Page 6 of Covert
And my blood runs cold.
Has someone taken something from her that she didn't want to give? Has she been in the dangerous situations she described?
"Have you been...?"
She shakes her head quickly. "No. I take Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu for self-defense. Maybe that's one of the reasons I'm not afraid of your size. I know I could take you. But if I can't see it coming..." she trails off sadly.
I nod, not wanting to press her, and eventually her eyes snap back to mine.
"Okay, so triggers." She takes a sip of her iced coffee and waits.
I shrug. I've never really thought about them. I've existed in this miserable bubble of anxiety for five years now. Leana knew to avoid me, I avoid going out, and don't have women as clients. That's been my coping mechanism, just a lot of avoidance.
"Women in general?"
She nods thoughtfully, running her thumb over her bottom lip in a way that is incredibly distracting.
An incredibly inappropriate thought of her lips wrapped around my thumb pops into my head, and I grimace. Maybe all men are monsters, but thinking about her sexually feels like sexual harassment. Allowing her to participate, unknowingly, in my sexual fantasies feels just wrong. She mentioned casually that I'm "gorgeous" and "if I were her man". I do allow my brain to wander down that path. If I weren't broken, would I ask her out? We'd go to dinner and a movie. I'd hold her hand as we walked and kiss her goodnight.
Longing like I've never felt before, squeezes my chest and makes me rub my sternum absentmindedly. I haven't thought about a future with a woman since the trial.
When I was sixteen, I had some idea of evil. I knew it existed, but it existed "out there". I never truly understood evil until I watched Samantha lie to the judge and jury about details that never happened. How I held her down, how I tore her underwear, how I held her mouth closed with my hand. Suddenly, evil was very much real and standing in front of me, condemning me for life as a registered sex offender. I was stunned into silence that day and could do little else but argue that that never happened. That she was lying, and that I was studying in my room when she said it supposedly happened.
We walk back to the shop together. I'm being rude and not really listening to her tell me about her job at the library that she just lost. I'm in my head, ruminating about Samantha, my life avoiding half of the population, and what that longing for a future with a woman means.
***
The next day, we open the shop around noon. We closed at midnight last night, so we have a late start this morning.
When we pull up on my motorcycles, though, the shop lights are already on, and the metal protective door has been opened.
"Did fucking Nikki forget to close up last night? I'll murder her," Maddox says, fuming.
He stomps over, throwing the door open roughly, ready for a fight, but when he spots Nikki's bag on the counter, his tirade stutters.
Nikki's in the back, on top of a ladder, screwing in some kind of round mirror into the corner at the ceiling.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" Maddox shouts at her, rushing towards the ladder. I wince. Maddox is a hothead, but I really wish he wouldn't take it out on her. However, she doesn't seem in the least bit phased.
"I'll show you, gimme a second," she says, sliding the tip of her tongue into the corner of her mouth in concentration. Fuck, she's cute. I'd stayed up all night ruminating on the past, the present, and the future. And one very terrifying thing stood out during the hours of restlessness. When I pictured a future, it was only with one woman.
Nikki.
She'd seen me, my size, tats, and trauma, and demanded that I acknowledge that what happened to me wasn't my fault. She believed me without question and trusted me immediately. That kind of faith rocked me to my core. If there was anyone I was going to try to be better for, it would be her.
Terrified of what that means, I tucked that fact into the back of my brain early this morning and vowed never to look at it again.
Satisfied it's screwed in well, she slides the screwdriver into her mouth and starts down the ladder. Maddox grips her by the hips to guide her down like she's about to fall. His anger has turned into frustration and fear for her safety.
She gives him a quick "thanks," and folds the ladder before leaning it against the wall.
"Look," she says, walking up to my supply cart and tugging it to the chair closest to the mirror. "If Beckett works from this station, with this mirror, he has a 365-degree view of the shop. He can watch any woman who comes in and know where they are at all times. And!" she says excitedly, holding up a finger. She rushes to her bag, and all I can do is stare at the brilliant smile on her face.
She pulls out a bracelet-looking thingy covered in tiny bells. She bends down and attaches it around one ankle. She lifts her foot and gives it a little wiggle, setting the tiny bells off and sounding like Christmas.
"Now you'll always know where I am." She beams at me, and my heart squeezes painfully. She went out of her way to make accommodations for me. To reduce my overall anxiety about women in general.
Emotion clogs my throat, and I wish with every fiber of my being I could hug her, hold her, thank her with my body and not my words. I clear my throat, attempting to rein in my gratitude. Maddox rubs the back of his neck and stares at the floor. Axel, being Axel, makes a joke.
