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There’s no point in telling her that I got that impression too. If I dwell on it, I’ll become more irritated at being dicked around than I am now. “I’ll just leave my card.”
I pat the pockets of my suit jacket, trying to remember which one I put my business cards in, but Catherine turns from the oven, a single tray of whitecupcakes in her hands. She raises her eyebrows as I flounder. “I had them a minute ago.”
“Just sit.” She moves to a little kitchen table in the corner of the room. “I’ll call her now. Knowing Toni, she’s not far behind.”
She places the tray on a cooling rack on the table and starts towards the kitchen counter. As she moves past me in the close confines of the kitchen, I catch a whiff of the shampoo she used, something with vanilla in it. I stand completely still, trying my best to breathe regularly, to act nonchalant.
But I can’t look away.
So, when she reaches for the phone on the counter, I see the yellow bruises mottling the skin of both her arms. Before I have time to think, I step forward and clamp one hand on her wrist. My hand completely circles her; her skin is hot to the touch, oddly offset by a cold silver bracelet.
She freezes under my hold. Her entire body goes rigid as if she’s bracing for an attack. Her small hand clenches into a fist. A tremor runs through her and into me.
I realize what I’ve done the moment she looks at me. Fear bleeds from her eyes, and behind the panic, I can see her fighting the urge to react.
I loosen my grip instantly, but I don’t let go as I raise her left arm between us. I don’t touch the long lines of scarring marring her skin, two inches on either side of her inner elbow. The track marks are not small pocks, faded with time. Catherine’s scars are old, but angry and knotted, like someone’s taken a butter knife to the porcelain skin. Turning her arm gently, I let it rest in my palm and brush my thumb gently over the aging bruises. They are small and evenly spaced, perfect bruises from an iron grip. “What happened?”
I don’t make eye contact when she takes a small breath.
“Aiden…” She shakes her head, tailing off.
“A client?” I know I’m right by the way she drops her head, lowering her gaze. There’s only one other question I have to ask. “Was it consensual?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
But she doesn’t look up at me either.
“Okay.” Her skin under my thumb is impossibly soft, and it takes every ounce of objectivity I have to imagine why someone would want to mark it.
It is only when she reaches out her right hand and places it on my face, turning my head back to her, that I realize I still haven’t let her go. “I’m fine,” she says. But she doesn’t move her arm from my loose grip.
We stand there together, intimately connected, but neither one of us able to speak. Her palm on my face is cool and soft. Her eyes when she looks at me are dark with something that looks like lust. The slap of it is enough to have the rush of time starting up again. I briefly lean my face into her hand, prolonging the contact, drawing out the moment, before breaking away.
Gently placing her arm down by her side, I step back from her, needing the space to think. There’s no moment of peace. The second she’s two feet away from me, the guilt kicks in. “I’m sorry…” I begin, “for touching you without your permission. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay.” She smiles at me again, but this time it’s unsteady.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I know.” Her words come quickly now. “You just caught me off guard…Aiden? I mean, Lieutenant Flint…”
“Aiden’s fine.” My voice is gruff, rougher than I like. It is too full of all the things I cannot say to her. So, I don’tsay anything. I stand there like a complete moron, not knowing what to do or think or feel. It’s too much for me to control.She’stoo much.
“Would you-”
“I should go,” I say, feeling off balance. I don’t know if it’s because I scared myself by touching her or because someone else scaredmeby touching her.
But I don’t move.
“Would you like a cupcake?”
“…A cupcake?”
My mind is burning with the reply:No! I don’t want a cupcake!There’s so much else I want just then that the idea of food is literally ridiculous to me. But when I look at her again, Catherine’s head is tilted to the side, and she looks hopeful.
“Sure,” I find myself saying instead, unwilling,unableto disappoint her. “A cupcake would be great.”
She claps her hands together and wiggles her hips once, her face lighting up with so much pleasure that I find myself happy to have agreed. “These are the trial run for a kid’s birthday party. I’m still soliciting feedback.”
