Page 37 of Covert
I sit on the bed by the head, crossing my legs awkwardly since they're long, and let her take the lead.
"So, how do you want to start? What's more triggering? Touching or being touched?" She asks with an incredible lightness to her voice.She's smiling at me like we're about to play a game of Go Fish, not like she's going to try to help me get over my trauma.
But I don't know which would be better. Do I let her touch me, and when the world doesn't end afterwards, I'll be cured? Or do I touch her and maintain some level of control over the interaction?
Yeah. That one.
"Can I touch you?"
She doesn't hesitate, and my heart swells as much as it races. She reaches a hand between us, palm up, and waits.
The shakes start then. Small, little tremors in my hands. My heart beats painfully against the inside of my ribs, and my breathing quickens so much that I start to feel lightheaded.
She must see my hesitation because she tosses me a lifejacket.
"When we were younger, my brother and I got drunk off of our daddy's wine, stole his Ferrari, and crashed it," she says as easily as if she's talking about the weather. She smiles at the fond memory. "Got our asses tanned for that one."
The sheer absurdity of the story has pulled me out of my panic attack. "How old were you?"
"I was fourteen, he was sixteen?"
Fuck. She was so young. I wonder what happened there. Why is she no longer with her family?
"Ferrari? How rich was he?"
Her face falls.
"Really fucking rich. It was his fourth Ferrari."
Jesus.
I thought splurging on my bike after I got the job at the shop was a lot of money. I didn't realize she came from that much money. Andyet, she drives a beater and lived in a shitty apartment. Things must have gotten bad at home. Or dad died and didn't leave her anything. But her brother would have taken care of her, right? Unless he died too?
And that's when I realize. She's given me one of her illegal things that I can use as leverage. I have no proof that any of this happened, of course. I could never go to the police with this information. But I know she's trying. She's waiting for me, giving me all the tools to touch her.
I nod, and with shaky fingers, touch them gently onto her palm. My heart's racing, but after three, four, five minutes, when nothing happens at all, my heart rate starts to slow.
"Can I?" she asks, and although I don't know what she's asking, I find myself nodding.
She slides her fingers up mine until our palms are resting together. It's not quite holding hands, but it's a lot more contact than we had just a moment ago. The ease that was starting to settle has left again, and my chest heaves.
"How old were you when you went to prison?"
"Seventeen."
She looks at our palms, my huge one overtop her small one. Talking about things, making essentially small talk, is helping bring my focus to this moment, not to what happened before.
She slides her palm against mine in a featherlight contact.
"Is she still alive?"
I quirk my head. What a strange question.
"I... don't know. I got as far away from her as I could once I got out. The thought that she could maybe do it again..."
My entire world collapses to the sweet, tender, light touch between Nikki and me. I'm...doing it. I'm touching a woman, and it's okay. Of course, I have no guarantee what will happen in the future, but she's gone out of her way to help me, so there has to be some good in that. And she's been with us for months now. I've seen how thoughtful she is in her accommodations for me, how sweet she is even with Maddox's temper.
My foster sister always had a nasty streak in her - a manipulative one. I never saw it until the trial. I never believed in evil until that day. I thought people were bad, they were shit, they were weak, sure. But pure evil? Not until that day. Not until I watched her sob alligator tears and repeat, in detail, things I'd never done to her. She was probed and asked questions, and she didn't hesitate. She had an answer for every single one.
