Fallen from Grace

by Laura Leone

  "Are you going to tell me why this happened?" she asked.

  He was silent for a long time. She saw that he was trying to figure out how to tell her, and he evidently couldn't find a way.

  "Whatever it is," she said quietly, "I'd rather you tell me nothing than tell me lies."

  "I know."

  She barely heard him, his voice was so soft.

  He still looked conflicted, undecided about whether or not to answer her question.

  She tried to be more specific. "Is it something to do with your car? Is that why you didn't drive home?"

  He seemed briefly amused. "No, I just couldn't get the car because it's parked so far from where I lost my wallet."

  "You lost your wallet?" she exclaimed.

  He sighed. "It's been a bitch of a day."

  "I don't suppose you've reported your lost wallet to the cops?"

  "No."

  "Ryan—"

  "I can probably find who took it."

  "Someone took your wallet? You're saying someone stole it?"

  "Um. Yeah. Someone stole it."

  "Okay, I give up." She took away the cold pack from his jaw. He moved his mouth experimentally, testing for pain while she spoke. "You're in a brawl, and you try to tell me you were mugged. Your wallet's been lifted, and you won't call the cops."

  He looked away.

  She stared at him. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

  "Most of my life." He sounded uncharacteristically bitter. "But the fight's over and doesn't matter now. I'll get the car tomorrow. And I think I can get my wallet back."

  "Your credit cards won't still be in it," she warned.

  "I never carry more than one. I've cancelled it. Made the call on my cell phone while I was on the bus." He scowled. "But I want my stuff back. And my money. Well, whatever he doesn't spend before I find him."

  "But why don't you call the cops about—" She stopped herself. "Wait. You know who took it?"

  "In a way."

  "Still, why won't you—"

  "The cops are not the right people to call in a situation like this. Believe me, Sara."

  "No, Ryan, the cops are exactly the people you call when someone steals your wallet."

  "I'd rather handle it myself," he muttered.

  Needing something to do, because she had no idea what to say, she took her dirty cotton pads into the kitchen and threw them away. He was still sacked out in the chair when she returned to the room. Still half naked and painfully gorgeous in the golden glow of the candles. And still avoiding her eyes.

  "What kind of trouble are you in?" she asked at last.

  "Nothing I'm not used to." His dismissive tone closed the subject.

  But Sara wouldn't let him close it. Not this time. "You don't want me to know about it, do you?"

  He met her eyes now. What she saw in his face made her want to shake him, because his whole expression was telling her he didn't mean to shut her out.

  It would be a lot easier if he'd tell her to mind her own business and ask her to leave him alone now. That was the answer she was braced for—not this look of longing she got instead. Miriam was right; it wasn't fair of Ryan to look at her this way.

  Unable to walk away from that expression, Sara sat down on the arm of his chair again. She sifted her thoughts carefully before she spoke. Ryan was like his damn cat. She had to let him come to her.

  "You've had trouble with the cops yourself, haven't you?"

  He nodded, his gaze turning wary.

  She took his injured hand, checked to see how it looked, then held it in on her thigh as she reapplied the cold pack. "Is that why you don't want to speak to them about whatever happened to you today?"

  "It's not their business." Seeing her speculative gaze, he amended, "Yes, that's why. Well, partly why. I mean..." He looked down at his injured hand as she held it in both of hers. "Cops never did me any good, Sara. Not when I needed help, not when I needed to be left alone. I don't want them in my business, and I don't put them onto anyone else's business."

  "So, instead, you're going to try to get your wallet back yourself."

  "Yes."

  "And if you can't?"

  "I'm pretty sure I can," he said.

  She could tell it didn't worry him that much, either way. But she certainly didn't understand this, and she wasn't sure how to proceed.

  They were quiet for a long moment, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Heavy with unacknowledged longings. All that smooth, bare skin bathed in candlelight... All the warmth in the hand she tended... All the dark sorrow in that beautiful, bruised face... All the weariness in Ryan's posture as he closed his eyes, lowered his head, and rested his cheek on her leg.

