Page 31 of Flame
Chapter Seven
It’s starting to become normal, waking up to the scent of coconut, wrapped in warmth. Like this, I can forget everything else. At least until a heavy body stirs beneath me.
“You’re late,” someone commands against my ear, his voice gruff with sleep. “I expect my employees to be on the floor by nine a.m. sharp. I should dock your pay. How are you going to convince me not to?”
I open my eyes, stretching out my sore limbs. Gray daylight paints the room in hues of silver, giving everything an ethereal glow. The warmth cocooning my body only enhances the serene mood. I feel a childish desire never to move from this spot.
Going off Rafe’s relaxed expression, I think he feels the same—if only my hip wasn’t resting directly over a particular part of his anatomy.
“Even unconscious, you’re a cock-tease,” he remarks, his gaze heavy-lidded. “You can’t even have mercy on an injured man?”
I roll off of him, observing the rest of the apartment. While we slept, reality didn’t recede an inch—his blood paints a trail across the floor, and that infamous case is still in the entryway. I toy with the idea of seeing its contents for myself. Facing the truth might brand the harsh reality into my skull—this man is dangerous—a criminal.
As if sensing my train of thought, he runs his hand down the middle of my back, contradicting the hard image of him I should maintain. “We’re starting over,” he declares. “I’m a new man, bunny. On the up and up, remember? I’m making money the legal way. After last night… Don’t hold that shit against me, deal?”
I stand rather than answer, approaching one of the windows. The street below is mostly empty apart from the average passing car, but no police cruisers—for now. Still, I’m not comforted.
Branden’s deadline rings loud and clear inside my head—But will he if he knows the truth, Hannah? That you’re out here selling sex tapes on the internet while he funds your education? Or your school…
“You okay?” Rafe demands from behind me. I turn to find him on his feet, grasping an armrest.
“Are you?” I toss back. Some of his color has returned, but his chest looks even worse. I’d be surprised if his ribs aren’t broken. The pattern of bruising makes it clear what may have caused the injuries, though. The unmistakable imprint of the sole of a shoe. Or a boot. “God, Rafe,” I whisper in horror. “Maybe you should go to the hospital—”
“I’m fine,” he snaps. To prove it, he staggers into the hallway, moving with the speed and gait of a seventy-year-old man.
I follow him into the bedroom, where he makes a show of fishing a clean pair of clothing from his wardrobe. Only to howl in pain the second he tries to strip his bloodstained pants.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Let me.” I cross to him, dropping to my knees.
If I weren’t already aware of how this position may look, his low, agonized grunt would reinforce the awkwardness plenty.
“Damn,” he rasps.
I look up to find his lower lip seized between his teeth. “If I knew that getting fucked up was one way to get you on your knees, I would have gotten my ass kicked sooner.” His voice is too husky to entirely be joking, his mouth twisted in a grimace most men might sport when having to choose between life and death.
I don’t know what possesses me to run my fingers down the length of his inner thigh. He groans, his head shooting back. Then he sighs.
“Not nice. Sadly, I’m gonna have to take a rain check,” he says. “But damn, do I intend to make it worth your while when I can move without wanting to cough up blood.”
I shiver at the promise, but when he winces in actual agony, my brain shifts gears. I gingerly ease his jeans down his legs and help him step into a fresh pair. When I grab a shirt for him next, however, he scoffs and lumbers into the hallway with his chest bare.
“Give me a few minutes,” he warns near the bathroom door. “If I scream, I have not learned how to piss one-handed. I’ve got a lot to work with when it comes to aiming.”
I roll my eyes and grab a fresh skirt from my pile in the hallway. After stripping my soiled shirt, I find myself pulling on the one he discarded—a gray graphic tee with a local sandwich shop's logo on the front. When he staggers from the bathroom a few minutes later, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind him.
God, I have to blink a few times to recognize this strange, different Hannah. She’s a mess. Wide-eyed. Dazed. Visible bruises mar the flesh near my right eye, and my jaw is a colorful array of browns and purples.
My collarbone draws most of my attention, however. Tiny marks stand out against the flesh there, left by nipping teeth. Days later, they’ve settled into a deep burgundy reminiscent of a certain dragon tattoo. I finger one, trying to decipher my reaction. It would be wrong to call them beautiful. Logically, I think they should disturb me just as much as the state of my face does.
I can’t even begin to fathom why they don’t.
“Come on,” Rafe calls from the living room. “I wasn’t kidding when I said we were running late. If I’m supposed to be a new and improved motherfucker, earning money through legal means, then I need a shop to work out of, don’t I?”
That question apparently ends in him limping down the stairs. He enters the front room and thumbs through an arrangement of flyers tucked beneath the counter.
“Where the hell did I put that fucking hardware brochure?” he mutters before withdrawing a handful of flyers with a triumphant grunt.
