BUFF

by Burns, Mandy

  “What?” Colt's hands rest on his hips. He's ready to end the conversation that hasn’t even begun yet.

  Jenson levels his gaze on him. “Sorry, man. I'm… I was wrong, I should've never let her go out."

  “You're right.” Colt doesn’t spare him an inch of relief. “You shouldn't have."

  Colt's stare is colder than any blast of wind. All Jenson can do is shrug. “I get it if you want another guy up here... For the next round I mean."

  “There won’t be a next time."

  “Colt, I—”

  “It's over, Jenson.” Colt’s brow covers the expression of his eyes like an awning. “I'm taking Becky to her family. Soon.”

  “Oh... So it will be over soon?"

  Colt sighs, the small breath holding the weight of his thoughts. “Yeah... Soon."

  “Guess that's good then... Things can go back to normal, finally, right?"

  Patting Jenson's shoulder Colt gives the man a stiff smile. “Ride safe."

  Jenson doesn’t move, even when Colt walks around him to open the door.

  “Be careful,” Jenson says.

  Colt peers out at the night Sky from the door, scraping his chin as he overlooks Jenson's words of advice. “I can take care of this."

  Jenson turns and meets Colt's face, not blinking. “I mean with her, Colt. Be careful with her."

  “What’d you think I've been doin’? I'm protecting her. I'm making sure she stays alive until I can get her and her family outta here. Told you it will be soon. Everything else is outta my control until then."

  “You know what I mean, man. There's something going on with you two. Something more than just this damn situation." Sending him a glare Colt breaks eye contact. “Not trying to pry, Colt. Know it's none of my business but—”

  “Goddamn right it's not."

  “—but I see it. From both of you. Becky she cares about you, man. Just the mention of your name makes her all jittery and shit—”

  “It's called hate, Jenson. She hates me. With good fucking reason."

  “No you're wrong. That's why you're running scared shitless."

  “Don’t push me, Jenson.”

  “You’re still my brother, Colt. Not trying to bust your balls, man. I’ve known you since you were born—I know you. You don’t think you deserve good things so you're not seeing what's going on right in front of you.” Jenson shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Colt, you need to let your guard down, man. Let her fucking in. God knows you deserve to be happy again. It's been a long time coming, man."

  “When’d you become such an expert on life?"

  “When I saw and listened. Not that hard... But then again, I'm not the one falling for her."

  “Fuck you,” Colt tosses out, his curse light and casual as it falls from his mouth. “Falling for her...?” He repeats the words as if they taste bitter, as if the preposterous idea has never entered his mind.

  “You're such a stupid bastard—you know that?” Jenson goes on, unhindered. He comes to stand in front of Colt who is leaning against the wall, his head down. “You think I don't know why you did what you did for her. Why you saved her family. It's a lot more than just gratitude. Gratitude is one thing... you're risking your freaking life for this girl—your job, Kulich, everything. Because what?”

  “She saved my life. I owe her."

  “Bullshit.” Jenson shakes his head. “That's bullshit and you know it. You wouldn't have done any of this, gone this far for her if you didn't feel something. And the other day, man, I interrupted something in the kitchen... There definitely—”

  “Jenson."

  “What would've happened if I didn't come in, huh? You want her, you like her, its so fucking obvious, you just don't want to like her. Isn't that right?” Colt shakes his head. “She’s special, Colt, I get it. The world ain’t made up much with girls like her. Don’t fuck this up... You ain’t your dad."

  Standing straight Colt reaches his full height, his stare heavily armored. “You don’t wanna go there," Colt says through clenched teeth. But seconds later he sighs, his shoulders lowering a little. "Just go. Know how scared you get when you ride at night."

  “Is that so, Colt?” Jenson says with a grin, backing off before sighing. “Like I said, Colt, I'm not trying to piss you off. I just… I care about you, man, and Becky. She's sweet—too fucking sweet for all this shit. You gotta be careful with her.” Jenson glances at her sleeping form then swings his eyes back to Colt who’s watching over Becky.

