Page 175 of Fury

“I’ll make the coffee,” said that scratched, rough deep voice. “You take a shower and get that boy off your body.”

“Finger—”

He took a wisp of my hair and held it between his thumb and forefinger. “I liked your red color.”

“It hasn’t been red for years,” I replied. “It was green last month, in fact.”

Something resembling a grin twitched a corner of his lips. “Ah, Lenore.”

His scarred skin was more weathered than I last remembered. That voice, though. The way that scratchy, husky voice would coil around my name and jam like overloaded electronic circuitry in my chest. Oh, that was still there.

He rose from the side of the bed. “Get up.” He stood in the doorway facing me, his hands over his head, planted against the lintel. He waited, his lips tightening as our eyes held onto each other’s.

I got up from the bed, letting the sheet fall from me, the air rushing over my heated bare skin, and prowled toward him.

So many years, so long ago, and here he was now. How many times had I dreamed of this? Yearned for it? Then just as quickly tucked it away, hidden it, punched it, stuffed it back down as if it were a Jack-in-the-Box revealing a forbidding skeleton instead of a cute clown or a pretty fairy? Jammed it all the way in and locked it.

But I could never throw away the key.

I’d always fostered that tiny shard of deep dark hope.

I stopped before him, not two inches between his body and my naked one. “The coffee is in a yellow ceramic canister on the kitchen counter,” I said. “The cream’s in the fridge.”

His eyes didn’t shift from mine. Not one second. This stoic harshness of his sent a unique slow flutter right through me, a flutter that grew heavy, buckled and burned in my belly right up through my chest. A sensation I hadn’t felt for such a long, long time.

Since him.

He remained still, his face severe. Goosebumps raced over my skin, my nipples hardening at his insistence. No hurry, no shame, no petty civilities.

Never between us.

Gone was the joyful man I once knew behind the scars; this man was ruthless and unyielding.

He dropped his arms, moving just a bit to the side, no longer blocking the doorway. I peeled myself from the magnetic force between our bodies and brushed past him, my bare breasts grazing uncomfortably against his leather. Closing the bathroom door behind me, I gripped the sink and took in a deep breath.

Under the burning waterfall of the shower, I shampooed and scrubbed with a jumbo loofah and plenty of almond and Shea butter soap. I did it all over again a second time with another shower gel, and a third.

I quickly towel-dried my hair and threw on a matching pair of my own bright green handmade undies, a billowy cornflower blue kaftan blouse, and my faded cropped jeans. Bright colors always centered me, like the ink all over my body. Barefoot, my thick hair long and damp down my back, I left my bedroom holding my breath, not sure of what I’d find.

Why was he here?

Pale sunlight filtered through my bank of kitchen windows. A fresh day, a new world, a different time.

My favorite pair of antique glazed earthenware coffee cups stood waiting on the kitchen table. Finger sat in a chair, his long legs spread open, his one heavily ringed hand on a bulky thigh, the other wrapped around the oversized golden yellow and stone colored cup. His missing middle fingers were an oddly comforting sight. Familiar, intimate even. A chill stole over my spine, and I released a breath to get rid of it. Three silver chains hung down his still defined chest sprinkled with coils of dark hair and covered in more ink than the last time I’d seen him.

Years had passed by, separating us further. A raging river of different experiences, people, sorrows, victories. We were different now.

Weren’t we?

“Are you in Meager because of what Catch did last night?” I asked.

“I had to show my face and make sure things didn’t get out of hand. Were you there?”

“Jump found him and Nina together, it got ugly, and I left right after,” I said. “Everything under control now?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

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