Out of the Blackness (19 page)
He smiles and beckons me to him with one crooking finger. I can’t stop my feet from moving in his direction. As if watching from above, I see myself moving across the yard to the porch where Noah sits patiently, hand out, waiting.
“Give me your hand, Avery,” he commands gently.
Without wanting to and fighting it every inch of the way, I slip my hand on top of his, palm to palm. I shiver at the touch, eyes closing, stopping just short of rolling back in my head. Despite the night chill, Noah's hand is warm and rough against my own soft skin. He rotates his hand around and slides his fingers between mine, lacing us together loosely. I open my eyes to drink him in, knowing the panic can’t be far behind.
Instead of speaking, Noah just gazes at me softly, a gentle smile curving his lips. He squeezes my hand lightly and I return the gesture, surprised to feel the panic settle and recede. Behind his eyeglasses, his hazel eyes are clear and sparkling, even in the dim moonlight. I take the few remaining steps that bring me to his side, separated by the stair rail. His arm must be uncomfortable, the way it’s draped over the wood, but neither of us moves to disentangle our fingers.
In slow motion, I watch as Noah's other hand comes toward me. His smile deepens and those dimples pull me under his spell even more. I’m immersed in Noah but I’ve never felt safer. His long fingers brush my jawline as his thumb strokes my bottom lip. My eyes close again and I hear a sound emanate from my throat. Fire spreads through my body from where his thumb caresses my mouth. Unconsciously, my tongue moves to wet my lips and I taste him. That sound comes again, but this time I know it isn’t from me. He tastes salty and warm and foreign but wonderful. My tongue darts out again for another quick sample and this time it is me who makes that low, keening sound. His thumb moves to my chin and I slowly open my eyes, drunk from his touch.
“Win,” he whispers roughly and flashes those dimples again under heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re safe with me, little one. You always will be. You know that, right?”
I nod because I know somehow, somewhere deep inside that it’s true. Physically, Noah would never harm me, not while there was breath in his body. But emotionally? That’s something else altogether. I drink in the warmth and emotion in his eyes and take a step back. He lets me go without protest, that dimpled smile steady.
“Go back to the party, Avery,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna head home. But next year, I want my New Year’s kiss.”
Still drunkenly numb from the touch and taste of him, I merely nod. Touching tingling fingers to my lips, the spot he had caressed, I grin stupidly as I take a few steps back. With one last look into those hazel depths, I dart into the darkness and make my way back to the party through the gate at the side of the house.
I
prop my head on my fist and stare out the break room door. Noah should be here any minute for lunch, but until then I’m bored. It’s hard to believe it’s the first of February already. The ubiquitous Valentine’s Day decorations hanging and sitting all over the sales floor are enough to make me forever and always hate the color pink. And seriously, what’s so romantic about a book? Walter, as usual, has ordered more
Kama Sutra
-type books that, frankly, squick me out. It’s not hetero sex that does it, per se, just the idea of what those books are going to be used for when the purchasers get them home—if they even make it home. Last year I found more than a few of them sticky and discarded in the bathroom. I shudder at the thought. Poor books.
I’d wager my next paycheck Noah wouldn’t need a book like that. His hormones probably provided him with the perfect instruction manual as soon as he hit puberty. The way he walks around with so much confidence, I just know the man’s never struggled or been lonely in bed. Of course that brings images of Noah spread out in a big bed in just boxers. I close my eyes to see the image more clearly, even though I realize it’s a supremely stupid thing to do. I’ve never seen him naked, not even with his shirt completely undone, so how could my mental image of him be anywhere near the real thing? And why would I want to see the real thing? Unless—unless I was planning to have sex with him, which I absolutely am not.
Instead of the tsunami of panic that thought should—would normally—bring with it, the only things that rise are my temperature and the constriction level of my slacks. I shake my head hard to clear it of these flights of fancy and laugh a little awkwardly at myself.
