Grace

 

 I could really use a glass of wine and a good night’s sleep. My mind is racing at the speed of light, going over the day’s events and dissecting them piece-by-piece. From the sweet smile of Ebrahim to the little boy and his soccer ball. From the man with the machete to the open wound on Johan’s thigh. From worrying about my father to missing my mother. And dark blue eyes. Mostly dark blue eyes. I can’t get them off my mind. So, I don’t even try. I let them hypnotize me to sleep, where I spend the rest of the night dreaming of all the ways he could make me forget what I came here to escape.

 

I’m going over the words of the orientation booklet in my head while I wait for a cup of coffee and Ebrahim the next morning.

“Milk and sugar?” a deep voice cuts in from behind me. I turn to find Deacon standing, arm extended, coffee to-go in hand, with a smile on his gorgeous face. There’s a scar, just above his top lip. And another on his cheek, hidden under the blanket of stubble. Warning signs. Caution lights. Tiny human imperfections on an otherwise flawless canvas. He’s been hurt. I want to reach out, to trace the raised flesh and ask him what happened. But I don’t. More out of respect than fear. “I saw you standing here and intercepted,” he says, nodding back at the man I ordered the coffee from.

“Good morning.”

His smile widens. “It is so far.”

My cheeks redden with heat, and the smile disappears. His mouth twitches as he narrows his eyes, trying to control his thoughts. I really need to learn to flirt. This is just embarrassing.

“Both,” I reply, taking the coffee from his hand. His skin grazes mine, and the heat from his touch shoots straight to my core. He cocks his head, and I wonder if he felt it too. “Milk and sugar. I take both.”

“I thought you might.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

He pulls back the plastic lid from his cup and brings it to his mouth, sipping the hot liquid slowly. I can’t stop looking at his lips, the way he wets them after taking a drink, careful not to leave a single drop behind. I admire the pink fullness of them and wonder what it would be like to taste them. To feel them against my own. I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee and my senses are already completely awakened. I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me feel things in places that have been numb for a long time. It’s not his looks, because I’ve seen plenty of handsome men. It’s not his social status, because I have no idea who he is. Maybe it’s the accent. Then why didn’t Johan affect me the same way? Or Ebrahim? No, it’s not the accent. It’s something else. Something raw. Something carnal. Something I can’t explain. I just… feel it.

The smile returns when he catches me watching. “There’s no right or wrong. Just instinct.”

“You rely a lot on instinct?”

“It’s something I’m good at.”

 Why is he good at it? I want to know who he is, what he does, why he’s here. I want to know what his instinct tells him about me. Does he feel the electricity in the air when we’re close the way I do? Does the hair stand up on the back of his neck when he hears my voice the way mine does when I hear his? How does he know Johan? Why was he shot? Are they in trouble? So many questions, but I know every one of them will go unanswered. Because he isn’t an open book. And I’m going to be late for my first day at the hospital.

The black Mercedes pulls up before I can say anything else. “My ride’s here. I have to go.”

“Enjoy your day. And stay away from men with machetes.”

His comment makes me laugh. Partly because to any other person that would seem like an easy task. But for me, I’m beginning to wonder. “Stay away from stray bullets.”

“Deal,” he says, as he watches me walk toward Ebrahim, who is now holding the front door open.

 

***

   

 My first day at the hospital was nothing I expected it to be. I spent four hours taking temperatures and checking blood pressure. For the other two, I was sent to the records room to file papers. Not exactly what I had in mind when I signed up to volunteer, but I suppose every little bit counts and something is better than nothing.

I walk past Johan’s room on the way to mine, stopping and starting, and stopping and starting, as I debate on knocking. The moment my knuckles find the courage to hit the wooden door, it opens.

“Grace,” Deacon says, his large frame nearly barreling into me. He must have been leaving when I finally decided to knock.

“Hi. Sorry to interrupt. I was on my way to my room and just wanted to check on Johan.”

