Essence (Nectar 3)

He was at the top of the stairs, eyes on her, jaw working with tension, arms folded across his chest.

“I have been caged-up crazy. I was sure I’d feel 100% better if I could just go down to the butcher shop, grab some steaks like a normal person, come back and cook you a nice dinner. It was a block away and I had the dagger---”

“Kyla, seriously!” He was pissed. She could see it. She could feel it.

“Do I need to remind you that there’s a lot fucking going on here? Do I actually need to go over that with you? Cause you can’t have forgotten…”

“Tristan, I’m just feeling caged. I…” she stopped talking. There was nothing else to say. She knew her argument held no water whatsoever. The fact that she was even trying to defend herself was idiotic.

“Fuck!” he bit off.

His eyes went darker. Not black, but definitely darker.

“Kyla, I was so fucking tweaked on the way here from the airport it wasn’t remotely funny. I can’t shake anxiety about your safety after all we’ve been through so far. I need you to please find a way, baby, to dig deep and respect my protectiveness and my need to know you’re okay. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. After everything that’s happened, you know I’m not overreacting about there being very real threats out there.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked down at the blanket.

Silence. Loaded silence.

“You fucking should be,” he finally clipped, “After all that, I can’t believe I have to even say these things to you!” He turned and went downstairs, leaving her sitting there with her mouth hanging open.

She moved forward, looked over the banister and saw him sitting at the kitchen island.

She descended the stairs and then approached, “Did your meeting get cancelled?”

He didn’t answer her, didn’t acknowledge her presence in the room, just kept clicking away at his laptop.

She put the steaks in the fridge while waiting for him to answer. His vibe was seriously pissed.

She stood there, staring, waiting, refusing to be ignored.

“I’m Skyping instead,” he finally answered.

“Why?”

“Because I can’t fucking trust you right now to stay put.”

“You can trust me,” she said softly.

“Oh, yeah?” He shot her a look of disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Tristan. But you’ve gotta understand…”

He shot to his feet, the barstool he’d been sitting on falling over.

“It’s not a sincere apology if it ends with a ‘but’, Kyla. I felt you moving further from me, that’s why I’m back here instead of at the office.”

“I’m sorry. But let me help with all this. Give me something to do. I’m going crazy.”

“Do you hear yourself? Apologizing for being a brat and then doing something else that’s even worse? Threatening me with losing you, then asking to help me?”

The computer started ringing with an incoming Skype call. The screen said, ‘Rick @ Kovac’.

“Give me the room for this, I have to do it on video,” he told her and his eyes moved to the staircase, telling her he wanted her to go back upstairs.

She huffed and stormed up the stairs.

When she got to the bed she threw herself on it and then chastised herself for being a brat again.What’s wrong with me?She heard him answer the call. She didn’t stay to eavesdrop. She went into the bathroom and started the tub.She spent a good forty-five minutes in the bathroom. Loofahing, deep conditioning her hair, shaving her underarms, legs, and her hoo-ha, and staring at the ceiling in deep thought.

She had to find a way to chill out and be there for him instead of being a pain in his ass. Why was she being so irrationally stupid?

Her stupid behaviour had to have something to do with this deepening bond. But if it was symbiotic then why was she not being very giving? She was acting like a spoiled princess. She sincerely hoped she wasn’t about to get her period.

Many times over the years she’d had irrational moments and then an ‘Aha!’ moment when she’d seen that it was indeed Shark Week starting.

After her bath, she plucked her eyebrows, blow-dried her hair and then got dressed in jean shorts and a t-shirt and gave herself a manicure and a pedicure while watching some daytime TV gameshows.

After a while she looked down over the loft’s half wall and saw that Tristan was on the sofa, rather than at the bar, and he had his stocking feet up on the coffee table, his tie still on but loosened, top few shirt buttons undone, blazer off, and the neck of a bottle of beer in his grip while he watched a soccer game on the big screen TV. Even pissed off and casual like that, he exemplified the term “suit porn” sitting there like that.

She hesitantly went down the stairs and as she passed him heading to the kitchen area, she caressed the hand that was dangling, holding the beer, with her fingertips. He didn’t flinch. Annoyance and frustration were emanating from him.