All Things Pretty (14 page)

I take full advantage of my getaway, driving
straight to a favorite Internet café of mine that’s all the way on
the other side of town, near a boutique that I love, which is
always good cover. I spend the next hour and a half on my computer
and the following twenty minutes haphazardly picking out a dress
and some shoes to cement my excuse. If Lance somehow finds out I
didn’t go straight home and asks me about it, I’ll tell him that I
needed some fresh air and my drive brought me here. I’ll have a
receipt to prove it. And a new outfit. No big deal.

At least I hope not.

Some small part of my brain worries that one
day I’ll get caught, but that part is quickly overridden and
squashed. I can’t let that fear get a foothold or everything will
be ruined. So I go through the days smart but brave, calculating
yet casual.

When I get back home, I’m a little surprised
to find both the street and my driveway empty. Sig won’t be happy
that I left him in the dust that way, but I can’t be too concerned
about what makes him happy. I just can’t.

Still, I feel guilty. I know he wanted to
spend the day with me. The problem is, I wanted to spend the day
with him, too. More than I wanted to do the things that I
have
to do.
That’s what caused the problem.

I take my bags inside and change into more
comfortable clothes–
my
clothes–before I tend to my mother.
When I go into her room, she has turned sideways in the bed and one
of her legs is hanging off the edge of the foam mattress.

“Feeling restless today, Momma?” I ask when
I walk in, moving to her head to curl my hands under her arms.
“Gotta get you back up here. Push with your legs, okay?”

I get no response, but sometimes when I ask
her to do things, some still-alive part of her brain understands
and complies. “One, two, three, push!” I say as I drag her toward
me.

I see her feet scramble in the covers as she
tries to do as I asked, but she’s not much help. It still takes me
two more tries to get her back where she needs to be in the bed.
Even though I’m out of breath by then, my heart is happy. Any time
I see evidence of the woman who raised me, any time I see evidence
of life inside her, it gives me hope. Hope that maybe one day…some
how, some way…she can recover.

I feed her lunch and give her plenty to
drink, all the while apologizing for my slack ways of the last few
weeks.

“I know I’ve gotten off my routine, Momma. I
don’t like going so long checking on you. I would never do this if
I had another choice. You know that. I feel terrible, but Lance
hired someone to keep an eye on me and I can’t risk him finding out
about you. If he finds out about you, it’s possible that he could
find out about everything else. And you know why I can’t let that
happen.”

The weight of it all, coupled with the guilt
of what I’ve done and what I still have yet to do, is suffocating.
I wipe a tear from my cheek before it can travel very far. “I know
if you could talk, you’d tell me I’m doing the right thing. You’d
want me to take care of Travis the best way I know how, wouldn’t
you?”

My mother’s vacant green eyes stare into
mine. Something is going on behind them; I just don’t think that
“something” is very often coherent or helpful. She grunts again and
I see her lips move. Whether it’s because she wants more to drink
or because she actually wants to speak, I don’t know. I choose to
believe that if she could, she’d tell me that she understands and
that she approves. But deep down, I hope that she has no idea what
I’m saying, what I’m doing. I know that, one day, her out-of-it
state will soon be a comfort to me. It will ease the guilt of what
I may have to do when it comes time to run.

But that is another thought I refuse to
dwell upon. I can’t give it room to grow. Or cripple me. Because
that’s what it will do.

I’ve been at home for almost two hours and
Sig still hasn’t shown up. That’s not like him. He seems very
dedicated and, after this morning (and, even more, after the night
at the club), I would’ve thought he’d be hard to shake.

As I pace through the living room, peeking
through the curtains periodically for signs of his truck, I begin
to feel the first stirrings of fear. And more guilt.

What if Lance found out that he lost me when
I left? What if Lance, prone to dramatic mood swings, decided he
wouldn’t give Sig another chance and fired him? All because of me.
Or, worse yet, what if somehow Lance found out about
our…relationship, whatever it is, and Sig is in trouble?

The mere suggestion of Sig getting hurt
because of me twists my stomach into a sick knot. I pace faster,
wringing my hands as I go.

