Serial Passion: A Steamy Bodyguard Romance

by Kelli Walker

  “Did your father swoop in with the tails of dragons and mountains?” I asked.

  “More like the tails of a capable princess who chose her own ending, but yes.”

  “It sounds like your parents always tried to do right by you.”

  “I had good parents. I miss them more and more everyday.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  Charity paused before she drew in a sharp breath.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “You don’t want to hear about my family,” I said.

  “I wasn’t asking about that, but we’ll put a pin in that for later. I was asking about your love of poems. Where did you get it?”

  “From nowhere, really.”

  “So, how did you come across your love for them?”

  I shrugged. “I like how such few words are used to communicate so much. Long-winded people are usually the ones who have nothing to say.”

  “Do you think I’m long winded?”

  “I think you’re stubborn,” I said.

  “Yep. Sounds about right,” she said, grinning.

  “Nothing wrong with stubborn, though.”

  “What’s your favorite poem?”

  “Are you going to ask me to recite it for you?” I asked.

  Her eyebrows rose. “You can recite your favorite poem?”

  “You can’t?”

  “Now you have to recite it for me.”

  “Will you return the favor if I do?” I asked.

  “Sure. Why not,” she said.

  I closed my eyes and placed the book of poems in my lap. I leaned my head back against the wall of the hospital room and drew in a deep breath. I conjured that piece of paper. The scrap of tattered ruins I had tacked onto the wall in my living room by a thumbtack. Right in front of where I flopped down every day after a long, hard day at work. It reminded me of what to do when things didn’t go the way I wanted. The poem reminded me of what to do when things became more stressful than ever. It comforted me when I hated myself more than I could stand or when I felt lonelier than I’d ever felt in my life.

  It rolled off my tongue effortlessly. Like a prayer used to comfort me at night.

  “The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door. In your own mirror. And each will smile at the other's welcome and say: sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself. To the stranger who has loved you all your life. Whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf. The photographs. The desperate notes. Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.”

  I slowly opened my eyes as the image of my living room fell away. I lifted my head and found Charity focused on me, her lips parted in shock. Hanging onto every word I had to offer. Even without her eyes, the intensity on her face took my breath away. The severity of which she digested my presence left me with a cottoned mouth. Without a word, her hand lifted. Her fingers wiggled for mine.

  I scooted my chair up to her bedside and slipped my hand against hers, feeling her magnetism draw me ever closer.

  “Why are you so attached to that poem?” Charity asked.

  I watched her thumb smooth over my skin as the back of my neck began to heat.

  “Why do you want to know?” I asked.

  “Because I’d like to know more about you. If you’re going to be volunteering your time to help me through this, I’d like to know more about the man at my side.”

  “I’ve been here for the three days you’ve been awake you haven’t even asked my name.”

  Charity paused, collecting her words as I gripped her hand tightly. Scared she’d let go after my rational mind took over my ability to let my emotions roll.

  “There was a man I met recently. A man who spoke very little, if at all, to me,” she said.

  My eyes settled onto her face as my brow furrowed deeply.

  “I think he would enjoy poems for the same reason you do. Because so few words communicate so much. In his presence, I learned a lot about myself and how humans really do connect. Your name doesn’t matter. Your past doesn’t matter. What you look like doesn’t matter. What matters are your actions. How you treat someone. How you make them feel with your movements. He taught me that. He never spoke a word because he let his actions speak for him.”

  I clenched my jaw to keep my lip from quivering.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you by not asking your name. But, your actions have spoken louder than your name. Your name tells me nothing. Your touch does. Your movements do. And the tone of your voice when you recited that poem for me told me mounds.”

  “He sounds like a lucky man,” I managed to say.

  “If I can’t see you, I can at least feel you when you speak. Please. Tell me why that poem means so much to you,” she said.

  I drew in a deep breath as her thumb continued to draw circles on the top of my hand.

