Page 11 of For a Goode Time Call…
“Hello?”
“Hey, there you are.” I heard the creak of a heavy tread on a wood floor, and then the same heavy tread was climbing up the ladder. A head—long, thick, raven-black hair gathered at his nape in a loose ponytail, a massive bushy neatly trimmed beard, the end of which hung to his chest, dark skin—Native American—and tattoos, ohhh lordy, the tattoos.
Ink.
Vague memories washed through me, but his name came attached to his face, so there was that.
Piercing, deep, warm, complex, wise, compassionate, impossible brown eyes.
He clambered up into the loft with a lithe ease his size should’ve precluded; perching on the edge of the bed, one foot still on the ladder, Ink reached out and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “Still burning up.”
I moaned. “Where am I?”
“My house.” He brushed a tendril of my platinum blonde hair away from the corner of my mouth. “Been sick for three days.”
“Three days?”
He nodded. “Hungover for the first day, and down with a brutal flu for the last two. Ran a temp of a hundred and three for forty-eight hours. Couldn’t keep anything down.”
“I don’t…” My voice gave out, raspy, burned. “I don’t remember anything.”
He shook his head. “I ain’t surprised. You were bombed out of your skull for the first part of it, and then the fever took you and you were just delirious after that. Threw up about a dozen times, at least.”
“No wonder my throat hurts so bad.”
“Yeah, well that’s probably from the flu, too. You’re sick as hell, girl.”
I glanced out at the room—I couldn’t see much besides the roof and a bit of walls, a hint of windows. “You’ve been taking care of me the whole time?”
He nodded. “You only started being able to keep liquids down about twelve hours ago, which is when I brought you up here. You were down on my couch while you were puking.”
I closed my eyes. “I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t.”
“But I—”
“You been through hell, that’s what.”
“I just…I’ve made a shitty impression on you. I’m not usually this girl. I don’t drink like that, I don’t eat like that, I don’t…” I felt tears welling, and forced them back, viciously, brutally. “I’m not this girl.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know me, though, so how can you know that?” I wiped at my face with both hands, using a gesture of exhaustion to cover my need to wipe at my eyes.
“Because sometimes you just…you just know somebody.” Ink’s massive presence filled the loft with heat and masculinity, but also…peace. “I may not have known you very long, but I can tell sure enough that you needed to let go a little. That’s what you did. You got that freedom. Course, freedom to let go ain’t gonna protect you from the consequences of whatever shit you do, but sometimes, you just gotta let go.”
“I may have let go a little too much.”
He fixed his eyes on me, seeing into me, deep brown wise ursine eyes seeming to know me, to see the contents of my soul so clearly that I had to look away after a moment. “Cassandra.”
I frowned. “The full name. What, Ink?”
“Quit the bullshit.”
“What bullshit?” I asked.
He reached out a gargantuan paw, a hand so big it could probably fit at least halfway around my waist, if not most of the way. Touched my knee with it, a momentary, hesitant touch so gentle and soothing I didn’t know how to process how it made me feel.
