by Rayne Auster
I was more than a touch pleased with my victory when Michael silently changed course and headed for the liquor store. Dylan was looking at me as if I’d suddenly grown two heads. We all remained silent while Michael parked. He stepped out, closed the door without so much as even looking at me, and headed straight in. The moment Michael was gone, Dylan pounced. No, not like that, though it would have been nice if the pouncing had been sexual instead. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, his tone gruff. “How did you manage to convince Michael to buy you vodka when I’m not even allowed to give you water because you’ll probably need to be put under a knife?”
I winced at his phrasing. I can’t say that was the most delicate way he could have said it, and the very thought of sharp silver objects upon my flesh while I sat by and watched was not comforting at all, but I didn’t really have time to dwell on it. Dylan, he, well, how can I put this without sounding even more masochistic that I’m already sounding? What the hell, we all know I have a one-track mind. Dylan was magnificent when angry, the fire of passion burning in those clear eyes as he floored me with a calculating stare. If I hadn’t been so aroused by it, I think I would have run in the opposite direction. A smart man would have, but then again, we’ve already established that having a high IQ does not necessarily mean you’re smart.
Pay attention, my students: The Art of Distraction—Lesson One. Leaning forward, I slid my fingers into the soft silky strands of his dark chocolate hair and laid claim to his mouth without even pausing to think about or consider the great theories of cause and consequence. His initial reaction was to tense, surprise momentarily keeping him in place, and then his lips parted, granting me entrance to the warm, slick cavern of his mouth. He tasted like vanilla, fresh and silky smooth, although that may just be my vanilla ice cream fetish rearing its head.
I flicked my tongue over his teeth and palate, lightly teasing, urging him on. Fortunately, he’s fast on the uptake, and I quickly found myself completely overwhelmed as he took control of the kiss, aggressively thrusting his tongue into my mouth, giving me no quarter. He kissed just the way I liked it. I drowned in the sheer pleasure his possession of me granted, my senses lost to the solid press of his lips against mine, his tongue sweeping through every corner of my mouth. Soft breathy moans escaped the back of my throat and it was only when the pleasure was interrupted by sharp pain that my voice betrayed me in the worst way possible.
He flinched away, and I was too busy blinking back pretty stars to reassure him. Once I could see straight once more, I turned a heated glare onto the object of my displeasure. Mr. Bubblehead! Anything that can ruin my efforts to pucker up and deliver deserves a name.
Dylan pulled me from my introspection on the merits of naming body parts by returning to what we were doing. Unfortunately for me, he returned to what we were doing before the kiss and not the kiss itself. “Okay, distraction tactic aside. Why is Michael, my stickler paramedic friend, willingly buying you vodka when it looks like you may need an operation to set a broken ankle? Won’t that interfere with the anesthetic?”
That was my first encounter with his tenacious nature. He was faced with a problem he did not understand and was adamant he would get a solution. It was a foregone conclusion that I would crumble under the pressure of his determination. “Not at all,” I retorted, a mischievous streak driving me to prolong the moment and consequently Dylan’s confusion. “It can’t interfere with something they will not be administering.”
“I hate to break it to you, Ay-very,”—the emphasis he put on my name was entirely deliberate and I most certainly didn’t miss it—“no, wait, actually I don’t mind breaking it to you. The moment I first laid eyes on you, you turned my entire evening upside down, so I guess it’s my turn to return the favor. You broke your ankle. They will need to set it and the likelihood of the process not requiring surgery is small. You plus likely surgery equals anesthetic.”
“MH plus anesthetic equals dead me,” I snapped back, not about to be outdone. I could play life mathematics with the best of them. I still can.
Either my tone or the speed with which I delivered my comeback gave him pause. I actually managed to count all the way to seventeen before he gathered himself enough to ask the question I should have answered before all of this began, but why make things easy? “What is MH?”
