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Truth was, I didn’t care if he saw me naked. The cat was out of the bag already––he’d seen the scars, witnessed me at my most vulnerable. Laid bare, exposed, I had nothing else to protect.
Turning, he assumed a position. Legs splayed apart and arms crossed. His back muscles bunched and flexed. Which, Lord help me, had me close to drooling. Had I not been seriously injured I would’ve jumped him. It had to be the concussion. The concussion had to be the reason for this over-the-top reaction I was having to him. Yes, I’d always found him attractive, but that didn’t justify the drumbeat I could feel between my legs at the sight, sound, and smell of him now.
Slowly, I slipped off the hospital gown and the pants Scott had pinched from the ER. My sports bra had been removed in the hospital. All that was left was to ditch my underwear and draped the towel over my bits. It covered my breasts to the very tops of my thighs. Good thing I’d kept my waxing appointment when I was in New York.
“Ready.”
Turning, our gazes locked. He’d shed any pretense of indifference, just as I had. Undeniable interest lurked in his eyes. Picking me up once again, he held me above the water. As a general rule, I hated the feeling of being at someone else’s mercy––out of control of my own destiny. But as it turns out, Scott was more solid than I’d ever imagined. More reliable. Not just in size and strength, but also in character. I was beginning to discover he was the kind of person I could lean on.
Mischief shined in his eyes. “Scared I’m going to drop you?”
“No,” I lied, as I dug my fingers into the thick part of his bicep. “I’m assuming these aren’t a product of your personal trainer.”
He shook his head as he stared at my mouth. His knees buckled a fraction, pretending to falter, and I screamed. Clutching his neck tightly, I inadvertently jammed his face against my barely covered breasts and laughed, the sound bouncing off the high barreled ceiling and marble walls.
“Asshole!”
“I thought you said you weren’t scared?”
My laughter died as he lowered me into the water. No regard for the sleeves of his shirt. The towel floated away, but my smile remained.
“Too hot?” he asked, his voice as sweet and rough as rock sugar.
“It’s perfect…feels good.” The heat worked its magic, getting into my muscles and bones and soothing all the aches and pains brought on by a high-impact crash on frozen ground. I sank under and dunked my head. When I came up, he was sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the tub. One leg bent, a thick sinuous wrist resting on top of his knee, the other leg straight. For the next few minutes, the only sound to breach the silence was the sound of water moving, the standoff fraught with tension.
“Are we going to talk about it?” he finally said in a quiet voice.
Sighing, I swallowed down the embarrassment and pushed aside the shame. “What do you want to know?”
“Who did that to you?” His voice was underscored with so much palpable fury I debated how much to tell him.
I’d never talked about it with anyone other than my therapist for a number of reasons. Most of which were all on me. The number one reason: I didn’t want to be perceived as weak, as a “survivor.”
I didn’t survive anything. I thrived despite my history.
“My grandfather…my grandmother’s weapon of choice was a solid wooden spoon she liked to use on my knuckles when I was really young––”
“How young?” The words sounded like they’d been pushed through a grinder. The tendons on the side of his neck were painfully taut. I wanted to kiss him there, kiss away the pain and turn it into pleasure. Let him give me some in return.
“Five…around five. He started in with the broken fishing rod when I was ten. Only the tops of my legs so no one would see. Didn’t want anybody at church talking. You know––because that was important.”
“Sick fucks. Was that how they justified it?”
“No. I’ve met plenty of religious fanatics and some were perfectly nice people. My grandparents hid behind religion, but they were standard-issue abusers. Told me repeatedly it was for my own good.”
“And your parents?”
“They were teenagers. My mom got pregnant at sixteen. Dad was seventeen. They ran away and were killed in a car accident in Oregon––outside of Portland. I was three at the time and somehow survived. My grandparents on my dad’s side didn’t want me so Bill and Claire Evans took me in. Tried to fix all the ways they went wrong with my mother.”
Scott reached into the tub and fished out my hand. I gave it to him willingly. Later, I would see it for what it was, his tender heart offering to share the pain. In the moment, however, all I knew was that it felt good to tell him. We’re not built to be alone. We need to connect. We’re designed to seek common ground, to hold each other up, to nurture one another. And he did that for me instinctually.
