Chapter 5
Vet bag in hand, Drake knocked on Zoe’s front door. Crickets chirped in the fading dusk and a whippoorwill cooed from a nearby tree while he stood waiting for her to answer. Wisteria from vines along the side of her house wafted on the soft breeze, and it was not nearly as soothing as Zoe’s lavender scent.
For the past two hours, he’d showered, paced his house, and did everything in his power to erase the sensation of her taut little body clinging to his. Ever since Cade’s wedding a couple months back, he’d been wondering what in the hell was wrong with him where she was concerned. Unable to nail down a reason, he’d fought to numb the strange uneasiness around her and the errant thoughts which kept drifting to a break in the ten commandments of sanity.
And tonight he’d pegged the culprit for the constant itch under his skin. Attraction. It had been so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like. Honestly, he’d thought that particular sensory was permanently damaged.
He was going to hell. Or was already there.
Screw the theory of opposites attract. Throw out the obvious reasons why this was wrong—like the fact he’d known her since diapers, they worked together, she’d never shown any sexual interest in him, and she’d been Heather’s best friend—he was still left with the mother of all hell-no’s. This was Zoe. Plain and simple. Zoe.
He was man enough to admit he couldn’t handle her. With a passing glance, she had the ability to make a guy weep, beg for mercy, eat out of the palm of her hand, lose all thought process, shrivel his goods, and have him believe he wanted all of it. She considered this phenomenon a Tuesday afternoon.
The door opened and there stood the little devil in question. She wore a pair of gray cotton shorts that must’ve been painted on and showed an interstate of leg, coupled with a loose white tee, which hung over one shoulder. Even the pink hair in a knot on her head made his blood roar like liquid fire.
Going to hell in a handbasket.
He held up the vet bag. “I waited until I figured your mom was asleep.”
She waved him inside. “She just went down, so try to be quiet.”
Yeah, he was such a party animal. Frowning, he crossed the threshold and shut the door. Zoe hobbled through the living room and into the kitchen, favoring her left leg. Her gait was more steady than when she’d left the clinic, so he hoped that meant she was feeling better. Setting the bag aside, he followed her and leaned against the doorjamb between rooms.
Two plates of uneaten food sat on the table. Dishes were piled in the sink. Three cabinets were open for seemingly no reason. A pile of towels was on a kitchen chair as if she’d finished laundry and dumped it there. Not a mess necessarily, but the place was more disorganized than the night before. At least there was no pasta painting the floor.
She opened the fridge and bent over. “Do you want anything to drink?”
His lips parted, but nothing emerged. He trained his eyes to the ceiling to avoid staring at her round, perfect little rearend and the way her shorts were molded to her like second skin. “No, thanks.”
When she straightened, her shirt slipped, and his gaze grazed across her shoulder blade and part of her back. A yellowish-green bruise covered the entire expanse and disappeared behind her shirt.
“Jesus, Zoe.” He hadn’t realized he’d crossed the distance until she spun around and they collided.
Tilting her head in apparent confusion, she blinked up at him. “What?”
She needed to get in line. He was confused as shit also.
And have mercy, the breathiness of her voice stirred him. When he didn’t respond—couldn’t because he was caught up in the bow-shape of her mouth and the bluish, gray-green of her hazel eyes—she cleared her throat, followed by lifting her brows in a nonverbal what-the-hell.
Right. Cupping her shoulders, he spun her around and got a better look at the bruise. It was an older one, judging by the color. Then he got distracted again and locked on to the tattoo on her nape. A sun with a black circle half covering the rays, mimicking an eclipse. She had a few tattoos here and there, and he often wondered about their significance.
Shaking his head, he dipped his finger in the collar and gently tugged her shirt aside. Best he could tell, the discoloration ran across her upper back. He caught the dark purple of a new injury below the old one and clenched his jaw.
At times, and because of her petite stature, Zoe had such a fragile quality to her. She was far from it, but in moments like these, he had to wonder just how breakable she really was, and if he’d somehow missed the point when she’d shattered. Severely independent, she rarely asked for help.
But none of that mattered. He should’ve seen the signs. She wasn’t just hurt on the inside, masking the pain with indifference. She had physical marks as well. As her friend, he should’ve helped her, regardless of how many times she refused.
An urgent, frayed need to hold her wove around him until he could hardly think of anything else. Her familiar scent, the regal line of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders. He took it all in and battled the way her body called to his. Nothing worked.
“May I?” Unknown sensations rattling his chest caused his words to be uttered through gritted teeth. Forcing a swallow, he softened his tone and clarified his question by fingering the hem of her shirt. He raised it a fraction. “May I look?”
Still as stone, she paused and finally nodded. “It’s just a bruise, though.”
He doubted it. Nevertheless, and knowing he wouldn’t like what he’d find, he gently lifted her shirt, making sure to only expose her back. Every upward inch of the garment stole more of his air until there was none left.
