Let Me Count The Ways (22 page)

“Sorry,” I mumbled, lowering myself into the Jaguar’s front seat before my legs gave out. “I didn’t mean to accuse you. I know you wouldn’t do anything like that on purpose. Sometimes I... sometimes I say things without thinking. Dumb things. Things I don’t even mean.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mike replied dryly, walking around the car and opening the driver’s side door. “So, where were you anyway?” he asked as he settled himself in the driver’s seat.

Where was I? Confused, I looked at him questioningly. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Just for curiosity’s sake. So I can see exactly
how big
an idiot I’ve been.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, still puzzled. “Where was I when?”

Mike turned to stare out through the windshield. “When you didn’t return my calls on Saturday, I figured you were ignoring me. That made me mad. So I decided to drive into town and have it out with you.” His lips twisted. “But I couldn’t find you. I went to your house first. You weren’t there. Next I stopped by the exercise studio, but they didn’t know where you were either, or so they said.”

“They didn’t,” I interjected quickly, not wanting him to think I’d told them to lie.

“Right.” He sighed and went on. “So, I didn’t know what else to do. I drove around town for a bit but I was too angry to go home. I went back to your house and... ah, crap, I still don’t believe it.”

He passed his left hand over his face, scrubbing violently. His other hand was fisted on the console between us. I covered it with mine. “And what?” I asked finally.

He shook his head. “And...congratulations. I’ve finally become the stalker you always thought I was. I spent most of the weekend camped out in front of your house waiting for you to return. It’s a wonder none of your neighbors noticed or called the cops.” He turned his head and met my gaze. “So? Where were you?”

I opened my mouth to answer, to tell him all that I’d been doing while he was searching for me, waiting for me, risking embarrassment for me, sleeping in his car...

The soothing Acutonics sound therapy, the relaxing Thai massage, the crystal infusions, the oxygen facial, the full-body mojito sugar scrub, the mud bath, the herbal wrap, the manicure, the pedicure, the sauna...

Oh, hell, no. I could
not
tell him about the spa. I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“I guess not.” Glancing down at my hand clasping his, Mike shook his head. “We really fucked this up good, didn’t we?”

I didn’t ask him what he meant by ‘this’. He could have been referring to any of a half dozen things and his assessment would still have been accurate. I nodded. “Yes, we did.”

We lapsed into silence. He didn’t withdraw his hand though, I counted that as a good sign and left my own where it was as well.

Time passed slowly.
It’s just like a wake
, I thought at one point, but again held my tongue.
I’m learning
, I thought sadly, even though it seemed like a clear case of ‘too little, too late’.
I’m finally learning to keep my mouth shut.

Shortly before dark, word filtered down that the fire had been contained. We hurried to join the crowd clustered around the barricades, eager for news and listened while the Fire Marshal announced that, although the danger was past, no one would be allowed back in until morning.

“Why don’t we go back to my house now,” I suggested as we turned away.

Mike shook his head. “No. You go. I’m staying here.”

“Mike, come on, you can’t spend the night in your car.”

He snorted. “Sure, I can. What’s one more night?”

“Really dumb, that’s what,” I snapped. “And what about food? Have you eaten at all today?”

“I’m not hungry,” he replied sounding petulant.

“No? Well, I am.” I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Considering the amount of food I’d eaten the two days before that, it was no wonder I was suddenly famished. The break-up/brush fire/spa cuisine diet might not ever catch on, but it was effective as hell. I felt like a wraith.

“Claire, just go,” Mike sighed. “I’m not driving all the way back into town tonight. I doubt I can even get my car out until they open the road back up in the morning anyway. And even if I could, I wouldn’t go. I want to be here early.”

“There’s lots of motels out on the highway,” I pointed out. “That’s not very far, is it? And I’m parked out that way anyway. Let’s get a room. We’ll still be close enough to get back here early in the morning. Plus you’ll be in a lot better shape to deal with... with whatever you have to deal with... if you’ve had a meal and a shower and slept for a few hours.”

He said nothing, but I could tell he was wavering.

“Come on,” I pressed. “You know I’m right.”