“Malignant Hyperthermia.” If ever there were two words that were difficult for me to utter, those two were it. I don’t exactly have warm happy memories associated with them. The first time I heard them, my life changed forever. “It means I’m allergic to most anesthetics. There is medication that counters the allergy, but the chances of it working on me are slim when you take my genetic history into account. After all, it didn’t save Allen. So generally, doctors don’t want to take the risk. They use local anesthetic on me instead, as it doesn’t aggravate the MH, but for some reason, it doesn’t work all that well on me. Having my wisdom teeth removed was not fun, I can promise you. Hence my current solution to my problem: vodka. I’m a genius, aren’t I?”
“Not quite the way I’d word it, but yes, it’s not a bad idea.” I have to give him credit. He didn’t even blink when I threw all that information at him; he handled it calmly like a pro. Makes it hard to hate him, doesn’t it? “I’m sorry about your brother.” His words were soft and something within them pulled at me, bringing a thread of vulnerability to the fore.
I quickly brushed away the impulse to reminisce over things long dead and buried. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago. We were twelve at the time.”
His soft touch in my hair startled me, leaving me speechless. It wasn’t much of an accomplishment that evening, but generally, it is. I can be quite the chatterbox when given half the chance. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.” His soft words washed over me, and my brain turned to mush. I was so distracted I didn’t even notice Michael’s return. I guess you could say I was wrapped up in the moment.
The rest of our journey was surprisingly uneventful. We actually managed to get to our destination, and I got just what I always wanted: a free ride in a wheelchair. Unfortunately for me, Michael and Dylan were both right. It was a break and I did require surgery of sorts to set it. I won’t go into any more detail than that, but I can promise you the bottle of vodka that Michael bought was put to good use. They wanted to keep me longer for observation, but one bottle of vodka isn’t enough to get me drunk or stupid enough to agree to that.
I’d spent the better part of my evening staring at awe-inspiring white walls in the hopes of discovering the meaning of existence while drowning my woes in a bottle of clear liquid, so I didn’t actually expect anyone to still be around when I finally got out. Imagine my surprise when I realized I had an audience to witness just how low I had really fallen. As I waddled out, possibly moving like Donald Duck, I saw him, casually flicking through a magazine while he waited for me.
He sensed me as I approached, glancing up just as I moved to attempt Operation: Sneak Past Sexy Neighbor. It would have been a successful operation if not for the fact that it was sabotaged before it even began. I swear the doctor gave me the loudest pair of crutches he could find, and the moment I moved they clacked loudly against the ground. Dylan closed the magazine with a snap and tossed it down onto the table, not looking away from me for an instant. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d given in and allowed them to check you in,” he commented as he approached me.
“Check me in?” I responded with an overly dramatic tilt of my head. “More like check me out.” So sue me, I’m a sucker for exaggerated reactions.
Another point for me. I was once again on the receiving end of his rich sense of humor as he chuckled at my comment. “You don’t stop, do you?”
“Now why would I want to do something like that?” I gave him the best innocent look I could muster, which wasn’t innocent at all as I couldn’t resist the urge to pointedly check him out. I did it to demonstrate my point, of course. Liking what I saw was ju
st an added bonus. “Why are you still here?” I queried, tilting my head to the side in curiosity.
“I figured you would need a lift home, seeing as we drove you here and since we’re dating and all, I figured I would play the part of your loving other half. I dropped Michael off at home and came back, just for you.” The twist to his lips as he said that was practically sadistic and even though it was blatantly obvious that he was egging me on I couldn’t help but walk right into that one.
“We’re what?” I spluttered. I don’t even want to contemplate the expression on my face at the time, as I suspect it gave Dylan’s earlier fish impersonation a run for its money.
“You don’t remember? I’m hurt.” Dylan raised an eyebrow as he all too calmly uttered words that threw me completely into turmoil. Seems he can play my game every bit as well as I can. “And after all the effort you went to, to ask me out. It was ever so romantic. I practically fell for you the moment I saw you. Sealed with a kiss and all. Can’t say that I’ve ever had someone approach me quite that way before, and seeing as you were so creative, in deference to your sheer determination I’ve decided to agree. Come now, love. Let’s go home.”
