“Your shoes? Did they break the speed limit or something while I was gone?” Dylan cocked his head at me, preparing another smart-ass remark, but I cut him off.

  “No—no, I… I’m sorry. I was wearing them when I was on your bed.” I started to unlace them, my face still hot. “I just forgot. I’m sorry.”

  “So you’ve got more home-training than me,” he said softly, coming a little bit closer. When I glanced over at him he stopped, then bent his knees so we were a little closer in height. “Riley? Can I help you?”

  I swallowed, struggling to untie them as I plopped on the floor. Something was really wrong with me. “I’ve got it,” I whispered, but when I still hadn’t been able to do it a minute later he very slowly sat down next to me and pulled my foot into his lap. I tried to calm my breathing while he gently pushed a long, thick finger behind my heel and just pried it off, then wrapped both of his big hands around my foot and squeezed. He just did it once, as if it were a very small hug, and it made me feel better. Dylan did the same thing with my other foot and then cautiously looked over at me, his black eyes ticking back and forth across my face. “Thanks,” I said, but my voice was so quiet I could barely hear it.

  “It’s nothing, Riley,” he said, and for once his voice wasn’t that impassive, blank monotone. It made me look at him, our eyes meeting. “You’re shaking,” he said, and then bit his lip. My knees literally quaked, and not just because of the drop in blood sugar he’d noticed—he was right; I didn’t have time for breakfast, and it was well into the afternoon—or the adrenaline that never seemed to completely leave my system. “Let’s get you something to eat, alright?” He gave me that slow, small smile. “Told you I bought some groceries. What I didn’t tell you is that I am a hell of a cook.”

  “Oh yeah?” I made a sarcastic face, braving through the rest of these terrible emotions. He let me act like I was cooler than I really was, and cocked a silky black eyebrow at me. “What’s a hood-rat like you know how to cook? Spaghetti-Os? Baked beans?”

  “Girl, you don’t even know,” he said, and stood up in one swift motion. He was in incredible shape—I still could see all of his muscles moving around under the loose t-shirt, but I kind of missed the tight uniform. He offered me his hand, and when I grabbed it he pulled me upright. For just a second we were close together, our bodies inches apart, and then he took a rapid step back. “Let me set you up with a show or something, and I’ll make us dinner.”

  I said okay. I didn’t realize I was still holding on to his hand until I was back in the loveseat and he gently tugged it away, his eyes avoiding mine. He gave me the remote and set up the screen, pulling it out of an alcove against the wall and bringing up one of the big movie subscription services. I started scanning the titles while he silently padded through the house to the kitchen.

