Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  The knot in my stomach suggests otherwise, but I shrug it off and nod at Claire. “Yes, it is sweet.”

  She looks pleased with my response, eyes lighting up and white teeth flashing. Claire the Matchmaker is sassier than Claire the Concierge. She walks over to the single closet and shuffles through my shoes. “No high heels?”

  “I didn’t exactly see this coming, so . . . nope. Just my old pair of sandals, two new pairs of boots, and the tennis shoes.”

  “But you bought that sexy dress you’re wearing.”

  I shrug. She has a point there. But that’s different; it isn’t like I bought it with something special in mind. I’d been shopping for a warmer sweater when I spotted it yesterday, hanging just right on the mannequin, and well, what girl doesn’t want a little black dress in her closet?

  Thankfully, she doesn’t make me explain and instead hands me my newest pair of boots, black with a slight heel. She smiles. “These are cute, and with legs like yours you can totally make it work.” Her own legs start doing a little jig, and she says, “I have to pee. Would you mind if I used your restroom?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  She disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind her, and I sit on the end of my bed. Bending forward, I slide the first boot over my foot. Just as I begin to zip the second boot up, a familiar warmth brushes over my neck, my hair. I freeze, my fingers squeezing the zipper, and look around. My hair has fallen over my shoulders, blocking some of my view. I push it back with my free hand, still not seeing anyone.

  But I know it’s him.

  I try to ignore the sudden thumping in my chest and slowly finish sliding the zipper up. When I straighten my back, propped against the bed for balance, I feel it again. The heat. It’s coming from directly in front of me, like he’s standing inches away, except he’s not. Not visibly, anyway.

  I wait a moment, unsure of what to do. When those rough fingertips I remember so well brush over my cheekbone, my back stiffens and my hands pull the comforter into a tight hold. His touch is like a feather stroking me as he carefully moves my hair away from my face. It’s an innocent movement, revealing my eyes, and it shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but I can’t help it when my eyelids flutter closed.

  How does he make such a simple gesture feel so damn sensual?

  I don’t realize I’m leaning into his touch until he pulls back, making me stumble forward. Before I can lose the rest of my footing, one firm hand curls around my waist, the other around the nape of my neck; both are strong and keeping me steady. I don’t resist his hold. His warmth seeps through my dress and into my skin, and again, I find myself leaning into it. Into him.

  Some part of my brain must have awakened, because it reprimands me with a hushed, Pull yourself together. The hypnotic lull coursing through my body urges me to ignore the voice of reason, but I know I probably shouldn’t.

  “It’s okay.” My whisper pours out into the empty room. “I can stand.”

  His grip on my waist loosens but doesn’t fully let me go. The hold supporting my neck, though, disappears, and then what feels like a large thumb is gently pressing down on my lips. Uh oh. It would seem that my speaking has drawn his attention to my mouth. This can’t be good for me. When he slowly, carefully, runs his thumb over the slope of my bottom lip, my mouth parts slightly and a small breath escapes me.

  How does he do that? Does he even realize the sensations he’s stirring in me? He certainly didn’t try to touch me like this when I was able to see him the other day. In fact, he seemed flat-out distant then. I think about how, somehow, not being able to see him makes me feel less intimidated, and I wonder if it’s the same way for him.

  He stays like that, the tip of his thumb burning into my lips, and I forget how to breathe. How to move. There’s something about the way he touches me—so careful, restrained. It doesn’t feel cheap or like he’s taking advantage, but rather . . . rather like he’s touching a woman for the first time. Like he’s trying to understand. Understand every curve, every sensation.

  A noise sounds from behind the bathroom door, and his hand cuts away from me. In the same instant, his warmth begins to fade.

  No, don’t leave yet. There’s so much to ask, so much to say.

