Leaning over to the table, she grabs the peroxide and a cotton ball, wetting it slightly. Standing and moving closer to him, she allows herself one small glance at his eyes. The anger has vanished. His brow furrows slightly and his soft eyes stare intently into hers for a moment before his gaze drifts slowly to her lips. Her stomach quivers and flips before she quickly looks down at the cotton ball. Lifting her unstable hand, she tenderly disinfects the scratches on his face. She tries to keep her eyes on the cotton ball, but for just a moment, her gaze darts to his slightly parted lips and she shivers.
Sitting back down in the chair, she attends to each of his hands, taking care to clean each wound thoroughly, adding a couple of bandages to the worst scratches.
She clears her throat, her hands anxiously and needlessly straightening the items on the table. “Can you turn around? I’d like to see your back,” she says.
“I’m fine,” he says before sighing and looking down at his hands in his lap.
“No, you’re not. Turn around, please.”
He looks up at her for a moment, his eyes flashing with protest, but stands anyway and slowly turns around. Myra carefully lifts his flannel shirt. She gasps when she sees a six-inch raised area of already bruising skin on his lower back with multiple scrapes and abrasions surrounding it.
“You’re going to be sore,” she says. Dylan holds his shirt up while she cleans the scratches with peroxide. She tries not to notice his strong, lean muscles but can’t help admiring them. She adds a couple of bandages to the worst-looking areas before she steps back.
“You should probably get a tetanus shot,” she says.
Dylan turns and stares down at her, making her feel small and tiny. “I’ve already had one. Stay here,” he says in a hoarse voice. Frowning, Myra looks up at him before he abruptly walks out of the kitchen.
He comes back a moment later with her Grammie’s blanket from the couch. He drapes it around her shoulders. “You have to be fucking freezing,” he mumbles. Wrapped up in tending to his injuries, she ignored the shivers traveling through her body from head to toe... until now.
She nods at him. “Thank you,” she whispers as she pulls the blanket closer around her.
He runs his hand through his hair and looks back down at her. “I have liability insurance so don’t worry. It’ll cover the damages. Do you need your car tonight? Or can we take care of everything in the morning?”
“Tomorrow’s fine.”
He nods. “I’m gonna head home if you don’t mind. I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Take off as much time as you need.”
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” he says stubbornly before he slips his coat back on and starts walking towards the back door. Just as his fingers touch the doorknob, he turns, his eyes searching hers. “Thanks, uh…” he mutters, pausing.
“Yes?”
He stares at her for a long moment before he shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“You’re welcome,” she says simply with a nod.
* * *
Dylan walks gingerly out to his truck, wincing with each step. He can’t believe he fell through the damn roof. He had no idea how fucking rotted it was. A groan slips from his lips as he pulls himself up into his truck. As he backs out of the driveway, he twists in his seat, trying to relieve the pressure on his aching back.
“Shit,” Dylan mutters about halfway home when he remembers that he left his tool bucket sitting outside of Myra’s house. He also left his drill and a few other expensive tools inside of the garage. He figures he can just retrieve them all tomorrow, but then decides to turn around and go back because he has a lot of money tied up in those damn tools and anyone could just walk off with them.
Pulling back into Myra’s driveway, he decides not to bother her. He’ll just grab his tools and get the fuck home.
When he steps inside the still-open side door to the garage, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning towards it, he frowns when he sees Myra curled up in a ball next to the car’s tire with the blanket still wrapped around her. She has tears streaming down her face.
“What the hell? What are you doing in here?” he shouts, confused and angered by the sight of her sitting on the cold garage floor freezing to death.
She says nothing, just continues crying, like she doesn’t even hear him.
“Are you crying over your fucking car? I told you my insurance would cover it.”
Myra pulls up the edge of the blanket and wipes her face with it.
He runs his fingers through his hair tugging angrily on the ends. “You need to get back in your house. It’ll get fixed, all right?”
Not looking up, Myra nods, tears continuing to silently run down her cheeks.
He glares down at her, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. He waits for her to get up, move, or do something, but she just sits there. “Are you going back in the house or what?” he demands.
Myra shakes her head.
“Why the fuck not? It’s freezing out here,” he rages, incensed over her stupidity.
She buries her face in the blanket.
“You know what? I don’t give a shit. Do what you wanna do. I’m outta here,” he mumbles, grabbing his tools and stomping out of the garage.
Dylan storms back to his truck, unable to get Myra’s sad, tear-streaked face out of his mind. He slams the tool bucket into the bed of the truck and opens the door, leaning heavily against it. Pulling in a deep breath, he finally climbs in, slams the door extra hard, and sits, staring at the garage and holding tight to the steering wheel.
He wants to leave. The woman should’ve gone back inside like he told her to. Dylan can’t understand why the hell she’d sit there crying over a damn car. But he has enough problems of his own without trying to figure out hers; besides, he doesn’t even know her.
But then he remembers how she tenderly cared for him in the kitchen.
Slamming his hand against the steering wheel, he winces in pain. “This is a bunch of bullshit,” he yells. With a snarl on his face and against his better judgment, he slowly gets out of the truck and makes his way back into the garage with his fists clenched tightly at his sides.
