Page 22 of Rough Daddy
"The way you won't touch me. Like I'm made of glass. You said you hurt people."
"Youaremade of glass." He resumes brushing. "Delicate things break easy."
"I’m not that delicate. Trust me.”
"Maybe. But I'm not willing to find out." His voice lowers, his breath coming closer to my ear. “All brushed through. Now, you braid it.”
“Oh no, mister. You said you would braid it. You don’t want me to cry like you threw my favorite stuffie on the fire, do you?” I poke out my bottom lip and he rolls his sexy blue eyes.
“Fine. Show me.”
I bounce onto my knees on the mattress next to him. "Okay, now watch." I reach back, parting my hair into two sections, then separating the right side into three sections. "Right over middle, left over middle, right over middle..."
I turn my head. He’s watching intently. When I reach the end, I hand him the elastic. "Your turn."
"I'll mess it up."
"It's just hair. You’re not going to pull it out, are you?"
He grimaces, jaw locked.
“Fine.” His thick fingers sweep down the hair, careful not to actually touch my head. He starts slowly, and I hear him repeating my instructions under his breath for the first few movements. “Right over middle. Left over middle…”
I smile. He’s surprisingly deft for having such big hands. He gets it wrong twice, but patiently undoes it and starts over.
The third time, he works it all the way to the end, even snapping the elastic on with a low sigh.
"There." He sits back, like being this close is breaking some solemn vow.
I reach back and check his work with my fingertips. "Perfect."
"You always braid it when you sleep?"
"Always. It’s better for your hair. Less breakage."
"Right, I remember."
Something shifts in the air between us. His body tenses.
Wait.What? I turn to study his face. "What do you mean, you remember?"
Color rises in his neck as he clears his throat. "I mean... I figured. Most women with long hair..."
"You said ‘I remember’."
"I meant, I remember... what my nieces said. Or my brothers’ wives. I don’t know, I just remember."
I wiggle my tongue into my molar, thinking. Then I shake my head. Something feels fishy here, but why? What could he be hiding?
"You should get some sleep,” he says. “Alcohol actually prevents the brain from sleeping as it should, so you need more hours than usual."
He's deflecting. Again. Always deflecting when things get too real. "Beau."
"Go to sleep." Standing, he marches toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Couch."
