Tempting. So very tempting.
But instead of giving in, she refocused on her duties, going back to her bin, rolling it over to a large wicker basket, and then transferring her body weight in damp terry cloth.
When she
turned to go, she paused and stared at the water again.
There was no way the first round of sheeting had finished its washing cycle. It had at least forty-five minutes left according to what the machine had reported.
She checked the clock that was mounted on the wall.
Perhaps just a few minutes in the pool, she decided. She could use the relief from the aching in her lower body, and there was nothing she could do relative to her job for the next little bit.
Grabbing one of the fresh, folded towels, she double-checked the anteroom. Went farther down and looked out into the corridor.
Nobody was about. And now was the time to do this - the staff would be concentrating on cleaning the second floor of the mansion, as they had to get that work done between First and Last Meals. And there was no one getting treated at the clinic, at least for the moment.
She had to make this fast.
Limping back to the shallow end, she unfastened her robe and drew off the hood, stripping down to her undersheath. After a brief hesitation, she removed the sheer liner as well - she would have to remember to bring a second with her if she wanted to do this again. Better to remain modest.
As she folded her things, she deliberately stared at her twisted calf, tracing the roping scars that formed an ugly relief map of mountains and valleys in her flesh. Once, the lower leg had worked perfectly and been as lovely as many an artist could have drawn. Now it was a symbol of who and what she was, a reminder of a fall from grace that had made her a lesser person. . . and, over time, a better one.
Fortunately, there was a chrome handrail by the steps, and she gripped it for balance as she slowly entered the warm water. Upon the descent, she recalled her braid and wound the heavy length around and around the top of her head, tucking in the loose end so that the beehive held in place.
And then. . . she glided.
Closing her eyes in bliss, she gave herself over to weightlessness, the water a temperate breeze wafting across her flesh, her body held kindly in the pool's peaceable palms. As she stroked out into the center, she threw away her resolve not to get her hair wet, and rolled over onto her back, sweeping her hands in circles to keep herself afloat.
For a brief time, she allowed herself to feel something, opening the door to her senses.
And it was. . . good.
Left behind at the mansion for the night, Tohr was off-roster, stuck inside and hungover: a bad-mood trifecta if he'd ever seen one.
The good news was that with most people gone or going about their business, he didn't have to inflict the toxicity on anybody else.
On that note, he headed for the training center, dressed in nothing but his swimming trunks. Having heard that most hangovers were caused by dehydration, he'd decided not only to go to the pool and submerge himself. . . but to bring some liquid refreshment with him. And how was that for healthy.
What had he grabbed? Oh, good, vodka - he liked that straight up, and hey, it looked like water.
Pausing in the tunnel, he took a swig of V's Goose, and swallowed -
Fuck. The sound of John's shitkicker hitting the floor, like some godforsaken bell tolling, was something he was never going to forget. Just like the kid's finger pointing at him.
Time for another swallow. . . and hey, how about one more.
As he resumed his trek toward what was probably going to be a drowning party, he recognized that he was a walking cliche: He'd seen his brothers in this shape from time to time, weaving around with a sour, fuzzy head, a bad attitude, and a bottle of knockout juice grafted to their palms. Back before Wellsie had been taken from him, he'd never really understood the whys.
Now? Duh.
You did what you had to do to get yourself through the hours. And the nights when you couldn't go out and fight were the worst - unless, of course, you were facing off against all the day's bright, glowing no-go. That was even more wretched.
As he came out of the office and zeroed in on the pool, he was glad he didn't have to fake the expression on his face, or watch his language, or chill his temper.
Pushing open the door to the anteroom, his blood pressure lowered as that warm, welcoming wave of humidity came over him. The music helped, too: From out of the sound system, U2 was filling the air, old-school The Joshua Tree echoing around.
His first clue that something was off was the pile of rags at the shallow end. And maybe if he hadn't been hitting the liquor, he might have put two and two together before he -