HER

For the second time in two days, I wake up screaming.

But this time, someone is there.

He’s standing a few feet away from the bed, his silhouette is dark against the backdrop of the lights of New York city.

I flip my body up, sitting straight, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

“What are you?” I demand of the intruder.

His silence fuels the adrenaline rushing through my veins and I scream at him again. “Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I live here,” he says, and his voice is hard, gruff. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, before I realize it is him. He is here. And there’s a strange feeling as if something has caressed my cheek. “What are you still doing here?” He turns the tables on me.

“I live here too!” I throw back at him, though I don’t know why, it makes no sense. I guess he’s caught me off guard and I’m feeling so defensive.

“No, you don’t. Leave.” He moves away from the window and his face is thrown into complete darkness.

“No. I won’t, you leave.” Again, with the crazy.

“You are crazy.” It seems he senses it too.

But it’s too late to go back now. And my mouth seems to have developed a mind of its own.

“Excuse me, I’m not crazy. You’re the crazy one, hiding from your own home just because someone wants to thank you. Do you do that whenever someone says thank you? Like when you hold a door open for a stranger? ‘Oh, why thank you, Mr. Mystery Man. Ahh! No! Please don’t thank me, arghh! I’m going to run away now!’” I rant as I wave my arms around maniacally, as if sprinting away.

I can’t see his face, his hoodie is on, of course, so I can’t see his expression. I can just see him standing completely still. Watching me.

Making me feel like a complete idiot.

Time to change tacks.

“Huh!” I huff and pull the blanket off me and slide off the bed, careful to pull the sweater I’m wearing low enough to cover, well, cover me. “Well, are you hungry?” I ask, my voice still defensive and hard.

“I’m sorry?” he shakes his head a little and turn his gaze to me.

“I said, ‘are you freakin’ hungry?’ Because I am. I’ve missed two dinners now, thanks to you, so that might explain why I’m a little crazy.” I walk around the bed and brush past him. There’s a faint scent of alcohol and I wonder if that’s normal, or if a stranger squatting in his apartment has led him to it.

He doesn’t follow me so I stop and put my hand on his arm. It immediately tenses, but he doesn’t pull away. I sigh and drop my voice. “Come on. I’m starving. Come have some dinner with me. We can get this done and both move on with our lives.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, his breath heavy, the alcohol scent growing stronger. For a moment I feel like he’s just going to grab my arm and throw me out of his home.

But he doesn’t.

He just drops his shoulders and whispers, “Okay.”

I lead us to the kitchen and wave my hand towards the dining room table. It seems a little silly to be giving the orders, the squatter telling the owner what to do, but he seems to be happy to let me, for the time being.

He slides into the seat in front of the clean, empty wine glass.

“I guess I’m not the only one who had a drink alone tonight,” I say. And his head jerks up. I quickly turn towards the fridge before he can reply, not that he seems inclined to. I take turns heating up the plates, busying myself with pressing buttons and staring through the microwave glass door.

After the second plate is warm I carry them to the table, putting one down in front of him. He nods and picks up his fork as I sit down opposite him, watching him.

“Bon appétit, Kaine,” I offer and he looks up, and I can just see the glint in his eyes under the darkness of his hood, reflecting the moonlight. Even with the barest of light, I can see, they’re the most crystal blue I’ve ever seen.

“This...um, smells good,” he says, almost shyly, all of the gruffness of the initial reaction of finding me in his bed seemingly dissipated, and monosyllabic Kaine has returned in its place. But I’m thankful for the words anyway.

“Please, I hope, um, I hope you enjoy it. I’ve loved using your kitchen.”

My stomach rumbles and I don’t even try to eat with grace as I stab at my pork chop, cutting a large piece and cramming it into my mouth. The juice slides down my chin and I wipe it off with the palm of my hand, before picking up a slice of steamed carrot and stuffing the whole thing in my mouth.

