Never Wake (18 page)

Troy lifted her body and rested most of her weight on her elbows. Emma couldn’t see her face, but the sadness deepened along with another emotion. Shame.

She intended to order Troy off of her, but choked on the words.

Troy spoke first. “It should have been better than this.”

“Better than this?” Emma repeated.

“I didn’t want it to be so rushed,” Troy said, and the shame was so strong that Emma was no longer sure if it was Troy’s alone.

Troy moved herself off of Emma and sat on the floor, her knees drawn into her chest, her shoulders hunched. Emma lay there trying to understand what had just happened. She felt like a sixteen-year-old boy who had gotten a girl drunk so he could cop a feel.

Tears warmed her temples. She was so caught up in how horrible she felt that it took her a moment to realize that Troy was holding her hand. Her thumb was rubbing back and forth over Emma’s wrist. Emma shivered and tried to swallow down the instant bloom of desire. She felt like she was being toyed with. One moment Troy regretted being with her, and the next she wanted her again. But damned if she was going to complain right now.

“Can we try this again, please?”

Emma marveled at the pleading quality of Troy’s voice. She thinks I might turn her down.

“Come here,” Emma said.

Troy knelt at Emma’s side. “I’m right here.”

“No, come back up here,” Emma whispered.

“I’m not getting on top of you again. This thing is too hard. We should go in the bedroom.”

Troy held Emma’s chin gently, leaned over and kissed her lips. Emma reached up and tried to pull Troy onto her. Troy inhaled deeply and pulled away. Emma turned her head and captured Troy’s finger in her mouth.

If she had thought about it, even for a split second she wouldn’t have done it. But based on Troy’s reaction, she liked to have her fingers sucked. Suddenly the finger was replaced with Troy’s tongue, and Troy’s knees were bracketing her hips. The kiss was no gentler than their first, though it was less desperate.

Troy lifted her head, “Damn it, Emma. We should be in your bed.”

“I can’t wait that long,” she gasped as Troy’s nimble fingers began unbuttoning her pants and were inside her panties before she could finish her sentence. She closed her eyes.

Once again, she found herself giving Troy complete access to her body, trusting that she would not go too far, but she was shocked at how far she could go without causing her discomfort.

Emma stuck her hands beneath Troy’s shirt and slipped beneath her sports bra. She groaned when she was able to feel Troy’s breasts. They were warm and soft and fit easily in her hand. She could feel Troy’s heart pounding beneath them.

Troy broke the kiss again, and Emma growled out a protest.

“Sit up,” Troy directed.

Emma did so and allowed Troy to slip her pants and underwear off. She expected Troy to let her lie back down, but she didn’t. She pulled Emma forward with her hands at her buttocks, holding her so close that Emma could feel every muscle in Troy’s abdomen press against her clitoris as she breathed. She moaned. Troy was right; they should have gone into the bedroom. The moment she had enough air in her lungs to speak, she would suggest that they head that way. But Troy’s mouth wasn’t allowing her any breathing room. Troy’s hands had made quick work of her t-shirt, and the bra went with it. Her mouth was moving from Emma’s neck to her breast and any thought of actually walking was wiped from Emma’s plans as Troy’s tongue dipped into her navel. She leaned back against the pillows. “Hurry,” she pleaded.

Inappropriately, in Emma’s opinion, Troy seemed to regain some of her will when she realized how close Emma was to climaxing. Her mouth became torturous and teasing and her hands were firm, restricting Emma’s movements. And if she sensed Emma was closer to climaxing than she wanted her to be, she slowed her down further, but never once did she increase the pressure.

It was the most frustratingly pleasurable thing Emma had ever experienced. She was determined not to beg. In the end, she not only begged, she grabbed Troy’s head and held her exactly where she needed her to be. Moments later she called out Troy’s name in a voice that would have been embarrassing if she had really given a damn. Which she didn’t.

