Page 79 of Fighting for You
I slide off the counter, and he kneels to pull my pants to the floor. I hold onto his shoulders for balance as I lift each foot up one at a time so he can remove them fully. I’m left standing in my bra and panties. My skin is prickling with goosebumps even in the warmth of the small, steamy bathroom.
“Alright, you shower. I’ll be right out there. I’m not going anywhere.” Brooks turns and reaches for the door to give me privacy, but I grab onto his arm.
“Please, don’t go. Don’t leave. I… I need you,” I say quickly. I feel desperate for him. His presence might be the only thing keeping everything from imploding.
He looks uncomfortable for a minute, indecision written all over his face, but after a moment, he sighs, nods, and proceeds to remove his jacket. He kicks off his boots and pulls his shirt over his head, that stunning torso on display. His pants follow quickly, and he’s left in just his black boxer briefs. I can’t help my eyes roaming over every inch of him—broad shoulders, tattoos, hair trailing down to the top of his underwear, coarse and dark. He looks as amazing as I remember from our short time together.
“Do you want to keep your…” he motions to my body, “on?” I shake my head and reach back to unclasp my bra, but I can’t get my fingers to comply. Giving up, I turn around with a silent request for him to help.
After a second, gentle fingers grip the band and release the clasp. The bra falls down my arms and to the ground, and then those same fingers catch on the top of my underwear and slowly slide them down my hips until they also reach the floor.
With a soft nudge to my lower back, Brooks leads me into the tub and under the spray of the hot water. It’s almost scalding, but the heat feels good, and my tense muscles start to relax. Hesteps in behind me. I turn around and notice he’s still in his boxer briefs—a noticeable bulge straining in the front.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his cheeks blushing a bit. “You’re just… I can’t help… just ignore it.” Witnessing Brooks hesitate and search for words warms my chest.
He still looks sheepish when he leans my head back under the water, running his fingers through the tangled mess, getting my hair saturated. I close my eyes and enjoy the feel of the water and his hands. I keep them closed, hearing only the sound of the water and the occasional snick of a bottle opening or closing as he shampoos and then conditions my hair. I keep my hands on his arms or shoulders, making sure he’s there, that this is real.
Once my hair is done, Brooks takes a washcloth, suds it up with my body wash, and runs it over every inch of my body. He’s careful to only touch me with the cloth, his hands never wandering from the task. The sweetness of the moment, of his attentiveness, brings new tears to my eyes. I’m thankful I can hide them with the water from the shower.
Once I’m rinsed clean, Brooks turns off the water, steps out, and grabs a towel, which he wraps around me. He wraps another one around his waist over the wet boxer briefs and looks over at me. “Okay?” When I nod, he continues, “Stay in here, dry off. I’m going to grab some clothes for you.” I’m about to protest, but he says, “I’ll leave the door open, you can watch me.” Not waiting for a response, he turns, opens the door wide and steps out.
I watch his back move as he opens and closes the drawers on my dresser, pulling out clean clothes. He’s back within seconds and sets the pile he collected on the vanity. “Here you go. Get dressed. I’ll change out here. I’m not going to leave your room, promise.” He gathers up the clothes he stripped out of earlier and exits the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
Though I can’t see him, I hear him moving around the room. A few heartbeats later, I’m confident he’ll stay there, soI drop the towel and start to dress. I almost smile when I pull my favorite pair of knit thigh-highs from the top of the pile of clothes he brought.
I finish getting dressed and brush my teeth. I almost feel normal aside from the overwhelming exhaustion crashing over me. Looking in the mirror, I confirm I look as tired as I feel, but there’s a little bit of color to my cheeks. I pick up my detangling comb to try to get rid of the rat’s nest my hair has turned into, but just the thought of it drains the rest of my energy.
Soft fingers pull the comb from my hand, and Brooks leads me out of the bathroom. Somehow, in the few minutes it took me to get dressed, he’s managed to strip my bed of the sheets and throw them into a laundry basket by the bedroom door along with the clothes that had been on the floor.
He tosses a pillow onto the floor next to the bed and motions for me to sit on it as he sits on the bed behind me. Slowly, methodically he starts on my hair. With great care, he takes small section by small section and brushes each one out with the comb.
“He’s—” I croak, then clear my throat. “He’s the reason I’m here. The reason I ran away from Charleston.” Brooks doesn’t say anything, but his hands pause their work for a beat or two. When he continues, so do I, “It started a few months before I left. Just weird things, feeling like I was being watched. I felt like I was going crazy because things kept moving in my apartment. At one point my journal went missing, only to turn up on the passenger’s seat of my car one day after work.” I take in a few deep breaths. “I told myself I was tired and didn’t remember leaving it there. My schedule was crazy at the hospital, the days all ran into each other.
“And then the notes started. I thought someone had confused my car with someone else’s, but they got personal, knowing things about me, places I visited, people I’d seen. I finally ranwhen he broke into my apartment while I was there. I came here to be close to Hayes. And it was good, I felt like I could relax. It’s been almost eight months. I thought the distance would keep him away. He can’t really leave Charleston, he has a family there, a career, a wife…” I finally trail off, looking down at my hands in my lap.
“Who is he?” Brooks’ voice is strained. He puts the comb down and turns me around so I’m kneeling in front of him. His eyes are filled with rage, and every muscle is coiled tight under his T-shirt. His anger doesn’t scare me though; I know it’s not directed toward me.
“My old boss. He’s a big-time surgeon. But it doesn’t matter. I tried to report him to my supervisor, but he blew me off. I just didn’t think he’d follow me. Why is he here?” I’m not really asking him, it just feels good to finally put voice to all the questions swirling in my mind. I put my head in his lap, wanting to be as close as possible, his warmth offering the comfort I needed all week. Brooks starts running his fingers through my wet hair, grazing his nails lightly against my scalp. We sit like this for a long time, and although the physical tension drains out of me, my mind won’t stop churning. “Brooks?”
“Yeah, baby?” he hums.
I pick my head up and meet his eyes, “Can you stay tonight? Can you help me forget? Just for a little?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Brooks
Margot has a stalker. The truth hit me like a ton of bricks when she’d finally said the words out loud. And even then, she hadn’t said it outright, but she’d said enough for me to understand. The reaction to the flowers told me everything I needed to know about her feelings toward the person who left them.
Staying here instead of going after the man who caused all of this was possibly the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. But I made the decision to stay because I knew being with Margot was more important than being a vigilante. I knew she needed me.
I’ve never seen anyone this scared, this upset. I’ve never seen anyone virtually give up on themselves and their life in the way she clearly had. When I walked into her bedroom, it was obvious how she’d spent the last week—alone, terrified, and paralyzed. The realization broke my heart in a way I didn’t know was possible. I’m pissed off at myself for not trying harder to get her to talk to me.
Now, with her head in my lap and the silence around us, my mind is spiraling with all the signs I missed.
The locks.
The jumpiness.
