Pen pal, p.5
Pen Pal, page 5
His gaze drops to my mouth again. His voice comes out husky. “And you want me to kiss you.”
My heart pounding painfully hard, I say faintly, “You’re insane, is that it? You’re a crazy person.”
“You know I’m not.”
“I can honestly say I don’t even know my own name right now.”
“It’s Kayla,” he says softly, then leans in and presses his lips against mine.
It’s barely a kiss. There’s no tongue. There’s hardly any pressure. It’s only the slightest brush of his mouth over mine, then it’s over.
And I’m gasping.
Shaking and gasping for air, because my lungs are being squeezed in a vise and every drop of adrenaline my body can produce has flooded my bloodstream.
That non-kiss was electric.
Staring deep into my eyes, he whispers, “You want another one?”
I pause to take a ragged breath as he watches me from inches away, his eyes feral. “I’m not sure. I’m feeling overwhelmed. My brain isn’t working right, so I can’t really give you an honest yes or no.”
“Okay,” he says, lightly stroking his thumb back and forth over my cheekbone. “You let me know when you decide.”
Then he withdraws and motions to the bartender for another round of drinks.
I almost collapse facedown onto the table, but manage to control myself. I take a gulp of whiskey and let out a heavy, uneven breath. “I won’t be able to drive home if I have any more to drink. Or is that your plan?”
“My plan is to get you naked and find out how you sound when you come.”
“Holy...”
“I don’t want you drunk, though. I want you to remember everything so you come back for more.”
“You sound confident that I would.”
“I am. And you will.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “It must be fantastic to go through life with such self-confidence.”
“It is. I want to kiss you again.”
“Can you please give me a minute to regain my footing? I feel like someone just pushed me off a cliff.”
“You’re fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you don’t want to cry anymore.”
I think about that. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“You’re welcome.”
He’s bizarrely self-confident, but I have to admit he’s not cocky. There’s no arrogance in the way he speaks. It’s as if he’s simply stating facts, then letting me decide how I want to react to them.
I don’t know if his straightforwardness is refreshing or weird.
He’s right about one thing, though. I’m not afraid of him. He’s not what you’d call normal, at least in terms of my experience with men, but he only makes me nervous, not afraid.
I think the nervousness could also be described as turned on, but I’m not ready to think about that yet.
I ask, “Would it be okay if we sat across from each other?”
“Sure. Any particular reason why?”
“I’m finding your presence a little overpowering.”
He chuckles. “I’ll move, but I’m just gonna give you a head’s up that I’ll still be overpowering across the table.”
“That’s probably true.”
“Plus, you’ll be forced to look at me. This way, you can avoid my eyes and stare at that ugly painting all you want.”
That makes me smile. “You’re an interesting guy, Aidan, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you. I think you’re interesting, too.” His voice drops. “Those eyes of yours are fucking amazing.”
My cheeks and ears grow hot again. The heat burns even hotter when he adds, “I want those eyes open when you come for me.”
My mouth goes dry. I have to take another sip of whiskey before I can speak again. “Not that I’m saying I’m going to sleep with you, because I’m not, but just for the sake of conversation, you should know that I’m a light’s-out kind of girl.”
“Not with me, you’re not.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I really can’t believe this.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because conversations like this don’t happen in real life.”
“Just because you haven’t had them before doesn’t mean they don’t happen.”
He keeps making all these very good points, which is highly irritating. “Are all bachelors nowadays so…”
“What?”
“I’m searching for a word.”
“Blunt?”
“Explicit is closer to what I’m thinking.”
His chuckle is low and dangerous. “You haven’t heard explicit yet, Kayla.”
I finally tear my gaze away from the wall in front of me and turn to look at him. His eyes are warm and so is his expression, but I shiver anyway.
I say firmly, “I’m not having sex with you.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Aidan. I’m not in the right head space to be hooking up with anyone right now.”
“I hear you.”
I narrow my eyes and examine his expression. “Why does that sound like you still think I’m going to sleep with you?”
“Because I do. But I could be wrong. It happens.”
We stare at each other for a moment, until he says softly, “I hope I’m not, though. I really want to make you come.”
I don’t understand how he manages to be completely inappropriate and also ridiculously appealing. Whatever this sorcery is, I need to get away from it before I do something stupid.
“I’m going home now. It’s been an interesting conversation, one I won’t forget for a long time.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. With obvious regret, he says, “I won’t forget it, either.”
He glances back up to meet my gaze. “But if you change your mind, I live right upstairs, over the bar. I’m home every night after six and I’m up until after midnight. If you come later than that, you might have to knock a little louder, because I sleep like the dead.”
“I’m not going to knock on your door, Aidan.”
“Okay.”
“Please stop saying that. You make the word sound nothing at all like what it means.”