  “I'd never hurt her on purpose,” Colt admits, his voice for the first time defenseless. “I don't want her hurt... I'm trying..."

  “I know, man. I know.” Jenson finds the keys hanging on the wall next to him. He grabs them and gives Colt a tentative smile before stepping out the door. “I'll be in touch."

  “Yeah.”

  Colt doesn’t turn his sight from Becky.

  He isn't his father. He isn't.

  * * *

  WHEN SHE AWAKES it’s to the sound of crackling fire and warm silence.

  For a second Becky thinks she is dead. Or dreaming. The smell of sweet coffee, the peaceful lull of quiet invades her senses like a drug filling the crevasses of her insides that the cold has hollowed out.

  Her lashes blink up at the ceiling; fluttering and off-beat with her foggy mind. She searches to remember where she is and what’s happened to bring her here. Trying to move she suddenly feels a shockwave of pain bolt up from her jaw to the center of her head. She stifles the painful cry in her throat; if it hurt just to speak now then this short-lived twinge is just the warning pain of a migraine if she dares to move an inch out of place.

  Her eyes drift down to her body. A sea of pillows and blankets lay around her. The roaring fire beside her stokes higher; a gentle heat to her damp and bruised body. Becky feels like a rag doll that’s been trashed and gnarled on by a bunch of seething dogs. She attempts to move again, the vibration of pain just a slight introduction to God knows what.

  “I wouldn't do that if I were you."

  Becky freezes. Her eyes travel right, her body lays still on its back. Colt is on the couch. He looks like he’s been there for some time, watching her.

  Watching over her.

  “I'm… I’m fine.” She clears her throat. It burns. “I… could use some Motrin or something."

  Colt is in the kitchen before the last letter utters from her mouth. As he makes his way back to her she gets a full head-to-toe view of him.

  He looks… good. Better than good. His complexion has held on to its golden-brown color while his eyes are diamond bright and piercing. Whatever weight he lost from the gunshot wound has been replaced and filled in his face and upper body, giving him an all around healthy male glow.

  He’s all in black: shirt, pants, shoes, even his watch is black. Something about the monotony of the one-color attire dramatizes the edge of Colt's already lethal appeal. He looks like he belongs next to a cracked bank vault with a ski mask in his hand, not inside a cozy country cabin aiding a dumb, clumsy fool.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  She tries to remember. “There… I thought I heard something in the woods…”

  His eyes darken. “Was someone there?”

  Her head aches as she tries to think back. “I… I remember hearing something… boots coming toward me then… nothing.”

  “Boots? Like those?” he asks, looking over to a pair of black boots by the door. She follows his line of vision and closes her eyes feeling like a complete idiot. Everything from before is a blur and all she remembers is being paranoid because she heard something shuffle. In the woods. At night. Of course there’d be noises in the woods at night and the boots traipsing after her were probably Colt’s. Coming to save her. Again.

  Her skin peeks in temperature. She can’t even run ten feet without being paranoid that the world is out to get her; running for no reason and falling over.

  “Here," he says, sitting next to her. He is so close s
he involuntarily inhales his essence. His large body casts a shadow over and gives him an ominous presence she isn’t quite comfortable with in her weakened position.

  Suddenly she wonders how long she’s been out and for how much time he’s been sitting there, looking over her while she’s been sleeping, completely unaware of his trained eyes on her.

  The two small pills lay flat and tiny in the palm of his hand. The glass of water stretches out in his other waiting palm. Ignoring the thundering pain that shoots out in her head Becky gulps, sits up off balance and skitters a bit away from his huge form. She doesn’t know why but he seems so much bigger then she remembers. Like there is so much of him her brain can't take it all in at once; his mere presence starkly overwhelming.

  “Thank you... I'm okay.” She swallows the pills easily, handing him back the glass and making sure her skin doesn’t touch his.

  When he doesn’t oblige the space she is seeking she forces a strained smile to form over her lips. Even that hurt. “I'm fine, Colt. Really."