  I kind of missed holding his hand.

  ~~~

  Dylan

  My hand tingled. It felt like I’d touched the stove, like the blood was all just below the surface, almost like pins and needles. Riley’s small palm-print burned on my skin for no reason I could see beyond the fact that apparently, she made me crazy.

  I wasn’t crazy in any other way—I pulled down pots and pans, finding everything I needed and organizing it all on the counter, taking a minute to check the security cameras, putting the water on to boil, chopping vegetables in a methodical fashion. I planned what I would do when I went back to work tomorrow, got everything simmering properly and then changed the sheets on my bed before I came back and slid the garlic bread into the oven, texted my auntie about Thanksgiving plans and then went and fed the dogs. In other words, my world was exactly the same as it always was. I was meticulous, orderly, sometimes to a fault. Systems and routine soothed me, and I liked the life I’d worked so hard to make—a very orderly, meticulous life. Quiet. Solitary.

  Except for Riley, who was fucking all that up in short order.

  I learned from my father before I could walk that people were either useful, or disposable. That was it. There was no in-between. My mother, in contrast, taught me that human beings all deserve respect, if not love; everyone is your neighbor, she explained. We all share the same space, even if that area is called California and this over here is Virginia—this is the same space. Act like it. Between the two of them, I developed a healthy compassion for the human race, as long as I could keep it at a distance. Relationships were messy; no matter what people said they wanted to do or be, they often ended up forgetting my mother’s maxim and behaving by my father’s rules. So I had excellent boundaries.

  I was not disposable; I’d created an identity I was proud of, and a life I Iiked.

  And I didn’t like being used…

  Well, I never had before. I didn’t mind getting used by Riley. I’d like her to use me a little more.

  We could have an exchange. She could use me to take her shoes off, then her socks… I could pull those tight jeans down and bury my face in the crack of her ass, licking her from behind while I bent her over the arm of the couch… She could let me push her shirt up, wrap my hands around those tits and then, all’s fair, I could sink myself in her pussy to the hilt while she squirmed and sang for me. See? We could use each other.

  Jesus Christ, man, I swore at myself. You’re fucking losing it.

  I chopped up another onion and looked around the kitchen again. My insanity was definitely contained to one very specific area in my life; everything else was in order. The food was fresh, cooking perfectly, the dogs taken care of, the house spotless, the sun sinking down behind me on the land I owned, debt-free. My job was waiting for me once I cleared an IRB request, which I was sure I would. Everything in order.

  But why the fuck was I cooking two gallons of pasta again?

  Why was my damn dick so hard it kept knocking into the fucking countertop? Why did I have the imprint of her little hand burned into my palm, so delineated I could practically see it tattooed on my skin?

  Why was she in my house?

  Fuck me, I thought, picking up the garlic. I must need to get laid pretty bad.

  And then I had a thought so fucking crazy I had to put the garlic back down.

  I didn’t want to just get laid.

  I wanted something else—something I had no word for, because I’d never felt like this. Something so strange and so unfamiliar I shoved the thought as far back as I could—behind the reoccurring image of Riley panting as she rode my dick, behind the need to protect her, the need to help someone else escape the life like I had—behind all of that, every impulse I was trying to control, I shoved that last and final insane thought, and slammed the door on it.

  Time to finish dinner. She was probably hungry as hell by now.

  ~~~

  Riley

  The house started to fill up with smells so delicious that my stomach began to grumble. I sat there on the loveseat, trying desperately to focus on whatever television show I’d chosen and ignore the fact that I hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. When Dylan appeared next to me in that silent way he had I was so startled I practically shrieked, and when he was done laughing at me he told me the food was ready. I’m not ashamed to say I shoved him out of the way and ran to the dining room table while he laughed at me again.

  It was incredible. Garlic bread, a dressed Greek salad, baked pasta smothered in a chunky sauce and topped with piles of feta, mozzarella and parmesan cheese. My mouth watered spontaneously—I never ate like this at home. This was practically the same as going to the Olive Garden, a treat I’d enjoyed exactly three times in my entire life. I sat down and immediately began shoveling food onto my plate, then stopped, flattened my hands on the tabletop to keep from rushing ahead, and glanced over at my host. “This looks really good. Thank you.” I didn’t want to say anything else, because I was already a bundle of nerves and crying—a thing I almost never did, until today—was embarrassing and I didn’t want to start again. Instead, I silently said grace while Dylan watched me from under those long eyelashes and devoured three immense servings of the most delicious dinner I’d ever had.

  When I was done, I sat and stared at my plate in disbelief. I’m no light-weight—a girl can eat—but I surprised myself. “I think I broke my stomach,” I told him, and he smiled at me. “You weren’t kidding,” I said, and finally put my fork down. “Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

  “Mom was Italian-Irish,” he said, his voice dead-pan as always. “Dad was Scottish, Mexican, and some other stuff, I think. But mostly those two.” Dylan put his fork down too, but his smile was gone. “Anyway. He was a shit cook, but she couldn’t be touched in the kitchen. Should’ve had her own restaurant.”

  “She seems like…” I swallowed, trying to find the right way to say it. “She seems like a really good mom.”

  “She was,” Dylan said, and when he smiled at me this time I could almost imagine what he must have looked like when he was a little boy. His face was so lovely, it was enchanting—the gleam of the light on his high cheekbones, that bow in the center of his lip, the curl of his black hair on his forehead. I realized I was staring at him and leaned back in my chair, trying to sort myself out.