  She couldn't breathe for a moment. Couldn't think. Could only feel. A hot river of tenderness gushed through her, making her hand tremble as she stroked his hair. So soft and thick, clinging damply to her fingers.

  He sighed shakily, keeping his eyes closed. A moment later, his other arm came around her leg in a slow embrace, his hand moving along her denim-clad thigh until it found a place to rest, gripping her lightly. Then he nudged the cold pack away from his injured hand with a flick of his wrist and laced his fingers with hers.

  They stayed like that for long, silent minutes, hands linked, Ryan clinging to her, his eyes closed, while she stroked his hair. Rain danced on the roof, and the wind blew it against the darkening windows. Sara's mind spiraled around their conversation, trying to understand his words, wondering what had happened to him today and why he felt he couldn't tell her what his trouble was. Meanwhile, her heart filled and overflowed, moved that he turned to her for comfort and rejoicing that she could give it to him. And slowly, her body filled with tension as instinct urged her to comfort him much more intimately.

  Maybe he felt her tension. Or maybe he knew he couldn't stay like this forever. He'd have to move sooner or later. Say something sooner or later. Break the truce of their warm silence. He took a breath, opened his eyes, and turned his face towards her stroking hand. She went still, watching him. He didn't look at her. His mouth was against her wrist now. Not kissing her, not moving. Just there, his breath brushing the sensitive skin. Warm. Soft. Ryan's breath on her skin...

  "Sara, I'm not who you think I am." His whisper sounded weary and bitter.

  She was surprised, but after she absorbed this obscure statement, she told the truth: "I don't care."

  That almost seemed to amuse him. "You have no idea what you're saying."

  "I do."

  "No. You couldn't possibly."

  She made an impatient sound. "Look, Ryan, I'm a lot older than you—"

  "Oh, no, you're not." He sat upright with sudden restlessness, abandoning his embrace and letting go of her hand. Withdrawing from her.

  She said, "I'm nine years older—"

  "Eight."

  "Nine."

  "I have a birthday coming up."

  "You do?" Her bright tone won her a sardonic look. She sighed. "I have a birthday coming up, too, Ryan. Anyhow, my point is, I'm not some dense bimbo—"

  "Jesus, you think I don't know that?"

  "—or naive schoolgirl. I'm an adult. An adult who's older than you are—"

  "Oh, Sara, for God's sa—"

  "So whatever it is that you think you can't tell me, you're wrong."

  "What if I killed someone?"

  Okay, that gave her pause.

  He saw.

  "Have you..." She choked on the words. "Are you telling me—"

  "No." He shook his head. "But there are things that make a difference, Sara. A big difference."

  She tried a different approach. "Don't you trust me?"

  His eyes flew up to her face, his blue gaze stricken. "Of course, I do." When she didn't reply, he insisted, "I do."

  She pressed her advantage. "No. You think I'm just some needy, self-involved airhead who intrudes on your life whenev— "

  "I don't!" He looked appalled. "Sara, I l—" He stopped himsel
f. "I—" Frustration swept across his battered face. "God, that's not how I think of you at all! How could you even think that? How could you not know how much I... Sara."

  Her heart was pounding. She leaned closer and put her hands on his cheeks, careful to be gentle with his bruised face. "Then tell me what's going on. Tell me this thing about yourself that you're so sure makes such a difference, Ryan." She could feel the barely perceptible shake of his head. "It won't matter to me," she insisted. "It won't change things between us."

  "It will."

  It hurt her to see how sad he looked, but she knew they had to go forward now—because they certainly couldn't go back. "Tell me," she whispered.

  "I can't," he gritted out.

  "Why not?"

  "Because..." He covered one of her hands with his. His other hand slid up her leg, and then it was at her waist, seeping warmth through the damp fabric of her blouse.

  "Ryan," she murmured, melting under his touch, going hotly mindless under the desperate intensity of his gaze.

  Her blood caught fire as his eyes grew misty. "Because," he said slowly, starting to pull her into his arms, "if I tell you, you'll never look at me this way again."