After another thirty minutes, I get in my
car and strike out to see if I can find Sig’s house. If he’s there,
I’ll see his truck. Not many of the houses in this neighborhood
have garages, so…

I go to the stop sign and turn left, like
I’ve seen him do, and I prowl slowly along the street, looking for
his big, black vehicle. When I reach the next stop sign, I take
another left. No truck. At that stop sign, I make another left,
which brings me full circle, to the crossroads of my own street.
One block, no Sig.

I retrace my steps to the first stop sign
and go left again. At the next one, I take a right instead and comb
through the driveways on that street. Still no truck.

I’m about to turn left at the next stop sign
when I see the back end of a black truck sticking out of a driveway
up ahead. I go straight through the red octagonal sign and stop in
front of what looks exactly like Sig’s truck.

I glance around, looking
for what
I
don’t know. I feel like I’m doing something wrong, even though I’m
not. It’s not like I’m casing the joint to break in later, which I
did once or twice in my stupid youth.

Shifting into park, I cut the engine and
head for the front door. Just as I’m raising my hand to knock, it
swings open to reveal the very aloof face of Sig.

He says nothing as he stares at me and, for
a moment, neither do I. I just look at him, take him in. He’s so
beautiful, his eyes so rich and deep, his features so handsome and
strong. He practically fills the entire doorway with his tall frame
and wide shoulders. An involuntary shiver runs through me, one that
registers a small frown on his brow.

He takes a step back and tips his head for
me to come in, so I do. I stop just inside the front door, looking
around his barely-there living room, which consists of an
olive-green couch and matching recliner, a coffee table and a big
screen television mounted to the back wall, and then the tiny
kitchen that opens onto it. I see a few boxes stacked against one
wall, but certainly not enough to contain all that would be needed
to fill up this space.

“Still getting settled?” I ask.

“I travel light,” is his only response. He
closes the door and then comes around in front of me, crossing his
arms over his chest. “As flattered as I am that you’re concerned
over my state of unpacking, I seriously doubt it brought you all
the way over here.”

I laugh uneasily. “No, it didn’t. I, uh, I
wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Another frown. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I shrug with one shoulder. “Since I didn’t
see you when I left Lance’s this morning, I wanted to make sure you
didn’t get in trouble for not sticking with me.”

“How can
I
get in trouble when you
took off?”

Again, I shrug. “Lance is
unpredictable.”

“I told you that you don’t have to worry
about me.”

“I know, I know,” I say, looking down at the
shaggy beige carpet and digging at it with the toe of my ratty
Vans. “I wish I could
not
worry about you.”

I see big boots enter my field of vision and
then a finger touches my chin, bringing my gaze up to his. There is
still some aggravation in his eyes, but now they hold tenderness
and heat and…possessiveness, so much so that they take my breath
away.

“I’m not a sadist, but I actually like that
you worry.” One side of his mouth twitches up into a lopsided grin.
“I just wish you weren’t so damn slippery.”

“Slippery?”

“Hell yeah. I can’t get a bead on you.”

“You know how a woman loves her mystery,” I
say, nonchalant.

“
You
may, but
I
don’t. I want
to know what’s going on behind those eyes, what’s going on inside
that beautiful head.” His voice is soft now, his touch
whisper-light as he brushes the back of his finger along my
jawline.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Oh, but I do. I want to know. I want to
know
you.”

“I told you–”

“I know what you told me. I’ve heard every
word you’ve said. The problem is, it doesn’t make any difference. I
care about you, Tommi. I care about what happens to you, what
you’re going through. I care that you don’t smile much. I care that
you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, but you won’t
tell me why or let me help. I care that you put yourself through
awful shit for reasons that I don’t understand. Because I
know
you don’t give a rat’s ass about Tonin.”

“That’s not true,” I begin, rushing to
disabuse him of his very accurate observations. “I–”

“Stop it!” he snaps, but not unkindly. It
just seems that he’s as tired of my lies as I am. “You don’t have
to lie to me. I’d rather you not answer, I’d rather you not say a
damn word than to lie to me.”