*

Emma groaned her protest when Troy left her lying on the window seat, her legs and arms akimbo. She looked, she was sure, like a ready-rolled hooker, and she didn’t really give a damn. She jumped when a light touch to her stomach signified Troy’s return.

“Can you turn over for me?” The question was barely audible over the sound of the wind blowing through the blinds. Emma hesitated and shyness took the opportunity to creep back in. She turned over so that she could see Troy’s hand glistening in the moonlight. The scent of coconut drifted over her and she turned over to let Troy rub the liniment into her skin. She wished she had taken better care of her body. There wasn’t a memory of fat anywhere on Troy’s body. She would probably always look like a college athlete, thanks to the riding. The thought made Emma feel flabby, feeble and—

“You are so beautiful,” Troy whispered.

Beautiful? Yes, damn it, she felt beautiful. The only other person awake in the world thought so. So it must be true. She reached up and put her hands in Troy’s lovely hair and stroked the side of her face.

“Why do you sound so sad, then?” she asked.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“You didn’t. I feel fine.”

“I should have been more careful.” Troy moved her hand slowly, sensuously, without really being sensual, touched her hip and rubbed and kneaded some imagined ache.

“It wasn’t the time for careful. I’ll be fine. You don’t need to do this, although I certainly won’t stop you if you want to continue.”

“Good, ’cause I’m going to. This stuff is awesome for sore muscles. I buy it down at Saturday market. The walk we took and then me lying on you like that—it’s bound to make you sore tomorrow. I have to do this for myself sometimes after I ride.”

“I wondered what it was when I smelled it on you. Does the coconut help in some way?”

Emma could see the flash of white that meant Troy was smiling. “No, I just like the way it smells.”

“This feels wonderful, but you don’t have to treat me with kid gloves. The limp is from nerve damage. I don’t baby it any more than anything else.”

Troy kept rubbing, her hands gentle but insistent, until Emma’s body became as pliant as warm taffy. “I don’t want you to pay for this tomorrow. So let me do this, okay?”

Her answering moan made Troy chuckle. Her figure was a shadow in the relative darkness—touching Emma, pressing into her flesh, working out soreness that didn’t exist. Coconut and Burt’s Beeswax lip balm drifted over Emma. Air from the ceiling fan cooled her skin for a second before Troy’s calloused hands passed over her body, warming it again. Arousal had long been forgotten, and she allowed herself to be cared for in ways she had run from.

“I have dreams, too,” she said as sleep pulled and Troy’s hands pushed.

“Are they about me?” Troy sounded amused.

“No. Bad dreams about someone standing over me in the dark.”

Troy’s hands stopped, and Emma tried to stay awake long enough to explain. “I’m not scared anymore. This doesn’t scare me.”

The hands were back, and lips, soft and sweet, pressed against hers.

“No more pain, Emma.” Troy’s sadness tugged at Emma’s heart. “No more fear. There’s no one here who would ever hurt you.”

And then the hands coaxed her into a deep sleep.

*

Emma awakened on the left instead of the center of the bed. Her first thought was to reach for her cane. And then she remembered that it was on the floor near the couch, which was followed by thoughts of why it had been discarded there.

She opened her eyes and looked around the familiar room. The air held the subtle scent of coconut and lovemaking. She stretched her hands above her head. Despite what she’d told Troy, she was surprised at how little her body protested. She smiled and curled into a ball. The absence of pain was no doubt thanks to Troy’s magic hands. She felt safe, relaxed, and somehow satiated when she hadn’t realized she was hungry. Then she realized that she was alone, and the feeling of safety receded.

The sadness and regret in Troy’s voice last night came flooding back to her.

She had assumed that Troy was sad because she was afraid her lovemaking had been too rough, but maybe it was something else.
Of course she regretted it, you fool. She called out her dead lover’s name in her sleep, for God’s sake. Emma turned on her side and curled into herself. You pushed and pushed until she slept with you, and now you’re upset because she didn’t stick around for more. What the hell did you expect, Emma? You had sex. You should be glad she was willing to put your ass out of its misery. You could have ended up with a Christian soccer mom who insisted on reading the Bible to find an explanation for what was happening to your gay ass.

