by Amy Corwin
“I swear to you, I did not know she was in Virginia, or the United States for that matter.”
“What was her name?” she asked, already knowing what he would say.
“Her name? You want to know her name?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t explain, but she needed to know, needed to know if he’d tell her the truth. The whole truth.
“Lavinia Ashley.”
The name sounded like an overly saccharine romance writer’s name from the seventies. She eyed him.
He raised his hands. “You asked. I’m telling you the truth.”
“I doubt even you could make that up. But what was she doing there?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Why do you think?”
“She always liked surprises.” His mouth twisted. “Particularly ones that ended in blood. If she found out I had survived this long, she wouldn’t have liked it.” He ran a hand through his hair and studied the door as if longing for a nurse to show up and drag Quicksilver away. “I doubt she was interested in you.”
“Thanks.”
“Be glad. She wasn’t a nice lady.”
“Apparently, my parents were meaner. They thought they were protecting me.”
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “I see.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“I don’t know your parents.” He glanced away and down to the left.
To her, his reaction clearly indicated his disbelief, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue. To her relief, the nurse interrupted and dragged Quicksilver away for more fun with the modern equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition.
“I can’t eat anything after midnight,” she complained when they finally left the hospital.
“Then we’d better eat now,” Kethan replied. His voice sounded confident, too confident. Hearty.
Fine for him to talk about eating. Her appetite had left her about four hours ago. She turned to stare out the window. “Look, I’m not in the mood to eat out.”
“Fried chicken? Mashed potatoes?”
“Are you listening to me? I don’t want to eat out. I don’t want to see anyone. I just want to go to bed and stop thinking.”
“Right. And a salad? At my place?”
Her lips twitched in a flicker of a smile. “How can an Irish boy make fried chicken and mashed potatoes?”
“I like to cook.”
“Apparently. Sure. Whatever. That’s fine.” Her voice drifted off as she watched other cars pass them. All those people, all so busy, all so oblivious.
At least the sun was shining, although the trees were barren and the ground was carpeted with the dead, brown ghosts of leaves. A closer look at the slender branches showed nubs however that would survive the winter and swell into fresh, green leaves when warm weather arrived. Even in the midst of death there were signs of life, waiting to return.
However not all things would survive the harsh winter, and a deep, gray cold had settled within her. The trees might live to see the spring, but part of her feared she would not.
* * * * *
After dinner, Kethan watched Quicksilver drift up the stairs to bed, her silhouette stretched thin on the stairway wall. He felt helpless, placing her fate in the hands of Dr. Fletcher, a man he knew nothing about. The surgeon was an expert, but also a risk-taker.
Was the surgery too dangerous?
Joe would be the first to remind him that they needed precisely that kind of doctor now. He had to have faith and hope she would sleep well tonight and live through the surgery.
The irony was that if she survived, she’d find herself in even more danger. When her parents discovered she was no longer controllable, they might decide not to take any chances and kill her before her incision had time to heal.
A little before midnight, he went upstairs, restless and knowing he’d never sleep. In the hallway, he restrained the urge to open Quicksilver’s door and check on her.
He desperately wanted to hold her, make sure she was all right. The sense of time seeping away like retreating waves washed over him.
The clock downstairs struck midnight, the mellow chime echoing up the stairs before fading away. He turned away embarrassed, glad the clock hadn’t awakened her. If she’d opened the door, she’d have found him standing there staring at the doorknob like a drooling idiot.
Sweaty and out of sorts, he took a shower and then wandered into his bedroom.
“Finally,” she said, pulling the covers up to her naked shoulders. “You took forever.”
“What’re you doing in here?” His mouth went dry as he looked at her, wanting her. She was supposed to be sleeping, in her own room, not here in his bed.
“I’m waiting for you, obviously.” She let the covers drift down to her waist. “Predictable. Trite, maybe, but true. I’ll probably get my head blown off tomorrow.” She smiled, her eyes glinting. “So I’d like a little mind-blowing sex now while I still have a mind to blow.”
“Ah….” He couldn’t think of a response, intelligent or otherwise. Silence stretched like a rubber band.
He struggled to keep his eyes fixed on her face but his gaze dropped.
Dimly aware that she was waiting for a reply, his mind blanked. He swallowed. “I—I hate to say this, but I think you should go to bed.” Are you insane? “In your own bed.” Had he said that?
“Right. You think too much.”
With his blood thundering in his head, he felt as dumb as an ox. “You’re scared and having trouble sleeping. You don’t want a relationship.” Who was talking with his voice? He stared at her, trying to concentrate. Do the right thing. “That doesn’t work. For me.” You idiot—it works for everyone.
“Too bad.” She smiled and jiggled just a little. One hand trailed down her neck, tracing the curve of her breast.
He stared at the soft, pale flesh….
“I’ll use your bed,” he croaked, wishing he could breathe, or think.
All he could focus on was the heavy softness of her breast and his need to hold her and take what she offered.
“Oh, just shut up.” She crawled over the bed, stark naked, and grabbed the damp towel wrapped around his waist. With a sharp yank, she ripped it away. Cold air rushed over him. She flashed him a triumphant glance and flung the limp towel across the room. It slapped the door shut.
