by Aly Martinez
Every time I pulled my compression garments on, I imagined they were his arms holding me tight. And, for nearly twenty-three hours, every day for over a year, I pretended Jude held me safely in his arms.
And, when it was all said and done, dense scars covering both of my arms, it was his reassuring words that kept me from spiraling into a deep depression.
Jude Levitt was why I’d picked up the proverbial pen and started writing.
Because of him, I didn’t have to live in a fairytale to know that heroes were real.
I winced and bit my bottom lip, drawing up all the courage I could muster to ask the one question I wasn’t sure I’d survive the answer to. “Does he hate me?”
Johnson’s hand landed on my back, and I braced for his response.
“Not at all,” he rasped.
My hopeful gaze jumped to his to find him watching me with that same gentle understanding that had bonded us from the start.
My chin quivered. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. He followed us up, saying he was sorry. I had to scrape him off the door.”
Guilt soured in my stomach. “He lost everything because of me, Johnson.”
His lips thinned. “Jude lost everything because of Jude. You do not take on that responsibility.”
But I had. For four years. It was the only thing that had kept me from reaching out to him after I’d gotten out of the hospital.
And, tonight, when he’d suddenly reappeared in my life, I had run.
I threw both hands up to cover my face. “Oh God. He’s going to think I’m crazy.”
Johnson pried two fingers away from one of my eyes and declared, “He thinks you’re crazy, I’ll kill him.”
I didn’t believe he would commit an actual homicide for me. Though, I wasn’t about to chance it when it came to Jude.
“Please don’t,” I begged.
He shook his head and stood up off the bed. “I’m not going to kill the guy. At least, not yet. But I do need to know how you want to handle this.”
“Well…” I started, sitting up and uncovering my face. “First off, I’d like a do-over at the bar. Perhaps one where my sociopath brother doesn’t show up and I don’t end up making a fool of myself. Maybe, this time, I could do something bold like say hello to Jude. Or, hell, I don’t even have to talk. What about a wave? That’s still considered polite, right?”
He grinned. “Bad news. Last I heard, Doc was off trying to find Marty. We’re gonna have to wait a few years for the DeLorean.”
I closed my eyes and dropped my chin to my chest. “That’s unfortunate news for me.”
His big hand patted me on the back of my head. “It wasn’t that bad. Levitt will forget about everything by the morning.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Yes, but I’m also worried.”
“I want to see him, Aidan,” I confessed.
He sat back beside me on the bed, his hand going to my knee, where he gave me an encouraging squeeze. “I know. But I think you need to give it some time. I have to go to Indy for a few days. What if I drive back Monday night? We could all go out to dinner. I’ll be there if things get rough. You give me the word, we leave.”
“You think Apollo’s going to try to get closer?”
“No,” he stated firmly. “I think it’s going to be fine. But if—and that’s a big if—he shows and you lose it, I’m gonna be there to make sure you get home safely.”
I dropped my head onto his shoulder. “Jude saved my life. I bet he could get me home safely.”
His entire body stiffened, and I tilted my head back in question, only he looked away before I could read his face.
“I’m asking you to give it a few days,” he said. “Think about it. Prepare for it. And then let me be there just in case. Jude seemed genuinely apologetic tonight. But I’ve seen this guy in action. I don’t trust him. Not with you.”
“I trust him,” I whispered.
He groaned. “And that’s the problem, Rhion. You don’t know him.”
I closed my eyes to keep the pain from showing.
He wasn’t wrong. I didn’t know Jude.
But, in my heart, I did.
“A few days, babe,” he urged.
I could do that for Johnson. He’d done so much more for me.
“Okay,” I relented. “But I’m not paying you extra for after-hours protection when we go to dinner.”
He grunted. “You buy me a steak, we’ll call it even.”
“Christ, a steak? I can’t afford that!” I teased. I was loaded. Though I’d been trying to be a little thriftier recently. “Perhaps we should go ahead and get married. My monthly Guardian bill is doing a number on the old purse strings.”
He laughed loudly, a huge grin splitting his mouth. “You grow another appendage since the last time we had this conversation?”
“Hey, I know for a fact you’ve slept with at least one woman!”
He arched an incredulous eyebrow. “You know for a fact, huh?”
I scoffed. “I’m not thinking there’s any other reason a certain blonde nearly beat down my door last year. I could be wrong, but women usually reserve ‘cunt-ass whore’ for people they assume are sleeping with their man.”
I’d barely finished talking when his eyes flashed dark and his smile transformed into an angry scowl.
Uh oh. Maybe bringing What’s Her Name up wasn’t the best idea.
If I’d actually taken the time to think about it, I’d have remembered that ever bringing up What’s Her Name was a bad idea.
I decided to carry on and hopefully he’d forget I’d mentioned her. “It’s not like we would be sleeping together anyway. Given your affinity for big, buff men, I’m not thinking I could do much for you in that department. But you could move into the spare bedroom and we could both sneak boys over in the middle of the night.”
He glowered at me.
I prattled on. “Or…women. If that’s your thing this month.”