  “You don't look good."

  “Thanks a lot.” She presses her finger into the sore spot on her cheek. He continues staring, his eyes eclipsing black when he sees her flinch at her own touch.

  “I'm being serious," he says.

  Her head falls forward as her fingers travel up, finding and rubbing the sore spot just above the crown of her forehead. Her reply is muffled and dry, “Well if you fell down a hill and was knocked unconscious maybe you wouldn't look so good either."

  “You're in pain, Becky.”

  “I'm okay," she chuckles, weakly. "Just give me twenty minutes and a nice long bath."

  “Okay."

  She darts him a look through the small opening of her fallen hair. “I was kidding… about the bath that is."

  He shrugs, his eyes root to some place on her face. “I wasn't. The bath will do you good."

  “Maybe later.” She shifts under his caging watch, licking her lips and wincing at the small sting. “I'm too tired to do anything else but sleep right now."

  When he remains bent over her, his stare still pervasive, her frustration gets the better of her pain. “What?"

  The veil lifts from his eyes. “What?” He shakes his head.

  “Why are you looking at me?” He doesn't say anything. “I'm fine. I don't need you coddling me. I have a headache not an aneurysm, okay. Give me some space."

  “Why were you out there?” he questions, as if he hasn’t heard a word she’d said.

  “I like running at night. Didn't Jenson tell you?"

  His breathing grows lethargic, his glare beating down on her. "Why?"

  She eyes him with trepidation before returning her attention to the cut on her head. “Clears my head."

  “From what?”

  “From being here."

  “With me."

  “Don't be so sure."

  ”Stop lying to me," he mutters.

  She scrapes the hair away from her eyes, her body imploring for some semblance of balance her senses have been abandoned of. “It helps me think, okay."

  “And you have to endanger yourself to think? You could've run in the backyard, it's big enough. But no, you have to journey into the fucking woods. You could’ve injured yourself worse than a few cuts."

  “Don't curse at me,” she grunts, despite the screaming soreness in her head. “I run where I want, when I want. I like the woods, okay. I like the trees and the grass, I like being there. Alone. And I don't have to explain why."

  “It’s my duty to keep you safe."

  She tips her head at the ceiling. “You're trying to make me crazy."

  “I'm sorry." The velvet sincerity of his apology has her eyes springing up then down to meet his lingering stare.

  She leans her weight on her palms. “For what?” she asks, breathless. There never seems to be enough air to inhale when she’s around Colt.

  “I did this,” he confesses, lowly. “If I hadn’t been so hard on you…"

  “Colt. It's fine. This isn’t your fault. I wanted to run… It helps me."

  “Because you're here with me?"

  “I-I… I just… I just need some air sometimes… to think... Don't—don't blame yourself.” Her body scoots forward, acting on sheer impulse. “You know I liked to go in the attic. It's the same here, that's all."

  He doesn’t hear her. “Don't care. I don't want you hurting yourself because of me. You're already in enough danger."

  “It's okay, I—”

  A sharp, tight sting ricochets off her skull drumming to the core of her brain. She leans forward pressing the flat of her palm into her head. “Ow!” She tries to play it off as no big deal already knowing Colt is up and right over her.

  “I'm okay. I'm fine… I'm sure the Motrin is going to kick in soon."

  “Look at me.” His soft order stirs the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. When she doesn’t immediately tilt her head up, both his hands cup each side of her head, raising it in small deathly inches. His brilliant eyes sweep across her face and she melts in his hands.

  Becky licks the dry, parched patches of flesh on her lips, feeling self-conscious when his face inches to the point of sensory suffocation. Her eyes drill into the spot above his shoulder, her hands fist at her sides clumping fabric with her hands.

  His inspection drags out at a torturing pace. His eyes seem to sketch and memorize every detail of her as they move the length and width of her, from ear to ear, hairline to chin. It's as if she isn’t there at all. He is so thrown into what he’s doing, Becky almost feels like a distant memory. A ghost.

