by C. J. Duggan
It was probably overkill but I couldn’t help the way my skin tingled each time I touched him. I could easily become addicted to the sensation.
“Unless you gave me some kind of lethal dose, I don’t think they would work that quickly,” he mused, and suddenly my cheeks burned.
“Just checking; you’re still really hot.”
“I know, sucks to be me.” He gave me a boyish grin, the very one that made me go all weak at the knees. But there was no time for that, as I was enjoying the little bit of power I had right now, and I was also hoping against hope that he wouldn’t remember the chore he had wanted me to stay for. No, let’s just focus on him, I thought. Shouldn’t be too hard, it was most boys’ favourite subject.
“Don’t move,” I warned, making my way toward the hall door, glimpsing back to the couch to see Stan adjusting the cushions with a sigh. He didn’t seem to be loving the attention, which kind of bothered me a little. I wasn’t sure what was going on here, but it suddenly wasn’t all about avoiding chores. I wanted to be here with Stan?
Like in the kitchen, I found myself cluttering around in the bathroom, this time looking for a face washer. The only thing I had managed to find without hindrance was the aspirin I knew was floating around in the bottom of my bag. As for light switches, glasses, and bloody face washers, it was all a bit of a mystery … ah-ha!
In the bottom drawer of the cabinet, I lifted out a latte-coloured square, running it under the cold tap, drenching it thoroughly, and twisting out the excess water.
I waved it in the air all the way down the hall so as to give it extra chill factor before folding it into a neat little squared parcel. I came to stand in front of Stan; he had nestled lazily on the couch, his eyes closed, hands linked behind his head as if he was in deep meditation. I jolted him out of his zen by plonking myself on the space next to him, causing him to jump in fright.
“CREEPING BLOODY JESUS!” he cried, clasping his heart.
I giggled, taking immense delight in scaring him.
“It’s not funny. Don’t do that, I am not a well man,” he said.
“Oh, so you finally admit you don’t feel well?”
“Not now I don’t. Bloody hell.” He straightened in his seat, and I tried not to let on the fact his jean-clad leg was pressed up against mine on the couch, the heat burning against mine.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” I countered, glowering.
“Pretty hard not to when you’re getting treated like an invalid,” he mused.
“Ungrateful much? Shut up and close your eyes,” I snapped.
“God, first you drug me, then scare me half to death, and now you want me to close my eyes?”
“You have serious trust issues, you know that?”
“Yeah, can’t imagine why.”
I gave him my best deadpan stare, and the bastard then gave me a cheeky grin as his eyes dipped toward the face washer and then back up at me, before closing his eyes and melting into the lounge.
“Be gentle with me,” he said, his smile broadening.
“Oh, shut up,” I said, glad he couldn’t see my smile.
I pressed the cool cloth against his forehead, surprised he didn’t flinch against the sensation. I swept it slowly across his forehead, over his closed lids, and down the side of his face. I knew this was extreme, ridiculous to the fullest measure. I mean, I simply could have just chucked him the face washer from across the room and said, “There you go.” But I didn’t want to. I wanted to fuss, to touch, to stroke him. He was letting me do it and maybe this was me taking advantage of him, but I couldn’t help take great pleasure in swiping the cold compress across his brow and face. He looked so young and sweet when his eyes were closed, and it gave me a chance to look at him, really look at him.
The brown curl of his hair was tinged with a hint of auburn presumably lightened by the sun’s rays. His skin was slightly tanned but nothing too deep. A slight brushing of stubble pricked the sharp line of his jaw, the jaw I was now sweeping the cloth over and down his neck line. Only then did Stan flinch. I stopped, fearing I had gone too far as I saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Thinking he wanted me to stop, I waited as his lips parted as he spoke in a gravelly voice.
“Do you want me to sit up a bit?”
My heart leapt in abandoned approval but I tried to calmly reply.
“Yeah, that would be easier.”