He stands in the doorway, towering over me, intimidating and powerful. He doesn’t make me feel weak by any means. But, he does make me feel fragile, delicate. After years of having no choice but to feel strong, I’m not sure how to process this. On one hand, I welcome the change. But on the other, I want to fight it. I don’t want to be delicate. I can’t afford to be fragile.

“I was just leaving. You didn’t interrupt.”

“May I come in? Take a look?”

I don’t even recognize my own voice. It’s meek and mild. I write it off as the climax of a day spent feeling inadequate. I’m not used to being in the shadows. In L.A. it’s my job to be right in the thick of the madness. Saving babies. Waking up at the sound of monitor alarms going off and rushing to my father’s room. Rescuing my sister from another one of her episodes. I’d forgotten what it’s like to simply be background noise. My mind is still trying to digest it all. At least that’s what I tell myself.

“Of course.” Deacon steps aside, allowing me to pass. But he doesn’t leave like he said he was going to do.

Johan smiles when I make it to the edge of his bed. “Hey, tough guy. How are you feeling?”

“Like brand new.”

I reach to pull the covers back, stopping before I expose him. “Mind if I look?”

“The goods are covered. I think it’s safe,” he teases. “Until the third date, at least.”

 “A man with standards. I like that,” I joke back. Deacon watches from the other side of the room as I fold back the blanket and inspect Johan’s thigh. “It looks great.” I bring my attention to Deacon’s piercing blue eyes. “You cleaned and covered it well.”

“I had a little help.”

“I have more bandages if you need them.”

I pull the comforter back up and tuck Johan in out of habit. The same way I do my father when he’s cold. Deacon moves toward me, placing his hand on the small of my back when he gets close enough to touch me.  

“Thank you. I’ll let you know.” He takes another step, his front now just inches from my rear. I fight the urge not to back into him, to feel his heat against mine. He moves, and his fingers brush the top of my butt. My eyes fall to the floor to hide my reaction. “Get some rest,” he tells Johan. Then he drops his hand and walks toward the door.

“Thank you,” Johan says, as I follow Deacon’s lead.

“You’re very welcome. You take care of yourself, okay?”

He holds his fingers up the way I did when we first met. “Scout’s honor.”

 

Deacon walks me to my door, and before I can stop myself I invite him in.

“Maybe another time,” he declines, without reason or even a lame excuse. He just declines. And oddly enough, I don’t feel rejected by it. Something about his answer makes me feel valued, respected. Like he was fully aware of what I was offering, yet had complete control of his body’s reaction. Another man would have taken the invitation for what it was and ran with it. But I’m quickly learning Deacon isn’t anything like any other man. He steps behind me as I place the key card against the flat, black pad on the door until the light flashes green. He’s so close I breathe in his scent as if it were my own. My hand pulls the lever, opening the door so I can go inside. My heart races while I turn to face him. Please change your mind.

“Another time, then.”

He doesn’t.

“Another time. Goodnight, Grace.”

“Goodnight, Deacon.”

 

***

 

 

 

  His voice whispers my name against my ear as I sink into the hot water of the claw-foot tub. I lay my head against the porcelain and grab onto one side. My legs part as my hand trails from the top of my knee to the inside of my thigh. I close my eyes and see his face, his eyes, burning into me, commanding me to bend at his will. My touch is gentle, but something inside me doesn’t want his to be.

 “Touch yourself,” I imagine hearing him say. “Show me how good it feels.” My hand slips further between my legs and into the water, finding the spot that craves him the most. I look down at an absent face, imagining his head between my legs, his mouth on my flesh, his tongue on my clit. “You like that, don’t you?” My hips rise up, meeting my middle finger. It’s not enough. I need more. Another finger. Thrusting. Pumping. My other hand circling my clit. The water sloshes around me, splashing out onto the tile floor. “Yes,” I answer him, not caring that he’s not really here.