  Her mouth opens on a sigh, barely missing his chin. “It's okay, Colt. I'm fine."

  He doesn’t seem content with her words or with what he sees, but he stops, releasing her face, not budging from where he sits over her.

  “You sure you're all right?” His whisper almost hazes in her mind.

  “I-I… Yes." The side of his finger comes up, pushing her chin gently but firmly in the direction of his face. Looking openly at him, her eyes grow large, darting reluctantly between his candid stare. Her skin grows heavy, she feels like cement is being poured over her whole body. She can’t move to resist him. “I'm fine.” She makes the phrase come out before she crumbles altogether.

  He shakes his head, distracted by some part of her face. His thumb climbs from her chin to the cut below her bottom lip. In a slow menacing caress he follows the pattern of the cut and his stare follows his finger, darkening along its path.

  “You scared me,” he confesses, so quietly, she isn’t sure if she imagined it.

  “I didn't mean to,” she admits, just as low, gulping when his hand voyages farther back and palms her head in his large hand.

  “You never mean to,” he lightly accuses. His voice is solemn as he speaks against her face, drawing her breath into the rhythm of his. The small connecting sounds, like tiny earthquakes, silence the room, wrapping around their bodies, annihilating whatever excuse she is about to hand him.

  All she can do is feel and think... him.

  He is overloading her senses, drowning out her pain, her worry, her life, and taking full reign of what small control she has left.

  “I don't want to make you mad,” she says. When she sees the hint of skepticism reach the corner of his eyes, she, herself, turns serious. “I don't. I know it's all I seem to do but that's not what I want. It's not what I want at all."

  The weight of his palm under the curtain of hair presses against her skin like a hot furnace. He unabashedly brings her closer, nudging her unwillingness to surrender. Her cheeks keep up their continuous everlasting burning as the tip of her nose bumps the space between his upper lip and nose.

  She hasn’t touched him yet, but her imagination is running wild with the idea of him. How he will feel against her... The small hairs on his face, the smooth sharp tip of his nose as he draws her in with his greedy intake of breath, the way his eyes cut through her thin veil of awkwardness, reaching for the
one he wants, the one he hunts out and seeks like a starving man in need of sustenance.

  He licks his lips, his breath shaky against hers. “What do you want?"

  “I... I want to… I don’t know..."

  “Right now…” His eyes pin her against the wall of her mind. “…what do you want?"

  Her answer is urgent, desperate, “Something that... doesn't exist.” A tear pricks at one of her eyes, but it never falls.

  That answer seems to be enough for him, pushing him over some limit, some line he swore never to cross. He grips her hair tighter, firmer, almost to the point of pain, but the pleasure is so overflowing and cumbersome she has to bite at her lip to shield the moan her body threatens to scream.

  “Becky,” he warns, darkly, the crackle of the fireplace meeting in beat with the crackle of building sensations that are stalling and waiting at the very edge of her. “Aren't you gonna stop me?” he taunts.

  “I can’t...” Her cry comes against his mouth, her lips quivering and dipping in between the slit of his mouth that opens in await for hers. “I can’t, even if I tried,” she gasps.

  She goes to finish what he’s trying to torment her with by inching her head and mouth up at once, but when her lips make contact with his, Colt takes charge, leaning the full weight of his desire in his kiss.

  She thinks he will be brutal, seducing her with hard unforgiving strokes of his tongue, demanding her to open herself up to him and take ample advantage of her innocence.

  She will like that.

  She doesn’t know why exactly, but his forcefulness is so intoxicating—mind numbing—she is helpless but to follow his lead willingly. His patience, his burning need for her is evident in every whispering tremble of his touch and that is enough.

  But she isn’t ready for this.

  He’s gentle. His mouth against hers is so gentle she barely feels the sweet capturing lead of his lips between hers. His mouth comes and falls away like a beckoning call to her insides, pressing her senses against the surface of her in a throb that pulses low and quick. Her hands come up clutching his hair as they beg through his dark silky strands.