As Darkness Gathers (Dark Betrayals Book 2) (17 page)

His mouth was compressed into a thin line, his jaw tight, but when his gaze met mine, the tenseness in his face eased. “This is your worst?”

“No, you should see her before she brushes that hair in the morning.”

“Daddy!”

Clay laughed and pulled out my chair for me, and my father caught my eye and winked. Clay slid my mom’s chair out for her, too, and she flushed with pleasure.
 

“Goodness, your mother raised you well.”

He smiled but didn’t comment as he took the seat beside me.

Again, I couldn’t taste the chicken noodle soup or smell the roast beef my mother had prepared, but lunch was enjoyable. Clay seemed genuinely interested when he asked her how she was enjoying her retirement from teaching and when he spoke to my father about the hardware store.

“You don’t have to drive back home tonight, do you?” my mother asked as she offered Clay another heap of mashed potatoes.

He waved off the potatoes and glanced at me. “No, I took some time off. Thought I’d stick around for a few days, get a room at a hotel nearby.”

“No need to do that. Finch’s brother, Darcy, only stays over on the holidays, so we have an extra bedroom.”
 

I blinked in surprise at my father. He’d never offered my brother’s room to anyone before.

“That’s an excellent idea, Jacob. I just put fresh linens on the bed the other day, too.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Clay said.

“Nonsense.” My mother started collecting the empty plates. “It’s no imposition at all. We’d love to have you.”

“I appreciate it, then.” Clay stood and relieved her of the stack of dirty dishes. “I’ll take care of those, Mrs. Rhodes.”

“Well, thank you. And please, call me Margo.”

I hid a smile as I helped clear the table. My mother was smitten.

“Seems like they have it under control, Margo,” my father said. “Why don’t we take the boys for a walk?”

As they headed out the door, I saw my father grab my mother’s hand. She looked at him, surprised, but he didn’t meet her questioning glance. I smiled and turned to Clay. “They like you.”

“And I, them,” he said.

I rinsed the plates in the sink and handed them to him, and he loaded them in the dishwasher. It was strange seeing him perform such a domestic task.
 

“What about your family?” I studied his face and saw the tightening around his eyes and mouth. I knew I was prying, but the man intrigued me. “You said at the hospital you have none left?”

He was silent for so long I thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he said, “My mother is the only one still alive. She’s in a home in Chicago.”

“Do you get to see her often?”

“No. I haven’t seen her in over ten years. I call every week to check on her, but she doesn’t want to see me. I remind her of my father. He was . . . killed when I was a teenager.”

I thought his hesitation was due to grief. “Seeing you makes her miss him?”

“Miss him?” he asked, surprised. “My father was the reason she drank herself into a stupor. The last time I visited, she tried to kill herself.”

I remembered his reaction when I’d asked if he was named after his father. “Oh, Clay.”

He squirted soap into the dishwasher receptacles and then closed the lid. “It’s easier for her if I don’t visit.”

I touched his forearm, at a loss. He’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and the golden hair dusting his warm skin was crisp under my fingers.
 

His gaze was shuttered and unreadable when it met mine.

“I . . . thank you for coming,” I said, and a grin eased the shadows from his face. I held up a hand. “And no wiseass answer. Just say, ‘You’re welcome, Finch.’ ”

“You’re welcome, Finch.”
 

His voice sounded so grave while his eyes remained creased with laughter that I giggled. It felt like the first time in a while.
 

“And there you have it, Miss Rhodes,” the doctor said as he finished applying the splint. “Your nose is healing nicely. Keep taking the antibiotics to prevent infection and the painkillers as needed. Wear the splint for at least a week and, after that, at night for another two weeks. It’ll provide some protection if you roll over in your sleep, or from an accidental nudge from your bed mate.” He glanced at Clay, who squeezed my hand and didn’t bother to correct the doctor’s assumption.

His grip on my hand had remained solid and unwavering as the doctor had removed the packing from my nose. Even when he’d paled and I’d clutched his fingers so tightly as to render them bloodless, he hadn’t relinquished his hold.

“Thank you,” Clay said, shaking the doctor’s hand.

As he drew the curtains closed behind him, I released Clay’s hand and touched the tip of my nose with a careful finger. “Ouch.”
 

My voice squeaked as I recalled the discomfort of having the gauze removed. It had hurt as much as when they had packed it to begin with. I inhaled through my nose, relieved when there were no shards of pain. I could smell again.

“Here.” Clay plucked a tissue from the box on the counter. “Your nose is still bleeding a little.”

I dabbed at the trickle of blood, and then threw the saturated square into the waste bin. I tilted my head back to look up at Clay. “Still bleeding?”

“No, it’s stopped for now, but—” He reached again for the box of tissues, but the one he’d already handed me had been the last one. He lifted up his sweater—gray today—and pulled the black T-shirt underneath from where it was tucked into his jeans.

