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But surprisingly, he does neither of those things. He turns around to face me, leaning his hips back against the counter, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
Wearing only underwear and leather gloves, he should look absolutely ridiculous, but somehow he doesn’t, and I don’t even understand how that’s possible, but there it is.
“No. I didn’t start wearing them right away,” he says. When he speaks, his voice and words are very even, very careful, not even a hint of emotion bleeding through.
“When, then? Why?”
“We came over here in the summer. August.” The scarred side of his face twitches on that last word. If they came here right after the fire, then his mom must have died in August. “My skin was too fucked-up, and it was too hot to wear gloves. And then, even in winter, I didn’t wear them because my skin was still a mess and having fabric rubbing on them was annoying. And then it was summer again. Honestly, at that point, it never even really occurred to me to cover them up. I just didn’t look at them.”
I take a shaky breath, willing myself not to let any tears fill my eyes. But it’s hard. Because thinking of someone that young – only fourteen – not even able to bear looking at a part of their own body, makes me want to break down. And I know that the last thing Elio would want is my pity. If he sees that, he’ll shut down completely, and I really don’t want him to. I want to hear the rest of the story. I want to know what’s happened to him, what’s made him who he is.
“One of Uncle Vinny’s contacts in Montreal who helped us get settled ran this fur and leather shop. Coats and wallets and shit like that. It was our second winter here, and my uncle made Curse and me go over to his buddy’s shop to help unload a big batch of new inventory. Even after almost twenty years, I still remember how opening all those boxes made my hands hurt like a motherfucker.”
He stops, looking lost in thought for a moment, then shakes his head.
“Anyway, I opened this one box, and it was just pair after pair after pair of men’s leather gloves. All black. Big seller for the season, I guess. And I don’t even know why, but instead of putting them away like I was supposed to, I took out a pair and put them on.”
He pauses again, this time for so long I think he’s finished speaking. But then, as if waking from a dream, or coming up for air, he breathes in sharply and continues.
“I was able to look at my own hands for the first time in more than a year,” he says, and I don’t even dare to breathe for fear of interrupting him. There’s an instinct inside me that tells me Elio doesn’t tell this story to anybody. Ever. That he might not have even told it to me under different circumstances, or on a different night.
“There was no scarring,” he said. He stares down at his hands now, flexing them in the air like he’s both looking at them in the present moment and remembering looking at them in the past. “No redness, no memory of fire burned into my skin. There was just this smooth, perfect, opalescent black. Fucking flawless. Like my hands were made of fucking iron or something. Like they weren’t even mine.”
He lets his hands drop.
“Ricky must have seen something on my dopey face and took pity on my sorry ass, because he let me keep them and gave me a bunch of extra pairs too. I’ve worn leather gloves every day since then. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes,” I say quietly.
“Good. Did you pee yet?”
“No.” I sigh.
“Well then.” He gives a short nod. “You know what to do.”
And I suppose I do. Because he’s told me.
I cast my eyes down to my feet on the floor, force myself to relax, and finally pee.
“Good girl,” he says, never letting his gaze stray from me as I wipe and then flush. I grimace at the red splotch on the toilet paper as it swirls around the bowl and then disappears.
As promised, Elio makes sure I wash my hands, looming behind me and handing me a towel at the precise moment that I need one. He stays close as I fetch new panties and a fresh pad and then slides into bed behind me. He curls a strong arm around me, hoisting my back against his chest and nestling his chin atop my head.
At least there’s no erection pressing between my thighs this time, no unbearable, throbbing arousal inside me, but I still don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep like this.
Except I’m absolutely wrong. Because sleep comes for me, and it comes quick.
When I dream, I dream of leather.
Chapter 7
Elio
I’ve never been one for sleeping in. Never really saw the point. Too much shit to do, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, yadda yadda. Besides, the more I sleep, the more chance I have of dreaming, and since my dreams often resemble something akin to one of those medieval paintings of Hell, I like to try to avoid that when I can.
But here? With Deirdre in my bed? It’s fucking paradise. I don’t want to rouse myself. I just snuggle closer, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair, letting the strands tickle my nose. At some point during the night she’s rolled over, and I’m no longer spooning her from behind but facing her head-on. Her slender leg is slung over my hips, her crotch pressed against my rapidly hardening cock as she dozes. I crack my eyes open, almost as if to make sure this shit is actually real.
She’s so damn pretty. Her expression is all relaxed and innocent in sleep, soft little breaths puffing in and out, her long lashes casting morning shadows on her freckled cheeks. Her hair is dry now, and honestly it dried kind of fucking wacky, all kinky and tangled, spread all over the pillow. I brush a stray strand away from her face and grin at the way her nose wrinkles up in response to my touch.