  Without thinking, I reach out toward where his heat seems to be centered in front of me. I don’t know why, or what it is I intend to do, but it doesn’t matter because I never get the chance. Just when my fingers connect with his heat, it disappears completely—and so does my hand. I gasp at the sight, my hand flickering in and out of solidity for a split second before it vanishes along with him. My arm is cut off at the wrist, and it’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen. Despite what my eyes tell me, I know my hand is not gone. Not entirely, anyway. I feel it connected to me in the same way the other one is. Except something’s off. My fingers are growing numb, and there’s a biting coldness wrapping around my entire hand like a glove. It’s as if any blood has stopped circulating through that part of my body, leaving it feeling lifeless and out of my control.

  A part of me and yet not. Not dead, nor alive.

  “You ready?” Claire’s peppy voice whips the moment away like a rug being pulled out from under my feet, and I hit the floor with a thump.

  “Oh my god!” Claire’s at my side in an instant, leaning down, eyebrows bunched together. “Are you okay?”

  Completely at a loss for words, I stare down at the fingers pressing into the hard floor. My fingers. My hand. The same hand that was gone just a second ago, but now is so solid, right in front of me. Warm and full of life, moving at my command.

  “Lou,” she says softly.

  Finally, I manage to shift my eyes, bringing them up to meet hers. Except I’m not looking at her at all. I’m trying to slow the beating in my chest and relearn how to prop myself up, but my arms won’t stop shaking.

  What. The. Fuck.

  Chapter 12

  We’re both quiet as Bobby pulls his truck out of Ashwick Inn’s parking lot and onto the road. It’s been over an hour since the incident with him, and I can’t shake it. In fact, I can’t stop shaking at all. I may look fine on the exterior, but inside my mind is racing.

  Bobby makes a sharp turn that returns my attention to my surroundings. The leather seats beneath me, the evening skies outside our windows.

  The quiet filling the air.

  It’s not a comfortable silence, and it makes me all too aware of the way the bottom of my little black dress hikes up with each of the truck’s bumpy movements. I grab the hem and discreetly yank it back down. Claire didn’t approve of my jacket selection for this outfit, so she lent me a coat of hers. It’s smooth and black, and just barely longer than my dress. It doesn’t do much to cover up my legs, but I pull it tighter around my body anyway.

  What was I thinking? I should have changed outfits the minute Claire left. Well, except for maybe the little black clutch she lent me. It’s pretty cute.

  “Relax,” Bobby says from beside me. I glance over at him and see the amused smile tugging at his lips. “It’s just dinner.”

  I let out a small laugh, going for casual, but it ends up sounding nervous. “Yeah. I know.”

  This is already awkward. Well, not so much this as me. Bobby seems fine, while I’m the one making it weirder than it needs to be. It would have been difficult enough trying to act as though this, the two of us going out for dinner, was normal on an ordinary day. But how exactly am I supposed to relax after what just happened in my room? All in a matter of minutes, I’d been sucked full-force into the sensual caress of a phantom being and then witnessed a piece of my body, my own flesh and bones, disappear with him.

  Is that what it’s like for him when he goes? When he fades away and leaves me, does he feel what I felt in that brief moment of time? The terrifying numbness? The sensation of coldness wrapping around you like a snake about to devour you whole?

  Bobby reaches forward, snapping me away from my thoughts as he presses a button on
the radio. “You still like The Lumineers?”

  I clear my throat, finding my voice and forcing it to be steady. “Is the world still round?”

  He grins. “Point taken.”

  The volume’s soft, soothing, and I instantly begin to relax when the familiar music starts. It’s just enough to remind me of where I am. Of the man beside me who seems to be making a genuine effort at repairing what happened between us. It’s no secret The Lumineers are one of my favorites, but I’m still surprised Bobby went out of his way to put them on for me. He usually prefers listening to country or R&B.

  Really, I owe it to both of us to try and be present for this. I shift in my seat a little, trying to look over at him without being too obvious. His light blue eyes are centered on the road ahead, his chestnut hair short and cropped. He’s fairly tall, and his movements are masculine, but he’ll forever have a baby face, especially without the facial hair.

