by Ashley Logan
“She’s with Serge tonight. I’ll stay with you.”
Sniffing again, her red-rimmed eyes turn back to me as she struggles to keep them open. She looks from me to the empty side of the bed, then back to me with a question on her lips and her eyebrows drawn firmly down.
“Lie down and go back to sleep, Scar. I’ll be right down here,” I say, moving to the side and pulling her robe out from under me with a sigh. “Would it kill you to hang this up?”
Smiling, she gives up the fight to keep her eyes open and sinks back down to lie across her bed at an awkward angle. Sighing, I get up and move her into a normal sleeping position so she won’t wake up with back pain.
Clearing a space for myself on the floor, I roll up her robe and use it for a pillow. It smells of her, and I bury my nose in it, wondering.
Just as earlier in the day, I feel my dick twitch. Looking up, I can just see Scarlett’s face. Blond wisps frame her peaceful expression and I sigh. She is truly beautiful.
Inhaling her scent again, I watch her sleep and think I must be the creepiest guy in the world, because my dick is actually starting to get hard. Wanting to know how hard he’ll go and how long he’ll last, I run through the worst case scenario in my head.
What would Scar do if she woke up and I was touching myself while I sniff her robe and stare at her? She’ll either yell at me, or laugh and ask if I need a hand, knowing her. Worse would be if someone else caught me doing it. My eyes travel to the open door. Stretching out my leg, I use a toe to nudge the door closed a bit more. Not all the way, just enough to afford myself some privacy and time to hide my dick if I need to.
Looking back at Scarlett, I breathe in her scent and slip a hand down my shorts. He’s not full grown, but it’s the first time I’ve held my dick in this state in six years - aside from the Viagra incident, that is. And it feels great!
Grinning at Scarlett, I think about our kiss today and feel another twitch in my hand. Delighted, I give him a few tentative strokes. Everything feels sublime. He’s sensitive and reactive and I start to wonder if I shouldn’t just confront Scarlett and tell her exactly how I feel and tell her exactly what I want to do with her. My hand speeds up as I get excited about the thought of Scarlett sitting on my dick.
I think about her set tonight and how incredible she was, even though she was basically telling me to fuck off. What she did was raw and honest. When she dances, she embraces her beauty as if she has permission to feel beautiful on stage. She taunted and teased, showing me what I was missing out on, but she also showed me pain. I wounded her by telling her I couldn’t take things further and her rising again in a furious blaze was her saying I wouldn’t be getting close enough to do it again.
I know this, because she looked me right in the eye before she started and challenged me to try.
I will try, I tell her telepathically as I stroke my desire for her. I will keep trying until I can give you what I want to give you. My dick starts to lose his spine. No! I desperately try to revive him, but he continues to deflate, having never made it to his full potential.
I could cry.
When he raised his head like that, I felt sure a blissful release was in my grasp, but sadly it was not to be. I won’t cry, because this is technically great news, no matter the frustrating circumstance. I am lying near the woman I love, and my dead penis is slowly coming back to life. I consider the timing of his awakening. He’s really been making an effort since I started getting closer to Scarlett. Or maybe since she’s been curious enough to get closer to me. The heat between us is undeniable. Maybe that’s the spark that has been stoking his fire.
Phoenix.
I watch her sleeping soundly, oblivious to my turmoil and wonder if she’s oblivious to her own. I wonder where Kenny enters into the equation. Frowning, I stretch out on her cluttered floor, before curling back into the space I’ve cleared. It’s like I’ve built a nest in her things. The night-light keeps me from sleeping, along with the scent of various perfumes and lotions that wrap around me. Closing my eyes, I block it all out by burying my face in the robe that smells only of her.
CHAPTER TEN
SCARLETT
“Lemme sleep,” I moan, swiping at the big hand that’s rocking my shoulder.
“Nat’s in the shower,” he whispers, grabbing my hand before it can connect with anything.
My eyes fly open. “Bruno?”
“In the flesh. You awake now?”