  She made a sound of desire and relief, of mingled joy and pent-up frustration as their lips met. He was so gentle for a moment, his full mouth soft and tender against hers... but the hand at her waist clutched her too tightly, the fingers digging into her skin. Sara reveled in this sign of explosive emotion trapped inside him, and she kissed him harder, reckless in her need for his heat and hunger. He grunted as he fell back against the chair, dragging her with him, and then they were a wild, clumsy tangle of arms and legs, taking rough, biting kisses from each other as they struggled to get closer, closer, as close as possible with all these clothes still on.

  His mouth was all over her neck, her face, her hair. She heard him murmuring her name, his voice hot and breathless. She couldn't touch him enough, couldn't feel enough of him beneath her eager hands. His hard shoulders, his luxuriant hair, the smooth length of his back, his firm chest with the faint shimmer of hair, his nipples puckering boldly under her palms.

  She drank his kisses, welcoming the agile invasion of his tongue, wanting more, much more... She couldn't breathe, and she didn't care. His arm, more powerful than she'd ever realized, banded around her, holding her captive as he plundered her mouth with kisses so hard they hurt, and all she could think was, Yes, yes, more, give me more... His other hand was in her hair, holding her head as they devoured each other, ravenous and awkward and unashamed of their mutual greed. She pulled against his grip on her hair, ignoring the pain as he tried to make her kiss him again, because now her mouth was hungry for the curve of his shoulder, the hollow of his neck... And then he was massaging her hair instead of pulling it. Holding her head against him as she sought the subtle curve of his breast, the hard pebble of his nipple which she bit because she couldn't help herself...

  His head fell back on a startled moan, and his hips rose convulsively into hers as she straddled him. She felt the hard thrust of his erection moving blindly against her, muffled by his sweatpants, and she wanted to touch it, wanted it so much she whimpered as she fumbled with his waistband.

  He kissed her again, groaning into her mouth when her hand found him, smooth and hard and twitching with frantic impatience. Then Ryan slid his hand up under her damp blouse and impatiently ripped the delicate fabric of her bra where it shielded a breast from his eager touch.

  "Yes..."

  Clamoring need pooled heavily in Sara's loins, and she knew he felt it, too. His body trembled and his hips moved with a will of their own. He pressed his forehead against hers, panting incoherent words of delight as she caressed the restless wild thing between his legs. She wanted it, she had to have it, she told him so, whispering her desires to him before she kissed him again. Their tongues moved as their bodies wanted to, melding, mating.

  Until Ryan's pleasure-rich groan turned to a choked gasp, and he tore his mouth from hers.

  Sara felt his grip on her wrist. Hard. Hurting her. Rejecting her. Flinging her hand away from his body. Then there was a wild heave, like the world turning upside down, and she fell, sliding down to the floor, where she landed with a jarring thud while he leapt out of the chair as if it were on fire.

  Winded and stunned, she lay there for a moment, her clothes disheveled and her tumbled hair covering her face. Then she heard an emphatic pounding sound which was even louder than her own frantic heartbeat. She shoved her hair out of her eyes with a shaking hand and looked in his direction. With his naked back turned to her, his ribcage pumping in and out like a bellows, he leaned against the wall with one hand and hit it repeatedly with the palm of the other.

  "Goddamn it!" he raged. "God... Goddamn fucking hell!"

  "Ryan?"

  He didn't hear her over the racket he was making. Even the dog, apparently comatose until now, awoke and rose, whining in agitation.

  Real alarm seeped into the hot whirlwind of Sara's passion. Concern for Ryan made her pull herself together. She used the sturdy bulwark of the chair to haul herself to her feet and then, trembling with reaction, went to him. She touched his shoulder to get his attention—and he nearly jumped through the ceiling.

  He backed away, shaking his head, his eyes wild. "Don't touch me," he panted.

  "Ryan—"

  "I mean it!"

  She stared at him, wounded beyond coherent thought. Humiliated beyond anything she'd ever known. Hurt beyond anything she'd ever imagined.

  She put her hands over her mouth, trying to stifle the sob which rose in her throat, the sudden pain which madly sought to escape because her body wasn't big enough to hold it.