“Mmmm,” I can’t help moaning in appreciation. “Pretty good, if I say so myself.”

He doesn’t say anything, but I watch as he cuts each piece of meat and chews it thoughtfully, taking care to try a bit of everything, balancing the flavors and textures in his mouth.

Other than the sound of cutlery against the plate, we eat in silence. But it’s not uncomfortable. I’m mostly focused on my food, and I try to avoid looking at him while I’m chewing, enjoying the view that soon will be just a memory.

His plate empties before mine and it gives me a little thrill that he at least enjoys the food I cook.

“Um, would you, would you like some more? I made plenty, I saw you had a lot of pork chops in your freezer so I figured you liked them.”

I hold my hand out for his plate and he hands it to me without a word. His fingers brush mine and the shock makes me loosen my grip, the plate slipping out of my hands. He catches it with one hand and grabs hold of my hand with the other.

“Are you okay?” he asks. That’s all. Just three words.

“Um, yes, sorry. Just a weird momentary finger cramp.”

I take the plate from him and hurry over to the kitchen to get him seconds, my heart racing like the driving theme of William Tell in my chest, a soft thundering in my ears.

My own reaction confuses me. It can’t be just from his fingers brushing mine, can it? Surely it’s just because of the strangeness of the whole experience. Finally coming face to face with the man who saved me... not once but twice.

The microwave dings and I wait a moment before taking it out.

The microwave dings again, reminding me, and before I can open the door, I feel him beside me.

“I can, I can get it... Jade,” he says my name slowly, deliberately, like it’s a word he’s just learning. I like the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. “You go sit back down. You probably haven’t fully recovered yet. From the incident.”

I step back so he has room to take his food out of the microwave. He moves so I can never really get a good look at him, his face. Always standing with one side of his body away from me.

Why is he like this? Why is he still hiding, after everything we’ve been through? Literally, life and death. I follow him back to the dining room table, sliding into my seat, still watching him.

“Um, Kaine?”

He doesn’t look up but he stills his fork.

“Do you... um, can I... do you want to take your hoodie off?”

He lifts his head up, putting his fork down.

“No.”

One word.

Well, that settles that.

I push away from the table, suddenly filled with an inexplicable hurt.

“Wait,” he says. And I do. “Please understand. It’s... it’s not you.”

There’s nothing but truth in his voice. I wish he knew, whatever it is, I can handle it. But the least I can do, is let him know I understand that it’s his choice. I sit back down and resume eating.

“Okay. Can you please pass the salt then?”

“Of course,” he answers, his voice soft and deep. It’s the same voice that lulled me into sleep when I lay injured in his arms.

He reaches across the table and I let him drop the salt on the table, instead of risking our fingers touching again. I take the salt and shake it gently over my steamed vegetables, putting it down with a soft thud onto the table.

And then it hits me, without this man, this strange, mysterious, heroic man sitting in front of me, I could be dead.

Something about the revelation makes me start to shake and the tears fall. I take advantage of him not looking at me to wipe my face, wiping, wiping, wiping the tears away. But the more I wipe, the more they fall. An ache simmers in my chest, an anxiousness, a fear, that suddenly seems like it’s been there forever. I feel a sob threaten to break and I try to hold it back.

I turn away from the table, trying to compose myself, but when I do, he’s there. Holding out a tissue. The sight touches me so much, the dam breaks, and I feel a wave of emotion crash over me. And I don’t hold back.

I cry. I cry at the memory of how scared I was, at the fear I now carry within me, for what might have happened, for what did happen. I cry through layers of emotion I haven’t yet processed.

But just as I am ready to drown, I feel myself enveloped in something warm, safe. It’s the sanctuary of his arms around me. I cling to him as I let the sobs break and recede, then crash over me again.

I don’t know how long I’m crying in his arms. Just that when I’m finally done, he’s still there.

It’s almost a minute between teary hiccups now. And he’s still holding me.

