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It’s an even greater risk to peel my own clothes off before I help her out of hers. I let her go only long enough to undo the button on my pants, kick them aside. I follow with the shirt until I’m standing in front of her naked without even the protection of my usual knife.
Her friend’s dried blood has stiffened her shirt and makes it difficult to remove. I drop it to the floor, followed by her bra, her pants, her underwear. And without a thought to her nakedness—even the tiny glimpse I allow myself shows small but round breasts, full hips, lush golden skin—I guide her into the shower and step in behind her. She’s underneath the spray with her head drooped when I grab the soap and wash her off. Taking the liberty to soap every inch of her hands and arms, her armpits, her legs.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything for your hair. I’m a simple man.”
I run the bar of soap through her hair but she stays silent.
“I’m sorry if it gets tangled,” I finished.
The only movement she makes is to reach out to brace a hand against the tile to push back slightly when I start to massage her scalp.
With the shower done and her body clean, I cut off the spray and move to grab a towel for her, dripping across the floor. By the time I turn around Layla is out of the shower, the only move she makes toward my large tub. Her gaze dips down to the porcelain and she runs her fingers over it silently.
A soak.
Yes, I understand.
Without speaking, I turn on the faucet to start filling the tub with hot water.
When it’s about a quarter of the way full and steaming, she climbs in and sits with her arms around her knees in the water. Fragile. It’s startling to see her this way. She’s unwound and the pieces of her scattered. The pieces of whatever mask she cobbled together to cope with her mother’s suicide and her father’s murder.
It’s something no one should have to deal with, not if there’s any grace out there. I might say the same for my own upbringing but I’ve made peace with it.
For the most part.
“I’ll leave you to soak. If I can trust you.”
She shifts to look at me. “Please. Stay.”
It’s a lot for her to even ask such a thing. How can I refuse her? It's such an intimate thing, though. I push against my inherent discomfort at getting this close to anyone, let alone a woman. This woman who is so much more than capable of digging her way under my skin and staying there. She’ll either compromise me to the point where I never recover or she’ll ruin me entirely.
But her lower lip trembles once before she locks it up. And what other choice do I have?
“Gabriel?”
I tune back in and climb into the tub behind her, rubbing her shoulders again because that seemed to help her before.
It’s long moments before a coil inside of her seems to snap loose. Layla moves, shifting out her legs to lean back against me. I wrap my arms around her, her back against my chest and my dick snugly pressed to her ass although there’s no desire for sex right now.
Only this fucking strange, uncomfortable intimacy.
“I don’t have many friends,” Layla murmurs. “Even the wordfriendmight be a stretch. Taney and Devan were the only people I’ve had any sort of consistent relationship with, and now she’s gone. Where does it leave me?”
I stay silent and trail my fingers along her arms to help dissolve some of the tension.
“She died because she tried to warn me about something. Something about the club.” Layla hiccups, swallowing hard over the sound with a vengeance.
“She died because someone shot her. It had nothing to do with you, Layla.”
She curls up closer to me. Too small, too delicate. “Everyone I love goes away, Gabriel. They disappear when they’re too close to me.”
What should I do? How do I help her when I’ve felt that way all of my life? I’ve managed to make a life for myself where not only do I not get close to people, but letting them anywhere near becomes a liability.
“Small talk…isn’t my thing. But you’re wrapped so tight, you’re going to get yourself killed hunting down closure to this case, on top of losing your friend.”
My fingers wander, of their own volition, and she lets me touch her.
This, I think as I trail a soft touch up to her pubic mound. This I know how to do. This is all I’m good for—a physical relationship.
