Frayed Rope (8 page)

Chapter Eight

Showering was a circus act. My balancing on one leg limited what got washed, so aside from conditioning the bird’s nest and only soaping what my hands could reach without bending over was the extent of the task.

After I’ve dried off, unsuccessfully, I throw on my robe and use the doorframe for balance so I can cross the hall to the laundry room. I know there's a clean pair of loose yoga pants and a few tanks in the dryer.

“Hold on, Elle.”

I shriek at the sound of his voice, since I’m pretty fucking certain it hasn’t been twenty minutes.

“Cocksucker, you startled me!”

I take a deep breath while balancing in the hallway.

“I told you I’d be back. Maybe I should’ve brought some soap for that filthy mouth of yours?”

He doesn't say it like he’s offended. No, he says it in a deep bedroom voice that suggests he’d really like to know what else I can do with said mouth.

A lot,
I think to myself.

“Just caught me off guard,” I say, a little more breathy than intended.

His long legs move toward me as he wraps an arm under my shoulder to help support my weight.

“Laundry room?”

He starts leading me that way after I nod. He’s changed into a long sleeve Henley most likely because I’d soiled his other shirt with sand and sweat when he carried me home.

“Thanks,” I manage to say as I close the door behind me, resting my forehead against it.

Fuck, I hate this. I’ve never been the shy girl. Hell, I’m still not. A year ago he would’ve been in the shower with me, and I wouldn’t be searching the dryer for clothes twenty minutes later. Or at least I hope not. I think he can handle more than twenty minutes. Hell, he can probably handle hours judging by the build of his muscular body.

I throw on a white racer back tank and my yoga pants, all the while trying not to whimper too loudly at the strain from trying to get my legs through them. There are no bras in here so I tie my robe back on over top and open the door to head back toward the living room.

He’s standing in the hall waiting for me and once again leans down to lift me up. He carries me back to the sofa where he deposits me before doubling back toward the hallway.

“Where are you going?” I can’t help but ask.

Before I get my answer he’s coming my way with a pillow from my bedroom and a towel from the bathroom. I guess he likes to help himself.

He gently lifts my leg and places the pillow underneath it with the towel on top.

“You need to keep it elevated. And I’m pretty sure you don't want any of the muscle salve on your pillow.”

Attractive and thoughtful. Also, two qualities you rarely find in the same man. Shit, he’s going to be the end of me.

His fingers lightly run down my ankle and off my foot. It’s insane to think that that simple a touch is practically my undoing. But when you haven’t had physical contact with another human being for over a year, apparently it doesn’t take much.

He lifts the pillow along with my leg and settles it on his lap. Salve in hand, he opens the lid and fingers a good portion of it before setting it down beside him and moving his hands toward my leg.

I hiss at the first contact of his fingers with my ankle. He smoothes it out using a gentle rhythmic pattern with his hands. I’m tempted to close my eyes and revel in the feel of him touching me, but I don’t want to relax myself that much around him yet. I’m still wary around people, especially those of the opposite sex.

I didn’t do much in terms of relationships after my family was taken from me, but I did have the odd random hook up for casual sex.

Nothing meaningful—nothing memorable. Nothing that came close to how I feel right now this close to him on the couch.

I’m not sure how much time has elapsed before he speaks again.

“You’re different, Elle.”

Wow, not sure where he’s going with that one but way to break the ice with a woman.

“Gee, that a compliment neighbor?”

He looks up at my face and studies my expression before continuing.

“A major part of the jobs throughout my life Elle have been studying people, learning what makes them who they are, sometimes before they know themselves. Understanding what they do, and what moves their going to make before they take the first step.”

I can understand what he’s saying. If he was a soldier, or whatever the hell it is he does, that would be one of the main attributes of the job, knowing the people around you, knowing your enemy better than you know your friends. I’m sure it’s what keeps the men in this town alive overseas, able to come home to their families.

Sometimes I wish I could’ve been that observant of the people in my life and my surroundings.

If so, it may have saved me many days in hell.

It may have even saved my family.

“You don't like new people. Actually, I take that back. You don't like unknown people, especially not in groups because there’s too many to try and read at one time. It makes you uncomfortable not knowing who they are and who you can trust.”

He resumes his ministrations and moves toward my knee, keeping his eyes on mine.

“It takes a lot of time for you to trust someone, I get that. I can even understand it. You don’t know me Elle, but give it time and I promise I won’t let you regret it.”

I don't know where he’s going with this but damn if he didn't hit the nail on the head with that one. As much as I’d love to have a come to Jesus with this intoxicating man I need to remember why I’m here.

