Page 84 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
He takes my right hand and gently turns it over. His thumb traces the faint scar that cuts across my palm from pinkie to the base of my thumb. The muscles in his jaw work, and his intense scrutiny leaves me jittery.
“How did you get this?” he asks, his voice taut.
“In a car accident. It was a long time ago.”
He lifts his gaze to my face. There are questions in his dark green eyes, and suddenly I’m not ready for them, whatever they may be.
“Do you have any painkillers?”
“Huh?” That’s the last thing I expected him to ask.
“Aspirin. Advil. Tylenol.”
“I have some Advil in my bedroom.”
He nods, then helps me up. “Which way?”
“That way.” I gesture, almost in a daze. None of this is what he wanted to ask earlier. What I saw in his eyes wasn’t some ordinary inquiry.
He starts to escort me. I want to tell him I’m fine and can manage on my own, but that’d be a terrible lie. My knees are too shaky. Maybe it’s the sudden relief at realizing I’m home and safe that’s making me feel weak.
I wonder vaguely if I should’ve offered him something to drink. After all, he helped me and brought me home. He even gave me that nice whiskey, and I haven’t even asked him if he wants a glass of water. But somehow I don’t.
He takes me to my bedroom. As his gaze sweeps the room, he seems to relax a bit. “Do you want to call someone to stay with you?”
“No. It’s just going to be me.” As I speak, I suddenly realize I don’t want to be alone in the vast place. Not that I think it’ll be unsafe or anything, but… “You have to go soon, right?”
“No. Why?”
“Um. I don’t…” I hesitate as something glimmers in the back of my mind, tickling me like a tiny feather. Somehow this scene, this scenario, doesn’t feel new. It’s similar to the sensation I get when I sit in front of a piano and start playing the first thing that comes to me and end up with a perfect Chopin étude. If I resist or second-guess myself, my fingers freeze and I can’t play at all.
Trust.
If I don’t trust my instincts, I may never recover all my memories. I inhale sharply, then let it all out. “I don’t want to be alone right now. That’s all.”
“If you want me to stay, I will,” he says.
Oh. I didn’t expect him to agree so easily. He should be at least somewhat reluctant, since he has to be a very busy man. Suddenly, I’m flustered, unsure. What if I’m just imposing on him, and he can’t bring himself to say no because he feels bad about what happened?
“You’re thinking too much,” Tony says. “I don’t mind. Really.”
“Do you want me to show you to a guest room?” I blurt out. I realize my mistake. Instead of just going with the flow of my instinct, I stopped, questioned and got anxious. Now the sliver of memory that was shimmering at the edge of my mind is gone, leaving me frustrated and annoyed. I feel like I missed a question on a test I should’ve known the answer to.
“Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself.” When I don’t respond, Tony peers at me. “Do you want to brush your teeth? Clean up and change?”
“N—” Actually, I do. I want to wash up and wash away everything that happened this evening. “Yes.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
“Okay.”
I grab a change of clothes and go to the bathroom. I lock the door, the latch closing quietly, and run the water. I brush my teeth with extra toothpaste. It stings in the cut, but I don’t care. I need to erase the disgusting, slimy feel of Jamie Thornton’s tongue. After gargling four times with mouthwash, I strip, dumping everything on the floor, and walk into the glass stall. I adjust the water until it’s almost scalding and scrub myself with enough soap to clean an entire high school cheerleading squad. It’s too bad there’s no bleach in the bathroom.
After I dry myself, I put on a white Tweety Bird night shirt and shorts and come out. The bedroom’s dimly lit by the one small lamp on my bedside table. Tony’s still there, just like he said he would be. The sight’s comforting, like a shield between me and the world. How strange that I’d feel that way about him. But how many guys would come to my rescue the way he did, make sure I got home safely and take care of me?
He’s in one of my two chairs, which he’s moved closer to the bed. His back is slightly curved, his legs stretched. The pose looks indolent and relaxed—a predator in repose—but there’s nothing indolent and relaxed about whatever is going through his head, from the icy intent in his narrowed, faraway eyes.
I check the time. I was in the bathroom for almost forty minutes. He shifts, and the light hits his hand. I notice a rust-red crusting over the knuckles.