Okay, so my fish impersonation far surpassed his. I’m a bit of a perfectionist at times, but I don’t generally appreciate doing the wrong things well. Not that it matters. Dylan remained unfazed by my speechless incredulity. The silence didn’t bother him one bit, actually giving him time to pay me back in spades for my earlier action. He ran his gaze over my body, the movement deliberately aggressive and sensual. Every single nerve within me woke up, practically buzzing with tension.
He noticed my arousal, though I’m not about to give him points for that feat. The bulge in my pants wasn’t exactly easy to miss. His eyes lingered at my crotch, and my humiliation increased tenfold when my body reacted further, the sheer intensity of my physical reaction actually bordering on pain. I could have come just from the look in his eyes alone. Fortunately, just as I felt my control begin to slip his gaze moved, drifting all the way down to the cast that now encased my ankle.
“How’s the ankle?” The mundane question surprised me and it took me a moment to gather enough wits to answer it.
“Apparently it’s a clean break, so it was easy to set. I’m lucky. They didn’t need to put in any metal pieces to hold me together and said I should be able to start using it again in about six weeks.” I waved my right crutch around as I spoke. It probably looked ridiculous, but I didn’t really care. I’m an expressive person and I like to use my hands when I speak. A measly little thing like said appendages being occupied with holding me up was certainly not going to stop me.
Predictably, I lost my balance and was about to fall when Dylan reached out to support me. The sweet scent of warm vanilla surrounded me, and the sheer erotic nature of it pulled a moan from the back of my throat.
Dylan completely misinterpreted the source of my distress. Not giving me time to back away from temptation, he lifted me into his arms once more. It could have been another romantic moment; however, due to the unexpected nature of his action, it didn’t quite work out as planned. Instead of landing safely in his arms I ended up awkwardly sliding down his body, desperately fighting to keep my broken ankle from hitting the floor.
You see, as he moved to lift me up, I instinctively raised my arm, the reaction an ingrained defensive maneuver I didn’t even know existed in my repertoire. Dylan ended up with a crutch in the face. Here is some more life mathematics for you: Face plus crutch equals pain. Sudden pain plus instinctive reaction to it equals Avery sprawled all over the floor for the second time in the span of less than twenty-four hours. Isn’t it amazing?
Dylan knelt down before me, the expression on his face filled with guilt and remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drop you. Are you okay?”
I would have retorted with some kind of smart comeback or another if not for the fact that his tone had an undertone of self-deprecation in it. I didn’t want him blaming himself for something that was essentially my fault. If I hadn’t tried to knock him out with my evil crutch he actually would have succeeded, thus carrying my out of the hospital the same way he brought me in: bridal style. The possibilities were endless, but the moment was past.
Smooth Ride
We actually did make it to his car that morning. Believe it or not, it only took a few minutes more. Not about to take the chance of a repeat encounter, Dylan grabbed a conveniently parked wheelchair, pulled me up, and promptly pushed me down into it, dropping the dreaded walking sticks into my lap without so much as a pause. That is the second distinctive characteristic I discovered he possesses; he is nothing if not efficient.
He actually winked at me and then stepped behind me before pushing the chair towards the door. Halfway there, I yelped. Not my best moment, I’ll admit, but I had a valid excuse. Dylan thought it would be funny to increase his speed, heading towards the door at a semi-run. That is not, however, what pulled the sound from my throat. I’d like to think I’m more dignified than that. The increase in speed was just a prequel to what came next. Dylan tilted the wheelchair back, giving me the impression that we were going to add a concussion to my current list of injuries.
Too speechless to voice a protest, I merely gripped the armrests beside me until my knuckles were white as he chuckled directly into my ear. “Don’t worry so much, love.” His teasing tone went straight to my groin, his warm breath tickling an erotic spot just behind my ear. “I won’t let you fall. That’s your job, remember?”