“Fine,” he said, giving in at last. “You win.” Then he glanced down at my feet. “You walked all the way up here in those? Nice shoes.”

It took me a moment to realize he was being sarcastic. I looked down at my feet and wiggled my toes in my strappy, open-toed pumps. They had been nice--once. But they hadn’t been designed with this type of terrain in mind and their metallic, cracked-leather finish was all but wrecked now. I shrugged. “What can I tell you? It seems like neither one of us have been very lucky with our plans lately.”

It took us a while to get back to my car and I have to admit my feet were aching by the time we did. I slid behind the wheel, kicked off my shoes and sighed in relief.

“Omigod,” I groaned when I checked my reflection in the vanity mirror. My face was in worse shape even than my shoes! Tracked by sweat and coated in dust and soot, it was almost unrecognizable. “No wonder I couldn’t get those cops to listen to me. Look at this--I’m a wreck!”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Could we just get going, please? I’m sure we’re not going to be the only people looking for a place to stay tonight.”

“All right, all right,” I muttered, making a couple more ineffectual swipes at my face with a tissue I’d taken from my purse. “I can’t really do anything about this now, anyhow.”

We had to try several motels, but eventually we got a room, took quick showers to wash away the heat and the grime and then went down to the adjacent restaurant for a light dinner--salad, burgers and iced tea for both of us, most of which Mike left untouched.

He was still acting distant and uncommunicative and as much as I would have liked to talk about my change of heart, I didn’t. He had other things on his mind tonight, I thought, and, frankly, I didn’t even know where to start.

On the television over the restaurant’s small bar the news showed pictures of the fire. Mike’s gaze strayed back to the screen again and again. My heart broke at the despair in his eyes.

“She’s going to be okay,” I murmured finally.

He looked at me, saying nothing, his disbelief obvious.

“Birds have all sorts of instincts, don’t they? Like with earthquakes and things. They probably face this sort of danger all the time in the wild. I’m sure they always know how to get to safety.”

He shook his head sadly. “Not always. Not when they’re trapped in a house. Besides, she can’t fly. I clipped her wings, remember?”

I hadn’t remembered, actually, although I nodded just the same, just as though I had. In my mind, however, I’d seen a different picture. I’d seen a smoldering tree branch fall through the bathroom skylight, opening up a hole in the roof. I’d seen Zoe winging her way to safety, a small, bright spot of gold, brilliant and beautiful, against dark clouds of smoke.

In my mind, I still refused to see it any other way. She was free, safe, untouchable, clever. Smart enough to know when to stick and when to make a break for it, to know how to avoid injury, how to protect herself, how to stay alive.

“You have to believe it Mike,” I said as I picked at my salad, doing my best to appear confident, unconcerned. “You have to tell yourself, over and over, that she’ll be okay. You have to see it with your mind’s eye.”

He stared at me for a moment, then he shook his head, picked up a fry and began to eat. “Sure,” he mumbled between bites. “Okay. Why not? I’m good at imagining stuff.”

After we ate, we went back to our room. Mike sat down on one of the beds and stared at the floor between his feet. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and change my clothes--having finally remembered during dinner that I still had my overnight bag in the car. When I returned, wearing my very favorite, brandy-colored satin and lace peignoir, he still hadn’t moved.

“You look tired,” I told him.

He nodded, his face wooden, his eyes still focused on the carpet. “I am. Very tired.”

He also looked like he’d stopped believing and was back to fearing the worst. “Maybe you should get into bed, “I suggested.

“I will,” he muttered. “In a minute.”

I busied myself applying face cream and hand cream, covertly watching him through the mirror. I wondered if we would be using both beds tonight or just the one. I wondered how to ask without embarrassing us both. Or whether I even
should
ask. Maybe I should just assume.

A minute passed. Two minutes. He got as far as taking his shirt off and then stalled again. He looked so sad, it wasn’t hard to guess what he must be thinking about. His house. All the bad choices we’d made recently. Zoe.

To be honest, I was having a hard time staying positive myself. Every time I thought about it, I found it hard to breathe. And even though I knew it wasn’t
really
my fault, it still felt like it was. My chest felt tight, weighted down with guilt and grief and shame. I was sure Mike must be feeling and thinking the same.