We’ve spent quite a bit of time together since New Year’s Eve. It’s kind of hard not to when I’m cooking for him as much or more than I’m cooking for Sam and me. Cooking for Noah has been more fun than work, something I never would have expected. I’ve taken advantage of my employee discount more in the last thirty days than I have in the entire time I’ve worked at Flip the Page, and for cookbooks, of all things. So far, Noah has been eager, grateful and complimentary of my concoctions. I’ve only repeated one meal—sausage goulash—because he asked me to.
In thirty days we’ve smiled and laughed and talked about everything from our favorite colors—his is blue, mine came out “hazel” and I blushed furiously while he flashed those dimples at me—to world events, to my progress with Kendall.
In thirty days he hasn’t tried to touch me again.
In some ways, I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined the whole scene in Kaleb’s front yard, but then I remember the taste of him and I know I wouldn’t have made that up, not like the images of him in his boxers.
Kendall has worked me hard in the last month, but she insists that we can’t rush the type of emotional healing I have to do. I’m sure she’s right but I’ve never felt more alive than I have these last thirty days. Kendall keeps trying to prepare me for a crash, but how much further could I crash than where I was in November? Even that was progress from August—but August was an aberration. I feel more like myself than I have since then. What happened in August took me straight back to the depths of hatred I’d lived in for seventeen years, before Sam rescued me from state custody. I lived through that before—barely, but I did it. I know I can do it again, even if Kendall is right and I do crash.
I’ve never seen Sam so proud of me. Now when he comes home if there are worry lines in his face, I know they’re from the job, not me. As bizarre as it sounds, I’ve realized I need Sam to be proud of me, to see that all his care and sacrifice haven’t been for nothing. I need him to know I’ll be okay so that he can start living his own life, for him and Kira and the family they’re going to be someday soon.
It hasn’t been easy. Kendall’s a hard taskmaster. She still gives me homework, things to think about and to write about so the poison slowly drains from my brain and heart. I’m not there yet. I may never be. I still hear Mom’s and Carl’s and Tommy’s voices in my head telling me what a worthless waste of skin I am. But I believe them less. When Sam spends the night at Kira’s, I can even sleep in my own bed. Well, it’s only happened twice and the first night I lay awake all night, but it was on my own bed, not in the closet. The second night, I actually did sleep for a few hours.
The drawings have come easier, too. They often leave me feeling creative and happy instead of empty and frustrated. The one from yesterday is my second favorite so far—right behind the rendering of Noah’s blue plaid shirt, which is now framed and sitting on my nightstand. The one I did yesterday is actually a picture of something instead of just impressions of my emotions—or some cotton cloth. I sketched a closet with a bed pallet. Although the clothes in there aren’t mine, the pallet is. I drew the pallet half out of that sanctuary. It’s an accurate representation of the fact that I find myself needing it less to escape into and more for just a place to store clothes. I’m making slow but steady progress and that fills me with hope and happiness.
“So what’s on tap today, little one?” Noah asks with a smile as he comes through the door.
I smile all the way up at him and take the lid off his main dish, keeping the small one covered. “Grilled lemon chicken with wild rice and green beans.” I bring the still covered dish closer to me. “And if you’re good, a dessert.”
His eyes go wide like the smile on his face. “Orange Fluff?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Something new.”
Noah shakes his head and sits down. “You’re too good to me, Aves. When I asked you to cook for me, I never expected this.”
I shrug and wait for him to take his first bite before tucking in to mine. “It’s nothing. I enjoy it.”
He chews, issuing an appreciative moan that warms me from the inside out. After swallowing, he says, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it because I know I am. I haven’t eaten like this since I left my mom’s house. And honestly, I’m not sure her cooking could compare.”
I feel the heat in my cheeks. I should be getting used to Noah's easy praise by now, since he’s so liberal with it, but it always surprises me. In all the months since we met, I’ve never heard him say a negative thing. Even when talking about accidents that have happened at work or his own father’s death, Noah finds something positive to pull out of the situation. I’ve never known anyone like him.
