by Adriana Law
What have I done? I turn back around in the seat, my hands fidgeting in my lap. The headlights of cab illuminate the road ahead.
Sterling’s head is resting against the window on the other side of the cab. His hair is a mess and his face is a mess, but as his lashes lower I realize he is still beautiful even with the ugly bruises.
Leaning closer, he turns my face toward me.
“Let me see,” he gently says, sucking in a strangled breath at the sight of my face up close. I wince as his thumb grazes where my jaw is tender. The pupils in his eyes swallow the gray. “It looks like it’s going to leave a pretty bad bruise. How’s your leg?”
“It’s fine. Where are we going, Sterling?”
“The airport,” his hand drops from my face and he returns to his side of the cab, “then to my apartment in Los Angles.
I focus my gaze out the window. Oh God. Isn’t it his father’s apartment?
“What are you thinking?” he asks softly.
“That this has been the worst night of my life,” I answer honestly.
He chuckles low, the sound causing goose bumps to rise on my flesh. “If this was your worst, then you’re lucky.”
Awkward silence settles between us. It goes on until I can’t take it any longer. I need to know.
“What are you thinking?”
“That this was one of my better nights,” he replies, staring blankly out the window.
The flight from Colorado Springs to Los Angeles is supposed to take two hours. I wouldn’t know. I slept the entire time.
“Oh God,” I say lifting my head from Sterling’s shoulder. I wipe the drool from my chin glancing groggily around, the reality of what happened just hours ago sinking in.
I’m on a plane with Colton’s insanely sexy cousin.
We’re seated in first class; a row of seats to ourselves. I’d slept hard, waking up clinging to the warmth of Sterling’s side. My gaze lifts to gray eyes and I feel the color heighten in my cheeks.
“Did I snore?” I mumble, unable to keep the horrified expression off my face.
“No. But you talk in your sleep.”
Even worse.
My gaze drops to the large wet spot on the sleeve of his shirt. “Oh no, did I drool on you?”
He inspects the spot before shrugging. “It’s okay. It’s was my fault. I’m the one that laid you over on my shoulder. You didn’t look comfortable the way you were sleeping.”
“Umm, my neck thanks you,” I offer with a small smile moving back into my seat.
I’ve never notice how long his eyelashes are until now. His head is resting back on the seat, lulling to the side, his eyes watching my every move. My gaze drops to his parted lips. I’ve never noticed how kissable his lips are. Okay, maybe I have noticed. His hair is nice too. I’d heard Keria describe a guy’s hair at our schools once as ‘freshly fucked hair’. I never understood what she meant until now. I tear my gaze away from him and focus out the window.
“Does this bother you?” he whispers over at me.
For a moment I think he is asking if it bothers me being trapped on the inside of the seat, his long legs stretched out blocking my only way out. Maybe it does. Did someone just suck all the air out of first class? I glance out into the aisle struggling to breathe normally.
“Shit. It does, doesn’t it?” He clenches his jaw, suddenly looking like he’d love to punch himself.
“It does what?” I blink, confused.
He nods at the small window. “You’re afraid of heights. Right?”
“Eh, no.” tumbles out. “That’s not it.” It’s you. “I’m only afraid of heights when I’m up high and can actually see the ground.”
“Then trade seat,” he says, indicating for me to slide over him.
How am I supposed to do that without touching him?
“It’s fine. Really.” I blush.
“No. It’s not Phoenix. The only way I’m going to feel better is if we switch seats.”
I do as instructed; rise up, slide over top of him, my rear-end brushing his lap on the way over. I swear I hear him groan, which causes hundreds of butterflies to suddenly fill my stomach.
I plop down in the seat.
Sterling Bentley thinking about someone else’s comfort, who would’ve thought he had it in him.
Fatal Attraction
Victoria
The cab drops us off in front of a tall industrial type brick building. Right next door is a small café with a green awning with Something Italian in large white letters, a small cluster of tables out front. The smell of fresh tomato sauce and baked garlic bread causes my stomach to rumble.