  “I don’t care if we watch more TV or just go to bed,” I told him. “I’m okay with whatever. I promise, as soon as I can move more than an inch at a time, I’ll clean all of this up.”

  “Maybe,” he said nonchalantly. “The deal usually works that way, as you know, but,” Dylan said, still watching me from under those ridiculously long lashes, “I figure we’re working under special circumstances. Tonight, why don’t you just rest—I’m going out on a limb and guessing you haven’t done that in a long time—and I’ll clean up. Tomorrow, I’ll put your ass to work.”

  Something about the way he emphasized that last little bit made me shiver, as if the tone of his voice had changed mid-sentence when he realized what he was saying. We locked eyes for a second, but he was up and away from the table before I could speak. I couldn’t find a joke to lighten the tone anyway.

  I bet he could put a girl’s ass to work, alright. I could just imagine the things he would do, although that’s all I could do, never having done any of them myself. Just the same… I found myself at a loss for words, so I got up and went to collapse on the loveseat, hoping I didn’t bust my zipper doing it. I heard him moving around in the back of the house, cleaning up, and it took everything I had to sit there and let him. Tomorrow, I swore to myself, I would cook and clean. I wasn’t even a real house-guest. I would help out.

  I tried to remember the kindness in his voice, the way he’d brushed over it, the delicious food. I tried to focus on helping him tomorrow, on being useful.

  But I just couldn’t get that phrase out of my head. I’ll put your ass to work. And I knew he didn’t mean anything by it—well, he meant that tomorrow he wasn’t going to wait on me hand and foot—but the idea underneath, the one that snuck into my mind, hiding beneath the words… It really stuck with me. It wouldn’t go away.

  I’d never had a boy-friend.

  I’d only kissed two guys, and that was all.

  I’d seen and heard plenty of people do things that you couldn’t even see in the movies unless they were pay-per-view—our neighborhood was not a private place. I’d had plenty of offers, more than anyone would wish for. And I’d had a couple people try to take what they wanted from me, like Curtis, and bore the scars from those encounters proudly, as any victor would.

  But I never thought it was worth it.

  What if I got pregnant? What if they gave me an STD, or were just assholes after? What if it hurt? What if they got attached, so clingy that they wouldn’t leave me alone, long after I was ready for them to go? What if they started acting like they owned me?

  Ideas about romance, or even the simple idea of allowing my body to feel good while sharing it with another person, just never came into the equation. Practically speaking, sex was a risk. I wanted more from life. I wanted to go to school, to make my own decisions about my future. No one I ever met was worth risking that.

  But Dylan…

  I couldn’t finish the thought. I wasn’t ready to.

  But the idea lingered, all the same, and when he finished cleaning up and came back, sitting on the couch in his loose fitting sweats, hoodie and t-shirt—an outfit that never in my life seemed erotic before—my gaze kept straying towards him, tracing the movement of his muscles beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, searching for glimpses of his face. He didn’t care what we watched; I could tell he was tired, and when the clock chimed nine times I realized we’d never really clarified who was sleeping where.

  My stomach sank to my knees. Was he expecting us to share a bed?

  And then… My stomach took flight. Butterflies swarmed through me. Was he expecting us to share a bed?

  I was not expecting to be excited.

  I’d never felt anything like this before.

  “Riley, I’m beat,” he said in his gravely voice. “What do you say we call it a night?”

  “Where…” I gulped, then forced the words out. “Where are we sleeping?”

  He gave me a sardonic look. “Well, the kennel is real nice. Got long runs, big open area. I figured you’d take the fourth—”

  “Shut up, Dylan,” I said, my heart beating fast. His small one-sided smile appeared as he rolled his eyes at me.

  “You’re sleeping in the bed, girl. What the hell kind of man do you think I am?”

  “Who knows?” I shot back, narrowing my eyes at him. “I’m still trying to make sure you’re not a frickin’ serial killer.”

  “Well, it might make it a little hard to keep the career I busted my ass for,” he said, now grinning at me with his lush mouth. “You keep talking about serial killers, girl, I’m gonna start worrying you might be one.”

