Wet and Reckless (Private Pleasures 4)

What he actually did was wrap his hand around her ankle and ease her foot to the edge of the seat. Her stomach clenched as she knelt with her back to him, granting him unsupervised access to her injured heel. She couldn’t have felt more vulnerable if he’d told her to close her eyes and take a trust fall into his arms. Then again, she’d essentially done that when she’d passed out, and apparently, he’d caught her, so maybe she could trust him with this, too?

She balanced on her knees and counted the broken white lines bisecting the empty stretch of highway visible through the back window. Behind her, he got to work. He had a surprisingly gentle touch for someone with such a brusque attitude. Gentle and efficient. It took less than a minute for him to dab antibacterial cream on her heel and apply a jumbo Band-Aid. Yet somehow during that time, he managed to dissolve every ounce of resistance she possessed.

Whenever he leaned in, his hair grazed the back of her thigh. The light tickle left her fighting shivers despite the August heat and struggling to keep her breathing even. Did he know what he was doing to her? Did he feel it, too?

A tug on her booted foot pulled her thoughts away from her tingling erogenous zones. She twisted around in time to see his hot stare travel up her body to stop at her face.

“I want to check your other foot,” he said in a voice thick enough to tell her she wasn’t the only one getting a little something extra from playing doctor.

The air between them sizzled like lightning-charged ozone. Though he hadn’t phrased his words as a question so much as a statement of intent, he paused, hand wrapped around her instep, waiting for her to respond.

“That one doesn’t hurt.” Nonetheless, she relaxed her foot to let him to remove the boot.

“It’s intact,” he said briskly once he’d dispensed with her sock, but his hands were just as quick and careful as he placed a protective Band-Aid over her heel. A moment later, he uttered a soft, “Done.” His hair brushed the back of her thigh once more as he raised his head.

She twisted herself around to put some space between them but moved too quickly for her light head and ended up swaying as she dropped onto the seat. He grabbed her shoulders and steadied her. Gray dots swarmed her vision, but she blinked them away and focused on his face.

His brow furrowed. A corner of his mouth tightened. “Easy.” He released her shoulders slowly and kept his hands hovering there for a moment in case she toppled. “You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you, Roxy?”

Was she? Her hands shook, so she clasped them together and shoved them between her knees. The position brought her head lower, which helped. “No,” she insisted, as much to herself as him. “I’m okay.”

He hesitated for several heartbeats, and she felt the weight of his stare. “Stay,” he finally said and stood.

Sit. Stay. The single-word commands were getting old fast. Before she could share her disdain over being ordered around like a K-9, he leaned in the front seat and opened the glove compartment.

Was he looking for his citation pad so he could write her a ticket? Perfect. She had exactly eight hundred and thirteen dollars to her name. Whatever the fine for hitchhiking, her limited resources couldn’t take the hit. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her knees.

“Under the circumstances, I think we can skip the blessing.”

“Huh?” She raised her head and saw an energy bar and bottle of water in her line of vision. Surprised, she took both and managed a pathetic, “Thank you.” Nobody had taken care of her in a long time. She wasn’t used to it. Maybe that’s why a couple Band-Aids and a snack suddenly made her want to cry?

“Eat,” he ordered and got out of the passenger seat.

And bye-bye sentimental tears. Securing the water bottle between her knees, she peeled the wrapper off the energy bar and eyed the machine-extruded protein bomb. Not normally her snack of choice, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Her stomach leaped like a starved wolf when she bit into the bar.

By the time she’d swallowed the first mouthful, he was standing over her again, right arm braced on the open door, giving her a measuring look. She must have measured up, because he straightened.

“You have a pair of shoes in your bag that won’t do more damage?”

She gulped some water, nodded, and then started to stand. He stopped her with a shake of his head.

“Don’t get up. I’ll bring it over.”

Around another bite of energy bar, she called, “Thanks,” to his retreating back.

When he returned, she swallowed the last bit of the bar and licked her sticky fingers before rifling through her bag for her Wonder Woman flip-flops. She slipped them on and admired the contrast between the red, white, and blue rubber and her Purple Haze multi-chrome toenail polish.

“Do you own an article of clothing that doesn’t constitute a disturbance of the peace?”

She wiggled her toes to see the polish shimmer in the watery light and did her best to hold back a grin. He sounded so disgruntled. “Mama said never blend in.”

“Trust me, Roxy, you couldn’t blend in if you tried.”

He spoke the truth, and she knew it. She specialized in left of center. Felt comfortable there most of the time, but his words still hit a sore spot. Not blending in also meant not fitting in. She was a born outsider, but with Bluelick she’d let herself believe things might be different. After all, she had family there. Was it inconceivable to think she might actually belong? Having the local law dash that hope before she even set foot inside the town limits left her depressed.

And defensive.

She was fine on her own. Having musicians as parents meant she’d grown up on the road. That kind of life taught a girl to make friends easily—because the road could be lonely—and relinquish them easily—because another gig always beckoned. She had fun while the fun lasted and then made her way down the next sometimes-lonely road. Lonely she could handle. Tying herself to someone else had proved to be the dangerous thing.