“Is there a point to this story, soldier?”

His hands stop their journey north and he turns his head back to face me.

“I’m not a soldier anymore, smartass.” He says with more force in his tone than is necessary. “You would know that by now if you weren’t trying to push me out your door as quick as I came in. I moved on from that part of my life a long time ago. I do security work now, and occasionally help train on base.”

This is news to me, not that I thought I knew him at all. But seeing him jogging that day in Jacksonville near the base I put two and two together. Or so I thought.

“A long time ago. How old are you Mr. Callaghan?”

“Thirty-seven. Spent twelve years with the Marine Corps out of high school and the rest building my security business in Jacksonville. What about you Elle?”

The tone in his voice suggests his pride toward his company and he seems genuinely interested in my answer. Unfortunately there’s not much I can tell him.

“You mean how old am I or what do I do?”

“How about both?” he sincerely asks.

Christ, if it were only so simple. However the thought of saying I was a waitress (as per my social security info from Tiny) seems incredibly fucking dull compared to my old life. Nothing against waitressing, it was my first job in high school and it kept my gas tank full. But it’s a far cry from what I used to do.

“Thirty.” That should do it, and perhaps we can bypass the rest.

Ryder nods his head. I think he understands he's not going to get much more than that.

“Fair enough, beautiful. Maybe one day you’ll realize I’m not someone to be afraid of and you’ll tell me the rest.”

His genuine interest is heartbreaking. How long has it been since someone seemed genuinely interested in me, not just because they wanted to know my business. However, the beautiful comment puts my guard back up. I’m a miserable bitch most of the time. I’d say I’m ugly from my scars but I believe it’s my heart that's the ugliest at this point. And if he’s referring to my face as the beautiful part, I’m not sure I can take it as a compliment since it’s a purchased and altered version of my former self.

“We’ll see.”

It's the best response I can give him. He has yet to break eye contact and resumes his massage of my calf muscles as I close my eyes.

“You want to throw the TV on?” he asks, most likely understanding we’re not going to sit here and make small talk about our lives.

“I don't usually watch it, but Tom won’t quit paying for it.”

“Well, as much as you may find your dog’s snore soothing, I’d prefer listening to the news.”

He reaches over my legs for the remote on the coffee table.

“Don’t you have your own TV to watch?”

I can hear the smile in his whiskey rough voice when he responds but I don't dare open my eyes.

“The company is better over here. And before you assume that I’m giving you a compliment, which I’m certain you’d reject, I was talking about the dog.”

The first genuine feel of a smile touching my face is the last thing I remember before falling asleep.

Attractive, thoughtful, and funny to boot.

I’m fucked.

* * *

I look out the window and see the sky is not quite dark yet. It’s early evening and I’m feeling a nice little buzz after my dinner and drinks at Frank’s.

Frank’s is one of the few small dives to get a beer and a burger in this town and it’s only about a ten minute walk from home which is a bonus. I’m alone tonight which is normal. Once a week for as long as I can remember I indulge solo and entertain Frank with my wit. In turn he feeds me and makes sure my beer stays full. I quit coming in for a while after the accident that took my family, but soon realized a little bit of my old routine might do me some good.

Frank’s was my first paying job as a teenager. He and his wife Megs were good to me, and we’ve remained close. The older couple acts as surrogate parents to just about everyone in this town. Not afraid to dish out advice whether you want it or not, and not afraid to call your spouse to come and haul your ass home when you’ve had too much to drink.

They’re good people, and their little hole in the wall bar serves the best homemade burgers you’ve ever eaten.

“I’m outta here Frank, I’ll see you next week.”

He looks up from where he’s polishing the bar.

“Don’t remind me darlin’,” he jokes, shaking his head.

“You love me old man, don't forget it. Give Megs a hug for me when you get home tonight.”

I wave as I make my way out the door. My wit isn’t accompanied with my usual bright smile, but I’m slowly getting there.

Walking home alone in this town is not something to fear. I can’t say everyone knows everyone here but it’s pretty damn close. I guess you could say every fifth car you pass on the street is an acquaintance. I get a few waves as I make my way around the back of the establishment toward home.

I’ve walked this route a hundred times, from when I was a child until now. I used to live east of Frank’s when I was a kid until I moved away to University. Now, and for the past eight years I’ve lived northwest in my own little two bedroom bungalow on Peters Road.

I make my way through the parked cars out back, not rushing, just enjoying the calm summer night air when a hand reaches in front of me. I go to turn right and see who the arm belongs to, but his other hand grabs hold of my hair. I panic, and swing my arm in front to brace myself on a lamp post and then bring the other back to elbow him in the ribs.