  Right now, he really does look like the Bobby I fell for. There’s a pang in my chest at the recognition.

  He glances at me, a goofy grin forming. Dammit. I look away, but it’s too late. I’m waiting for him to call me out for staring, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You look real nice tonight, Lou.” It’s not sleazy or laced with sexual undertones. It’s sincere, maybe even tinged with sadness.

  I give him a soft smile. “Thanks, Bobby. So do you.”

  His eyes spark with something between desperation and appreciation when I say that, like he’s holding onto every word, and I have to force myself to look away. Jesus, I don’t know if I’m ready for this.

  When he parks the car and I look up, I see the word Steakhouse and tense. It’s too dark to tell how fancy the place is from the outside, so I won’t know until we get through the front doors. Before I even finish unbuckling my seatbelt, a sharp breeze hits me as my door opens. Bobby stands there holding out his hand for me.

  I grab my clutch and accept his hand but then glance back at him and say, “You really don’t have to do all this, you know.”

  He smiles, raising an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he leads me around the building. “All what?”

  I roll my eyes. “The flowers. The Lumineers. The door.”

  He doesn’t respond as he opens the restaurant’s front door, allowing me to enter before him. As we follow the hostess, I look around and let out an audible sigh of relief. The environment is laid back, casual, with wooden booths, small tables, and the buzzing sounds of overlapping conversations swirling around us.

  Bobby sits first, leaving space for me beside him, but I slide into the empty booth across from him. He picks up his menu at the same time I pick up mine, and his eyes start slowly scanning it up and down. The expression on his face is relaxed enough, even confident, but his shoulders are stiff and I can tell his knee is bouncing beneath the table.

  The sounds around us fade into the distance as our own silence drags on, until finally, what feels like an eternity later, a young guy dressed in a white and red uniform approaches our booth.

  “Hello, my name’s Dylan, and I’ll be your server for tonight.” The introduction comes off as an over-recited greeting, and the guy’s busy eyeballing a blonde-haired waitress two tables down the entire time it spills from his mouth. I watch as the waitress catches him and winks before strutting away, swaying her hips as she does. It’s not until she’s disappeared behind the kitchen door that he looks over at us. “How you guys doing?”

  “Doing good, man.”

  “All right, and what can I get for ya?” Dylan’s holding a notepad and pen, tapping his foot on the ground, darting obvious glances back toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll have the Angus Ribeye with a water, and she’ll have…” Bobby gestures to me with one hand, giving his menu to the server with his other.

  I know he said he’s sober, but it’s still weird hearing him ask for a water. “Country Fried Steak for me, please. And an iced tea.”

  “Mhmm.” Dylan jots it down and takes my menu, looking up at me for the first time. Something flashes in his brown eyes when he does, and I don’t like the feel of it. “Anything else for you?” he asks me slowly, his attention wandering from my face to my, thankfully covered, chest.

  “Nope.” My voice is sharp, my eyes narrowed.

  He rubs his hand through his blonde, buzzed hair. “Well, lemme know if you change your mind.” He walks away with that, glancing back at me once with a smooth smile.

  The disgust is still on my face when I turn my attention to Bobby, who’s looking down at his cell phone, apparently texting someone. I’m assuming he missed the whole exchange, because when he finally sets the phone down, something’s distant about him. He leans back against the bench, gazing at an empty spot on the table and chewing his lip.

  “Hey,” I say, “what just happened?”

  He snaps out of it, glancing back over at me and shaking his head. “Nothin’. Why?”

  “Don’t tell me ‘nothing’ when it’s something. What’s up?”

  This time when he shakes his head, he grins. “Shit, you know me well.” I’ve always liked Bobby’s smiles. They’re full and genuine, a little goofy and always endearing.

  I lift an eyebrow, nudging him.

  “Really, it’s no big deal,” he says, but he’s rubbing his chin in a way that says otherwise. “It’s just that shithead Ryan. Sending me pics of him out with the guys, trying to get me back home.”