Christ Jesus. Her skin was a canvas of color. Old bruises. New. Black, blue, purple, green. Nausea curdled his stomach while anger pounded his temples. He suddenly remembered the paperback Cat had thrown at Zoe the other night, and misery heated his eyes to add to the assault. This was a monster he couldn’t slay.
No woman, no matter the cause, deserved to be marred like this. But since this was Zoe in front of him, he nearly fell to his knees. Her smooth skin smelled like heavenly lavender, but looked like a war zone. He swiped his hand down his face, but nothing would erase the image of beautiful Zoe, mottled with bruises.
How long had this been going on? How long had she had to suffer out of guilt and obligation? And love. She loved her mom more than anything. Catherine’s state of mind was beyond understanding her actions and surroundings. If Zoe’s mom were to have a segment of lucidity, she’d tell Zoe to place her somewhere, to not uphold the promise to keep her at home for the duration.
He cleared his throat. “The book wasn’t the first thing she hit you with, was it?”
She bowed her head. “No. She doesn’t do it often, though. That’s her fallback response to fear—throwing things. I can usually cut her off before it gets that far.”
Where else did she have bruises? “Zoe—”
“No. Don’t tell me to put her away.” She moved aside, but he put his hand on the counter beside her and caged her in.
“She wouldn’t want this and you know it.” Zoe was Cat’s life. She’d die before hurting her. Somewhere in all Zoe’s confliction, she had to understand.
Her shoulders trembled—from oncoming tears or a chill, he hadn’t a clue—and he lost all sense of reason. He pressed his palm to the delicate curve of her spine and splayed his fingers. Such warm, soft skin. He didn’t know why it surprised him, yet it was unexpected just the same. Every atom in his body came alive, hyperaware of her.
She gasped and arched into his touch liked she’d felt the charge, too. Another surge of heat wove from the contact, and he inhaled. Hard. Her irregular breathing shifted them closer, or maybe he’d unconsciously moved, and something awoke inside him he thought long dead.
Desire.
The room spun. Shaking, confused, he dropped his forehead to her shoulder. And that wasn’t helping either because his lips were dangerously close to the pulse in her neck. He paused a suspended beat, fully prepared to get his shit together and step back, but her hand settled in his hair. Wove through the strands. Stroked. As comforting as it was arousing.
Damn. What was he doing?
He straightened and hastily tugged her shirt down the rest of the way. “Can you…” He ran his hand over the back of his neck. Cleared his throat. “Can you hop onto the counter? Let me look at your ankle.”
More touching. How in the hell was he supposed to deal with...more?
Without a word, she turned, grabbed the counter edge, and hoisted herself onto the countertop. She eyed him with skepticism through impossibly thick lashes.
Wrapping a hand around her calf, he lifted her leg and inspected her foot. She had a trace of swelling in the ankle, but it wasn’t discolored. He manipulated the foot, watching her closely. She didn’t wince, so he palpitated the area with his thumbs. Again, no signs of pain.
He set her leg down and straightened. “I don’t think it’s broken, nor sprained. You might’ve irritated the ligaments. Do you have ibuprofen?”
“In the cabinet by the microwave.” She reached into a cookie jar beside her and pulled out a key. “The cupboard’s locked.”
He took the key and stared at it. He had no clue she’d gotten to the point where she needed to lock up medication to keep her mom safe.
After he rooted through the cabinet and found what he was looking for, he dropped three pills in her hand and gave her a bottle of water. She didn’t like it, but he told her to go put her foot up in the living room while he fished a bag of peas from the freezer. He met her in the other room where she was slumped on the couch and had her leg reclined on the coffee table.
He sat beside her foot and set the makeshift icepack on her ankle. “This should keep the swelling down. If it still hurts in the morning, I’m doing an x-ray.”
“Whatever you say, Dr. Drake.”
He frowned at her dry response. “X-ray tomorrow or ER tonight. You pick.”
“I just twisted it. Lay off.”
She looked tired. Not the kind of tired eight solid hours would cure either. “Why don’t you head to bed? I can lock up after Cotton’s exam.”
“Can’t go to sleep before eleven-thirty. If Mama wakes up between now and then, she sometimes wanders or gets into trouble. I have to head her off. If she hasn’t awoken by then, she’ll stay asleep.”
Guilt clawed at his throat. Not for the first time, he realized he’d been so self-absorbed he hadn’t noticed everything she’d been dealing with as of late. Call it big brother syndrome or a white knight complex, but he wanted to...take care of her.
“You’ll probably find the cat in my room. I’d get him for you, but this little red engine just can’t.” Though her tone was light, her implication wasn’t. Her rope was frayed and she was burning her candle at both ends.