I search his eyes. For what I don’t know.
All I find is sincerity. “All right then. No more lies.”

“Good,” he says, exhaling, his breath
ruffling the hair at my temples that has escaped my up-do. “That’s
a start. Now if I can just make some progress
elsewhere
.” He
rolls his eyes and sighs in exaggerated frustration.

“Like where?” I ask, trying not to smile.
For some reason, he just makes me feel light. And happy. And
carefree. Only I’m not. I’m about as
not
carefree as they
come.

“Like you trusting me. Like you opening up a
little.”

“I told you–”

“I know, I know, but I think you’re caving.
Bit by bit.”

“You do? And why is that?”

“Well, let’s see. You’re here at my house
without a gun to your head.”

This time I do smile. “As far as I can
recall, I’ve never been to your house
with
a gun to my head
either.”

“See? Caving. That’s progress,” he says,
taking a step even closer. His hand moves down to my left shoulder,
which is bared by the stretched neck of the shirt I’m wearing. He
slips a finger just inside and follows the wrecked hem around to my
chest. I catch and hold my breath. I know I should back away. In
fact, I shouldn’t even still be here. But I can’t go. Not just yet.
“Also, I can tell by what you’re wearing that you’re getting soft
toward me.”

“By my clothes? Why?”

“Yep. You’re finally wearing something that
doesn’t belong in a New York City boardroom. Or a club. And I
sooo
like it.”

His eyes flicker down to where his finger
still hangs just inside my neckline, the warm digit like a brand
against my skin.

“You don’t like the way I dress?” I ask,
hating that my voice is so obviously breathless.

“You’re gorgeous in anything you put on, but
I have my favorites.”

His eyes glow, like they’re backlit with
fire. And I can feel the heat.
Oh god,
can I feel the heat!
“And what are your favorites?”

I shouldn’t ask. I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m
playing with that very same fire. But the only burn I’m worried
about at the moment is the one that comes from my body as it
strains toward Sig’s.

“Cut off shorts that show every inch of
those long, long legs. The ones that fit your ass almost as good as
my hands would.” Sig’s slips his arm around my waist, his fingers
splaying right at the top of my butt where my shirt meets my jeans.
I feel his hand move briefly, shuffling material until there’s
nothing but the searing heat of his palm against the naked skin of
my back. “But even that’s not my very favorite.”

His face is drawing closer. Not like he’s
moving toward me, but like the universe is bringing us slowly,
inexorably together.

“Then what is?” I ask, his mouth so close to
mine I can feel the warmth of his lips against my own.

“Your costume from the balcony of that club
the other night.”

In my thrall, I’m a little bit confused. I
frown slightly, admitting, “But I wasn’t wearing a costume.”

“I know,” he admits hoarsely.

And then he’s kissing me.

His lips take mine in a slow, deep assault
that hits me like a drug, like he’s injected me with a
mind-altering substance that turns off everything except Sig. His
presence, his closeness, his touch. Nothing else exists. And I’m
not very anxious for the moment that it will.

One hand cups my neck, long fingers sliding
into my hair. I feel them working, moving, but I don’t notice what
he’s doing until my hair falls down around my shoulders. He leans
back to look at me, his eyes raking through my blonde locks in a
way that matches his fingers. “God, you’re amazing like this. This
is the real you, isn’t it?” asks Sig.

I nod. Because I told him I wouldn’t lie. If
I’m going to answer him at all, I’ll tell him the truth. As much as
I can anyway.

“This is who I see when I look at you, no
matter what kind of get-up you’re wearing for Tonin. I see this. I
see
you.”

His hands, his words, his eyes… I can’t
think. I’ve forgotten my purpose, my resolve and I can’t seem to
find it. Not through the haze that he’s dragging me into. Inside
it, I can only see him. Hear him. Feel him. Like I’m trapped in a
vacuum that contains only Sig.

“And I can’t get enough of it,” he confesses
roughly, crushing my mouth with his as he crushes my body against
him.