Without opening his eyes Stan shifted into a straighter sitting position, leaning slightly forward to allow me access to the back of his neck. God, it was hard to keep my shallow breaths in line, I was starting to feel like I needed a cold face washer to swipe against my heated skin. I really hoped Stan would keep his eyes shut, I didn’t want him to open them and see the flush of my cheeks, how doing what I was doing to him was affecting me in such a way, my heart pounding like crazy against the wall of my chest.
I traced the cloth around the back of his neck, stroking along his skin, causing him to clench his jaw; the delicate tension that pulsed there did strange things to me as my stomach twisted at the sight.
I pushed the fabric of the thick collar of his polo shirt aside gently, cursing the barrier between him and me. The navy curl of the fabric was not helping.
“No wonder you’re hot, this shirt is made out of lead,” I joked.
Stan smiled. “Well, maybe I should take it off?”
I paused, sitting frozen beside him, studying his profile with wide-eyed wonder.
Was he serious?
As if sensing my stillness, Stan peeked open one eye and smiled broader. Opening them altogether and turning toward me, his amusement turned into a more serious gaze.
“Would that make it easier?” he asked in all seriousness.
Easier? Easier for what? Him? Me? Define easy. Yeah, it would make it all the better to touch him with, to use the cool cloth that was now not so cool over his neck, shoulders and chest.
Good God!
I shouldn’t be doing this, I shouldn’t be touching him like this. He didn’t belong to me, he wasn’t mine because he was Ellie’s. She should be the one tending to his sick bed, not me.
Don’t think about the word bed right now, Bel. Not. Helping.
And then the unreasonable side of me started to flood my thoughts. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, as I was simply helping. Helping him break a fever even if it meant giving me one, and that was the reaction that felt so wrong. That doing what I was doing was making me react in a way I didn’t wholly understand or want, especially when I looked Stan straight in the eyes and answered him.
“Yes, that would be easier.”
Oh, God, help!
Stan didn’t break his gaze from my eyes; instead, he sat there for a long moment, studying my face as if he was waiting for the cracks to show. Maybe he was looking for an ounce of guilt, regret, amusement maybe. But knowing what would have reflected to him would be the crimson flush of my cheeks and the heated betrayal of my eyes looking into his, I stayed still. It was then he shifted. Slowly lifting his arms to grab at the fabric at his back, he pulled the polo shirt over his head, the way boys always do.
It took every ounce of strength in me not to let my eyes roam, and I allowed only a brief moment of pause when Stan had pulled the material over his head, showing me the glimpse of skin until he had peeled it all off and chucked it aside, revealing the smooth lines on his chest and skin. So much skin I was now going to touch because he was allowing it.
He sat up straight, thankfully closing his eyes as he waited for me to continue. I took in a deep breath, and refolding the wash cloth to a new side, I began at the side of his neck, sweeping down and across his collarbone. The cold sensation across his skin caused his shoulders to melt from their tense stance. Stan stretched his head forward as I swept around the back of his neck, this time with no barrier except the cloth itself. A sigh of approval breathed out of him as I swiped across his shoulder blades, a sound that made my heart leap at the thought of such a sound co
ming from him directly as a result of my touch. I did it again, seeking the same approval before moving over his chest. Even through the material of the cloth, I felt the rapid beating of his heart, the shallow laboured breaths, as I glided gently across his skin. My eyes were affixed on the bow shape of his lips, lips I so desperately wanted to touch. Maybe I would, maybe they were hot too? Maybe I could cool them down for him, would that be strange? This whole afternoon had been anything but normal. Here I was, sitting sideways next to Stan on the couch—a half-naked Stan—running and exploring every curve, every fine-tuned muscle. Me doing this to him seemed acceptable, but then I thought about me having a fever and the need of a face washer compress, and somehow the thought of Stan running a wet cloth over my body seemed sinfully wicked. Maybe the innocence in this situation wasn’t so innocent. I knew from the tingling of my skin and the butterflies that danced in the pit of my stomach. I knew it affected me in the most un-innocent of ways, but how was it affecting Stan? He seemed relaxed, more than accepting. It had been his idea for the shirt to come off. In a trance, I swept the cloth slowly over the toned line of his flat stomach, the cloth grazing the top line of his jeans, something else that was probably making him hot too, but I didn’t dare mention that fact to him. Stan sighed deeply, either he was relaxing in a whole new way or maybe I had gone too far?
