Page 44 of Huntsman
I take a step toward the pullout couch but abruptly draw up short and pivot, stalking across the buckled and scarred hardwood floor toward the seedy studio apartment’s tiny kitchen. I yank open the door of the refrigerator that was probably popular about two decades ago and pull out a bottle of water. Grabbing a towel off the top of the fridge, I drop it on the floor and shove it against the bottom to catch the water leaking out. With more force than necessary, I unscrew the cap and tip the bottle up to my mouth. I down half the contents before retracing my steps across the room. Only when my ass hits the seat of the chair do I notice the bright brown-and-green gaze on me.
Nah, that’s not right.
Ifeelit on me first.
The tiny hairs on my arms stand at attention, quiver as if a breeze ghosted across my skin. Only, every instinct I possess relays it’s not the air from the ancient window AC unit causing the reaction. The insubstantial yet tangible touch is too primal. Tooher.
I’ve known Eshe Diallo a handful of days—and I useknownvery loosely since my dick in her mouth doesn’t really count—and yet I recognize her touch to the very marrow of my bones.
To my nonexistent soul.
She doesn’t move, and neither do I. We engage in a visual standoff for several silent moments. But I’m the master at being quiet; she can’t compete.
“Well, I’m not dead, though I feel like fucking deep-fried death.” She closes her eyes, a faint wince playing over her strained but beautiful features seconds before she fixes her stare back on me. “What happened?”
Not surprised she doesn’t remember, I say, “An explosion. From what I could tell, it probably came from under the ring, since it and the area surrounding it got the worst of the blast.”
“How bad?” she asks, voice flat, face blank.
I shrug a shoulder. “I didn’t stick around to assess the damage, and with the smoke, people, and debris, I couldn’t really tell at the time. But the shit didn’t look good.”
She nods, the thick fringe of her lashes hiding her eyes from me. Part of me wants to march over to the bed, grip her scratched chin, and demand she look at me. Insist she let me see those eyes so I can decipher what’s going on in that sharp mind.
But I remain with my ass rooted to the chair. It would be a colossal mistake to voluntarily touch this woman. Shit, in my head, I’ve committed this cardinal sin so many different times, in so many different positions, Satan is looking at his watch, waiting on me like,Ticktock, bitch. Ticktock.
“I need to get in touch with my girls. Where’s my phone?”
“Fuck I look like? Your errand boy? It’s probably under a pile of cement blocks and shit. You lucky I got your ass outta there.”
“Dammit.” She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, and Istare. Hard. I want that juicy, lush flesh in my mouth. “I have to check on my Seven. See if they’re okay.”
The worry and frustration in her voice shouldn’t do anything to me. But the fact she’s just woken up after being caught in the blast of a bomb and her first thought is for her people? Yeah, as much as I don’t want to admit it, that does something to me.
“I have burners. I’ll get you one.”
“Thanks.” She narrows her gaze. “Why did you?”
“Why did I what?” I ask, lost at the sudden switch in topic.
“Why did you get my ass out of there?”
I stare at her, unblinking. No way in hell I’m answering that.
Mainly, because I still don’t know the answer to the question. Even if I did, I wouldn’t give her what she wants. Because something tells me I wouldn’t like the truth.
“You haven’t asked where you’re at,” I say instead.
“Don’t need to. Your Dorchester place.”
Shock ripples through me, and it takes every bit of self-control I possess not to allow my expression or body betray it. But Jesus Christ. How does she…?
The shock hardens into a dark block of ice that settles in the middle of my chest. The cold seeps into my veins, my blood.
“How do you know that, Eshe?” I ask, the emotion as empty as my conscience.
A smile ghosts across her full mouth, and I zero in on the wound bisecting the corner of her bottom lip. She either doesn’t know how close she is to death or doesn’t give a fuck.
Since she is who she is, I’m going with the latter.
