bloodsports and betting of it all?
Ross left after the fight ended, privately extracting from me a promise that I’d call him if Rafael ever got to be too much. A common refrain. Was I the only person who believed in this man? But fair enough, after the unmitigated violence we’d just witnessed.
As we entered the apartment, Rafael groaned and peeled off his shirt.
Blotches of purple and green bloomed along one side—the injured ribs, I assumed.
Unwinding the tape from his hands, he kicked off his shoes and socks and shuffled stiffly off to the bathroom.
He took his hair down as he turned on the shower.
His shorts landed in the corner with a clack, followed by the leggings.
Rafael stood under the water with his hands planted against the wall. Steamed filled the room as blood swirled down the drain.
I lingered just outside. “Can I join you?”
“Yes,” he said so softly I almost didn’t hear it.
I stripped and stepped in. He moved over to let me get under the water, though it wasn’t necessary.
“Can I bathe you?” I held up a bar of olive oil soap and a mildly scratchy washcloth.
“Yes.” He leaned out of the shower door and grabbed a different washcloth.
The replacement was soft, and I lathered it with soap.
Rafael bent so I could wipe the remnants of blood from his face.
I let him handle his throat, and worked my way across the hills and valleys of his shoulders, chest, and abdomen, taking extra care over his ribs. I paused when I reached his pubic hair.
“You may touch me,” he said, eyes closed.
Still, I hesitated. This was a huge amount of trust. I kept the washcloth between my hand and his skin as a barrier.
With slow, gentle swipes, I washed his heavy cock and balls, watching his face the whole time for any hint of discomfort.
He hardly stirred under my touch. Unsurprising, with that much exhaustion.
I soaped down his legs to his feet, and he lifted each one at my prodding. He turned, and I washed his back the same way, with the same permission to touch his ass.
Once he was squeaky clean, I hugged him from behind, resting my head against his back.
He laid a hand over mine. “Will you wash my hair?”
Somehow, it was the most intimate thing he’d ever requested.
The sheer trust filled me with warmth. I moved the shower bench, and he sat with his back to me.
Working the shampoo into his scalp, I combed it slowly and carefully through hair that had reverted once more to ringlets.
He murmured contented sounds at my touch.
Conditioner followed. The products had a pleasingly subtle herbaceous scent.
I soaped myself off quickly as he climbed out, and found him leaning against the wall, half-asleep. “Come on, big guy. We need to at least partially dry all that hair. Sit.”
He obeyed as though sleepwalking. I worked the hair oil into his curls, as I’d seen him do, and used the fancy Dyson hairdryer I found under the sink.
Even with a tool that powerful, it still took a while to get his hair just damp rather than sopping.
The more it dried, the more the curls relaxed and lengthened into waves.
He was almost swaying in the seat by the time I finished.
I made him stay long enough to treat his busted knuckles.
They weren’t as bad as they looked, just superficial cuts, but as he’d said—infections were not sexy.
He brushed his teeth while I cleaned, medicated, and bandaged them, and kissed each one for good measure.
Rafael dragged himself off the seat and staggered into the bedroom. He collapsed face-first on the mattress with his feet hanging off the edge.
I climbed in beside him. “You’re really coming down hard. Are you ok?”
He cracked open one eye and wormed his way farther onto the bed. I stroked his hair until he fell asleep.
A vibration ran through the bed, waking me in total darkness. An earthquake? Beside me, Rafael made a soft, distressed noise and shivered. I laid a hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered, gasping. He barked something in Turkish and rolled away from me.
Fuck, was this a night terror? I scooted away from him—not a moment too soon, as he kicked and slapped at the duvet, muttering under his breath.
“Rafael, I’m here. You’re ok. It’s just a bad dream,” I crooned. “Calm down. You’re safe.”
He hammered the bed with his fists, kicking harder.
I kept up my stream of encouragement, talking to him like I’d talk to a scared cat.
He thrashed, throwing off the covers. Each time I moved on the mattress, he whipped his head toward me, grumbling.
I perched carefully on the edge of the bed and waited it out. Finally, he stilled into normal sleep.