If Zoe was dead, even if Mike didn’t blame me for it, I would still be a reminder of everything that had gone wrong, of everything he’d lost. But, most likely he
would
blame me and, either way, I wouldn’t be surprised if he never wanted to see me again.

If Zoe was dead... but no, I could not, would not think like that. Until I knew otherwise I would keep believing, I would keep hoping. And I would do whatever I could to keep both our minds focused on something--on anything--other than what we might find tomorrow.

That decided me. Crossing the room to where he sat, I went down on my knees on the cheap carpeting.

“What are you doing?” Mike asked, sounding alarmed, as I lifted one of his feet.

“Taking off your shoes,” I replied calmly, evenly, even though I thought that should have been evident. “And your socks. You weren’t planning on going to bed with them on, were you?”

He shook his head. “No, but I can undress myself, you know.”

“Well, obviously you can’t, Mike. You’re just sitting there.”

“Claire, that’s not the point.”

“Hush,” I said, quieting him with a finger against his lips. “You’re tired. Don’t fuss so much.”

He looked annoyed for a moment but I pretended not to notice. Taking his foot between my hands, I began to massage it. I sighed in relief as I felt him begin to relax. He wasn’t the only one with talent in this department. If he didn’t already know that, he was about to find out.

“Stop it,” he protested when I switched feet. “You don’t have to do this.”

I looked up at him. His face was bleak, stern. I smiled at him anyway and murmured playfully, “I know I don’t
have
to, Mike. I
want
to.”

His gaze slid away from my face. He shrugged. I took that for acquiescence and continued. But a couple of minutes later, when I’d finished with his feet, when I’d slid my hands up his legs and was reaching for the waistband of his jeans, he stopped me again.

“No,” he said as his hand clamped down on my wrist. “That’s enough now.”

I looked up at him questioningly. This time his eyes met mine and stuck. Emotions I couldn’t identify swirled in their depths. Anger, hurt, pain, longing, lust... or maybe a little of each. I swallowed hard. “Please, Mike, I want to. Let me do this.”

I took my free hand, the one he wasn’t holding, and reached up to frame his face. “Please?” I repeated quietly. “Please let me.”
Let me help you, let me have you, let me love you
. I didn’t know how to phrase it, what to ask for, so I didn’t even try. I just repeated, “Please, Mike?”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then finally, reluctantly, he nodded, braced himself on his hands and leaned back.

I undid his jeans and began to tug at them. He lifted his hips briefly to help.

“So... do you go commando often?” I teased when I realized he was wearing nothing under the jeans.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t want me undressing him
, I thought hopefully.
Maybe he was just feeling shy.

But he shook his head and his expression hardened, dashing my hopes. “No, hardly ever. But I got distracted Saturday morning. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Saturday morning. Right. My spirits sank lower as I thought about it, as his meaning became clear, as I remembered his rush to dress Saturday morning--perhaps in hopes of stopping me before I left.

I should have recognized the jeans when I first saw him today and, perhaps, without the smoke and the soot and the two-days’ wear, I would have. He mustn’t have changed, or undressed, or even really slept all that much in the two days since I walked out on him. No wonder his cock was so soft now.

It had been a rough couple of days for him and a lot of that was my fault. I could hardly blame him for not wanting me. But I wanted him and I refused to be disheartened. He might not be all that interested right this second, but I could change that--I had to believe that, too.

Once his pants were off, I pried his legs apart and pressed closer, licking slowly along his inner thighs until he groaned softly, helplessly, low in his throat. Glancing up I could barely keep from smiling at the sight of his shaft lengthening and swelling. He groaned again and the sound set all my nerves to vibrating. My pussy throbbed, aching to be touched, to be filled. But tonight wasn’t about me. Tonight was for Mike. Even if I never had him again, I’d have him now. And I’d for damn sure give him something to remember me by.

The musky smell of him filled my lungs as I kissed and tickled and teased his sac with my lips and tongue. I breathed in deep. I wanted to remember him, too. I wanted to remember his scent, the way he looked and felt and tasted. I wanted to imprint it on my brain for always, forever.