  “My family wasn’t like yours. My mother wasn’t caring or sweet. My father wasn’t around to tell bedtime stories. He actually left when he figured out my mother was pregnant with me,” I said.

  I felt Charity squeeze my hand as she cocked her body to face me more.

  “She drank a lot. I was very independent from a young age. Cooking full meals by the time I was nine. I struggled in school. Didn’t pay attention a lot. I was too busy making sure my mother didn’t drown in her own vomit when she wasn’t bouncing around from guy to guy.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Charity said.

  “It’s fine. I mean, she finally stuck around with one guy. But, he wasn’t worth his weight in feathers. But, she didn’t care. She drank because she was alone, and when she wasn’t alone she drank to be happy with him. I left when I was sixteen and never looked back. I wanted something more for myself.”

  “Good for you,” she said.

  “I found that poem ripped out of a book and crumbled up in a dumpster I was living in after I graduated high school. Barely scraped by with my grades, and I knew I’d never make it in college. I didn’t want college. I didn’t want more classes and more tests. The issue was I didn’t know what I wanted. But, sleeping on the street was better than going home. So, I crawled into dumpsters at night and fed myself at the homeless shelters when they were open.”

  I watched Charity’s lip quiver and I wanted so badly to kiss it. To make the tremble to away. To let her know that I was fine. That I was strong. That my life was okay now.

  Especially since she had come into it.

  “Anyway, I found that poem crumpled up in one of my dumpsters, and I’ve kept it with me ever since. It’s given me solace throughout my life as I slowly carved out my path. I actually have that same poem I found in that dumpster tacked up onto the wall of my living room to remind me of what I’ve waded through and what I’ve overcome to get to where I am today,” I said.

  And to my surprise, Charity brought my hand to her lips to kiss. A comforting kiss. A warm kiss. For the first time, I felt her lips against my skin. I felt a delicate part of her body grace my hardened nature. I swallowed thickly. I ignored the pulsing between my legs as she rose up from the back of my hand.

  “I don’t know who you are, but you’re inspiring. And just as you're here for me, I’m here for you. Okay?” she asked.

  I had no words. To her, I was a stranger. Some random man assigned to a room to look after her so she didn’t hurt herself doing something stupid. And yet, she had opened up her soul and allowed me to nestle myself inside it. A man whose name she didn’t know. A man who, for as much as she knew, would be gone the second she was discharged from the hospital.

  Yet she blessed me with a care that would have convinced anyone we had known each other for years.

  She settled our hands back down onto the hospital bed, but she didn’t pull away. And when she didn’t, I threaded our fingers together. It felt right. It felt good. It felt neces
sary. I watched her delicate fingers that had saved the lives of so many people slide between the slats of my thick digits. Our palms settled together. Our hands interlocked.

  And when I looked back up at her face, I saw a smile trickle across her cheeks.

  “Hello, stranger,” she said, giggling.

  I squeezed her hand, watching as the hair on my arm stood on end at the sound of her giggle.

  “Hello, Charity,” I said.

  Charity

  “Well, look who’s up bright and early?”

  My head turned at the sound of my doctor’s voice.

  “Doctor Goldstein. Hey there. How are you?” I asked.

  “The real question is, how are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Better. My body isn’t as sore. Getting up and down is easier. I’m anxious to get home, though.”

  “You know you’ve got at least a couple more days’ worth of a stay here. With the trauma you sustained and the painstaking work done on your eyes, it’s at least a two-week stay.”

  “I know, I know. But, you can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  “How is your memory? Are you slowly recalling things?” he asked.

  “Why? Should I be worried?”

  “Charity, just answer the question.”

  I sighed. “I’m only remembering things in chunks. But, my first actual memory is back two or three weeks ago. When all this first started.”

  “Can you describe it for me?” he asked.