He stepped close, so close I had to arch my neck to look up at him. He cupped the back of my head in one hand and, with the other, used the tail of his T-shirt to wipe my cheeks.

My eyes slid shut. His touch was whisper-light over the swollen and bruised areas, and I could smell the warmth that radiated off him. He didn’t wear any cologne, but there was an underlying hint of my own fragrance-free soap, which he’d used in the shower at my parents’ this morning. My scalp tingled where his hand tunneled into my hair, and two of his fingers rested on the nape of my neck. I felt the touch of his skin against mine like an electric current that ran the length of my spine. I had to fight the shiver that threatened, and when he stopped wiping my face, I had a difficult time lifting my eyelids.
 

When I finally managed to, I was stunned by the tenderness in his gaze. “Something on my face?” I asked, proud of how steady my voice sounded.

“Tears.”

I smiled, letting my head rest a little more heavily in his hand. “I was afraid you were going to say snot.”

He chuckled. “Gentleman that I am, I wasn’t going to mention it, but since you brought it up . . . there was some of that, too.”

I choked on a laugh, and he leaned over and kissed my forehead. It stalled my breath in my chest for a moment, and I found myself wondering what his lips would feel like pressed against mine. I remembered the swift, hard kiss he’d given me in the forest after bandaging my feet.

Don’t,
I warned myself.
Too soon after a break up, too much going on
. But I wasn’t sure I was capable of listening to my own advice.

“This is my place.” I pointed at the entrance of the parking lot, and Clay directed his car into a vacant spot.
 

He glanced around as he turned the key in the ignition. “Nice area.”

“It is. Quiet, safe.” At least, it had been.
 

I gripped the handle but couldn’t bring myself to open the car door. My apartment had been my home, my sanctuary. Now it felt violated, the boundaries between my personal space and the outside world breached. It left me feeling physically ill and emotionally battered.

Clay unbuckled my seatbelt and ran his hand over the back of my head, turning my face toward his. “You’re safe, Finch. If you don’t want to go inside, we’ll wait. You don’t have to do this today.”

“I want to. I do.” I pushed a wavy lock of hair behind my ear that had been falling into my eyes. “But I feel like I . . . like I’ll never be safe here again, and I hate that.”

“That’s a normal reaction.” He stroked the shell of my ear with his thumb. “I’ve spoken to a friend who has a security system business. He recommended a system and a company in the area who could install it. Do you own a gun?”

“No, but I know how to shoot my father’s twelve and twenty gauge.”

“I like a woman who can handle a shotgun.”
 

I chuckled.
 

“I have a nine millimeter,” he said. “I’ll teach you how to use it, and we’ll see about getting you a gun.”

I nodded and found the courage to open the car door and step onto the pavement.
 

Clay rounded the hood and came to my side. He didn’t touch me, but his mere presence was strengthening. Even so, I started violently as someone swung open the door to my apartment when we approached. Clay stepped in front of me, and I grabbed hold of the back of his coat then sagged with relief as I recognized the svelte figure with the long, dark braid.

“Sydney.”

William followed her out of my apartment and she handed him the large, bulging garbage bag she was carrying before hurrying over. “Oh, honey.” She drew me into a careful hug. “Your poor face.”

“Looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?”

She held me at arm’s length and studied me, the look in her eyes distressed. “Looks pretty painful, more like it.”

“That, too, but it’s getting better. What are you doing here?”

“Your mom called me and said you might be coming by today. I was trying to clean up the worst of it before you got here, but William and I only managed the living room and kitchen. Thought it might be easier for you that way.”

My eyes burned at her thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Syd.” I cleared my throat.
 

William shuffled toward us after tossing the garbage bags in the dumpster at the other end of the parking lot.
 

“This is Clay Gandy. Clay, this is my friend, Sydney Beecher. And I’m sure you remember William.”

“Ah.” Her gaze wasn’t hostile, but neither was it welcoming.

“Nice to meet you, Sydney,” Clay said. “I’ve met your father. William, good to see you again.”

William nodded but avoided looking at either of us.
 

Sydney sent me an arched look before saying, “I’d stay longer, but I have a Minneapolis-St. Paul turn this evening and need to run a few errands before heading to the airport.”

“Of course,” I said. “I really appreciate this, Syd. Have a good trip.”

She glanced at Clay, and it looked like a warning. “I texted Julia. She’s going to come over and check on you after she closes the shop today.” Then she and William crossed the parking lot to her car and drove away.

“Something I said?” Clay asked.
 

“I apologize for that. She doesn’t think our . . . friendship is a good idea.”

“Any reason why?”

“She equated it to Stockholm syndrome.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t kidnap me.”