My eyes travel over his delicious caramel-colored torso. In the flesh is right. I get the sudden urge to run my finger through the grooves between his muscles. Actually, screw the finger, I want to use my tongue and see if he tastes as good as he looks. “Are you naked?”
“What?” he whispers back, looking down at himself. “No!” Standing up, his lower half comes into view and I see that he’s wearing shorts.
“Definitely not dreaming then,” I concede, pulling myself up. “How long has she been in there?”
“She just went in,” he says, tip-toeing to the door.
Perching on the side of my bed, I rub my eyes and look at the floor. There is a clear space amid my junk and it is distinctly Bruno sized and shaped.
“Did you sleep on my floor?”
Turning back, he looks at me as if I’m crazy for a moment before rolling his eyes. “You don’t remember,” he says, scratching his head. “Vi’s with Serge. You had a nightmare, so I stayed with you. C’mon,” he says, creeping out the door.
Following, I crouch next to him in the hall as Natalia starts warming up her voice. Our eyes meet in the dim light and I know we’re both wondering what secret melodies we’ll hear this morning.
Making myself more comfortable, I make sure not to touch him, but even so, I can feel the heat radiating from his direction. Shivering, I hug my knees closer to my chest. Bruno looks sideways at me.
“If you’re cold, why didn’t you put your robe on?” he asks, only in shorts himself and showing no sign of being the least bit chilly.
Chili, maybe. Hot, hot chili.
Pushing those thought aside, I scowl at him instead. “I couldn’t find it.”
Shaking his head, he reaches one of his huge arms around me, pulling me into his side. “That’s because I hung it on its hook. It’s probably the only thing in your room that is where it actually belongs, so I’m sure that would be the last place you’d look,” he says, chuckling.
“Don’t mess with my filing system,” I growl in a whisper, annoyed at myself for snuggling closer. Bruno runs hot and I’m just stealing his heat for a minute, I tell myself, knowing it’s only half the story. The man smells amazing and I have to breathe through my mouth to keep from giving in to the ridiculously strong urge to nuzzle his smooth skin for a more thorough experience.
Damn it.
Last week I had no desire to do any such thing and now I can’t seem to keep these sorts of thoughts from invading my brain. Damn Bruno Jackson and his disturbingly hot body, and his enticing heat, and the stupid sweet side that he no longer seems to bulldoze into oblivion with smart-ass back-chat.
I do not like Bruno Jackson! I repeat the phrase over and over, but each time, the little voice in my head laughs.
Yes you do.
I lose track of my thoughts altogether as Nat begins a folksy song; again in what I presume is Estonian. It’s not like I can ask her without ruining the secret and probably setting her back in her recovery. She’s still not singing in public because of what happened to her.
Her emotive and powerful voice rises and falls as the song weaves between darkness and light, happiness and sorrow. I can feel tears pricking my eyes again, but it’s more for the beauty of it than the overwhelming sadness of yesterday’s song. I sniff and Bruno’s arm tightens around me. He rests his cheek against the top of my head and I’m surprised by how comforting the small gesture is. This is not the hard and saucy, hung-like-a-horse, drive-you-wild Bruno I’ve been thinking about. This is the soft, sweet and caring, I’ll-protect-yo
u-for-the-rest-of-my-life Bruno that scares the hell out of me.
I think of baulking, but my body refuses to move, lapping up the warmth and the comfort. Traitorous body. Sighing, I find myself relaxing into him as I listen to a song that I haven’t heard for ages. Nat’s haunting voice singing ‘You’re the One That I Want’ from Grease, gives me goosebumps. Bruno doesn’t fail to notice, and runs his hand up and down my arm as if to warm me from the cold.
Cold is the last word I would use to describe myself right now. His touch ignites wanton urges inside me and I feel myself stiffen, trying to squash them down before I do something I’ll regret. I will not give Bruno the satisfaction of showing him how much I want him to kiss me like he did yesterday.