“Thank-thank you, Kaine,” I finally muster the sense of mind to say.

“You’re welcome. I have plenty more tissues.”

His unexpected joke makes me laugh, and in my snotty state, it comes out as a snort.

I bury my face in his bicep, horrified, and I feel the unmistakable tremor of someone laughing. He’s not making a sound, but the shake of his chest vibrates through me.

“Hey!” I pull away.

“Sorry,” he says, the lightness in his voice telling me, he’s not sorry at all.

I push him away and he strolls back to his seat, resuming his meal, stabbing at the remnants of his cold pork chop.

For the first time I notice there’s a cut on his right hand. And it appears to be bleeding.

“Oh my God! You’re bleeding!” I point to his hand. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Oh,” he lifts his hand and stares at it, as if he’s noticing his injury for the first time. “It’s fine.” He dabs at it with a napkin and the blood spreads like a red chrysanthemum bloom.

“Hang on,” I tell him, and run over to my purse where I always keep Band-Aids. I walk over to his side of the table and take his hand in mine, ignoring the humming wherever our skin touches. I examine his wound and it looks clean. It’s a long cut, but not deep. I tear open two band aids and stick them over his wound.

I let go of his hand and he pulls it away, turning it to scrutinize the covered gash. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, I have plenty more Band-Aids,” I say, mirroring his words.

He doesn’t reply, just looks at me, and his silence makes me squirm. I fill in the blanks in the conversation to ease the awkwardness. “I work with books and documents all day, every day. Papercuts are the bane of my existence.”

He still doesn’t reply, but there’s a twitch on his face, the only indication that he’s heard a word I said.

I walk back to my seat and pick at my plate.

“So, um, anyway, I guess I can go home now.”

He looks up sharply, “What?”

“Well, I stayed here until I could say ‘Thank you’ and you even got a snort as a bonus. So now I can leave you alone.”

He sits back, reaching for his wine glass and takes a long sip. He plays with the foot of the glass for a long time before he finally speaks.

“It’s too late. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll take a cab, it’s fine. I’ve inconvenienced you enough.”

He doesn’t say anything and I want to save him the trouble of having to pretend that he wants me there so I get up from the table and pick up my plate, ending the discussion.

But it’s not over.

“Jade.” There’s that way he says my name again.

“Yes, Kaine?”

“Stay the night. I’ll go back to the office, I have work to do.”

“No, I’ll be okay.” I insist.

There’s a frustrated sigh from him before he admits, “You’re very stubborn.”

I don’t know why but that makes me chuckle, maybe because of how true it is, or maybe because of how ironic it is that he is calling anyone stubborn. Truth is, I don’t know what I want. A part of me wants to flee, escape from these feelings bubbling inside me, feelings that don’t make sense, that shouldn’t be there. And a part of me dreads going back to my life, one that has nothing to do with him. Then there’s the twisted part that’s enjoying this battle, and not wanting to let him win.

“Please,” he continues. “For my peace of mind.”

Bastard. Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner. After everything he’s done for me, the last thing he needs is for me to cause him more worry.

I sigh and throw my hands up in defeat. “Fine. But only on one condition. I can sleep in your bed. Because I’ll do anything you say if that’s part of the deal. What did you do, sell your soul to the devil for that thing? It’s like sleeping on a bed of purring kittens.”

He looks startled for a moment and then throws his head back and laughs. Laughs like he hasn’t in a long time. I can see the Adam’s apple in his throat rising up and down as the sound fills my ears and my soul. When it stops, I’m still staring at him, drinking it all in.

“If that’s what it takes, Jade, then yes. You can sleep in my bed tonight. I’m glad someone will be.”

Our plates are empty and I clear them.

He pushes away from the table and walks past me to his bathroom ensuite. “I’ll just take a quick shower and leave you to the bed of kittens.”

“Okay,” I nod and smile at him from the sink, squeezing detergent over the dirty dishes and reaching for the sponge.