He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We seriously gonna have this talk now?”
“I’m just sayin’…since you and Chris broke up—”
He let out a suffering sigh. “Women are always my thing, Rhion. Just as long as there’s a man on the other side of her.”
My mouth fell open. “Both…at the same time?”
He shrugged as if I’d asked him if he liked ketchup.
Well, that explained a lot about Johnson.
I curled my lip. “Okay, see, I’m all for open communication in our marriage, but I didn’t need to know that. Maybe sexual exploits could be a closed portion of our relationship. I could have a whole contract drawn up.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’d be easier if I adopted you.”
I gasped and shot him a wide smile. “Where do I sign, Papa?”
He shook his head, but he did it while chuckling as he stood up off the bed. “I need to go home and pack.”
“See, if I were your daughter, you could just walk into the room at the end of the hall.”
He headed for the door, calling out, “If you were my daughter, you’d never see Jude again.”
I suddenly froze, and my breath caught in my throat.
He turned to face me, a sad smile curling one side of his mouth. “You forget I made the grave mistake of reading some of your books.”
A heavy douse of embarrassment washed over me as I cut my gaze to the ground and whispered, “They’re fiction, Aidan.”
“I hope so, babe,” he replied somberly. “I really fucking hope so.”
A knot formed in my stomach, because deep down, a part of me really hoped they weren’t.
He whistled low to catch my attention. “So. Monday? Seven? I’ll set it up with Levitt?” he asked.
I nodded without giving him my eyes.
“And if you change your mind—”
“I want to see him. That hasn’t changed in four years. It’s not going to change over the weekend.”
; “All right, then. That’s all I needed to hear. I’ll see you on Monday.” He walked out the door only to stop and lean his upper body back in. “After tonight, I’ll expect there to be a chocolate croissant waiting when I get here on Monday.”
I smiled and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Okay, but only if you promise to get here early. I told Devon I was a stripper. I need you to install a pole to make it legit.”
His eyes nearly bulged from his head. “There are a lot of things I’ll do for you, Rhion. Run into oncoming traffic. Break your brother in half. Call my estranged grandma for a goddamn chocolate chip cookie recipe. But, just so we’re clear, installing a stripper pole will never be one of those things.”
I burst into laughter and folded over on my bed.
He watched me for several seconds with a warm grin, and then, with a wink, he was gone.
Reaching for my laptop on the nightstand, I settled in for a long night of writing.
Only, hours later, as I pulled my front door open, I realized I was right about one thing: It would be a long night.
It just wouldn’t be spent writing.
“Jude?” I breathed.
“Oomph,” I grunted when he yanked me into his arms, my face smooshing against his hard chest as he held me so tight that I could barely breathe.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he slurred.
The smell of whiskey mingled with his cologne in an undeniably intoxicating combination. It only took a single breath for my entire body to melt against him.
“Christ, Butterfly,” he sighed, trailing the tip of his fingers over my bare shoulder.
My lungs seized and my heart stopped.
Butterfly.
The nickname I’d replayed so many times in my head over the years. The same one I’d covered most of my arms and my chest with various renderings of them.
Wrapping my arms around his hips, I held him, fearing that the moment was nothing more than another of my dreams. God knew I’d had enough of those over the last few years.
“I never should have taken the call that night. I’m so fucking sorry.”
At least that’s what I think he said. It was all so jumbled and twisted coming from his drunken tongue.
“I’m okay,” I assured, but it did nothing to slow him.
“No, you fucking aren’t.”
He quieted long enough to press his lips against the top of my head. It wasn’t sexual, but that didn’t make it any less brilliant. A shiver shook my shoulders before traveling down my body, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the cold air blowing in through the open door and everything to do with him.
I was freezing in a tank top and a pair of pajama shorts, but I refused to let go. I’d been waiting too long for that moment.
As I fisted my hands into the back of his shirt, he continued murmuring unintelligible words into the top of my hair.
Some were laced with apologies.
Some were disguised as explanation.
Most were what sounded like confessions.
And, judging by the way his arms tensed painfully around me with every breath, he meant all of them with his whole heart.
But I didn’t need any of them. I had nothing to forgive Jude for.
I didn’t stop him from talking though, because as I stood there, eyes closed, lost in his voice. Lost in his scent. Lost in his touch. Lost in him. It ignited a piece of myself that had long since smothered out.
Desire.
And I basked in it like I was experiencing my first ray of sunshine.
For over ten minutes, I allowed Jude to drain his conscience with broken thoughts and slurred sentences, and through it all, I clung to him as though I could alleviate his pain. And I hoped more than anything else that I actually could. After all, I owed him. More than I’d ever be able to repay.
When his lips finally slowed, I eased out of his arms and looked up into his unfocused eyes. “You feel better now?”
“Not the slightest.” He shook his head and stumbled to the side, his shoulder colliding with the wall.
“Easy there, tiger,” I said, hooking him around the hips to help keep him upright.
“Fuck. I should have gone home,” he grumbled.
“I’m glad you came back, actually.”