Now that comment got my back up. “It’s not as if I actually planned to trip you,” I hissed up at him, narrowing my eyes in an attempt to glare. Though valiant, the effort was for naught. I couldn’t do “angry” very well with the scent of vanilla embracing me like a long-lost lover.
He shrugged, standing back upright to push the wheelchair, sedately this time. “Premeditated or not, the end result is the same. You made me drop and break my best set of china.”
“Fair is foul and foul is fair,” I retorted, a sudden Shakespearean moment taking hold of me. “You made me break an ankle. I’d say that makes us about even.” I titled my head to the side, my gaze fixed upon his features. He really is spectacular. He has a strong jaw line, full lips, an aquiline nose, and distinctly masculine cheekbones. That and gorgeous silky chocolate brown hair just long enough to brush the collar of his shirt. Ironically, it is the exact same shade as Kayden’s hair. Interpret that any way you wish.
“Point.” I gaped at him. I really didn’t expect him to give that victory to me, so I didn’t know what to say in return. Fortunately, I didn’t need to speak. Reaching around me, he calmly opened the passenger door of his charcoal colored Audi A4. It’s a classy car, but I didn’t really notice it till much later. I had a better view, after all. You see, being seated in a wheelchair had me at eye level with an interesting part of his anatomy. Lucky for him, I was too dazed to act on my impulse to engage in a rather sudden, really public display of affection.
My perfect view was ruined by my need to actually get into the car. The moment he had the door open, Dylan lifted me out of the wheelchair and rather promptly deposited me into the passenger seat. Closing the door, he headed around the car and slid into the driver’s seat with feline grace, pleasing me greatly. Me plus Dylan plus confined space minus everyone else in the world equals, say it with me, yum. Now, if only he wasn’t actually occupied with driving said confined space….
I could think of a lot of better things he could be doing with those hands of his. Instead they grasped a cold, hard piece of plastic, turning it this way and that way, the movement graceful and practiced. I was torn from my contemplation of all the possibilities when he actually asked me a personal question. “So, where do you live?”
Much to his censure, I reacted by bursting out into laughter. It was both an amusing and ironic situation. Dylan didn’t realize I was his neighbor, yet was going to a lot of effort to actually help me. It reminded me of the very fi
rst thing he said to me just after tripping over my feet. He must have thought I was some random drunk passed out in the hallway. I’d already disproved that assumption but I hadn’t yet explained to him what I was doing there, so I’ll forgive his oblivion. “Right where you found me,” I responded lightly, waiting for his surprise.
Much to my pique, he merely raised an eyebrow and turned right, heading back towards our apartment building. His reaction was far too calm for my liking. I’d kind of hoped to surprise him with that little piece of information, and I was disappointed to realize it did not faze him in the least. “May I ask why you were sprawled on the ground in front of your apartment instead of within it?”
“You may ask whatever you wish,” I responded shortly, turning away from him. “Whether I choose to respond or not is another matter entirely.” His question brought things I really wasn’t ready to talk about to the fore and I decided not to answer it, at least not then.
“True.” He nodded in acceptance, completely ignoring how rude my response was. “Though I believe now would be a good time to give you a heads up. I fully intend to get the answer to that question some day. It is, after all, what I do for a living.”
I didn’t realize the impact of that statement and remained completely blind to what he was trying to tell me. Call it an undocumented feature in my one-track mind. His response actually appealed to the cat in me, drawing my curiosity out. “What do you do for a living?” I asked, actually turning back to face him.
He glanced at me, and I could see a smile playing across his lips. “Is this where I quote your response back to you?” His tone was lightly teasing yet still it managed to shame me. “I’m a lawyer.” And that, my dear audience, is when I should have run far, far away. Hindsight though, as they say, is always twenty-twenty, and if I were to be truthful, I’d have to say that I don’t regret not running.