He couldn’t move. She ran her hands over his hips before she pulled him closer and opened her mouth. He groaned again and closed his eyes. His hands stroked her hair until the tension became unbearable. His body tightened. He was ready to explode.
Pushing her back, he pulled her knees up to straddle his waist. The skin felt smooth under his palms, and he slid between the long length of her legs, the taste and scent of her driving him into her.
She writhed beneath him, pulling him deeper, and grabbed his hair.
“Come here,” she whispered. “I want to feel you. Don’t stop!”
Her hands slid down his back to his buttocks. She traced the muscles and tightened around him as small, rolling waves of pleasurable tension rippled through her, echoing within him. Each wave created a twin tide in him, pounding in an unstoppable flood.
Finally, he couldn’t hold back. He stiffened and arched. At the moment of release, he felt her explode around him, rhythmic pulses knitting them together until they both lay back, exhausted and sprawling over the damp sheets.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Why do you want to get mixed up in a relationship?” Quicksilver asked Kethan as they lay in bed, intertwined and drowsy. Her fingertips traced patterns over his chest, letting the soft, dark curls glide under her palm. She wriggled closer, wanting to feel the warm strength of his body against hers.
“We all need connections.” The words blurred with sleep.
“They’re messy. Stupid. And they all end badly.”
He roused himself enough to glance at her. “Not all. My parents—”
“Yeah, sure, bring up people who’ve been dead for years. Name a modern
couple who’re still married, still have a solid relationship.”
“They’re out there.” His hand patted her shoulder in a go-to-sleep-and-stop-talking gesture. His breathing deepened.
“Sure they are. Back in good old Tennessee where your fiancée is your sister, who might also be your step-mother and aunt.”
His arm tightened around her. When her wandering hand began to drift too far down his belly, he grabbed it and pressed it to his stomach. She studied his face and an answering smile tugged the corners of her mouth at the sleepy, goofy grin on his face.
“Just because the only people in the news are unstable idiots who hop in and out of bed like fleas doesn’t mean everyone is like that.”
“And you’re just talk. Talk, talk, talk.” She slid her hand back up his chest to feel the pounding of his heartbeat. The powerful thuds reassured her. “Men are biologically programmed to go wherever their lust takes them. They can’t be faithful; it’s not in their nature.”
He gripped her wrist again to stop her random exploration of his body.
“Men can be faithful.”
“But not you and not now.”
“Do you want me to be faithful? To you? Are you willing to be faithful in return?”
Her belly twisted. She rolled over and hugged the pillow to her chest. Wasn’t there enough pain and betrayal in her life? Why open herself up for more?
In the silence, he ran a hand over her shoulder. She could feel him waiting for an answer, their cozy sleepiness draining away.
“I don’t know.” The pillow muffled her, but she was too nervous to push the protective bulk away from her mouth.
“You don’t know? Or no?”
“It hurts too much.” The words strangled her.
“It only hurts if you’re not going to be faithful.”
“And what happens then? What if you die?”
“Then you’re right. It’ll hurt.”
“I hate you!” She hit him with the pillow, half crying, half vicious. How could he say that? It was tempting fate, reminding her of what lay outside the bedroom door. She couldn’t—didn’t want to—live if he died. “I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want any more pain. I can’t take it.”
“I think it’s already too late for that.”
“I don’t want to love you!”
“But?” he asked in the quietest voice she’d ever heard. Her heart pounded so desperately she felt ill. “I love you.” Even he had the grace to look startled, although the expression only lasted a second.
“You don’t even know me! Or like me!”
He laughed and grabbed the pillow away from her, shoving it under his shoulder. “You’re a pain in the ass, true enough, but that’s one of your more endearing qualities.”
“Very funny.” She felt exposed, naked, and cold with sheer terror.
“So?”
“So what? You want me to admit it? To say I love you?” She tried to laugh, but couldn’t.
“It would be nice to hear. Just try it. Once.”
“I—oh, screw you.”
“Did that. Although if you want to do it again, I’m game.”
She rolled over onto him and sat on his belly, her palms pressed on his chest. Leaning over him, she stared into his eyes searching for something to prove he hadn’t lied, that he wouldn’t hurt her.
He waited, his hands on her thighs. His eyes were warm as they scanned her face.
“I love you.” The words exploded like an accusation, but at least she’d said it. Her body shook. She waited, stiff and terrified.
“As long as you’re sure.” He rolled over and pinned her under him.
“What are you—”
“You can be quiet now, my love. You’ve said it. It’s all over except for the screaming.”
Gigging, she tried half-heartedly to resist but when his mouth moved down her belly she gave up to the sensation.
She might regret her words one day, but not tonight.
Chapter Thirty
The next morning, Quicksilver objected drowsily when Kethan hauled her out of bed at five AM. Despite a shower, she couldn’t seem to work past a strange barrier of numbness. She ought to be worried or nervous. Something.
Japanese robots showed more emotion than she felt as she followed Kethan into the hospital. A brisk nurse took charge of her and gave her orders to remove all her clothing and don a gown. They tucked her into a mobile bed, pulled the metal sides up to turn it into an adult crib, and pumped enough drugs into her system to make her stumble over a simple countdown from a hundred.
