Page 94 of Long Way Down

He’d texted her back right away – too quickly, really, because he’d betrayed his eagerness – and she’d saidyeahto his question about bringing dinner with him.

Now, he was wondering if he should have offered to take her out instead, as he sorted through the laundry on his top bunk, searching for the least-wrinkled t-shirt of the bunch.

He was also thinking, against his will, of Ian’s sharklike gaze in his office earlier, and wondering what the lump in his stomach meant should he reach a point where he had to stand between Dixie and his club.

~*~

She’d told Pongo to be at her place at nine, which gave her time to arrive ahead of him and take a long, hot shower. She should have used the time after, while her hair dried and curled on the shoulders of her robe, to break out her notes, take a pen and a fresh notebook and try to make sense of all they’d learned so far in their various interviews. Should have made coffee, and dedicated herself wholly to the case, in the scant handful of minutes that were hers and hers alone, without any distraction.

But when she considered that, standing in front of her fogged bathroom mirror, toweling her hair, every fiber of her being recoiled from the idea. If she pulled out her notes now, she thought she might cry.

Instead, she tweezed her eyebrows, poured herself a whiskey, and was pleasantly warm inside and humming with positive tension when the buzzer sounded.

She set her glass down on the coffee table and went, barefoot and still clad in nothing but her robe, to unlock the door. Sheneededthis; needed to get out of her head for a while and justfeel, nothing but heat, and pleasure, and want.

But then she opened the door, and that tense, distrustful mood of their parting washed over her, dousing the heat in her belly.

Pongo stood in the threshold smelling freshly-showered and dabbed with cologne. His hair was still damp, springy curls lying on his sun-browned forehead, where the freckles were faintest. He held a six-pack in one hand, plastic takeout bag in the other, and above the citrus notes of his cologne, she caught the scent of garlic bread…because he was young, and goofy, and lacked all the seductive prowess of a man who would have anticipated garlic was a no-go on a booty call.

An impossible fondness flared to life, followed by a prickling of guilt. He’d shared a bit of his history with her, his dark, bloody secret, and she’d turned away and given him nothing. Had been unable to recall Ivy’s slack mouth and sightless eyes, the hand around her own throat, and put any of it into words, the way he had with his own disillusionment.

He smiled, but his expression was careful, like he had no idea what to expect from her; a little nervous, even. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she echoed.

He lifted the bag, plastic crinkling. “I brought pasta.”

She nodded. “Smells good.”

His gaze never left her face, and she found herself reaching to tuck the lapels of her robe together over the V of skin she’d left exposed across her chest, modest, suddenly. Standing barefoot on the rug, she had a horrible realization: this thing with him, whatever they were doing, wasn’t nearly as casual as she’d hoped. If it was, she would have grabbed his cut – beneath which he wore a delicious, beat-up old motorcycle jacket flashing with a half-dozen zippers – and dragged him into a kiss. Would have pulled the tie on her robe and urged his hands inside, until they were surging and wrestling one another on the couch, banging elbows and knees on the coffee table, the way they had once, early on. If it was truly casual, the conversation they’d had last time would have been forgotten – wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

But she could sense him stepping carefully around its edges, too, wondering what sort of mood she was in, unsure of how to proceed. It didn’t matter that he’d been sentenced, served his time, and that she could in no way harm him legally over it: he’d shared something intimate and devastating with her. She’d failed to reciprocate, and now here they stood, squared off from one another, the spiller and the selfish receiver of a secret that involved a man’s death. The trust he’d shown, a Lean Dog confessing such a thing to a cop, wasn’t lost on her. A trust that had chased away all her avaricious thoughts upon sight of him, and left her clumsy and nervous.

“Smells good,” she finally said, and stepped back to allow him in.

She took the bag and beer from him while he took off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket and cut – a loss, really, given the fit of the jacket – but the navy t-shirt he wore beneath clung to his shoulders and tapered waist in a way that served as compensation.

In the kitchen, she got out forks and plates, set up places for them at the bar and unpacked the disposable tins of pasta. She heard Pongo come into the room, and open one of the beers, but he didn’t speak, and that gnawed at her until she couldn’t take it anymore.

She turned, and caught him mid-sip. He paused when her gaze landed on him, and slowly lowered the bottle, chasing a drop across his lip with a flick of his tongue. It was so distracting, sent such an immediate pulse of heat through her belly, that she blurted out, “Why did you come?”

He frowned as his arm lowered. “’Cause you asked me to.”

“Yeah, but…” She chewed at her lip, aware that she was about to sabotage her whole evening, unable to help it, for some reason, so full-up with sentiment. “Last time, I was…” There were too many ways to finish that sentence, in her mind:Last time, I was a bitch. Weird. Cold. Unsympathetic.

But his brow smoothed and he murmured, “Ah.” Slowly, as though trying not to startle her, he leaned forward and set his beer bottle on the counter. After, he edged into her personal space, close enough to touch, though his hands stayed at his sides.

“About that.” Color dusted his cheeks, a faint rosiness beneath his freckles. “I, uh, I tend to run my mouth. It’s a problem. Everybody tells me so.”

She deflated. “Oh.” He hadn’t meant to tell her, then, or regretted that he did. “I didn’t–”

“I’m not worried you’ll go talk about it or anything,” he said, cutting her off in a rush. “I know you wouldn’t. I just…shouldn’t have dumped that on you like that.” His smile tweaked to the side, edged with apology. “I know you didn’t wanna hear it and we’re not…like that, you and me.”

“I did wanna hear it,” she said, and surprised both of them, if the way his brows lifted was any indication.

“You did?”

“Yeah. I’ve been curious about what makes someone want to become a Lean Dog. Now I understand a little better.”

---