The Dark of You by S.M. Shade
Chapter Ten
The house seems too quiet after everyone leaves. It’s funny since that’s what I’m used to and what I usually prefer, but today it feels lonely. The Mystery Mamas reading group is tonight at the senior center and instead of lying around all day or walking, I decide to go into town a little early. There’s a big book sale being held at the library today. The ladies would love to have some new books.
Reeve left before the others woke this morning but not before sliding inside me for a round of leisurely morning sex that was unlike the times before. Not gentle exactly, but he spent so much time just touching me, stroking my body inside and out, with something that felt very much like reverence.
“Only me,” he reminded me, nipping my breast before leaving. No reminder is needed. He’s never far from my mind. Whether I feel him or not, I know he’s near and it’s comforting.
The weather has turned hot, and sweat glues the sides of my shirt to my ribs as I make my way across the library parking lot. Rows of folding tables and shelves have been set up in the large multipurpose room where customers browse. It’s a pretty decent selection, and I’m happy to find a good amount of mysteries. They also have a nice selection of suspense and nonfiction the guys will like. Romance books are also a big hit with the Mystery Mamas, and we’ve recently started working them into our rotation so I scoop up a few of those as well.
I’ve never tried to write romance, though my agent has suggested it since it’s the best- selling genre by far. To write, I have to make myself believe the story I’m telling, whether it’s based on a true story or complete fiction. Happily ever after is not something I can make sound realistic. Unless I’m going to write a romance about a woman unstable enough to fall for her stalker, it’d never work. And really, who would read something like that?
Time gets away from me like it always does when I’m surrounded by books, but after loading my purchases into my trunk, I still have a little over an hour to kill before I’m due at the senior center. There’s another task I need to take care of. One I’ve been dreading.
The electronics store is right down the street, and a few minutes later, I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot, trying to get up the nerve to go in to buy a new laptop. It sounds stupid to dread such a thing, but the last time I sat in front of that blank screen, the stress and frustration nearly led to my death.
It’s okay. Just buying a new computer doesn’t mean writing. There are other things I need it for, like email. I’ve probably missed quite a few from my agent by now, especially since I’ve been ignoring my phone.
The store is busy, and I’m grateful that the sales people are preoccupied with other customers. It gives me a chance to look around and choose what I want without being hassled. I’m not picky and it doesn’t take me long to decide. The shiny new computer gets tucked into my trunk beside the books.
Satisfied that I’ve actually accomplished something today, I head to the senior center and haul the books inside. It makes me happy to see how the residents pore over them as soon as they’ve been stacked on a table.
The book club goes well, but it’s a struggle to keep my attention where it needs to be. More and more lately, my mind wanders to Reeve. Like a teenager infatuated for the first time, I could sit around and daydream about him constantly.
After the book club ends, my steps across the dark parking lot are languorous. He’s showed up here before. Is he watching now? I don’t feel him. Disappointment sits on my chest as I drive home, have dinner, and go to bed. I want him here.
My mood grows worse as a day passes, then another, with no sign of him.
On the third night, the fear creeps in that he won’t be back. Maybe he’s done. The worry drops a dark curtain of despair over me. When I finally doze off, my sleep is fretful and full of nightmares until a loud noise jerks me awake.
Sitting up, I try to determine whether I actually heard something or just dreamt it. My ears strain, catching nothing but silence for a minute before a low thump makes me jump. I wasn’t dreaming. It must be Reeve. That certainty fades the longer my bedroom door remains closed. He always comes to me.
Heavy footsteps in the hall grow closer. The beat of blood in my ears is deafening. I’m being ridiculous. It must be him. What are the chances another crazy man broke into my house in the middle of the night. “Reeve?” Fear dampens my shout to a whisper.
The footsteps retreat as slowly as they advanced. I can’t sit here and wonder. As quietly as possible, I slip out of bed and cross the room. My ear pressed to the bedroom door picks up no sounds.
With my phone in hand, I inch open my door. Pale light illuminates the hall from the bathroom at the opposite end. Did I leave the bathroom light on? I don’t think it’s even been used since Thea and the guys left. No, it was out before. The hall was dark when I went to bed. I’m sure of it.
My stomach knots painfully and ice slides down my spine when a spot on the floor catches my attention. It’s only a drop on the light hardwood but there’s no doubt what it is. Blood. My eyes follow it to another drop, then another. They lead down the hall toward the bathroom. Maybe I’m still asleep because this is quickly becoming a nightmare. Or a scene from one of my books.
The sound of my breathing has never been so loud and obvious to me. One step at a time, I force myself to follow the crimson drops toward the light of the bathroom. My imagination does what it’s the best at and paints a thousand horrific pictures in my mind of what I’ll find.
The bathroom door is ajar, letting a strip of bright light fall across me while I swallow hard and steel myself for whatever I’m about to come face to face with. My hand trembles as I reach out and push the door open.
Reeve.
Thank fuck.
My relief is short lived. He’s covered in blood and holding his dripping hand over the sink. Without a word, he turns his head to regard me. The look in his eye is one I haven’t seen before. Uneasiness. His careful scrutiny makes it clear it’s not about his hand or the blood. He’s wary of how I’ll react. If I’ll be afraid of him. All I see is that he’s hurt and he needs help.
“What happened?” He doesn’t resist when I grab his wrist and turn his hand to see where the blood is coming from, but I don’t get an answer. A deep cut slashes across his palm alongside his thumb, and another draws a line across the bottom of three fingers. Snatching a washcloth from the shelf, I press it to his palm.
