Within This Frame (11 page)

“Do you like salt and butter?” he asked as he poured the second bag into the large bowl with the first. He popped his head around the kitchen wall and saw her knelt before the entertainment center.

“Sure, whatever,” Maggie answered distractedly, searching through his collection of videotapes.

“You like scary movies?” Lance walked into the living room, arms wrapped around the warm bowl of popcorn. He set it on the coffee table and sat down beside her.

“I do. How’d you know that?”

“You had a horror novel in your bedroom.” Lance opened a glass door on the entertainment center and pulled out a stack of movies. “I have every collection of horror movies made, from the seventies to now.”

“You do not.” Her voice was doubtful, but excitement shone in her eyes.

“I do. What are you in the mood for? Halloween? Freddie or Jason? There’s Damien as well, Poltergeist . . . Chucky. The Exorcist. Candyman. Name your pleasure. If you want it, I got it. What sounds good to you?” Lance knew what sounded good to him—Maggie, naked.

Hormones and instincts slammed forth like an unknown enemy, and it was a strain not to lunge for her. He shot to his feet, startling her, and moved to the couch, where he didn’t have a clear view of her breasts beneath the flimsy pink top she wore, and he couldn’t be tortured by the way she smelled. She smelled good, too good. And she was warm, and soft, and right there.

“Do you bathe in oranges or something?” Lance’s voice was harsh, irritable.

Maggie slowly stood, confusion pulling down her mouth. She touched a lock of hair. “It’s my shampoo.”

“Do you have to use so much of it?” He knew he sounded ridiculous.

The frown grew. “I . . . don’t. Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, something’s wrong.” Lance gestured to his crotch. “I’ve had a boner since I started hanging out with you, and if I don’t get rid of it soon, I’m going to go out of my mind, that’s what’s wrong. And you act like you have no idea. You just—torment me with your scent, and your body, and your voice. And . . .” Lance groaned and let his head fall back, briefly closing his eyes before glaring his ire at her. He was insane, he knew he was being insane. He felt insane. That didn’t make his erection go away.

She stared at him, disbelief frozen on her face. Maggie glanced down, toward his crotch. A small sound left her and she twitched, like she wasn’t sure if she should flee or remain still.

He yanked a pillow from the couch and held it before him. “I’m not going to do anything, don’t worry.”

“With—” She stopped, licked her lips, which dragged another groan from him, and started over. “With me, you mean.”

“What?”

“You’re not going to do anything . . . with me. But you will, with someone else.” Her eyes locked on his, challenging him to tell the truth.

“Yes,” he admitted.

Maggie nodded, looking down. “I think . . . I’ll go read or something. I’m not sure I’m up to watching a movie.”

“No!” he shouted, causing her to flinch. Lowering his voice, struggling to control it, Lance said, “No. Please stay. I’ll . . . I’ll be okay, I promise.”

She looked at the pillow he had clutched to his groin. A faint smile touched her eyes as she met his. “I don’t think you will be. That would be mean of me, wouldn’t it? To continue to torment you?”

“Well, seeing as you’re the only one here, and I’m not looking to go anywhere just now, what other choice do I have?” he asked dryly.

Maggie bit her lip. “Does it hurt a lot?”

Lance laughed, but it was strained. “Yeah. It’ll be fine. Can we—can we talk about something else? Or put in a movie? Something? I won’t attack you or anything, don’t worry,” he added when she hesitated.

They decided on ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’, and with a pillow on his lap and a bowl of popcorn between them—and the two of them seated as far from one another as they could get while remaining on the couch—they watched the movie. It didn’t help his current affliction that Maggie glanced at him throughout the movie when she didn’t think he was paying attention. If he hadn’t already seen the movie a dozen times, he wouldn’t remember a single thing about it.

But Maggie—he remembered everything about her.

