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Shut the fuck up. Never use that again. She could be as calm as a glacier, patient as Job, and nothing would be fine. She was stupid to think anything would make it fine.
She barely managed not to break into a run, making her look more suspicious. When she chanced a look back, he was saying something to the woman, opening her door and waiting for her to go inside. Les’s steps slowed. She was further away, under the dripping trees, safe from being seen.
Brick turned and headed down the steps, probably to relocate his truck to the front of his own townhome.
Instead, he passed it and headed in her direction.
She bolted.
Stupid. If she’d just stayed still, he might have lost her in the dark, but running like a spooked deer…
Reaching the car, she folded herself into the seat with a wet squelch. She fumbled for her keys, while awkwardly trying to shut the door. She yelped, startled, as his hand landed on it, keeping her from closing it.
“It’s okay, miss. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know if you’re all right.”
He hadn’t recognized her. She’d bought the old beater with a loan from her mother during her second year, to make it easier to get back and forth from the hospital. He’d never seen it. Her head was down, and she hadn’t parked under a streetlight.
He also hadn’t seen her enough over the past few years to recognize her in these conditions. That cutting knowledge reinforced how crazy she was to have done this.
He clicked on his phone’s light and shone it into the interior of the car. First responder, no shyness about evaluating a situation. She didn’t look up as he muttered a startled oath.
“Les. What the hell?” He sounded as if he thought she were a figment of his imagination, which was fair.
She was still pulling on the door handle, a move as effective as pulling rebar out of concrete. He detached her hand, putting it back in her lap, and dropped to a knee. He pushed her wet hair out of her face, gripping it at her nape so her face was turned toward him. Hell, his touch felt so good. It penetrated the cold, finally making her realize she was freezing, and shaking even harder.
He followed the damp strands down to her shoulder and then paused, before he let his fingers drift to the necklace resting on her chest. Her father had put the cross around her neck the first time, his strong fingers caressing her with love and affection.
When Brick touched the cross and his badge, she knew luck wasn’t the only reason she’d worn it. Not that it mattered.
“What happened, baby?” he asked.
She stared at the wheel. “Nothing. I need—I’m going. I was just…stopping by, like you did, and it’s a bad time, and I’m on my way home.” Home being the exact opposite direction from school, and in North Carolina, not Virginia. Her lips were stiff, her voice croaky. “I need to go, I’m going.”
She was spun out like a car that had careened off the road and turned over, no way to get back on it.
“You need dry clothes. Put your arms around me.”
He leaned in, filling up the small space of her car. As she clumsily complied, he slid his arms under her legs and behind her shoulders. He lifted her out of the car as easily as she would have picked up her phone. After rising from the kneeling position, he settled her in his embrace and nudged the car door closed with his knee.
As he carried her to his porch, she wanted to drop her head on his shoulder, but hair was soaked. All of her was, so she guessed it didn’t matter. She was going to make his shirt wet. The heavy cotton carried hints of smoke, a touch of incense, and weirdly, isopropyl alcohol, like they used at the hospital. Also something floral she hoped wasn’t from the blonde. He hadn’t invited her home, and he hadn’t gone into her place. None of which changed how intimate they were with one another. They’d obviously had sex before.
The thoughts made her stiffen. She considered trying to leave again when he put her on her feet, but he held her by the arm as he pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked his door.
The panel was blue, with a silver knocker. White trim, solid black numbers. A mounted flag over them, illuminated by the covered porch light, rippled in the breeze, valiantly shedding drops of rain. It was an American flag tinted red, a firefighter flag.
He'd pushed open the door, but when she didn’t move, he eased her inside with a firm touch on her lower back. As he closed the panel and turned the lock, she stared at the floor. The tiled entryway transitioned to a cherry-gold hardwood in the living room. It was covered by a cream-colored area rug and sectional sofa. Directly to her left were steps to the second level. It had a black metal balustrade.
“I didn’t see a bag in the car. Did you bring any clothes?”
She hadn’t even brought a toothbrush. Her shaking increased again, body responding to the warmth of the apartment. She needed to say something, to explain herself. He was waiting for that, like any person would be. But each time she tried, her throat convulsed, and her body would jerk. She’d swallowed all of it, a poisoned meal too big to go all the way down or come back up. It was stuck high in her chest, making it hurt like she’d been beaten there with a fist.
“Come over here. Hold onto this.” He brought her to the sectional sofa and laid one of her cold hands on the top of it. The fleece throw folded there was soft against her icy fingers.
When he dropped to his knees to remove her shoes, peeling the wet socks off her feet, something inside her recoiled. Wrong. This was wrong.
But she couldn’t move. He put the footwear aside and untied the drawstring of her scrubs, sliding them off her damp underwear. When he rose to remove her shirt, that wrongness eased. He was standing. She could breathe again.
Her pink bra and panties were a modest cotton. It didn’t mean fuck-all, but in a less terrible reality she’d have been glad she coordinated the color before Brick saw them.