Pulling away is excruciating. The heat from his body is instantly lost, replaced by extreme cold as everywhere he’s been touching me becomes exposed to the chill in the air. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself, trying to trap any of his warmth that lingers.
I can feel him looking at me, but I stare at the bathroom door lest he see how weak I am.
“Scarlett, I’m sorry about yesterday,” he whispers, moving into my peripheral vision. My jaw tightens and I close my eyes to avoid him.
“Despite what you might believe, I really didn’t want to stop and I hope that one day, I won’t have to.”
Frowning, I open my eyes and meet his, searching for whatever meaning I can find. The intensity there is unsettling, whatever he’s trying to tell me, he means it.
“You’re confusing me,” I whisper.
“I’m confused too, but I know that I want you more than anything,” he says.
“That’s just more confusing!”
“I’m sorry. I just thought you should know.”
“Why? I can’t do anything about it! You’re giving me no control in any of this and I hate it. The only control I have is to tell you to fuck off, but for some stupid reason, I don’t want to do that either. Why did you have to kiss me?”
“I couldn’t help it. I’m insanely attracted to you! You were all cute, with your little spying act and you smelled so good. You were all close, and hot and beautiful and I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry!”
We both turn to the bathroom door. I have no idea how long the shower has been off, but it sure sounds like Nat is gathering her things and is about to bust us in the hall. Before I know what’s happening, Bruno has me over his shoulder and in two quick strides, we’re in his room and he’s shutting the door quietly and carefully.
I have no idea how he can go from one state to another so quickly. If it was me, the door would slam shut and give us away, because I’d be so pumped full of adrenaline that I wouldn’t be able to make the transition from full speed to slow motion.
We wait like a statue, with me staring down Bruno’s muscular back, afraid to move an inch. Nat’s soft footsteps retreat down the hall and we both exhale in a gush. One huge hand grabs my ass and Bruno shrugs me off his shoulder, and holding me to him a moment, he slides me down his body to the ground. The sensation is both exciting and infuriating. I prod him in the chest with two fingers.
“Stuff like that,” I warn him, “Is what got you in trouble last time. Don’t do it unless you mean to follow through!”
“So you do want me to follow through?” he asks quietly, shifting his feet from place to place and avoiding my eyes.
“I never said that,” I say quickly, trying to keep my double-crossing body from gravitating towards him. “But you shouldn’t go around grabbing girls’ asses, or rubbing girls across your muscles if you’re not interested in taking them to bed. It’s called being a tease and it’s confusing.”
“I’m not doing it to any other girls, and I don’t want to confuse you any further, but when it comes to you, I want to do those things so bad it hurts to stop.”
About to pull my hair out, I punch him in the chest to no effect. “Stupid muscles!” I tell them as I turn my glare to his face.
“Why do you keep saying this shit? Is this you playing ‘hard to get’? Am I meant to be falling in love with you? Because right now you’re driving me crazy!” I shove him in the chest again, but he doesn’t budge, just watches me with his crazy sexy eyes, patiently waiting for me to blow off steam. “What are you saying? That you want to fuck me? That you want to love me? That you want to make me want you, but never give me any relief? It sounds like you’re offering torture. I don’t get why I would want that, and I don’t understand what you want.”
Bruno sighs and runs his hands over his short hair. Reaching into his closet, he takes out a hoodie and pulls it over his head before offering me his snuggly blanket. I gratefully wrap myself in its cozy warmth.
“I don’t want to torture you, Scar,” he says quietly. “I just want you to know that I care about you and that I’m here for you if you need me.” His head lowers and he takes an audible breath as if preparing himself. “As much as I want to, I have a few obstacles to overcome before I can... follow through. I’m not fully recovered.”
There he goes again, keeping his explanations vague and incomprehensible.
“So... what? You want me to... wait for you?”
His jaw flexes and he looks away from me. “I might never recover, so it would be unfair to ask that of you,” he says with a sadness that makes my chest ache.