  “It’s just of my bodyguard showing up at my front door. After I was relieved of my shift. I remember him knocking on the door. I remember going downstairs and peeking through the window to see him. I remember opening the door and thinking about how much food it would take to feed his ass, and then… there’s nothing. Nothing until I wake up here,” I said.

  “Well, trauma will wipe out the memory for a little while. So long as you’re remembering things in bits and pieces, it will come to you with time. The important part is that you are remembering. Right?”

  “Flashes. More like still images.”

  “It’s better than nothing. I’m not too concerned with it, because despite the trauma to your eyes and your torso, you only had a mild concussion. It came and went before you even woke up. Sit up for me, Charity. Can you sit up?” he asked.

  “So, you don’t think my memory is permanently damaged?” I asked.

  “Not at all.”

  It was time for my doctor to do his daily rounds. Only today was a little different. Today, he’d been undressing my eyes and testing what I could see with a muted flashlight. I was anxious as he started with my toes. He tested my reflexes and checked over my bruising. I winced as he pushed down in a couple of places. He worked up both of my legs, testing my joints and their rotation. He felt around my muscles as I suppressed groans of pain, trying to stomach through it.

  “Don’t hold back those sounds, Charity. I need to know the kind of pain you’re in,” Dr. Goldstein said.

  “If it’s not the color of my skin, it hurts,” I said.

  The doctor chuckled. “Duly noted, professor.”

  He leaned me back and slowly pulled open my hospital gown. I kept an ear out for my volunteer. I knew he was around. At least, I suspected he was. Then again, it was pretty early in the morning. Breakfast hadn’t even been brought around yet. The only reason Dr. Goldstein was checking up on me first thing that morning was because we had been such good work colleagues. He had been my mentor when I first started at the hospital, introducing me to everyone and walking me through what foods to avoid in the cafeteria.

  And now, my life had been put in his hands.

  “Your torso is still pretty bruised. I’m not going to poke around a lot, but I do want to check and see how the plates and screws in your ribs are doing,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s going to be fun. Can you warn--.”

  I let out a bombastic groan as his fingers depressed into my ribs. I felt him roll over the heads of the screws. Testing the bounce back of my ribs. Tears brewed behind my eyelids. The pain was substantial, even with the frequent medication I was on. My head fell back as a whimper pulled its way out of my throat. He removed his hands and continued his journey up, then stopped just shy of my breasts.

  “Charity, when was the last time you had a physical?” Dr. Goldstein asked.

  “If you’re asking if you can do a routine check for breast nodules, go ahead. I’m fine,” I said breathlessly.

  “On a scale of one to ten--.”

  “Twelve, Goldstein. A twelve,” I bit.

  I coughed and sputtered as he smoothed his fingers over my breast. He worked his way up my chest, smoothing his hands along my neck. He picked up my head and rolled it around. He slid his fingers up the back of my head, into my hair as he looked me over. I felt him slowly lower my head back to the bed before he pulled my hospital gown closed. Then, he worked the blanket over my body.

  “I want to get you an ultrasound for your ribs. You’re in a little more pain with those than I’d like you to be. I want to make sure there isn’t some sort of inward infection brewing. I also want to make sure your body isn’t rejecting the screws and the plates. I know you don’t have any allergies, but we can never be too careful. I’ll get a nurse in here to draw a bit of blood to check your white blood cell levels, and I’ll get an ultrasound on the books for sometime this afternoon,” Goldstein said.

  “Sounds good. Yeah. That was… a bit much,” I said.

  “That’s one way to put it,” he said, chuckling.

  “You’re going to take off my dressings and test my eyes today, right?”

  “I am. I want to give you a moment to recuperate from the whole body exam before we move you again.”

  “I’m fine,” I said as I grunted. “Just give me a second.”

  “I gotcha.”

  Out of nowhere, as if he had appeared out of thin air, I heard that voice in my ear. The sound of dark chocolate pouring over a salted pretzel rod. My volunteer’s arm slinked around my back, helping me upright before he slid me back into the bed. I felt him fluff pillows behind me before his large hands came down onto my shoulders. He eased me back slowly, with his careful touch and his comforting presence.