He thought about what had happened at the clinic earlier. The way he’d tried to explain what having her so close was doing to him. Hell, at the time, he hadn’t been able to put a finger on it. Unused to much social interaction, he’d bumbled. And the look on her face was still haunting him hours later. Like he’d hurt, embarrassed, and brushed her off, all in one breath.
At a loss, he said the first thing that came to mind. “It was just a bad day, Zoe. It’ll pass.”
Her laugh lacked any trace of humor. “Right, Drake.” She waved her hand to encompass the room. “Just a bad day.”
He may have been unconsciously selfish before, but he would end that now. “You can talk to me, Zoe. I’m here.”
“No, Drake. I can text you with anything, but as for actual talking? No.” The frustration in her voice was only one bar above the one in her expression.
He stared at her. Hard. Long.
Did she really believe that? True, they’d been way more open with each other via text. That had been the draw, really. Not having to look at someone’s wounded eyes while spilling his guts. He hadn’t been the only one to open a vein either. She’d shared her own truths.
As kids, they’d hung out a lot. Never once had he felt like he’d had to censor himself, even in their teens. In fact, it wasn’t until around the time he’d proposed to Heather that Zoe had backed off. They still saw each other, still talked, but not like before. As if she’d chosen to focus more on her friendship with Heather than him.
He hadn’t paid attention. Aware now, he knew if he wanted to bridge their gap, he needed to take the first step. Zoe was nothing if not stubborn. Scratching his jaw, he stared at the tattoo of a paintbrush on her inner wrist. She had another of a shooting star on her other wrist.
He let out a ragged exhale. “Those texts saved me from utter annihilation. You saved me, Zoe.”
Her wide gaze flew to his. Held. So expressive, her eyes.
“That’s the God’s honest truth. You reached out to me in the dark and gave me a lifeline.” He sighed. “I didn’t intend for the texts to be a replacement for me.”
Her gaze drifted away and she tapped her fingertips on the cushion beside her. “I’ve never had a good day,” she said so quietly he had to strain to hear. “You said today was just a bad one, but that’s wrong. Every day is one more in a succession of bad ones. People use that phrase, the best day of my life.” Her laugh was nothing more than a puff of air. “I have no idea what that means. I’ve never experienced it myself.”
If she’d doused him in gasoline and set him on fire it would’ve shocked and hurt him less. He had to clench his fists in order not to reach out and touch her. “Things are rough right now, but—”
“No. You don’t know the half of it.”
“Then tell me.”
She shook her head. Closed her eyes. Laid her head back. A complete dismissal if he ever saw one.
He waited her out, but she offered no more gutting insight. “Zoe.”
A slow, measured inhale was the only response. Finally, she rubbed her forehead, eyes still closed, dark lashes shadowing her cheeks. “There’s stuffed peppers in the cockpot, if you’re hungry.”
A smile tugged his lips at her Freudian slip. “I think you mean Crockpot. I shudder to think what you’d slow cook in your version.”
“Keep hovering and I’ll demonstrate.” She yawned and resettled, resting her cheek on her hand on the couch arm. In moments, her deep, even breathing indicated she was asleep.
Shaking his head, he rose and went in search of the cat. Finding him right where Zoe indicated, he entered her bedroom and did an examination, then the vaccine. Cotton took it all in stride, but Drake spent a few minutes sitting on the bed petting him anyway.
Pictures of her friends and Zoe with her mom lined the white dresser. Other than that, there weren’t many personal touches to the room. When Zoe had moved back home, she’d given away or sold everything from her old apartment. Drake suspected that had been step one in erasing the woman he’d known.
He walked over to the dresser and eyed the photos. A few were of her mother from when Zoe was a kid. Her and Heather at his wedding. Zoe, Cade, and Flynn last year on the softball diamond. Another of her, Avery, and Gabby at Shooters with Brent photo-bombing.
He picked up the one of himself and Zoe dancing at Cade’s wedding a couple months ago. She’d dyed her hair back to her natural light brown for the day and had it pinned up in curls. The lilac-colored dress had been the perfect compliment to her olive skin tone. The photographer had caught her with her head down, a smile teasing her lips, and Drake staring at the top of her head.
Setting the picture back, he picked up another. Him and Zoe with Heather at prom. Cade had been Zoe’s date, but he was absent from the photo. Drake took in Heather’s emerald dress and loose blonde hair sweeping her shoulders, then moved on to Zoe. Bright red dress, red lipstick to match. She had her hand on her chest and was captured mid-laugh. That was her—the life of the party. Or she used to be.
With an absent pat for Cotton, Drake poked his head in on a sleeping Catherine and noted the clock. Zoe had said eleven-thirty was the magic time, and it was only ten.
Since Zoe was still asleep on the couch, he thought about carrying her to bed, but she’d get pissy about it in the morning. He adjusted her so she wouldn’t wake with a stiff neck and covered her with a blanket.
Then, he settled in a recliner until eleven-thirty-five, and headed home.