His lips curve upward. His dark eyes dance with a mischievous light. He murmurs, “Whatever you say, boss,” and it sounds like he thinks he knows me better than I do.
Then he stands and gestures toward the door. “Have yourself a good evening.”
I dig in my back pocket for cash, which I set on the table. Aidan looks at me like I just stomped on his big toe.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Pay for my drinks?”
“Make it transactional.”
“I’m being fair.”
“You’re being emasculating.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah? You a man?”
I send him a sour look. “Not the last time I checked.”
“Then you don’t know what’s emasculating. Keep your money.”
With perfect timing, hipster boy arrives with our round of drinks. It feels like Aidan ordered them a century ago. Before he can set them down, I stand.
I tell Aidan, “If we were on a date, I’d let you pay for my drinks. But I fired you, and this isn’t a date, so I’m paying. It was nice to see you again.” I pause. “I’m searching for a more accurate word than nice, but nothing comes to mind.”
The hipster sets the drinks on the table and says, “Baffling. Bewildering. Disorienting. Strange.”
He looks back and forth between us, then turns around and leaves again.
Gazing at me with burning intensity, Aidan says, “Always liked that kid.”
“Goodbye, Aidan.”
“Good night, Kayla.”
I know the difference in our farewells is deliberate on his part, but with nothing else to say, I turn and walk out.
9
Dear Kayla,
Thank you for writing me back. As for all the questions you asked, none of them matter. I’m sorry if that sounds rude, but it’s the truth.
I’ll always tell you the truth. I can’t do otherwise.
Here’s a verse you might appreciate:
But already my desire and my will were being turned like a wheel, all at one speed, by the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.
What do you think?
Dante
10
I found the letter in the mailbox this time. No mystery appearances on the kitchen table, but still a big mystery about why it came in the first place.
Because I don’t know this guy.
Mr. Mysterious ignored my threat to turn his letters over to the detective, so he either thinks I’m bluffing or he doesn’t care.
I stand in the kitchen under the flickering light and read the letter again. The verse means nothing to me. Not that it should, because it originated from the mind of a lunatic.
I wish I could tell Michael about this. What a laugh we’d have. Right before he called the police.
I know that’s what I should do, but I’m absolutely exhausted. Maybe in the morning I’ll have the strength to pick up the phone and tell a nice police dispatcher that I have a crazy pen pal and could they please go over to the prison and tell him to stop writing me letters, but for now, all I want to do is sleep.
Sleep and forget about Aidan Leighrite and his sorcery.
I’ve still got adrenaline coursing through my veins from that chance meeting. The way he looked at me. The things he said.
“My plan is to get you naked and find out how you sound when you come.”
To my eternal disbelief, I actually considered his offer for a moment.
It was shock. It had to be. In my normal state of mind, I’d have smacked that guy right across the face, barged out of the bar, and filed a complaint about him with the Better Business Bureau. Who talks to a customer like that?
A former customer, but still.
Actually, did I ever technically hire him? We negotiated pricing, but I didn’t sign any kind of contract. It didn’t get that far. I threw him out of my house first.
Oh God, who cares? This is all too much for me.
I make sure all the doors are locked and the drapes are drawn. Then I go upstairs, put the letter with the others in my underwear drawer, and go to bed.
I fall asleep within minutes, but in the middle of the night, something wakes me.
Groggy, I lie in bed listening into the dark. It’s stormy again, and the wind is blowing. Rain peppers the roof. A tree branch scrapes against a windowpane somewhere downstairs.
No, that wasn’t a tree branch. It was a floor board creaking.
It sounds like someone’s creeping up the stairs.
I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering. I listen hard, trying to hear over the crashing of my pulse, but the sound doesn’t come again.
Did I imagine it? Or is someone in the house?
I try not to panic. I try to be logical. The house is old and makes all kinds of odd noises, especially when there’s a storm. Things are blowing around in the yard…maybe the sound was a lawn chair toppling over. Or a draft sighing through the living room curtains. Or a total figment of my imagination, seeing how I’m still adjusting to sleeping alone.
All of those things make complete sense until the floorboard creaks again and I have to stifle a scream.
I leap from bed, run to the door, and lock it. Heart pounding, I grab the flashlight from under the bathroom sink. It’s big, heavy, and the only thing I can think of to use as a weapon. Then I crouch down on the side of the bed opposite the door and sit there, shaking and hyperventilating, clutching the flashlight like a baseball bat.
I don’t know how long I huddle like that before I decide I’m being silly.
If someone broke into the house, I’d have heard a window smash or a door being kicked in. I’d have heard more footsteps, not just a few groaning boards, because the stairs creak with every step. I’m just being paranoid.
That has to be it.
The alternative is too terrifying.
