Page 8 of Searching for Hope

“You take the bed and I’ll take the sofa. Your bag is over there.” He points to a corner of the room and walks toward the bathroom. “I’m going for a shower.” The door slams shut.

I walk over, pressing my lips as close to the crack in the door as I can without actually touching the surface. In my drunken state that somehow assures he’ll hear me better. “I don’t need to be here, you know. I could just leave. I’m doing you a favor, remember?”

There’s no reply. I hear the twist of the faucet, the rush of water as it pounds the floor of the shower, and then the way it’s muted as Jericho stands under the stream, blocking its path. I sigh and lean against the door, letting my head rest against the wood. It’s hard not to imagine what is happening on the other side. It’s hard not to think about the swans battling on his back as rivulets of water run over them, or the way his muscles would twist and slide as he runs the soap over his body.

I moan.

Actually moan.

And then I hear the twist of the faucet again and I run over to my bag, tear off my clothing, change into an oversized t-shirt and get into bed as though it’s where I’ve been the whole time. It’s one of those super king-sized beds that I almost needed a ladder to climb onto. The sheets are extra crisp and clean-smelling and I bury myself deep under the covers leaving nothing but my eyes poking out.

The door opens, letting out a billow of steam. He’s wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist as he steps out and strides over to the drawers. The two swans on his back dance in battle as he yanks out some sweatpants and pulls them on before grabbing the extra blanket from the cupboard and lying down on the sofa.

He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t say anything. The silence is more intimidating than his anger. I sigh loudly, hoping it might ignite some need for conversation within him, but all he does is roll over so his back is to me. His shoulder is exposed and catches the light from the curtains that haven’t been properly drawn. I study the array of feathers scattered over it, wondering what it would feel like to trace the pattern of them over his skin. He rolls over again and his eyes catch mine briefly.

“What?” It’s spoken as an accusation.

“That party we went to tonight wasn’t the sort of place we should be looking.”

“You don’t think I know that? I knew it the moment we stepped inside.”

“Then why did we go?” I’m afraid that he’s trying to shield me, that even though he said he wants my help, he’ll be like most of the men in my life and try to placate me instead of taking me seriously.

“Because that’s what you do. I will go anywhere and do anything to find her and bring her home to Ette.”

“So where did you find out about it? From that woman on the street?”

“She has a lot of connections but her leads don’t always work out. As you saw tonight.”

“How did you meet her?”

A frown presses between his brows and the ache to smooth it away physically hurts.

“Who?”

“The prostitute, the woman.”

Jericho doesn’t reply but his frown deepens even more. He rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. The line of light from the crack in the curtains cuts across his chest now. There’s only one feather visible and it looks as though it’s dancing on his skin. Jericho sighs and rolls over again.

“You don’t need to sleep on the sofa,” I say. “There’s plenty of room in the bed and it is your bed.” He doesn’t respond. He’s got his back to me again and I don’t know if he’s rolling his eyes in frustration or gritting his teeth in annoyance. Either response would be fine with me. I just want something, anything from him, even if it is irritation.

“Promise I won’t bite.”

He stands then, letting the blanket drop to the floor, and stalks over to the bed. Ripping back the covers, he lies down, again with his back to me.

It would be so easy to reach out and touch him. All I’d need to do is shuffle a little closer and then I’d be able to feel how soft his skin would be, if I’d be able to discern the lines of his tattoos under my fingers. Instead, we lie in silence, nothing but the sound of the vehicles along the street below to keep us company.

I’m not sure if I fall asleep, or if it’s only seconds later, but his voice startles me. “You need to be careful with the company you keep.”

A laugh splutters out of me. “Okay, Dad.” Clearly there’s still a lot of alcohol in my system.

“I am not your father,” he growls.

I know. I know only too well.

“Dominic’s a good guy,” I say. “He was pretty much my only friend at the dance company.”

Jericho turns onto his back. He rests his hands on his chest and stares at the ceiling. “Just a friend?”

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