I bit my lip, failing to read the signs of whether it was torture, or actual pleasure he was experiencing, whether what I was doing was actually helping at all. Because I sure knew it wasn’t helping me. It was anything but relaxing, it was its own kind of torture; the barrier of the cloth between my hand and his skin was the line that was drawn. I desperately wanted to shed that last barrier and explore of my own free will, but I didn’t dare. I had to fight the devil on my shoulder, the very one that whispered: Lower, lower, go lower.
Instead I stopped, folding the cloth, and placing it on the coffee table. I stood slowly, averting my eyes from Stan. He stood so fast he nearly knocked me over, steadying me as he stood before me.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes wildly cast down on me.
“Nothing,” I said quietly, trying not to be swept up in the heated, questioning expression of his eyes.
“Why did you stop?” His hand still touched my upper arm, still steadying me, which was not necessarily a good thing. Skin to skin was definitely a torture.
My eyes lifted to stare unapologetically into his. His brows furrowed in concern, as if the weight of the world was dependent on my answer.
My mouth was suddenly dry. I swallowed deeply, not once tearing my gaze from him. I managed in a small but steady voice.
“Did you want me to stop?”
Something in Stan’s eyes lightened, and yet his expression was still cast of stone; the only thing that moved was the rise and fall of his chest, followed by the slow shake of his head.
“No. Don’t stop.”
Chapter Eighteen
Stan
Kiss her.
Just bloody kiss her, you idiot.
If there was ever a time that called for it, it was now. Bel was rattled, her cheeks flushed, and her senses dimmed by the overworking of her mind. I could tell just by the way she breathed, that way she had so gently, teasingly ran the cloth over me in delicious waves that did anything but keep me cool. Far from it. I wanted it to last forever, so when she stopped and was all about to flee, I did everything in the power of my stare to keep her there, to pin her there with no words. To look into her wilful eyes and know that maybe, just maybe, if I did close the distance between us, she would stay. There was only one way to find out, and as my eyes slowly flicked from hers to her beautiful mouth and then back again, it was the wordless, silent invitation I posed, one she seemed to understand. Her breaths became laboured and her eyes widened slightly as I stepped forward, moving closer, pressing against her unmoving body.
Was she shaking?
I smiled, slowly clasping the back of her neck, forcing her to lift her head up, eyes squarely rested on me. Yes, I would kiss her, kiss her into next week, but not just because I wanted to, but because, without an ounce of uncertainty, I knew she wanted me, too.
And just when I thought I would let the waves of certainty and courage take me there, I heard the sound of the front door.
“Knock-knock!” called Ellie’s voice down the hall.
Shit!
We broke away from each other so fast, Bel almost toppled backwards over the coffee table as she moved to get as far away from me as possible. I knew it was a shock to hear Ellie’s voice but by the way Bel had reacted, like she had nearly been electrocuted, actually made me frown a little as I quickly worked to pull my shirt back on. Bel tried to act casually by turning the tap in the sink on and off and then on again, as if she was doing some kind of invisible dishes or something. In an effort to look anything but flustered she was failing rather miserably.
“Hello-hello,” Ellie sing-songed as she entered the lounge room, downing some plastic bags on the bench. “Oh, hey,” she said, noticing Bel for the first time.
Ringer was not far behind. “Thought you might need some supplies,” he said, holding up Mad Max Two.
“Oh, hell, no, Ringer!” Ellie moaned. “Look, I love Mel as much as the next girl but I just want to watch—”
“We are not watching fucking Steel Magnolias, Ellie, and that’s final.”
As Ellie and Ringer bickered like an old married couple, I watched Bel as she catatonically stared in deep thought, down the drain, watching the water circle its way down. Her attention only snapped into the present when Ringer challenged her.
“Sorry?” She looked far away, blinking in confusion.