  He says shithead affectionately because he and Ryan have been best buds since elementary school, but the thing about Ryan is that he really is a shithead. He’s the one who gave Bobby the idea that alcohol solves everything in the first place, and he somehow always managed to be behind our worst fights when we were together.

  “Does he know you’re sober?” I ask as an unfamiliar face sets our drinks down, smiles politely, and walks off.

  “Yeah, he knows. He’s just so used to me hangin’ out with him all the time. He’ll get over it.”

  I nod, but I’m not convinced. Ryan’s the worst kind of influence for someone like Bobby, and unfortunately, I don’t see him backing off so easily.

  “Anyway,” Bobby says with a sigh, “I didn’t take you here to talk about that jackass.” He winks. “I came here to be with you. To talk about you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How you’re doin’, what you’re up to, if you’re seein’ anyone—”

  “Bobby—”

  “Kidding,” he says, flashing me a grin that’s surprisingly cute. “That’s none of my business.”

  I laugh, and it’s entirely natural this time. “Thank you.”

  “How’ve you been though? You get a job like you mentioned in your email?”

  “Yeah, I just started a few days ago. Housekeeping.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Housekeeping?”

  “Shut up.” I cringe at how flirtatious those words sound and take another sip of tea to shut myself up.

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Hey, not judging. Just surprised. You always hated cleaning up after me.” He winks again, and I roll my eyes. “Nah, really though. I’m happy for you. You’re doin’ better on your own than I thought you would.”

  “What, you didn’t think I’d be okay?” It comes out more accusatory than I’d intended, my arms crossing over my chest.

  “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I just—hell, I don’t know. Been worried about you, that’s all.”

  The server, Dylan, comes up with a tray of food, setting each plate down appropriately. I thank him but make a point not to look up at him this time. It seems to do the job, because he turns and leaves without lingering.

  I clear my throat, speaking to Bobby again when I say, “Sorry. I don’t know why I said it like that.”

  “I do. And it’s okay, I deserved it.”

  When I look up at him, he’s watching me. We stare at each other for a little too long, and I honestly don’t know what
’s happening. His gaze is getting cloudy, and he bites down on his bottom lip in the way he used to right before . . . Okay, maybe I do know what’s happening. And I’m nowhere near ready to go there.

  “So . . .” I’m the first to break eye contact, grabbing my fork and using the food on my plate as the perfect excuse to look away. “How long are you staying out here?”

  He follows my lead and cuts into his steak, taking a large bite. “No firm plans just yet,” he says between chewing. “Got nothin’ to tie me down back in LA while I’m still between jobs, so who knows . . .” He glances up at me, letting his words fade and leaving the rest of the sentence for me to fill in.

  “Bobby, I don’t want you going out of your way to—”

  “It’s not out of my way. Really. I wanted to see you, and the timing just fell into place.”

  I stay quiet for a minute, mulling over his words. Something about it doesn’t sit right with me. I already know he’s been in between jobs—again—and I’m not about to pretend I have any say in his choices. But he’s basically telling me, without so many words, that his decisions are hanging on me. How long he stays, what he does next with his life, he’s basing it on how things progress with us. If, Lou, if things progress with us.

  That’s a whole lot of pressure to add to an already rickety roof.

  “What about Carol?” I finally ask. “Won’t she miss you while you’re away?” Carol, Bobby’s mom, is half of the reason I stayed with him as long as I did.

  “You kiddin’? You know how much my mom loves you. She threw my ass out the door when I told her I was gonna come see you.”

  I smile softly, because he’s right. And I miss her. Her soothing words and the genuine southern charm she brought with her from Texas. Her warm hugs, fresh squeezed lemonade, sandy blonde hair that’s always straying from her hair tie. Ugh, this dinner is stirring up more than I bargained for. Now I’m the one with my knee bouncing beneath the table. My eyes dart toward the back exit. It’s only about fifteen feet from here to there. I bet if I wait for him to get distracted again, I can slip quietly from my seat and—