A dark eyebrow rises as Sterling readjusts the strap of his duffel over a shoulder. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.” I lie.
Sterling lights a cigarette. He takes a long draw and exhales as if he is releasing all the stress he’s been holding inside. Smoke clouds the space between us, neither of us saying a word. He crams the cigarette in the ashtray on top of the trash can beside the steps leading up to the building. He holds out a hand for me to take right as a woman plows into us. I stumble. The woman and her friends pass between us so caught up in trying to gain Sterling’s attention that they don’t notice I’m standing here. She whispers something to her friends offering Sterling a flirtatious smile.
He ignores them; reaching through them and taking hold of my elbow, leading me up the steps.
“Do women always stare at you like that?”
“I don’t know.” He seems uncomfortable talking about it. “Why are you asking? Are you jealous?” He bluntly asks.
“Not at all,” I sputter.
As we step into the lobby his phone busses and he checks the screen, tapping out a reply. Sterling grabs hold of the metal gate to the elevator raising it. I hesitate, not very confident in anything as old as this elevator.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s safe. I promise.”
I step in and he slams the gate down and then we’re going up. Pulleys whine and when the elevator jars to a stop at the top floor I’m forced to grab onto the wall to keep from losing my balance. Sterling cuts me a sidelong glance and heaves up the gate shaking his head.
“I think next time I’d prefer to take the stairs,” I say.
“The stairs are under construction.” He inserts a key in a heavy metal door. “Home sweet home,” he grins pushing the door wide, allowing me to go through first.
“It’s exactly what I expected,” I voice out loud, wandering inside the apartment.
“Oh really?” He drops the duffel on the light colored hardwood floor. His keys clatter on the bar separating the modern kitchen from the rest of the apartment.
I don’t answer not wanting to insult him by saying I expected overindulgence. And here it is, stretched out before me.
It’s a large open space with no interior walls. There’s an area for sitting, an area for sleeping and an area for eating. The only room not visible the instant you walk in is the bathroom. I can only imagine what it is like. The entire outside wall of the apartment is made of old brick, with long windows that overlook the city. The ceiling is ridiculously high with exposed wood beams. There’s track lighting aimed carefully at the painting’s hanging on the walls. Stainless steel glistens in the kitchen. Natural light hardwood floors stretch out in every direction giving the apartment that added artsy feel. All of Sterling’s furnishings are either black or white, or a combination of the two.
I walk the length of the apartment pretending to not be blown away.
But honestly, it is the art hanging on the walls that truly make this place spectacular, well that and the black piano positioned perfectly over by the floor to ceiling windows.
“Do you play?” I ask, running a fingertip over the glossy finish of the piano.
“No.” He buries his hands in his pockets, his shoulder slightly curved forward.
I glance suspiciously at him. “Are you lying?”
“I bou
ght it for the aesthetics, thinking it would add something to the space,” he insists.
“You’re right. It does add something to the space. And the art?” I slowly walk the perimeter of the room, studying the odd paintings. “Is your interest only in the aesthetics there too? Or are you the artist?”
My head tilts, my gaze narrowing on the impressionistic painting of a bearded homeless man stooping by the opening to an alley. There are three pennies and a nickel glinting on top his soiled palm. He is smiling, one crooked tooth showing. I can smell the alcohol and feel the man’s surrender to a life of homelessness and despair. But the more I focus on the painting the more I realize I’m the one projecting unhappiness; the man, he appears content, which in a way is happiness. How many of us can say we’re content?
Further down the wall is a young boy running barefoot through murky water overflowing out of a sewer drain. Poverty stricken homes line the boy’s street. His pants are way too short and his upper body naked, showing a barrel boyish chest. He is the poster child of malnutrition, but smiling. My heart breaks for the boy in the painting. I get the sense that he is trapped and he’ll never be free from the poverty. But again, I’m projecting my own sadness. The boy appears happy.
All of art work hanging on Sterling’s walls—each one causes a strong reaction in me.