  The sound came out anyhow, and it was just awful. Tears were hot on her cheek. She staggered away from him and tripped over Macy, who pursued her in whining confusion.

  "Oh, God," Ryan said, this time in a completely different tone of voice.

  Sara pushed past the dog and sought the balcony doors, fleeing blindly towards the dark safety of the rain and the wind.

  Ryan got in her way. "Sara."

  She was choking on her humiliation. "Get away from me!"

  Macy barked at them both.

  Ryan's hands stopped her, his body blocking her. "Sara, my God, I'm so sorry, Sara, no, wait—"

  "Let go of me! Let go!" She shoved at his shoulders. Macy panted nervously and tried to get between them. "Let me go!"

  "Shhh, sweetheart, no, don't..."

  "Get away!"

  She tore herself out of Ryan's arms and hunched away from him, covering her face so he couldn't see her shame and mortification. Her raging hurt.

  His hand touched her shoulder. "Sara—"

  "Don't touch me!"

  He backed away. Macy cowered near him.

  Sara strangled on her tears, trying to stop them. Trying to stifle her sobs until she could get away from Ryan and curl up in private to howl with unchained misery.

  "Are you listening to me?" His voice was firm, soothing.

  "No! Leave me alone!"

  "We have to talk."

  She looked at him. "What could we possibly say that won't make it worse?"

  His eyes were tormented, his face flushed. "I'm sorry."

  Her breath gusted in and out as she stared open-mouthed at him. Some feeble flicker of intelligence kicked in, some shred of pride, and she used it to bring her hysterics under control.

  "Okay," she said at last, still breathing hard, still hot with rampant humiliation. "Saying you're sorry may not make it worse, but it sure as hell doesn't make it better. Can I go now?"

  "Not like this." His voice was hoarse. "Sara. Come on. Please."

  They'd been friends. She had to try to remember they'd been friends. She needed to end this nightmare remembering that they'd cared about each other.

  "All right," she said. The unconcealed relief which washed across his face made her want to slug him, because she couldn't be his goddamn frien
d anymore. Not after this.

  "I'm really sorry," he began.

  "So am I."

  "You don't have anything—"

  "Oh, stop it, Ryan," she snapped.

  "This is my fault," he said, soothing the dog absently with his hands and encouraging him to sit down.

  "No. Yes." Sara sighed. "I don't know."

  "I'm the one—"

  "Look, I've had... feelings for you..." She turned away, too embarrassed to look at him. "That I didn't act on... because I knew you weren't interested... and I didn't—"

  "Not interested?" he repeated loudly. "Not interested?" When Macy whined, he added, "Shh, shh, it's okay now. Shh."

  Sara looked at the floor. "I know you could have anybody. And I'm not... I'm just..." She folded her arms across her chest, trying to hold herself together. "I know this isn't what you want from me."

  "Not what I..." His voice grew edgy as he said, "When did you decide this isn't what I want from you? When I had my hands all over you? When my tongue was halfway down your throat? When I nearly came all over myself just because you reached inside my pants?"

  "Well, guys are like that, aren't they?"

  "I'm not." He sounded irritated now.

  She glanced at him. His exasperated expression was almost comical. She didn't feel inclined to be amused, though.

  Then he sighed and eased himself down onto the arm of the chair. He winced and touched the darkening bruise around eye, then touched his lip. Her frantic kisses must have hurt his battered face, she realized dimly. She edged further away from him.

  "I'm such an idiot," he said. "I think I know so much about women, and then the one I..." He gave a disgusted puff of laughter and shook his head. "I had no idea. I thought you kept your distance because I'm not smart enough for you..."

  That got her full attention.

  He went on, "Not educated enough." He shrugged. "Not Jewish."

  "I don't care about that." She made a sound. "Not being Jewish, I mean. You're smart enough. For me. For anyone. And I don't care how educated you are."

  "I know you think I'm too young for you—"

  "Or I'm too old for you."

  "Sara." He sounded exasperated again. "You really have no idea what you're talking about."

  She waited for him to say more. Because she was still so hurt, and she didn't want to be.