  “Me?” I spluttered, blinking my eyes, but he just laughed. He’d laughed an awful lot today, actually.

  I realized I was staring again, and settled my eyes down on my lap. He grew quiet, and I knew I’d made things awkward. I was just about to stand up when his voice stopped me. “It’s alright, Riley. Seriously. If you’re not ready to go to sleep yet, I don’t mind talking a little bit.”

  It was too much. I felt the imposition on him so heavily, suddenly, like a weight on my shoulders. I practically jumped out of my chair. “No—no, I’ll just go and… Maybe I’ll take a shower.” A cold one.

  “Sit down,” he said, his voice crackling with command. I did, perching on the edge of my seat automatically. “I’m going to make you some tea. Some shit my aunt left the last time she visited, it’s got teddy bears wearing nightgowns on it. Let’s hope it can calm you down. You stay there.”

  So I did, teetering right on the edge of the love seat and feeling like a fool until he came back. When he put the mug down on the coffee table, wreaths of steam billowed out of the top. He shook his head at me when I reached for it. “Give it a minute,” he said. “Otherwise it’ll burn the hell out of you, and that’s hardly the point.”

  “You really go to bed at nine o’clock?” I was genuinely curious.

  “Sometimes,” he said, spreading his legs wide as he relaxed into the cushions and put his hands behind his head, stretching his shoulders. He was… He was gorgeous. He looked like an underwear model, only bigger—maybe more like a cornerback-- “Riley, what the hell are you thinking?” Dylan’s eyebrow was arched all the way up on his forehead. “You’re acting like you swallowed a couple ephedrine while I was in the other room—”

  “I’m nervous,” I blurted out, and he watched me for a second before nodding.

  “Okay,” he said encouragingly, then waited.

  “I’m nervous because I can’t seem to control my mind—and I’ve never been one to lose control, ever, under any circumstances. I’m freaking out about whatever happened today—not just the… The thing with C-Curtis, but after, when I… When I lost it. I’m nervous because even though I don’t know you at all, you’re the only person I feel safe with and I can’t even begin to think about what I’m going to do when you decide it’s time for me to leave. I’m nervous because I’ve never—”

  I stopped myself just in time. I almost told him. And I had no idea why. I felt like I was losing my mind.

  But Dylan just nodded at me, as if these were all normal things to say. I sat on my hands to keep from rubbing them together over and over, like I was warming them in front of a campfire. Eventually, after he was sure I was done, he leaned forward and faced me. “Riley,” he said, his voice that same, soft reassuring sound I remembered from earlier, “look at me.” He waited until I did. “I’m not in any rush to get you back to Route One. You can stay here as long as you want. I don’t care. And every single thing you’ve felt today is normal—if you had a family that could take care of you, or any support at all, you wouldn’t be here; you’d be with them. They would have taken you to the hospital, screened you for head injuries, and brought you somewhere safe and quiet and let you recover from what anyone with any goddamn sense would say is a terrible ordeal.” He sighed, his black eyes still locked on mine. “I’m sorry you don’t have people like that in your life, because you deserve them. I’m sorry you have to rely on a stranger, on me, but you should know that you can. I told you before, and I meant it: I’m never going to hurt you.” His voice grew fiercer. “Never. And I won’t let anybody else hurt you either. That’s done. It’s finished, okay? You don’t worry about that kind of shit any more.” He sighed and leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face before he looked at me again. “Life is weird. I have this place, and I sleep here but I’m sure you can tell that’s about all I do, besides hang out with the dogs. You can stay as long as you want, and I mean that.” He looked down at his broad hands, and now he seemed a little nervous too. “I don’t want you to feel like… Like you owe me anything. I only have this place because someone watched out for me—someone saved me from the same situation you were living in.” He raised his eyes to mine again. “Think of this as paying it forward, if you have to. I’d rather you keep thinking about face transplants or whatever, and not think about staying here at all. I’d rather… I wish you knew you’re welcome.”

 

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