 I’m lost. Lost in my desire to be fucked. Lost in the feel of what it would be like to have him. Harder. Deeper. My fingers hit the sensitive spot against my walls, and I let them rest there for a minute, filling me, putting pressure where my body needs it while I rub my clit. Oh, my fucking god, it feels so good. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and moan. A vowel sound, I think. Or maybe a full syllable. I don’t know. I’m consumed by the pleasure. “Come for me.” My body starts to clench around me, and my hips buck all the way out of the water when I come, moaning his name. Deacon.

 

***

 

I wake up feeling refreshed and alive. I haven’t slept that sound in months. I’ve rubbed myself to sleep in the past, but it’s always been to relieve a dull ache, an empty craving. There’s never been a face and definitely never a voice to guide me.

 I called Annette before I buried myself underneath the comforter to make sure everything was okay back home. She assured me everything was fine and that she’d call if anything changed. I didn’t call Natalie. She was angry enough that I took control the night she was unconscious not to tell me goodbye before I left. So, I say a prayer for Lucas, hoping it falls on God’s ears.

 

 When I told my parents I’d spent ten years in medical school only to use my license to help the less fortunate, making half of what someone with my education should be making, I thought my father was going to disown me. He worked hard and sacrificed so much to build his construction business from the ground up so we could live a comfortable life… so I could go to medical school and make something of myself. I was “wasting a good education” he had said with clenched teeth behind a glass full of amber liquid. No matter how many times I told him I didn’t become a doctor to make money, I became a doctor to help people- He still spent six months ignoring my calls. Then mom got sick, and he couldn’t ignore them anymore.

I look around at the desperation that surrounds me, and I don’t regret my decision at all. Yesterday the hospital had five doctors on staff. Today there are three. As the only public hospital for hundreds of miles, Gateway Hospital sees hundreds of patients every day. HIV, TB, and malnutritioned children are among the majority of the cases they treat. Over five-hundred babies are born in this hospital every month, but many of them will never see the outside of these walls or live past the age of three. To say it’s heartbreaking would be an understatement.  

  The cots fill up as soon as we can empty them. One of the elderly women keeps ripping and pulling violently at her clothing, shouting to the entire ward that she’s on fire. Her arms flail from her torso to her calves as she yanks and tugs at the fabric. I’m exploring areas I’m not yet familiar with to find a CNA to help me restrain her when I see Deacon talking to one of the male nurses just outside the waiting room. Dressed in all black, he looks like every sin I’ve ever wanted to commit.

  “I thought you said you aren’t a doctor,” I say, my tone light and a bit surprised to see him here.

His mouth twitches in the beginnings of a grin. “I’m not. But Dawie says he’ll welcome the help any way he can get it.”

“Dawie, huh?”

“Oh, we go way back.”

 His tone is light and perky, nowhere near the cold and dark voice I heard when we first met. I’m starting to like it. All of it. The light and the dark. A lot. I’m starting to like him. A lot. Or maybe it’s the him I imagined in the bathtub last night that I like. It’s probably just the orgasm. It’s definitely just the orgasm. I drop my eyes from his gaze, just in case he can see past them into my thoughts. I hate the way my body tingles in his presence, and I love it all the same. I hate it because it goes against everything I’ve tried to keep on the backburner for almost two years. And I love it because it makes me feel alive and sexy.

He walks away from Dawie to the nurse’s station, handing a piece of paper over the counter. When he moves, everyone around him pays attention. Deacon is like the sun. The rest of the world seems to orbit around him. I know I should keep my distance, but I’m drawn to his warmth. I have to remind myself to be careful not to get too close. Getting too close to the sun only gets you burned.

“Well, I hate to take you away from Dawie.”

“I’m all yours,” he says, with no idea how I wish that were true. At least for one night. Then he can go back to running from bullets, and I can go back to saving babies and taking care of my father. We’ll be continents apart, living our lives as though we never met. Nothing keeping us together except for the memory of a night well spent to help me rub myself to sleep.