“What would you prefer to watch?” asked Ellie, snatching the DVD from Ringer’s clasp and slamming it down on the bench next to her own.
Bel looked from them to the DVDs. Her brows furrowed as if she was trying to grasp onto the question, but I knew it wasn’t the question that was troubling her.
“Umm, sorry, I’ve got to go,” she said, before sliding between Ellie and Ringer and quickstepping out the door, not so much as looking my way. It wasn’t until I heard the distant slamming of the front door did Ellie and Ringer’s curious eyes set upon me. Ringer smiled like a school boy and Ellie shook her head in dismay.
“What did you do?”
I ignored her question, instead moving toward the bench, grabbing the DVDs.
“No, and no,” I said, handing them back to Ellie and Ringer.
“Oh, sorry, did you have something else on your social agenda for tonight?” Ringer asked, his words dripping with sarcasm.
“It’s three in the afternoon, I don’t have time for this.”
“Not now, fool, but what are you doing later?” Ellie leant on the bench.
I could barely think past this moment, past the urge to run after Bel and see if she was all right.
“Do you want to do Chinese takeaway tonight?” Ringer leant against the fridge door, studying the menu.
I raked my hand through my hair, sighing in frustration at my well-intentioned, if not slightly annoying friends. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, Stan, you know what they say. No work, no play,” Ellie said, tilting to the side to try and meet my eyeline.
“Look, whatever you guys want—Chinese, great. I just have to do a few things before then.”
Like chase after a girl.
“Awesome, we’ll come back around seven then?”
“Sounds good,” I said, not really paying attention as my eyes stared after where Bel had just left.
“So, um, are we catering for three or—”
“Four,” I said a bit too quickly. “It will be four.” I reached for my wallet from the fruit bowl to grab some cash.
Ringer sidestepped away. “Put your money away, you mug. I’ve got it.” Ringer made his way out, down toward the hall. Pausing in the doorway, he said, “You coming or staying, Parker?”
It wasn’t until then I realised
Ellie was staring at me, a small smile curving her lips. “Yeah, I’m coming.” Ringer saluted and headed through the doorway.
I crossed my arms, challenging Ellie’s cocky stance. “What?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, backing out toward the hall. “But just so you know … your shirt’s on inside out.” And with a parting wink and a laugh, Ellie skipped out of the room.
It wasn’t until I heard the distant slam of the door did I look down at my shirt.
“Son of a bitch!”
Chapter Nineteen
Bel
Hot tears welled and trailed down my cheeks.
I was such an idiot.
I had run to the point of wanting to throw up, my hands on my knees, hunched over, fighting for breath, walking, stopping, walking. With my hands on my head, I fought back the sobs that couldn’t come because I was so breathless. What was I thinking? The sound of Ellie’s voice ringing out haunted me, the vision of her walking in without a care in the world, so trusting, so unknowing of the fact I was wiping down her half-naked boyfriend, and by all accounts, was on the verge of kissing him right before we had almost been sprung.
I didn’t like who I was becoming, about the strange things I felt whenever I was near or around Stan. It was confusing. The way I swore he looked at me, him literally saying he didn’t want me to stop, and then the most certain moment when he was going to kiss me. Oh, this was trouble—deep, deep trouble—and I wanted no part of it. My things may have still been back at his house but there was no way I was going back there tonight, not ever. I crunched a determined path to where our van was housed, walking over the crest to where I could clearly see where it sat down on the ravine overlooking the water. I paused, troubled by how it didn’t really feel like a refuge.
It would be the first place he looked.
Shit.
I didn’t want to be found. I couldn’t be found. Not tonight. How could I get away from here? What we did and what we nearly did was so wrong, so, so wrong, and albeit I wasn’t exactly the president of Ellie Parker’s fan club, it gave me no right to touch her boyfriend. Every time I closed my eyes I remembered his skin—his taut, smooth skin—and lean muscles, the squareness of his shoulders; I had wanted to kiss him. So much. I felt the pull, the lure towards him. I shook it from my memory.