“Is it a psychological thing?” I ask gently, trying to soften the blow of a potentially damaging question.
“Partially,” he says, folding his arms to keep from fidgeting. Sitting on his footlocker, he suddenly looks a lot smaller than his six feet, five inches.
Sitting on the bed behind him, I rest a hand on his shoulder. “Is it something I can help with?”
Bruno places his hand on top of mine for a moment before sliding it off his shoulder. Kissing my palm, he returns it to me. “Not without you being perpetually confused and angry at me,” he says, smiling sadly.
Frowning, I wonder if he means being close to me helps, but I’m making that too hard for him. “Does anything help?”
Shrugging, he relaxes a little and slides along his footlocker to lean against the wall so he no longer has his back to me. “Some things.”
I roll my eyes. Sometimes getting information from Bruno is like pulling a never-ending thread from your favorite sweater. Painful and beyond annoying. “Things like...” I prompt.
He shrugs again. “Exercise, dancing - of course, meditation... art therapy.”
“Painting?”
Nodding, he keeps his eyes on the floor.
“Secret painting,” I say, nudging his leg with my toe.
He puffs air from his nose as half a smile graces his lips. “Something like that.”
“Why do you dance?” I ask, making myself more comfortable. Bruno watches me wriggle into a nest of his cozy blanket, an unreadable look on his face. “I’ll remind you that shrugging is not an acceptable answer,” I add. “You seem to read me like a book, but I can hardly turn your pages without having to pry the locks off first.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “You talk like a writer.”
“Because I am one. Answer the question. Why do you dance?”
He’s about to shrug, but stops himself when I shoot him a warning look. Smiling a little, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, in a very cute, nose wrinkling way. Opening one eye, he watches me carefully.
“Because it’s fun?”
I nudge him again with my foot, hard enough to make his leg slip off the edge of his footlocker. Laughing, he rights himself and sighs.
“Probably for some of the same reasons you do,” he says, rubbing his face and shooting a sidelong glance at me. “To feel better about myself and feel like a sexual creature.”
I think about his dancing and nod. “You’re definitely that, but that’s not the whole story. Why else?”
“Because working here provided me with an immediate community of friends when I was new to the City?” he asks, as if awaiting my approval of this response.
“I’m sure that was helpful initially. Why else?”
“I like wearing sparkly thongs?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You never wear sparkles.”
Bruno sighs. “For the money?”
“Ah.” His tone has a depth to it that keeps me from dismissing this as another throw-away response. “Expand.”
His piercing eyes stare at me. He seems annoyed that I picked up on his tiny change in tone.
“I have... expenses. A healthy income is necessary to cover them.”
It’s my turn to sigh, though it comes out as more of a pained groan. “It’s like you find a way to be honest without ever telling the actual truth. No wonder it’s impossible to understand what the hell you’re trying to do. Why don’t you just say whatever it is, like you say that other uncomfortable, crazy stuff to me? You make it impossible to know you, Bruno Jackson. And you know you do it! Who are you protecting? You or me?”
“What makes you think it’s about protection?”
“Because that’s what you do! What expenses do you have? You don’t need to pay rent and although you have a very healthy appetite, I doubt you spend that much on food outside of the apartment. You don’t waste cash on clothes, or cars, and you certainly don’t need to pay women to fall at your feet. I’m sure your medical costs are reasonable, or at least subsidized because you’re a veteran. How much could you spend on art supplies? What else is there? Do you gamble?”
Bruno’s eyebrows are pulled down firmly and his eyes are warning me to back off. “I wouldn’t gamble even if I could afford it,” he says in a flat tone. “I have responsibilities.”
“Family?”
“Yes.”
“Why is that so hard to say?” I ask, raising my hands out of the blanket in frustration. “I get that you like to keep things private, but shit!”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, warning me off.
“How surprising. Maybe I’d like you more if you weren’t so full of secrets.”
“Maybe you’d like me less. We all have secrets, Scar,” he says, his tone threatening. “You don’t share everything either.”