Can I have a one-night stand? Am I even capable of it? Of all the clubs I’ve gone into looking for Natalie, all the men I’ve had to slip past or sweet talk, none of them have ever affected me the way Deacon does. I want his hands on my breasts, his mouth on my clit. I want to feel the heat of his cock inside me. To hear that voice in my ear, telling me what he wants, how good I make him feel.

For a split second, I forget about the burning woman and the two-hundred beds full of needy patients. Then, he clears his throat, and I startle back to the present.

“Sorry, these hallways are still new. Making sure we go the right way.” Lies. All of it. But, it sounds a lot better than, “Sorry, I was imagining your tongue on my skin.”  

I’m busted. The darkness in his eyes gives it away. He knows. And from the way he’s looking at me, he might have been imagining the same thing. If he was, he doesn’t say anything. The nurse behind the counter eyes Deacon carefully as he starts to follow me away from the registration area. She starts to say something, but something in the way he looks at her steals the words from her tongue.

“Visiting a friend. There’s no form for that, is there?” he says, as though her answer doesn’t affect him either way.

She shakes her head, earning a smug grin from Deacon. I had to fill out enough paperwork to fill a novel, and all he does is smile. But I guess since he’s not the one handling patients, a smile is all he needs.

“There’s something I have to take care of first. Then, I can be all yours, too,” I say, a weak attempt at flirting. I have no doubt he sees right through my inexperience, but he remains a quiet gentleman.

 He follows me down a short hall to a large open room full of cots separated only by faded red curtains, avoiding the passing glances of hurried nurses as though he belongs here just as much as they do. The woman is still screaming and ripping at her clothes.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” I tell him, pointing in the direction of the woman. “There’s no way you’re going to restrain her,” he says, ignoring my suggestion to stay put and somehow knowing exactly what I planned to do.

“No, but I’m hoping your friend Dawie can.”

 “Do you have access to twine?”

Twine? Why would we have twine? And what’s he going to do with it? “Maybe in the children’s unit. For balloons.”

“Good. I’ll go get it. You don’t need Dawie.”

 What is he going to do? And of course, I need Dawie. This woman is pumped up on fear and adrenaline. I’ll never hold her down long enough to administer a shot of Ativan. I spend the next five minutes talking to and soothing the woman, convincing her to let me put my hands where she feels the pain. She relaxes long enough for me to check known tender points, from the back of her neck to the front, just near her larynx, then to her forearms near the crease of her elbow. Every time I touch her she screams but manages to keep her hands under control. Deacon is back with a fist full of white rope. Where he found it, I can’t say. And what he’s going to do with it, I can only imagine.

“Deacon, there are rules. You can’t…”

I can’t let him touch her. Can I?

“I’m not going to hurt her. You have to trust me.”

 With the calm assurance of a confident professional, he instructs the woman to relax. And as though his voice holds the key to her tranquility, she obeys. He takes her wrists, making two loops with the rope, then threading them through each other until it looks like a makeshift pair of handcuffs. I watch in reverence as he pulls the rope over her wrists, locking them in place without hurting her. My pulse throbs in my neck as my heart pounds with arousal. My chest heaves with each heavy breath I take, never moving my eyes from his hands. Skilled hands. Capable hands.

“This is something I happen to know a little bit about,” he says, with a slight bob of his Adam’s apple when he finally looks at me.

“Boy Scouts?” I hope I said that out loud. I’m not sure I’m able to find my voice right now.

He answers with a smile, “Sailing.”

 Oh. Right. Of course. What else could it be? I’ve been reading too many romance novels. I regain my composure and act like the professional I am.

 “I guess it’s a good thing you showed up when you did, then.”

“I guess it is.” Deep blue irises sear into my darkest thoughts, calling out to parts of me I thought were gone for good. Raw, sexual power rolls off his shoulders in waves. Waves that threaten to sweep me up and take me under, leaving me breathless and fighting for air, then thanking God I’m a strong swimmer.