Her sharp intake of breath at certain scenes, how she covered her eyes and peeked between her fingers when she couldn’t stand to watch but also couldn’t not. The nervous tapping of her fingers along the arm of the couch. The way she played with a lock of hair as she concentrated. When she shifted to get comfortable and finally tucked her feet under her legs. The yawn she tried to hide. How she studied his profile when she thought he didn’t notice. Her soft smile when he turned his head and looked at her.

Night came, and with only the faint glow of the television for light, Lance and Maggie sat, not touching, not talking. At the end of the movie, she said a quiet goodbye, and left. Lance dropped his head against the couch and closed his eyes. He was painfully tense, alert and aching in a way only sex would alleviate.

Grimly determined to do just that, he left the darkened apartment and headed for his Jeep. It wasn’t supposed to feel like a chore, but as Lance drove toward Donovan Randolph’s house, the place where a night never went by without a party, it felt exactly like that. Lance wondered if he’d even enjoy it. Snorting to himself, he entered the house. Music pounded in his ears and he got lost in a mass of bodies.

MAGGIE—2010

“W
HAT ARE YOU
doing?”

Maggie jumped and dropped the wooden spoon she was using to ladle soap into the molds. She snatched it off the floor and spun around to face Lance. He stood in the doorway, arms raised and fingers gripping the doorframe above his head. The pose was nonchalant, but also sensual, each line of his arm muscles visible. The purple shirt and khaki shorts counterbalanced his messy black hair and dark, unshaven jaw. She swallowed and went back to filling the soap molds.

“Making soap,” she muttered.

“Is that the same stuff that’s in the bathroom?” His voice was closer, his body heat rolling from him to singe her.

“Yes.”

Sweat forming on her forehead, she swiped an arm across her face, wincing as her bicep uncomfortably pulled. Her muscles were sore from the last four days of training—arm muscles, leg muscles, abdomen muscles, even her butt muscles. So far, they’d rotated free weights and yoga with jogging and walking. Maggie knew Lance was taking it easy on her. She hated to think how she’d feel when he pushed her harder.

She finished filling the last of the twelve racks. The room was tucked away in a corner of the basement. Windowless and cool, it was a perfect environment for the soap to cure, but the constant movement and bustling around always heated up Maggie. Other than basic necessities, the workshop was unfinished, the walls and floor cement, the lighting dim.

“I didn’t know you made your own soap. How often do you make it?”

“I don’t know, probably every other month.”

“Maybe you can teach me sometime.” Lance stood across the worktable, faint admiration in his tone and eyes. He dropped his gaze to the table. A grin spread across his face and he nodded to one of the molds. “I like that.”

Maggie looked at the mold he referenced, biting back her own grin. It was in the form of an alien head. “The kids do too—which makes sense,” she commented, looking at him.

He narrowed his eyes at her, but only said, “The kids? What kids? What do you do with the soap after you make it?”

She shrugged. “I use it myself, donate it, give it away for gifts.”

“How long have you been making it?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie mumbled, moving the trays to a large shelf that took up one whole wall of the basement room. “Half a dozen years, maybe. Why?”

Lance carefully picked up the tray of alien head molds and set it beside a tray of snowflakes. “It’s interesting.” He walked by her as she took another tray over. “You made it sound like you sit around all day and vegetate, but you don’t. You’re doing things. That’s good. What made you decide to learn how to make soap?”

It had been a form of therapy for her. She’d seen a craft show on soap making and taken a class. The mindless work calmed Maggie, and gave her purpose when she needed it most. She liked mixing scents and trying new combinations, and she enjoyed giving the soaps to people who appreciated them, or needed them. Plus it was healthier than buying soap from a store. But she wouldn’t tell Lance any of that.

Maggie set the last of the trays on the shelf and faced him. “Why all the questions?”

Lance stared at her. “Why not?”

“It isn’t necessary.”

“It isn’t forbidden,” he rejoined.

“You’re supposed to train me, right? Our training’s done for the day. You don’t need to hang around and chitchat with me. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

She took the dirty supplies to the washtub and set them inside, turning on the hot water. The sound of rushing water hitting something solid was the only noise in the room. Maggie could not get too friendly with Lance, because if she did, there was every possibility that she’d fall for him again. It could happen, so effortlessly. His charm was lethal.