I woke up the next morning to Rafael’s head resting on my belly and his arms around my legs. How sweet. The second I rested a hand on his head, he sat up and winced, touching his ribs.
“Oh no, are they really broken?”
“Hard to say without an X-ray. Recovery is the same, so it does not matter.” His voice was still oddly flat.
“Can I wrap them for you? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for broken ribs?”
He shook his head slowly. “Not anymore. Get the blue and black tape and the bottle with the red stopper from the cabinet.”
“Definitely not your first time at this rodeo, I see.” I caught his chin and tilted his face to look at me.
“I was really worried about you last night. First, when I thought you were going to kill that man, then when you were so exhausted afterward you could barely function. Did you not eat before the fight? How do you usually get home afterward?”
“Normally, the comedown does not hit so hard or so fast. I forced it because I did not want to risk being agitated around you. I never eat before a fight because I do not enjoy vomiting, and I drive myself. The only time I needed a ride was after a broken collarbone.” Rafael said it like he was reading a grocery list.
I brushed his unruly hair away from his face, unsure of what to say.
He sighed. “Maybe it is a good sign, controlling the rage like that.”
“Maybe so. You had a night terror last night.”
“Unsurprising,” Rafael gave me a tired nod, “I hope I did not scare you.”
“It was ok. Just some flailing around and muttering. It lasted about 15 minutes.”
The supplies were where he said they’d be, and he sat at the edge of the bed, holding his arms up.
I began with the lightest kiss on the injury, and he gave me the first smile of the day.
The liniment’s sharp mix of camphor and menthol stung my nose as I massaged it gently into his bruised side.
He showed me where and how to place the tape.
I’d really wanted to wrap his chest, mostly for how intimate it seemed when I’d seen it done in movies—and how good it would look with his pecs—but the blue and black stripes suited him.
“Thank you, nurse. Wash your hands before you accidentally touch your eyes.”
I was halfway to doing just that, froze with my arms in the air, and turned theatrically to tiptoe into the bathroom. Rafael’s low laugh followed me.
“Have you made that mistake before?” I called over the running water in the sink.
“Only once.”
Rafael was lying flat on his back with his hands beneath his head, staring at the ceiling when I returned.
“Are you ok?”
He pointed up. A kaleidoscope of spring-colored tiles splashed across the high ceiling in a mosaic styled like a stained-glass window.
Light from the actual window hit the metallic glaze of select tiles, making them glimmer.
Small, flush can lights were sprinkled strategically through the curlicues so as not to disrupt the lines.
Three banners flowed upward diagonally across the center, stating “WIDE-UNCLASP-THE-TABLES-OF-THEIR-THOUGHTS.”
“Rafael Nazim, you beautiful nerd. Is that a stained-glass design from the Winchester House? It’s incredible!
” Clambering onto the bed without tearing my eyes from the mosaic, I laid myself down beside him on my back.
“The saying is from Shakespeare, right?” I smacked my forehead.
“I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve noticed this. ”
“It only lights up when the sun hits, and you know how foggy it is here. I find that house inspiring. Sarah Winchester crafted her life to suit her artistic vision in defiance of society. So I brought a wisp of her spirit home.” He took my hand.
“I liked the message to open your mind and let your true self spill forth.”
I vibrated in place like an excited puppy. “The Winchester House might be a little bit of a special interest—wait, how have I never noticed that the motif behind the banner looks like a vulva? Ooh, Ms. Sarah. Is that a double entendre?”
Rafael hummed approval. “Fie, fie upon her!
There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip
Nay her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out
At every joint and motive of her body.
O, these encounters, so glib of tongue,
That give accosting welcome ere it comes,
And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
To every ticklish reader! Set them down
For sluttish spoils of opportunity
And daughters of the game.”
My reptile brain levitated me off the bed and draped me across his naked body before my conscious mind had the chance to catch up. “That was the hottest thing I have ever heard. Can I be your sluttish spoil of opportunity?”
He rumbled a laugh. “Is that not exactly what you are?”
I covered his mouth with mine.