“It’s okay,” he says, as if he only has a scratch and not an open cut gushing into the sink.
The acrid smell of blood in the tiny room is overwhelming. It’s soaked into his shirt and splashed down his jeans. “Where else are you hurt?”
“I’m not.”
“All this blood didn’t come from that cut.”
“It’s not my blood.”
His words put an end to mine for a moment while thoughts fly through my head. Not his blood. It’s so much. Someone’s seriously hurt. Or dead. What has he done? Still holding the washcloth to his hand, I look him in the eye. “Did you hurt someone?”
His impassive expression never wavers, and he remains silent. “Reeve!” I snap. “There’s so much blood! Tell me! Did you kill somebody?”
“Is that what you think? That I’m a killer?”
“I don’t know what to think and you never fucking tell me anything. You show up here in the middle of the night like this, what am I supposed to think?”
“If I’m a killer…” He moves closer to loom over me. “Then why aren’t you afraid?”
Because I know you won’t hurt me.“Do I need to be afraid of you?”
He shakes his head back and forth, his gaze locked on mine. “Never.”
I’m not going to get any answers. Right now, we need to take care of his hand. “You need stitches, a hospital.”
“I’m not going to a hospital.”
Should’ve seen that coming. “The cut on your palm is deep. It won’t heal on its own.”
“You can sew.”
His suggestion makes me blink and take a step back. It’s not an outrageous request. Anyone who has grown up poor in America has learned a fair amount of pioneer medicine to treat common injuries or illnesses when we can’t afford a doctor.
“Are you going to help me, Darcy?”
Of course I am. I don’t know what happened or what he’s done, but he’s hurt. There will be time later to sort everything out. He was there when I needed him. Now he needs me. “Keep pressure on it while I get some supplies together.”
Sewing isn’t one of my hobbies. The only thread I have is dry and brittle. It won’t work. Dental floss will have to do. Luckily, there’s a new tube of super glue in my junk drawer. It takes me a couple of minutes to gather what I need and when I return he’s rinsing his hand under the faucet.
“Sit on the edge of the tub and put your hand here,” I instruct, laying a towel on the cabinet for him to rest it on.
Without the blood obscuring his skin, it’s easier to see what I’m dealing with. The cuts on his fingers aren’t very deep. Enough for a stitch or two. “The glue will probably be enough for your fingers, but not your palm.” He watches while I pull out the dental floss and disinfect the needle before putting it aside. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“I trust you.”
The words curl around me, filling in spaces I didn’t know were empty. “Okay, let’s get the hard part over first. I’m sorry I don’t have anything to numb you, or for pain. This is going to hurt.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He barely flinches when I pull together the sides of his skin and begin stitching. It’s not pretty, and I imagine he’ll have a significant scar, but it does the job. Once I have it sewn, disinfected, and bandaged, it’s time for his fingers.
It’s not the first time I’ve used super glue to close a cut. A tiny scar runs down the side of my foot from where I cut it on a piece of glass when I was sixteen. Considering I cleaned it out in a gas station bathroom and glued it shut, it turned out pretty well.
The glue works, and I wrap a band-aid around each finger. It’s the best I can do.
“I’m finished. Are you okay?”
“I’m good.” His pale skin tells another story. Whether it’s from the blood loss, exhaustion, or whatever happened tonight, he’s struggling. It doesn’t help that he’s still sitting in blood soaked clothes.
I reach behind him and turn on the shower to let the water get warm. He doesn’t resist when I pull his shirt off and start unbuckling his pants. Instead, he stands and allows me to undress him, then watches when I strip down as well.
“Keep your hand out of the water,” I caution, motioning for him to get in. “I’ll help you.”
He glances down at his cock that’s now fully at attention and pointing at me. “Not with that,” I snort. “You need to get cleaned up and sleep.”
“Are you giving orders again, Darcy?”
“You said you trusted me. So get your ass in the shower and let me take care of you tonight.”
After trying to stare me down for a few seconds, he complies. The water runs pink off of him for the first minute, a stark contrast to the shiny white tub. He puts his hand on the shower wall, out of reach of the water, and keeps it there while I soap up a washcloth.
Washing blood off of someone shouldn’t feel so intimate. In this small space with him, his presence is overpowering. I run the cloth over every inch of his skin as if I’m trying to wash away whatever happened along with the blood. “Lean your head down,” I tell him, and he acquiesces, letting me shampoo his hair.
After he rinses all the soap, his free hand brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. He looks into my eyes and for a moment, I think he’s going to speak. Instead, he plants a kiss on my lips unlike any other he’s given me. Soft and gentle. In that moment, standing naked and wet with blood still staining the porcelain between our feet, I know. I’m falling for him. Not just sexually or as some distraction from life. It’s not the novelty of what we’ve been doing. It’s him, pure and simple.
Before my emotions can overwhelm me and make me blurt out something stupid, I reach around him and turn off the water. He follows me when I step out, and takes the towel I hand him. After drying off, he tosses it into the hamper, and I realize he doesn’t have any other clothes with him, but that’s something we can figure out in the morning.
“Let’s go to bed.”
With a tired nod, he accompanies me back to my bedroom, and we crawl into bed. A million questions swirl in my mind while I lie there, wrapped around a man who may have committed some horrible crime tonight before showing up here. It could’ve just been a fight, I try to tell myself, but I don’t believe it. Not just because of the amount of blood, but because of the cuts.
They’re familiar. Very similar slices decorated my hand years ago, though not as deep.
Of course, I wasn’t strong enough to stab someone as hard as he probably did.