I glance over my shoulder to find him carefully watching me. He is nervous. I can tell by the way his top teeth catch the piercing in his bottom lip giving it a fit. He doesn’t want me analyzing what’s on his walls. My stomach flutters with understanding. No one enjoys having their own work critiqued.
“I prefer paintings that tell the ugly truth,” he explains shrugging a shoulder before leaving me, strolling toward the kitchen area.
I follow him.
The ugly truth.
It’s same thing he’s said when I witnessed his father hitting him.
“There’s food and bottled water in the refrigerator. Snack food is in the cabinet. Eat anything you want. Somebody needs to.” He swings open one of the overhead cabinets showing off all the junk food cluttering the inside of the cabinet, the movement showing off his strong biceps. I’m crazy. This guy could do some serious damage if he decided to play rough-up-the-female.
“You okay?” He softly asks.
“Yeah. Tonight has been crazy. Overwhelming. I’m trying to process it all.”
He goes on, determined to feed me. He grabs a bag of chips from the cabinet, eyeing the package. “Might want to check the expiration date before you eat anything though, some of it’s been here a while.”
Moving on from the food he strolls toward the sitting area in the center of the room: an off-white sofa and two oversized leather chairs, glass tables with black wrought iron legs and a black fuzzy rug.
“I don’t really watch television so I never bought one, but there’s a computer. You’re welcome to use it.”
Next is the bedroom, all part of the open floor plan. Since there are no walls there is no reason for me to panic being in his bedroom… except for the king-sized bed that seems to dominate one entire corner of the apartment.
It’s fully decked out with white bedding and black throw pillows. The head board is pushed up to the brick wall lining the outside of the apartment.
He peels back the comforter on the bed and instantly this becomes real. I am in some stranger’s apartment in Los Angeles, alone. I’ve watched the show Unsolved Mysteries. Any person with common sense would warn this is dangerous behavior for a young girl. But he is Colton’s Cousin—my rational voice whispers as if that makes it okay.
My throat closes up when he digs out a T-shirt and a pair of boxers from one of his dresser drawers, tossing them down on the mattress.
“You can borrow these to sleep in.”
“I can sleep in what I have on.”
“You’re going to get hot.”
“I’ll be fine.”
His gaze slowly travels down my body, over the tank top and the sweat pants. My body responds, tingling, waking up. I lose my balance, stumbling, my right tennis shoe landing crossed over the left when I regain control.
“Whatever. You’re welcome to the clothes if you change your mind.”
I cross my arms over my chest, staring at the bed. I really didn’t give any thought to the sleeping arrangements before agreeing to take off with him.
He sighs, seeming to sense my hesitation.
“Look, I’m not going to try anything. It’s a king-size bed. There’s plenty of room. You’ll have your side and I promise to stay on mine. It’s just a place to sleep.” He smears fresh blood from his swollen lip and then looks down at the blood on his fingertips. “Shit, I’m bleeding again.”
“You should probably put some antiseptic on it, and the one over your eyebrow,” I say.
A thick fingertip touches the gash over his eyebrow as if he’d forgotten it was there. He winces. I go on avoiding looking him directly in the eyes. “The numbness is probably wearing off. It looks pretty deep. It might need stitches.”
“It’s fine. I’ve had worse,” he returns and then I’m the one wincing.
My gaze follows him as he moves with cocky strides across the apartment, and my feet move in that direction, following him as if we are connected by an invisible thread: wherever he goes I have no choice but to follow.
Pausing in the bathroom doorway I watch him standing in front of the mirror as he reaches behind his head and grabs the neck of his blood stained shirt pulling it off with on fluid movement. I stop breathing at the sight of his muscles and tattoos. I know—standing there watching him—that this guy could possibly tear down my walls. I have a feeling I’d do anything he asked. I’m drawn to him like ants to a rotting carcass.
Sterling is not my usual type. There is a roughness about him that I wouldn’t normally find attractive. On him it’s insanely sexy and too tempting to resist.