The taste of garlic filled her mouth, then nothing.
When she awoke, her body flushed hot and then cold. Pain tingled down every nerve in her spine, radiating outward from the back of her neck.
A nurse with a hallucinogenic blouse lavishly strewn with cartoon bunnies and cats pressed a button into Quicksilver’s hand. “You can control your level of pain medication with this. Press it when you need to.” She patted her hand. “Okay?”
“Sure,” she murmured, trying to sink back into the oblivion of sleep. The drugs didn’t help; only unconsciousness made the strobing pulses of agony stop.
By evening, she had them remove all the tubes. The medication nauseated her. Another brisk nurse, this time with a blouse festooned with dogs and birds, tried to refuse, telling her that the tubes couldn’t be removed until she could walk.
She swung her feet out of the bed.
The nurse shook her head.
Kethan attempted to help her, but she waved him away and braced herself against the wall to avoid falling flat on her behind. She would have laughed at the pinched expression on his face if her head didn’t ache so much. He reached out to steady her, but she told him to back off. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head.
Quicksilver gritted her teeth and made the trip down the hall.
When she got back to her room, sick and weak, she sat on the bed and watched as the nurse removed the IV. Then, she got up again. This time, she was steadier and the agony faded a fraction more—not completely—but a fraction.
“You should be resting,” Kethan said when she got up again after eating a disgusting dinner of watery, broiled chicken and tasteless, steamed vegetables.
“Just one more walk. I want to get to the nurse’s station and back.” Anything to get out of the hospital. Her stomach roiled. She’d give anything for a hamburger. Anything. “They said if I could walk unassisted, I could go home.”
“I don’t think they meant they’d release you less than twenty-four hours after surgery.”
“We’ll see.”
“You’re pushing it. You could’ve been crippled.”
“But I wasn’t. I just have the world’s worst migraine and absolutely no sense of balance.”
“Let me help you then.”
“No.” She grabbed his wrist when the floor tilted sideways. “At least, not where the nurses can see. They won’t release me if I can’t walk and keep my balance.”
“Good.”
“What do you mean, ‘good’? Do you want me to stay here? Running up hospital bills? Do you realize they’re charging me for every little thing including that stupid plastic water pitcher? They wanted to charge me a dollar for a tiny bandage when I bit off my cuticle. It’s unbelievable.”
“At least you’re safe.”
Her fingers dug into his muscles. “Have you—have you seen my parents? Or Father Donatello? Is he all right?”
“No and yes. He’s safe. I haven’t seen your parents.”
“Good.” She exhaled and concentrated on bringing her heart rate down to normal and not vomiting on Kethan’s nice running shoes. “I’ll feel safer when I’m out of here and people stop shoving drugs down my throat.”
He laughed. “Just a couple of days.”
A couple of days….
“Cat!” She turned her head too quickly and felt a stab of agonizing pain. After sucking in several quick breaths, she manage
d to speak. “There’s a cat at my place. Comes around at dusk or dawn. I’ve been feeding it.”
“It’s taken care of.”
“What? What do you mean, ‘taken care of’? What did you do?”
“Nothing. Relax, will you? I noticed you feeding it. It’s a friendly little thing, isn’t it?”
Friendly? Since when? She nodded, feeling betrayed in some way she couldn’t describe. How could he make friends with “her” cat so quickly when it barely trusted her?
“Great,” she said at last, wishing she meant it.
“It loves tuna. With luck, I’ll be able to lure it into a cat carrier and bring it to my place later today.”
“Why?” Panic made her stare at him. She was losing control. Even her cat was moving in with someone else the first time she wasn’t around for a day or two.
“So you’ll have the cat when you get out. I think it misses you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. It doesn’t like me much, but it’ll be at my place when they release you.”
Striving to talk herself out of a completely irrational jealousy, she smiled. “Thanks, I appreciate it, and I’m sure the cat does, too. It doesn’t like missing meals.”
“Two more days,” he reassured her before helping her back into the hospital bed.
Unfortunately, Kethan was right about the date. The doctor was afraid of infection, despite her sarcastic remark that most people got their infections while in the hospital, not their homes. It took two more days of walking around the hospital, pestering the nurses, and refusing the food to prove she had recuperated. Finally, even the doctor had had enough and signed the orders for her release. Despite that, they still forced her to endure the indignity of a wheelchair exit from the hospital’s main entrance.
Finally at home, or at least at Kethan’s home, Quicksilver relaxed in a lounge chair and tried to be relieved. She was still alive. That ought to be good news.
But the numbness she had felt before surgery hadn’t gone away. She felt as if she were trapped in a glass bubble, waiting for the fragile surface to shatter.
Maybe it was Kethan’s fault. He treated her like the least shock would topple her gauze-shrouded head off her shoulders. He’d set a chaise lounge overflowing with pillows on the tiny porch above his kitchen, explaining it with the specious remark that it provided her with a semi-private place to relax, however every time she looked up from her book or magazine, he was staring at her through the kitchen window.