“Darren?” The unwelcome voice jolted both their bodies to attention as his name was hollered from a distance. “Darren?”
“Fuck.” He muttered as he slipped his fingers from her and pulled away, stepping back. “I’m over here, Trinity.” He studied Bailey as she fought the hot, burning heat that was flushing her skin while they waited for Trinity. Trinity was still up on the patio of the bar, and she couldn’t see them. Darren shook his head in frustration while they listened to Trinity’s clicking heels near them.
“Darren—”
“Stop, Bailey. There’s nothing to say. I fucked up.” Then he shook his head again as he watched her. “Fuck.” He couldn’t seem to stop muttering, and when Trinity turned toward them as she stepped off the last step to the seawall sidewalk, Darren turned from Bailey and started walking toward Trinity, leaving Bailey staring like an ass after him and feeling like an ass too.
Chapter Seven
Now
“Why did you offer to give me a ride?” Her voice broke his concentration on the road. In truth, his concentration was nowhere near the road, and it was already entirely on her, but he’d been zoned out thinking about her, not at all expecting to hear her voice.
“I thought I already told you. Your sutures need to be removed.”
“Then why aren’t we headed toward the hospital?” Her voice was quiet, unsure, and her fingers trembled as much sitting beside him in his car as they did the first night in the hospital. Her discomfort left him feeling just as conflicted now as it did then.
“I’m just going to stop by my home; it’s closer than the hospital, and I have what I need there.” And he wanted her there. He couldn’t—hell, wouldn’t—admit that to her, and regardless, he didn’t even understand why anyway, so there was nothing at all to explain. He just wanted her there, wanted her near. He would torment her when the compelling and angry need would surface, and she’d likely tolerate it. He’d hurt her with every cold remark he made, and then he’d go back to utter confusion at what was driving him. He’d only seen her a handful of times recently, but he knew very well how he would respond to her. It was as if his need to hurt her was an addiction he couldn’t deny. But his need to see her and be near her in some way was becoming just as compelling as his anger.
She said nothing in response, and she stared straight out the front window. When he turned onto his long and winding lane that led back into the woods and past the Andersons’ house, she started looking around. It was really very beautiful, and it was why he’d chosen the spot. When he risked a glimpse at her, her lips were pulling up slightly. It’s not as if they hadn’t both grown up for the most part in the Ozarks, but his particular slice of heaven compared to no other. The narrow road was winding as it moved up into the hills. There was a stream that ran and followed the lane, crossing under a stone bridge in one place and crossing back over the roadway itself in a shallow, slow-moving sheet that literally covered the roadway in another. The green in the surrounding deep forest was lush, the trees were tall, and it was like being surrounded by a thick, green carpet with a green canopy overhead.
When Bailey caught him looking at her, his eyes shifted away instantly, and he was left fighting his lips to relax. He’d wanted to smile. As they pulled up outside his contemporary, yet completely warm and earthy home, she inhaled deeply, and her eyes flashed quickly to every surface imaginable. There was little discernible slope to his roof—only enough to allow for effective drainage during the heavy rains. The siding he’d chosen was a cedar plank siding, and the windows were large and many.
She climbed from his front seat, still staring up at his tall and towering home. It was a two-story structure with the bedrooms on the second floor, but the first-floor living room was open to the high second-floor ceiling. Once she’d made it up his front steps and he’d opened the front door, escorting her into the large living room, her eyes still hadn’t stopped roving and taking in every last detail.
“Your home’s beautiful, Dare.”
“Darren. No one calls me Dare anymore.” That name held entirely too many memories—memories that sparked rage with the woman standing in front of him, and he didn’t want to feel any of that at the moment. He’d had enough of it recently, and it was wearing on him. It was making his well-ordered and managed life entirely too confusing and complex. It was bringing up far too much of his past that he’d prefer to ignore—prefer to pretend didn’t exist at all. It was making it damn hard to simply believe he was happy.
He didn’t bother responding to her compliment. “Stay here a moment.”
He walked to his office that sat beyond the open dining room, and as he rustled through a medical case with miscellaneous instruments, he tried to calm the tremble in his own hands. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t get nervous. He didn’t allow himself to care enough about anything to warrant such pathetic responses as trembling, sweating under pressure, heart-pounding nervousness, but he could see the shake in his hands as he dug through his case, and he could nearly hear the pounding of his heart roaring through his head.
As he returned to the living room, he saw her sitting on his large sectional couch. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her knees set together, and her body rigid. He sat on the coffee table in front of her, holding the operating scissors and tweezers in his hand.
“Scoot forward.” He was already sitting very near the edge of the table, and he needed her closer. She struggled to figure out what side of his legs to put her knees on as she moved toward him. He made that decision for her when he reached between her knees, pushing them apart and wedging his knee between hers. They were entirely too close, and his heart was thudding away. He was guessing hers was too, but he’d never shown much respect for her personal space before, and he wasn’t going to start now.
In the past, she’d enjoyed the limits he’d pushed with her. He’d always chastised himself loudly in his head as he overstepped one limit after another, touching her just a hair too low on her back, refusing to pull away when he found himself too close. She’d allowed it, and he knew why. She’d wanted him. She’d wanted him just as much he’d wanted her, but the touches, the looks, the closeness were where it had ended in that lifetime—at least for the most part.
He might be displaying the same lack of consideration for her personal space now too, but it was different. Everything was different. She was panting by the time she had scooted to the edge of the couch. His knee was practically touching her crotch, and he swore he could feel the warmth of her sex.
He studied her old, tattered T-shirt. It was gray, and he knew it. He knew it well, and he’d seen it plenty. She likely thought he was staring at her tits, and he certainly wasn’t above noticing them—perfect and perky, if a bit bigger than they’d been six years ago. He’d always liked her build, and despising her didn’t seem to wipe out his ability to appreciate her figure. But right now, he was studying that ridiculous disjointed leprechaun on her chest, and he was remembering a different life, a different world. He liked her in that life; hell, he might’ve loved her. To some degree, he most definitely had.
When she offered him her hand, he cleared his throat and forced his focus to move back to her hand and not some other time that simply didn’t exist anymore. He snipped through the sutures. Her laceration had healed perfectly, but she’d ignored the sutures a bit too long, and they’d already started healing into her skin. He picked up the tweezers next, and as he started pulling the thread pieces from her skin, gently tugging the exposed ends, she winced. Each thread he pulled left a small dot of blood in its wake, and eventually she had nothing but a faint pink line of healed scar tissue lined with dots of blood.