EXCERPT FROM SALVATION

If you enjoyed Listed, then you might enjoy Salvation by the same author.

Gideon was supposed to be watching the game on TV, but I knew he was secretly watching me as I came back to the couch. I handed him the beer and tried not to wince at the stab of pain from my knee up to my hip as I sat back down.

If he saw it, he didn’t mention it. Just took a long sip of the beer.

He’d just been here an hour, but I was already ready for him to leave, since he was making me feel defensive and self-conscious. If he would just act like he had during the weeks at the Center, I wouldn’t have minded. He’d only talked about innocuous things then. It had been nice. Distracted me. Hadn’t made me think about anything painful.

It was different now, though. He was different. He seemed to always be pushing farther into my privacy, even when he was pretending to be casual.

I was sometimes tempted to tell him not to come by anymore, but I couldn’t bring myself to be such a heartless bitch to a man who’d been nothing but good to me.

“My team at work is having a cookout tomorrow,” he said, when the next commercial came on.

He paused, as if I was supposed to respond, so I just said, “Really?”

“Yeah. In the afternoon. Do you want to come with me?”

The invitation startled me, and I stared at him for a minute. He obviously wasn’t asking me out. There was nothing like that in our relationship and, if I’d sensed even a hint of it, I would have shut him out of my life completely. I was mostly surprised he would ask me to do something he must know I didn’t want to do.

I’d made it very clear since I’d left the Center that I didn’t want to be around a lot of other people.

“It will be really low-key. We can leave any time you want.”

I frowned and took a sip of water, mostly for a reason to stall. “I don’t think so,” I said at last, as I lowered the bottle.

Now he was frowning. “Why not? You might have a good time.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“How do you know?”

Now I was getting annoyed with him. As always, I tried to force down the feeling, since it made me feel like an ungrateful ass. “Because I know. I’m not up to hanging around with a bunch of strangers.”

“It won’t be like that. They’ll be grilling and playing volleyball and there will be kids around to distract everyone. You won’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want. It might be good for you to get out a little.”

“I’ll decide what’s good for me.” My arm was hurting from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, so I assumed I’d pulled something the night before when I was working out. I rubbed at the pain unconsciously and tried not to scream at Gideon. “You don’t get to make choices for me.”

“I’m not trying to make choices for you.” His voice was rough with impatience. “I just think you’re not letting yourself get back into life, and I don’t see how it can possibly be good for you.”

“I’ll decide what’s good for me,” I gritted out, using the same words I’d used before because I couldn’t think of another reply. “I don’t want to go.”

“Okay. Fine.” He leaned back against the couch, taking another gulp of his beer, and I could tell he wasn’t happy with me.

I didn’t care. I wasn’t happy with him either.

I felt frustrated and jittery and upset, and I really needed him to leave soon so I could get back on the elliptical trainer.

“Did you hurt your arm?” Gideon asked.

I blinked in surprise, and he nodded down at my arm, which I was still rubbing compulsively.

I dropped my hand immediately. “Not really. It’s just a little tendonitis or something.”

He reached over and took my wrist in his hand, and I jerked away from him.

“What the hell?” he asked, his eyes searching my face in that intrusive way again. “I was just going to rub it for you.”

I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want him to touch me. I wanted him to just go away so I could push myself into battered oblivion again. But, if I objected, it would just give him more ammunition for his concerns, so I relented and stretched my arm out.

He took it again and very gently started to rub the inside of my wrist.

I tried to relax back against the couch so he wouldn’t see that it bothered me. His eyes were focused on the television, as if his massage was simply an afterthought, hardly on his radar at all. But his touch seemed strangely careful, starting softly and growing more firm as he moved slowly from my wrist up to my elbow.

He had to touch me over my sleeve as he moved up my arm, since I was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. It was a warm night, but I felt safer without any skin showing, so I never wore tanks and shorts anymore.

He didn’t say anything. He seemed to be thinking only about sports. But he kept up the massage for a long time.

It actually felt good. Really good. Easing the sore muscles, soothing them with pressure, causing pleasant sensations to ripple up through my shoulder. His fingers were strong and gentle at the same time, and I didn’t really understand how they could be both.

I took a shuddering breath and tried to pretend I wasn’t reacting. But I was. I was.

I didn’t want it to feel good. My body couldn’t feel good. It didn’t match how the rest of me felt, and so it was a jarring incongruity. Upsetting in a way I couldn’t articulate.

Something inside me was shaking, but I used all the will I could muster to force it down, to keep the shaking from moving into my body.

He was just rubbing my forearm. He hadn’t even moved past my elbow.

He’d massaged back down to my wrist, and I thought he was nearly finished. But then he started up my arm again, and this time his fingers were under the fabric, pushing up my sleeve as he went.

It felt even better and even worse. He was touching my skin, and the resulting sensations were pleasant, soothing, really good. And I simply couldn’t feel good.

For the first time, I looked over at him, trying to figure out a way to tell him to stop without worrying or offending him. But, as I looked over, I saw he wasn’t watching TV anymore. He was looking down at my inner forearm and the inside of my elbow.

And I knew—I knew—what he was doing. He was checking it. Because I always wore long sleeves. He was checking to see if I was cutting myself or doing drugs or something. He was using the excuse of the massage to pry even more.

I jerked my arm out of his grip and glared at him coldly, pushing my sleeve back down.

He saw the look and understood it. He knew I knew what he’d been doing and how I felt about it, so I didn’t have to say anything.

He wasn’t actually wrong. It just wasn’t taking the form he suspected.

***

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