I stand, wincing when my thighs cramp. I go to the door, put my ear against it, and listen. I hear nothing more than the rain on the roof. I decide to put on some clothes and quickly change out of my nightgown into jeans and a shirt.
Then, with the flashlight in hand but not on, I carefully open the bedroom door and peer out.
The hallway is pitch black. It’s a moonless night, and the cloud cover is thick. I listen into the darkness for a moment, the tiptoe down the hall in my bare feet and look over the railing to the living room below.
It’s dark down there, too. Dark and silent. Nothing moves.
Then my skin starts to crawl because I have the creepiest feeling I’m being watched.
Get out of the house!
It’s not even a coherent thought. It’s more like a subliminal thing, as if the ancient part of my brain screamed a warning at me.
With my heart in my throat and my hands shaking, I make my way down the stairs as quickly and silently as I can. I grab the car keys off the console table in the foyer and run out of the house in a full-blown panic, not even bothering to bring my purse.
Ten minutes later, I’m pounding on Aidan’s door.
He opens up wearing nothing but a pair of faded jeans that hang low on his hips. His hair is mussed, his stomach is flat, his chest is covered in tattoos.
He’s fucking magnificent.
The horrible thought that he’s not alone flashes through my brain, right before I blurt, “I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’m going now.”
He grabs me by the arm and pulls me inside before I can run away.
Closing the door behind me, he demands, “What’s wrong? What happened?”
My teeth start to chatter. This is when I realize I’m soaking wet, because I ran out of the house into the rain without a coat on. Or shoes, for that matter.
Or underwear.
I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to hide my breasts under the thin T-shirt I’m wearing. “I t-thought s-someone broke into my h-house.”
His dark brows pull together. “So you came here?”
I’m a moron. I’m the stupidest person to ever walk the face of the earth. For the safety of the rest of humanity, I should be locked away in a government-operated facility for the rest of time.
He must see the distress on my face, because he says gently, “That wasn’t a reproach.”
I make a mental note that this hot roofer has a good vocabulary, but get distracted when he adds, “You’re wet.”
His gaze moves slowly down my body, taking in my soaked clothing and my bare feet. It travels back up again, getting snagged on my lips before finally settling on my eyes.
His voice husky, he says, “Let’s get you warm. Then you can tell me what happened.”
He leads me inside by the elbow, sits me down at his kitchen table, and disappears into another room. For a towel, I suppose, though he could be calling the cops to tell them to pick up the crazy lady who just showed up soaking wet on his doorstep in the middle of the night.
Shivering, I look around.
His place is small but tidy. The kitchen and living room are next to each other in an open-concept design. The space is visually separated by a set of open bookcases, with a sofa and chairs on the other side along with the TV and a coffee table. Down the hallway where he disappeared must be the bedrooms.
I’m surprised how clean and neat it is, considering a bachelor lives here. There aren’t even any dirty dishes in the sink.
He returns with a fluffy white towel in his hands and commands, “Stand up.”
Though I usually get grouchy when someone barks orders at me, I obey without protesting. He wraps the towel around my back and shoulders and starts to rub my arms with it.
Without looking at my face, he says, “Don’t be embarrassed.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the wet idiot standing in a stranger’s kitchen at one o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m not a stranger, remember? And you’re not an idiot.”
He seems irritated that I called myself that. Or maybe his irritation has to do with my unexpected arrival, which would make a lot more sense. The poor man has to go to work in the morning, and now he’s got a soaking psychopath to deal with.
He pulls the towel up over my head and starts blotting the rain from my hair.
My face flaming, I say miserably, “I think I might be dying of humiliation.”
“You’re not dying of anything. Be quiet and let me do this.”
I close my eyes and stand there wondering how a person would know if they lost their mind. But I force myself to stop thinking about it because the signs of insanity probably include imagining the rain is a burglar and fleeing for help to the home of the roofer you fired and turned down for sex.
In a conversational tone, Aidan says, “We’re gonna have a discussion later about why you chose me to come to when you were scared, but in the meantime, walk me through what happened.”
I’m too chicken to look at him while I talk, so I keep my eyes shut and tell him everything. When I’m done, he says, “You don’t have a security alarm?”
“No.”
“We’ll fix that tomorrow.”
I finally get the courage to look at him. His expression is a nice combination of amusement and concern. Those dark eyes of his are warm, but his brows are still drawn down.
Resisting the urge to reach up and pet his beard, I say, “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. And you’re still shivering.”
“I can’t help it. I’m freezing.”
He stops rubbing my head with the towel. “I’m gonna say something now. Don’t freak out.”
“You should’ve just said it. Now I have to freak out.”
“You need to change into dry clothes.”
I frown at him. “Why would that freak me out?”
“Because the dry clothes you’re gonna change into are mine.”