  “I was wondering if you were here already,” I said, grinning.

  “You know this man?” Dr. Goldstein asked.

  “Yeah. He’s my volunteer. I mean, I don’t know his name. That part’s kind of a long and weird story. But, yeah,” I said.

  “Wait, he’s not--.”

  I cocked my head as my doctor’s sentence cut itself off. He wasn’t what?

  “Anyway. Sorry. Yes, let’s get these dressings off and take a look at how your eyes are doing,” he said.

  I wanted to press the issue, but I was too anxious to see what kind of progress I had made. I felt the bandage come off, twirl by twirl. It fell from my face before Dr. Goldstein pulled the two gauze pads from my eyes and I sat there, waiting for his command.

  “Okay. Let me clean off some of this gunk, and then we’ll try opening them,” he said.

  “Gunk. Gunk is good,” I said.

  “Gunk is very good. Along with the high fat diet we’ve had you on, I expect you to have made some sort of decent progress.”

  “Wait, a high fat diet?” I asked.

  “Don’t read into it, Charity. You’re a patient. Not the doctor.”

  “But, I know what a high fat diet means. It means--.”

  “That the things I do are precautionary. You know this about me. Charity, as your colleague, I’m telling you to trust me. As your friend, I’m telling you to trust me. You’re in good hands.”

  “I know I’m in good hands, I’m just…”

  I drew in a deep breath as he cleaned off my eyes with a sterile q-tip. I felt the gunk falling away. Slowly pulled off my eyes in strips. I wrung my hands into the sheet in my lap. Anxious to rip my eyes open and see the world around me again. My entire future hung in the balance while he cleared ‘gunk�
� off my eyes.

  “I know you are, Charity. So, I want you to slowly open your eyes. And if you experience pain of any kind, I want you to stop,” Goldstein said.

  I nodded, then drew in a deep breath. I slowly eased my eyes open, feeling my lids peel away from one another. It felt like I was moving in slow motion. I could feel every movement of the atoms of my cells as they worked for my benefit. I felt my eyelids sliding over my eyes. There was no pain. No aching sensation. No mild discomfort. I finally got my eyelids to stay open and I waited for the world to come into focus. I waited for the harsh light of the hospital room to ignite in my eyes.

  But there was only darkness. Even as I held my eyes wide open.

  “Let me know what you see,” Goldstein said.

  I wanted to tell him ‘nothing’. That there was just a bleak darkness around me. I felt him hovering over me as he clicked on his flashlight, and for a split second I saw something flash. I jerked my head. The flash was what hurt. I shielded my eyes and felt a hand cradle the back of my neck. A warm hand. A strong hand. A large hand.

  “Keep your head steady,” he said.

  The more Dr. Goldstein passed the light in my vision, the more things came into focus. Like my eyes needed a jumpstart from a closer source. But even after he had passed the fuzzy haze into my vision on five separate occasions, the only thing I saw was dark outlines. They were so dark and so miniscule that I couldn't even make out what they were. I squinted my eyes and leaned forward, wiggling my feet to see maybe if I could see myself.

  But even as I wiggled my feet, nothing moved in my vision.

  “What do you see?” Goldstein asked.

  I shook my head. “Darkness. Faint outlines. Nothing I can make out.”

  “But, you do see outlines,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, sighing.

  “Okay. I’m going to wrap your eyes back up. Go ahead and close them for me.”

  “But I--.”

  “Close them, Charity.”

  I bit down onto the inside of my cheek and closed my eyes. Not that it really made a difference. I felt Dr. Goldstein press fresh gauze pads back against my eyes, then he wrapped the bandage around my head. Effectively putting the barrier between myself and the world back into place. I felt my lip quivering. I tried to be as strong as I could, but I was so discouraged.