He towers over top of her. “Damn it. You really piss me off, you know that? Why can’t you go back into the house like a normal person? Come here,” he growls as he leans down and scoops her small body up off of the cold concrete floor and cradles her to his chest.
CHAPTER 10
MAGENTA, COMPASSION
The rough material of Dylan’s coat rubs against Myra’s cheek as he carries her towards the house. He opens the back door and turns slightly to angle them through the opening, hugging her closer to his chest. Walking through the kitchen to the living room, he places her gently on the couch before he removes his coat and carefully wraps it around her shoulders. She looks up at him, her body twitching from her uncontrollable sobs. He stares down at her long and hard, an undefinable expression on his face.
After several minutes, Myra’s eyes begin to blink rapidly as she recovers from her apparent state of shock. She clasps Dylan’s coat tighter, her shivering body greatly appreciating the remnants of his body heat. Clinging to his jacket like a lifeline, she takes mental note of its musky manly smell.
Dylan removes his tool belt, setting it on the floor next to the coffee table. He sits on the edge of the couch, angling towards her. “May I?” he asks in a quiet voice as his hand gestures to her feet.
She shakes her head vigorously before hiccupping loudly.
Disregarding her protests, he picks up her right foot and places it in his lap. His long fingers slowly reach up her jeans searching for the top of her sock. The innocent action somehow feels intimate. When his warm fingers graze against the cold skin of her leg, a shiver runs through her as he gently tugs her cold, wet sock off. She jerks slightly when his fingers brush along her sole. He frowns as he continues staring down at her foot.
“Thank you,” she murmurs as she quickl
y wipes her cheeks and tries to pull her leg back.
He grabs her ankle to still her movements and looks into her eyes. He hums softly as he shakes his head, and while continuing to hold onto her ankle, he motions with his other hand for her left leg. Reluctantly, Myra lifts it and places it in his lap. She watches him, her eyes fixated on a chunk of his hair that has fallen onto his forehead as he concentrates. When his fingers touch her leg, goose bumps erupt and spread across her skin.
Grabbing a blanket off of the loveseat, he wraps her feet up in it, rubbing them through it. Myra bites her bottom lip furiously to stifle the moan that wants to escape her.
His head turns towards her and his eyes search her face. “Why you were crying?” he asks as he scoots back against the couch, continuing to watch her face closely as he rubs her feet.
Myra clears her throat. “Uh, it was nothing,” she manages to say over the loud pounding of her heart.
He looks down at her blanket-covered feet. “It didn’t look like nothing. Looked like you were having a total breakdown or some shit.”
“Well…” she says, but can’t for the life of her come up with another word to say. She doesn’t know if she should tell him about the importance of her car or not. So she gnaws on her fingernail instead.
He looks over at her again, his eyes hardening and narrowing. “Were you afraid I wasn’t gonna fix it?”
“No. It’s just that, my car… it means a lot to me,” she says in a voice that sounds a little squeaky because his hands are touching her.
His eyes soften and his brows crease slightly. “How so?”
“It was a high school graduation gift. From my dad and my grandpa. They’re both gone now so it just means a lot more to me.” She exhales and chews on her fingernail again.
Dylan stares at her face for a moment, his features twisting into a scowl. His head drops as he stares down at her feet in his lap. “Damn it.”
“What?”
His eyes are fierce when they find hers. “It’s nice to know that I just fucked up your family heirloom. Shit,” he says as he runs his hand through his hair.
“I, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad…” Her voice falters as her gut clenches.
Abruptly, he picks her legs up and sets them on the floor. “You know what? I gotta go.” Bending over, he picks up his tool belt off of the floor and quickly buckles it around his waist.
Myra slips her feet out of the blanket and stands. She takes off his coat and hands it to him.
She clears her throat as he puts it on. “Thank you. For everything. I’m sorry about how you found me.”
He stares down at her for a moment, his jaw rigid. He nods, shoving his hands in his coat pockets before he walks to the front door, closing it quickly behind him.
* * *
Dylan stands naked in his bathroom looking at himself in the mirror behind the door. He just removed the last of the bandages that Myra put on him. Turning around, he inspects his backside, noticing the deep blue and purple bruises beginning to form on his lower back. There are also a few bruises on his ass, as well as the backs of his thighs. He will definitely be one sore fucker in the morning.
Opening the medicine cabinet, he grabs some painkillers and downs them. Just as he sets the glass of water on the sink, his phone rings. Groaning, he slowly walks into the kitchen and picks it up off the table. One look at the caller ID and he tosses it back down.
Limping and moving like an old man, he makes his way to his bedroom and moans as he climbs under the sheets.
Throwing his right arm over his eyes, he tries to clear his mind. But he can’t stop thinking about Myra.
He hates how much of an ass he was to her in the garage.
He hates remembering that sad, broken look on her face.
He hates that he didn’t hate warming her cute, small feet.
And he especially hates the fact that he caused everything. The only reason she was crying in the first place was because his stupid ass fell through the roof and fucked up her precious car.
