Page 51 of Shattered

“You’re a pervert!” she shrieked, mortification and fury blending into one catastrophic sound.

“I’m not a pervert! You screamed! I thought you were hurt!”

“Well I’m not hurt, and you’re looking at me!”

“I’m not looking! I’m facing the wall with my eyes closed!”

“Get out!”

Something hit the back of my head. Soft but forceful. A pillow.

“I’m going!” I moved toward the door, my hands up like I was surrendering. My eyes were still closed only to run straight into her doorframe. Pain exploded across my shoulder.

“I’m going!” I groaned.

Behind me I heard rustling. Movement. The sound of fabric. Then a thud and a victorious “Ha!”

I risked opening my eyes and turning around slightly. Delia had put on a robe. Dark blue and tied tight around her waist. The towel lay abandoned on the floor. The cockroach was a dark smear on the wall where she’d apparently murdered it with her shoe.

“Got it,” she said, breathing hard, still holding the shoe like a weapon.

We stared at each other.

Her hair dripped water onto the hardwood floor. Her face was flushed pink, either from the shower or the adrenaline or the complete mortification. She looked furious and embarrassed and somehow still beautiful, which seemed deeply unfair given everything that had just happened.

“Get out of my room. Get out of my apartment. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“Delia—”

“Out!”

Another pillow hit me in the face. I retreated, closing her door behind me. From behind the door I heard her moving around. Muttering to herself in Spanish, which only happened when she was really upset. Probably planning elaborate ways to murder me.

I went back to the couch and my scotch, nursing it quietly. The image of her appeared in my mind again. Completely unbidden. Completely unwanted. I shoved it away violently because that was absolutely not something I had permission to think about, regardless of how it had happened.

Twenty minutes later her door opened. She was still wearing that robe. Her hair was still damp, hanging loose around her shoulders. Her face was still flushed.

“We are never—ever—speaking of this again,” she declared, each word sharp enough to draw blood.

“Agreed.”

“I mean it. This never happened.”

“What never happened?”

“Exactly.”

She grabbed water from the kitchen. Didn’t look at me. She disappeared back into her room without another word.

CHAPTER 12

Delia

I wasmid-correction with my student Elsa, guiding her arm into proper fifth position, when I felt it. That prickle at the back of my neck — the one that meant someone was watching.

I looked up.

Jake stood in the studio doorway.