One night. I’ve been here one night and I already feel like it’s home.

***

The two dishes don’t take long to wash and I circle the apartment, gathering my things, ready to leave when I’m evicted in the morning.

“Oh shit!” I curse when I remember my clothes are hanging to dry in his ensuite after I hand washed them. Not just my outer clothes, but my bra and underwear too.

“Oh shit! Shit!” I try to remember if they were a decent pair or my holey granny panties. I cringe at the thought of him seeing them if it’s the latter. I run into the bedroom and hear the water of the shower running. The clothes are hung near the bathroom entrance on the opposite end of the bathroom to the shower, I can probably get in and out without him noticing I’m there.

I tip toe in, peeking around the corner and spot my clothes still hanging on the hook. By some miracle the bra and panties actually match. I creep forward, trying to reach for my clothes off the hook.

I glance over at the shower, to make sure I haven’t been caught. The clear glass is fogged over, but I can still make him out.

And I can’t look away.

His body looks just like it feels through his clothes, the one, two, no, three times he’s held me.

His head is leaning back as he massages the shampoo into his head, and the suds are washing over his torso. Down over his chest, his sculpted, muscle-ripped stomach and over his...Oh, god. His hard cock.

I can’t look away.

I’m rooted to the spot and perhaps that’s a good thing.

Because suddenly, all I want is to be there, in there, with him.

On my knees.

Sucking him. Making him harder. Making him come.

I force myself to look away, to move away.

But I know I can’t, not until I look at one more thing. This may be my only chance.

I drag my eyes up his body and to his face. His eyes are closed, his hands still in his hair. And then he turns to face the water spray, and for the first time the left side of his face is completely exposed to me.

And I see it.

The mangled and scarred remains of a horrific accident. The left side of his face, an expanse of wrinkled flesh and the bumps and lines of skin grown back to heal over wounds. It starts at the edge of his left eye and travels all the way down his cheek and halfway down his neck. Oh, Kaine, what happened to you?

I let out a small gasp and cover my mouth a fraction too late.

His eyes open and he sees me staring at him. He roars like a wounded animal and immediately he turns away from me, pressing a button somewhere inside the shower and the bathroom light shuts off, casting the room in darkness.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?? GO!!!!” He roars again and his voice echoes and bounces back to me against all four walls of the bathroom.

I can’t move. My feet won’t move.

“Just fucking get out! GO!!” he yells.

I try to open my mouth to explain, but I can’t.

“Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?!”

I reach forward, an empty gesture; he can’t see me in the dark. I just want to tell him, tell him it’s ok. But all that comes out is a strangled, “Kaine...”

“Fucking hell! Didn’t you hear me?! JUST GET OUT OF MY FUCKING LIFE!!” he yells again and the thundering of his voice in the dark rattles me to my very core. And this time, I can’t move fast enough.

I run out into the living room, pulling on my clean clothes, almost falling over as I hop from one foot to the other, cramming my things into the work bag Harriet brought for me.

I don’t know what’s happening, just that I need to get out of here.

I race to the elevator, pushing on the button over and over and over. It dings as it arrives and I run into it, finding the button for the ground floor and holding my finger on it, willing it to close as fast as possible.

The ride to the bottom floor feels like I’m in a time warp, and it’s moving second by agonizing second through sludge. When it finally arrives with a gentle jerk, my fingers dig into the doors, clawing at them to open faster.

I run out into the street, looking around, suddenly not knowing where I am. The doorman comes up to me, asking if I need assistance.

And then there’s a sudden sharp pain. And I feel a dampness on my side. I press my hand to my stomach and pull it away. We both look down; my palm is covered in blood.

“I think... I think I need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, ma’am, right away,” he says, hailing a cab.

I try to slow my breathing, as if heaving will push my organs out of the stomach wound. The doorman helps me into the taxi, and closes the door behind me.

“To the nearest hospital, please, as fast as you can.”