“Shit,” he yells angrily to the empty room. Removing his arm from over his eyes, he rubs the center of his chest, wishing the ache would go away.
* * *
Myra walks upstairs and slips on her flannel pajamas and thick, warm socks. Still shivering, she climbs into bed, snuggling under the covers, not to sleep but merely to try to warm up. She can’t quit thinking about Dylan. He was so hateful to her in the beginning, just downright nasty. But then, something changed. She saw a glimpse of a tender side to him. There was a softness and gentleness in his eyes for just the briefest moment.
Her phone rings, interrupting her thoughts.
“Hey.”
“How’s it going?” Susie asks.
Myra sighs. “Not good. It’s been a bad day.”
“All right, my ears are as big as Dumbo’s. Let’s hear it.”
Myra takes in a deep breath. “Dylan fell through the roof of my garage today.”
“What?”
“The roof was rotted. And guess what he landed on?”
“No...”
“Yep. Right on top of the hood.”
“Holy shit. Is he hurt?”
“He’s banged up, but he’ll be all right. His back is going to really hurt because there was a huge bruise on it.”
Myra frowns when Susie doesn’t respond.
“And how do you know what his back looks like?” Susie asks in a low voice.
Myra rolls her eyes. “Because I made him come in so I could bandage him up.”
Susie squeals loudly. “You got to see the hunk’s back? Was it hot? Was it hunky hot?”
“No. Yes. It doesn’t matter. It’s what happened after that I’m having a problem with.”
“Why? What happened? Did you get to bandage his ass?”
“No. After he left, I went into the garage and – cried a little over my car – and while I was in there, he came back. He was mad and yelled at me to get in the house. Then he left but came back again and carried me into the house and…”
“Whoa. Back the trolley up. He carried you into the house? That’s so damn romantic. Completely swoon-worthy. Like that’s some Shrek and Fiona shit right there.”
Myra can’t help herself and cracks a smile. “Anyway, he took my wet socks off because I was so out of it, I walked out there without my shoes on. Then he wrapped my feet in a blanket and, he kind of rubbed them.” Myra cringes, waiting for Susie’s attack.
“What?” Susie shouts. “He massaged your feet? Holy piles of horse shit. You just killed me dead, woman. I’m dying over here. For some reason, that is just so damn sexy because feet just aren’t damn sexy at all. Did it feel good?”
“Yes, I was dying. But when I told him about my car, he got mad again and left.”
“Well, at least he managed to not be a dick for five minutes. Damn, I can’t believe the scruffy Greek god asshole massaged your feet. I would’ve passed out cold and juiced my granny panties had that been me.”
“That’s disgusting.”
Susie cackles. “I know. Sorry, but it’s true because that man is super fine. We both know he’s a giant asshat, but I have to admit I wouldn’t mind wearing his naked ass on my head,” Susie says before she laughs loudly.
“Cut it out.”
Susie giggles quietly. “I can’t stop myself. I think the man likes you.”
Myra rolls her eyes. “We’re not in kindergarten here. And no, he doesn’t. He was still mean and hateful. I don’t think that man likes anyone.”
“Well, he didn’t have to come back and carry you into the house and take care of you like that. That must mean something.”
“I don’t know. I’m confused. For a moment, I thought I saw a different side to him. But then he got all mad and left.”
“Well, maybe he’s confused too. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens. Now try to control yourself and not do anything embarrassing like drag him into your bedroom and shred the poor man’s clothe
s and molest his tools, okay?” Susie says before she busts out laughing.
“God, Susie.”
“Sorry. It’s the mouth again. I’m going to have to super glue that sucker. Okay, I have to tell you what happened to me. If you hear about a dead body turning up in Philly, you’ll know who did it and why, and you’ll also know that I had grounds for murder and am completely justified in my actions.”
Myra giggles. “Okay.”
“So you know how my house is a shithole from the male species I live with who funk’d it up, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I went into the bathroom to pee and grabbed my favorite book in the universe that I keep on the back of the toilet. You know the one. God, I’m so damn obsessed with that book and the whole series that I might need to be institutionalized. When are you going to break down and read it? I’ve been pestering you about it for like forever, and I can’t believe you haven’t even seen the movie yet.”
“I know. I just haven’t had time.”
“You have to read it. Desmond is the dreamiest, most delicious man ever. He’s so perfect, my God, I want that man.”
“You’re only supposed to want Jeff.”
“Hon, when you’ve been married as long as I have, you realize that a little visual outside lusting is good for the old sex life.
“Anyway, I grabbed my paperback off the back of the john and puckered up my lips to give my beautiful Desmond my usual little smoochy woochy when all of a sudden I stopped and looked and saw this thing on him. Myra, someone in my house is going to die a slow death because someone smeared the world’s biggest booger on the face of my beloved Desi.” Myra busts out laughing hysterically.
“Thank heaven and the saints that I stopped to admire his beautiful face before I kissed him. Holy shit that makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. Good thing I was sitting on the pot because I shit a brick; let me tell you. No one messes with my Desmond. They defiled the preciousness. You know how obsessed I am over anything and everything to do with that man.”
Color of Loneliness Page 13