Emma stop, just stop. You’ve drawn enough blood
. She allowed herself to taste the pain and then she got angry. No, she got rip-roaring bitchy, like any woman would whose lover had just gone to visit another woman, regardless of the fact that the other woman was dead. The first thing she wanted to do was wash the smell of their lovemaking off of her body. Then maybe she could think.

Lovemaking? It wasn’t lovemaking, it was sex.

“Yeah, it was sex, and I loved it,” Emma muttered and dragged herself out of bed and limped into the bathroom. She turned the shower nozzle as far toward the H as it would go and stepped inside.

She wasn’t gentle with herself in the shower. She made sure not to linger over spots left sensitive by last night’s activities. It hadn’t been rough at all times. Troy’s mouth had been excruciating and wonderful at the same time—so much so, that it had left her sobbing during her release.

Stop it, damn it. It isn’t worth it. She’s probably at her lover’s grave confessing that she cheated with you. Damn, why did you let this happen? She told you she didn’t want you, Emma. She told you.

Emma rinsed the shampoo from her eyes and remembered how it had smelled in Troy’s hair while she was braiding it. Even her own shampoo had memories of Troy, and it hurt that the woman had been able to weave herself into her life without her noticing. Emma turned off the shower and dried her skin. Two small red spots between her legs marked where Troy’s hipbones had been.

She would not cry and she would not wait around like a puppy for Troy to come back. She needed to find out what Troy wasn’t telling her. What tied her to Patricia so thoroughly that she would leave Emma to go to her?

She threw on jeans and a t-shirt and went in search of her cane and her library card.

Twenty minutes and several old wallets later she found her library card stuck in a backpack that she couldn’t ever remember purchasing, let alone carrying. She hooked her cane on the edge of her desk, sat down, and turned on her computer, fastidiously refusing to look at the window seat across from her. She pulled up the Multnomah County Library website. She hit the research link and typed in her library card number for access. She was prepared for several hours of research, but she found the first article on Patricia as soon as she entered the keywords “Patricia” and “Troy Nanson” into the search engine.

She scanned the article, although she realized that she had already read about Patricia’s death. W
OMAN
D
RWONS
I
N
T
HE
O
REGON
R
IVER
said the headline. It had been the lead story on Yahoo news the day it happened. She remembered feeling bad for the woman’s family, but not much beyond that.

Emma’s anger and jealousy intensified as she looked at the black-and-white photo of Patricia Harvey. She was beautiful, just as Troy had said. There was something about her, even in the flat, two-dimensional black-and-white picture. Her hair was billowing around her head, and the photographer had caught her mid-laugh. She looked as though she had just said something sexy.
I bet she always looked that way
. Emma could tell that her lips were as familiar with sexy words as hers were with inane conversation.

Emma wondered if Troy had taken the picture. Perhaps they had just finished making love.
This is not helping
. Emma reached for her wireless mouse and was about to click out of the article when her eye caught the last paragraph.

The passenger, Troy Nanson, was released from the hospital with only minor injuries.

“Oh, my God.” Emma reread the sentence and then began typing quickly, dread settling high in her chest like a bad meal. Troy had told her that Patricia died in a car accident, but she hadn’t told her that she was in the car at the time.

She found two more articles. The first was about a proposed bill to raise the several million dollars needed to reinforce the Morrison Bridge. The second was the coroner’s inquest into the death of Patricia Harvey.

Emma read the latter twice, trying to understand what she was reading. In so many words, the coroner had found that Patricia had been high at the time of her death and her body showed signs of long-term prescription drug abuse. Although there had been evidence of alcohol in her system, she was not legally intoxicated. However, the alcohol, coupled with the drugs already in her system, could have been the cause of Ms. Harvey’s inability to avoid the accident. The article went on to mention that all legal actions against the city of Portland were dropped by Patricia’s family. It didn’t mention Troy at all.