I’ve never tasted anyone like him either. The color returns to my cheeks at the thought and when I glance up at him a little smirk crosses his lips like he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. Truth be told, it’s been almost all I can think about since the moment it happened. As crazy as it sounds, even to me, I wish it would happen again so I can savor the moment. I know it’s not likely to ever happen again. I know Noah was trying to comfort me and show me that I actually can trust him. He can’t possibly be interested in a relationship or even just sex with me. He’s positively the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, tall and masculine and confident in a million ways I’ll never be. He’s sexy with all those muscles, not too much, just enough to show he works hard with them and he knows they look good on him. He’s sweet and kind and gentler than his hulking size would indicate. So what would he want with me?
I sit my fork down and look into my lap, overcome with a tidal wave of desperate longing. I haven’t let myself realize until just this very moment how much I really do want Noah to want me. But the problem is, even if he does, I’m incapable of giving him what he wants. It’s another abject failure on my part that I can’t ever measure up to what he wants, what he needs. And it hurts more than I ever could have imagined.
Noah's hand gently covers mine where it rests on the table. I blink away the threatening tears but I don’t move my hand away. I need his touch right now to lessen the blow to my heart. Perhaps he knows everything because when he whispers, “Aves,” I could swear I hear pain in his voice, too.
Noah's thumb caresses the pulse point on my wrist and I watch through watery eyes, lashes and too-long bangs. “It’s okay, little one,” he soothes. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, you know you’re safe here with me, right?”
I nod even though right here with him is exactly where I shouldn’t be. I want it too much, whatever it is we’re doing. I know that being with him will only make it worse, make me want it and him more. So why can’t I pull away and put distance between us? Why does the thought of not seeing him at lunch almost every day make me want to hold on to him like I would Sam?
Slowly, I turn my hand palm up and straighten my fingers. Noah manoeuvers his hand so his thick fingers slide between my thin ones and he closes them over me protectively. I grip him fiercely for a moment before letting my hand go limp. “We can’t,” I whisper.
His thumb continues to stroke the back of my hand. What is it with his thumb? Always his thumb. “Of course we can,” he says lowly.
I shake my head and pull my hand from his. He lets me go without resistance and I can’t help but hope his grip on my heart will relent as easily. I push back from the table and take my plate to the trash where the scrape of stainless steel across ceramic is the only sound in the room. Silently I rinse and dry the dishes and stow them safely away in the carrier I bought specifically to bring our lunches. I feel Noah's eyes on me the whole time but only when I’m finished does he speak his nickname for me again in that low, gentle voice.
“Little one….”
“Eat your dessert and go, Noah, please,” I whisper.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I can’t.”
“Okay,” he says. “There’s no rush, Aves. We do everything on your timetable.”
I turn to look at him and he holds his hand out to me. Just like that night, I’m drawn to him by a power greater than me. I slip my fingers between his and close the distance between us. When I’m close enough, he leans his forehead against my stomach and inhales deeply. I stare down at his head of handsome blond hair, aching with the need to run my hands through the short strands. Somehow the feel of him against me grounds me again, sets the hope free and banishes the fear. He turns those deep pools of hazel bliss up at me and smiles tenderly.
“This is nice,” he almost whispers.
I give a shaky laugh and move to sit back down so he won’t notice the effect his touch has on me. If I’d wondered if my body liked the feel of him, I had the answer now and it was a resounding, tingling yes. With fumbling fingers, I uncap his dessert and push it toward him.
He looks in at the overly generous helping and flashes those dimples at me again. “I love cherry crisp.”
“I know,” I answer, the blood rushing to my face again, where it is much safer.
“How?” he asks, offering me the other spoon.
“Kaleb told me.”
Noah takes a bite and closes his eyes with pleasure. I swear the man loves dessert more than any child. He swallows and fixes me with that hazel stare again. “Delicious. That settles it. There’s only one thing for you to do.”
I swallow my own much smaller bite and smile back at him. “What’s that? Make more?”
“Nope.” He grins and digs in again. “Become my personal chef for life.”
***
Two nights later, I finally relent to Sam and Kira’s endless cajoling and agree to accompany them to a pre-Valentine’s dinner and movie. They claim they’re still going to do their own thing on Valentine’s Day; they just want to have a little quality family time with the three of us. Walking back into my room from the shower, I nearly jump right out of my skin at the sight of Sam rummaging through the clothes hanging in my closet.