He leans over the sink splashing water up on his face and then dries it on a hand towel. He examines the cuts close up in the mirror.
“Where’s your first aid?” I ask, coming up beside him. It’s a pretty large bathroom, but suddenly it feels much smaller standing next to him. I feel much smaller. But I owe him this. No one has ever stood up for me like he has.
Smoky gray eyes connect with mine in the mirror.
“Under the cabinet,” he says.
I bend, pull out the basket and sit it on the counter top.
“Now, be still, this may sting a little,” I warn squeezing antibiotic ointment on the tip of my finger. “You’re going to have to turn toward me.”
He obeys and the breath catches in my throat. His eyes are unbelievable up close. Having them focused on my face makes me extremely nervous. The way he is staring as if I am the most intriguing thing in the world to him is unnerving. No one has ever looked at me like that, so completely.
“Be still,” I murmur careful not to breathe out too much.
“You’ve already said that.” He grins down at me. “I’m a big boy. I think I can handle a little pain.”
Yeah, but can I?
“Okay, ready?” I ask, my fingertip hovering over the gash above his eyebrow.
He reaches up, his fingers circling my wrist. “You’re the one shaking. If blood freaks you out I can do put the medicine on myself.”
“Actually,” I say finally touching the gash. He releases my wrist now that I’m steady. “I do usually get a little squeamish around blood, but I’d forgotten about it until you just reminded me.”
The eyebrow I’m globing ointment on slightly lifts.
“Really?” he sounds interested.
“Yeah, usually I would’ve passed out by now,” I gently laugh out. “From all the blood splattered on your shirt earlier and this,” I answer honestly, working on the cut on his bottom lip now. I’m really careful, lightly applying the medicine, not wanting to hurt him. I try not to stare too long at the piercing in his bottom lip or the way his teeth latch onto it when he is thinki
ng. His head is bent, his mouth close to mine, his warm breath feathering out over my lips. My tongue flicks out wetting my lips.
“What’s different about now?” he asks hoarsely.
I wince at the distress I hear in his voice lifting my finger from the cut. “Am I hurting you?”
“Not at all,” he says, a small grin playing on his lips. He breathes and I swear I inhale the same breath. A corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re pretty good at playing nurse. I’ll have to remember that.”
Dropping my hand I take a step back. “All finished.”
“You’re turn,” he says, a knuckle grazing my jaw. It’s sudden, him touching me. My finger lifts to the tender spot along my jaw. “It’s just a bruise. There’s not really anything you can do for it.”
“Turn around,” he orders.
“Excuse me?” I swallow thickly. The air between us electrically charged.
He takes the ointment out of my hands and uncaps the tube. “Don’t ask questions trust me.”
The way he says trust me has warmth spreading throughout my body. My heart rate spirals out of control. I do as I’m told and turn around. His fingers brush my lower back as he lifts the hem of my shirt and then his fingertip is smoothing the ointment over the place where my tailbone begins. It stings, but feels amazingly wonderful at the same time.
“I noticed the scrape when you bent over to get the basket” he breathes out warmth over the back of my neck and my eyes close. “Does it hurt?”
“Hmm,” escapes.
I find myself wishing I had more injuries for him to soothe. More reasons for him to touch me. His fingers are suddenly gone and he takes a step back. I reach for the tube, drop it in the basket and put the basket down below; acting as if being close to him hasn’t caused my body to melt.
A frown forms between his brows when I go stand in the doorway, needing room to catch my breath and calm my heart rate.
He reaches for his tooth brush. I pretended to be semi-interested in him brushing his teeth, when really, him doing the smallest things fascinates me. I can smell mint and almost taste it. He gags like I do sometimes when I force the toothbrush back too far on my tongue. His eyes find mine in the mirror again as the blue foam coats his lips. I wonder if the tooth paste stings the cut. He sucks up the water caught in his cupped hands and spits, shutting off the water and drying his mouth on the hand towel. As he slips by me in the doorway he nudges my stomach with the tip of his tooth brush, giving it to me.