“Then why’d you run tonight?” he asked, leaning some of his weight onto my shoulders.
Embarrassment colored my cheeks. “That’s a good question,” I replied, doing my best to keep him balanced as I kicked the door shut and then walked us to the kitchen. “How much time ya got?”
I left him leaning against the counter and ran around the bar to retrieve a stool, stopping when he popped himself up to sit on top.
Well, okay, then.
I would have looked like a fool if I’d tried to do that sober, much less drunk. But, then again, I wasn’t nearly six and a half feet tall and covered in muscles.
“You…ah…want some coffee?” I asked.
He laughed. “Does it come with a lobotomy?”
“What? And ruin that pretty face?” I teased, pressing brew on the coffee maker.
Okay. Fine. I wasn’t teasing. I was flirting. Straight up. With an extremely inebriated man.
But, if I couldn’t flirt with the man of my dreams and the star of every fantasy I’d ever had since I’d first laid eyes on him, who could I flirt with?
“It’s not the face. It’s the hair. It covers the scars, but it makes me look like my name should be Percy or Sven or some shit.”
I laughed and retrieved two mugs from the cabinet. Sleep was officially out for me—might as well kick a new day off right.
“Well, I like it, Percy,” I joked, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I poured him the first drippings of coffee and passed it his way.
He smiled, and it almost hit his eyes as he took the mug from my hand.
“Cream or sug…” I trailed off as he tipped it to his lips for a long sip that had to have scorched his tongue. “Alrighty.”
He didn’t complain, and when he finished, he held his cup out for a refill, his gaze becoming increasingly perplexed as he watched me.
“Why are you being so nice?” he asked when I handed it back to him.
I shrugged. “Am I supposed to be mean?”
“It’s some ungodly hour. I’m smashed. And, after all the bullshit I unloaded on you, yeah, Rhion. You should probably be throwing the mug at me instead of pouring a second cup.”
I filled my own mug, leaned my hip on the counter next to him, and shyly whispered, “I don’t care about any of that, Jude. You know, you’re not the only one who’s been living with guilt from the fire.”
His gaze snapped to mine. “What the fuck could you possibly feel bad about?”
A million angry butterflies came to life in my stomach as I cut my gaze to the floor. “Nothing.”
“Look at me,” he urged.
I was helpless not to obey. His hand went up and the tips of his fingers brushed over the lines on my shoulders. Dense tattoos covered my arms and my chest, but those weren’t the lines he was tracing. The callused pads of his fingers ran back and forth across the puckered flesh of my burns.
“These are mine, Rhion,” he rasped. “You don’t get to own anything from that night.” His body swayed as his drunken eyes drooped even lower as though he were absorbing the pain from my old wounds.
My whole body ached as regret sliced through his handsome features. I fought the urge to soothe him, but that wasn’t with words or a friendly hug. I yearned to pull him into my arms and place a deep and lingering kiss to his lips—and never stop. Maybe take him to bed…
“Bread!” I exclaimed, ducking out of his reach. “I bet you could use some. How about something to eat to soak up the alcohol?” After discarding my coffee on the counter, I rushed to my pantry-and-laundry-room combination and shut the door behind me.
Once alone, I blew a long-suffering sigh out. What in the hell was I thinking?
He was drunk and I was conte
mplating jumping him? A lot could happen in four years. For all I knew, the guy was married and trying to relieve his conscience.
Dear God, was this a booty call? I was no expert in the department, but wasn’t there usually some declaration of attraction or intent before said booty call took place?
I barely knew Jude—at least not the real version of the man. All I knew was the one who had been born in my imagination and brought to life through the strokes of my computer keys. But, as Jude had whispered his tortured, guilt-ridden apologies into the top of my hair, I had begun to believe they were one and the same.
The sound of the pantry door opening snapped me out of my head.
“Rhion,” he called, his tall body filling the doorway. His gorgeous, gorgeous, mouth-watering body. “You okay?”
“Um…” I trailed off.
No. No. I was not. And it must have read on my face because his fell in understanding.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “I’m gonna call a cab. You—”
Now that I was faced with the idea of him leaving, my mouth, as it so often did, flipped into overdrive. “Please don’t go,” I blurted. “I’ve been wanting to see you for years.”
Only that wasn’t all I said.
Oh, no. That would have been too easy. And, if life had taught me anything, it was that the easy path did not exist for me.
For over ten minutes, I filled Jude’s ears with confessions of my own.
Like how I’d dreamed every day for years of the moment when he’d show up at my door.
And how I’d typed J-U-D-E so many times that I’d worn the letters off the keys.
And that, in the pages of my books, he was very much alive—and very much mine.
But, most importantly, I told him that, while he’d saved my life, it was the memory of him that enabled me to continue living.
I wasn’t sure there was any oxygen left in that that pantry by the time I finished talking. Not that he appeared to need any as he stood there, not breathing, propped up on the doorjamb, staring at me with wide eyes, surprise covering his face.
Yeah. So maybe talking was a bad idea. I should have let him leave.