The less time they spent around one another outside of her training, the better.

“You’re dressed like you have somewhere to go. You should go,” she said when Lance remained quiet.

“Do you still hate me?”

She flinched at the softly spoken words, back to him as she said, “I never hated you.”

“Are you sure? Because you told me you did, quite forcefully, and multiple times.”

“Maybe a little bit,” she admitted, finally turning to face him.

Humor clashed with remorse, turned his face into a twisted canvas. “Well, if you don’t hate me anymore, maybe we can try to get along, get to know us now instead of remembering what we were like then. I’m an adult. So are you.”

Maggie’s eyes drifted over his features in the way her fingers used to. “You make it sound easy.”

He lowered his gaze to his hand. “I’m not trying to minimize what happened. Things didn’t end well—for the show or us. I hurt you, and I wish I could go back and change things, but it’s in the past. Let’s leave it there.” Lance looked up, a hopeful look on his handsome face as memories danced across his features like light and dark. “It would be nice if we could be friends.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor. There was a time when being friends wasn’t enough for him, and he was asking to be exactly that.

“If you have to fight to keep someone away, it usually means you should stop,” Lance continued.

“Think so?” she questioned, head tilted. Maggie saw their past in almost every conversation they had. It was eerie.

“Yeah. I do.”

She took a deep breath. “I did fight to keep you away, once, and then I stopped.” She didn’t need to elaborate. The result of that had been catastrophic, as Lance knew.

“And I kept fighting—myself, you, how I felt,” he confessed, eyes dark and steady on her face. “Ten years, Maggie. That’s a long time to think about things. It’s also enough time to forgive.”

“I have forgiven you. I had to, if I wanted to get better.” Maggie picked at a chunk of unhardened soap on her shirt. She didn’t blame Lance for what happened to her, but their breakup seemed to be the catalyst for each of their spirals into a dark place.

The magazine articles chronicled each girl Lance slept with, each time he publicly drank, every incident that ended up with him either in jail or paying a fine. The court appearances. The pictures of him where he was clearly on something. They also posted each mental relapse Maggie had, each time she was in and out of a hospital, every new doctor or therapist she went to see. Pictures of her pale, haunted eyes and her too-thin body. Being under the media spotlight was a gift, and more than that, a curse.

He stepped toward her and she stepped back, warily eyeing him.

Lance paused, a faint, sad smile on his mouth. It took over his eyes, burned them midnight blue. “Are you scared of me?”

“Yes,” she choked out, pressing her lips together.

“Don’t be.”

Maggie stared at Lance, seeing behind the face and into the man. One time he’d warned her away, told her she should be scared of him. He was so at odds from the Lance she remembered, but the same, where it mattered.

The silence drew out, grew more and more awkward.

Lance broke it, clearing his throat as he looked away. “I’m going to the gym to meet with a potential client. I’ll be back in time to help with supper. We can try out a new recipe from the healthy eating cookbook. You pick whatever sounds good. In the meantime, have a
healthy
snack.”

“No pizza or chocolate,” she gathered.

“No.”

“You’re no fun,” Maggie joked weakly, wanting the seriousness of the moment to dissipate.

“We both know I’m
too
much fun. See you later.”

Maggie wordlessly saluted him, not looking at him as he left.

After getting everything cleaned up and the workroom back in order, Maggie showered and dressed in a pair of teal shorts and a black tee shirt. Hair up in a loose ponytail, she perused the cupboards for a snack, settling on a handful of walnuts. Her natural sweet tooth was not impressed. Sighing dejectedly, she grabbed the cookbook Lance mentioned, and with her elbows resting on the counter, looked at the contents.

Lip curled with distaste, she flipped through pages of foods she either didn’t know, or didn’t like. Settling on lemon garlic tilapia with a tomato chickpea salad and brown rice, Maggie checked to make sure they had all the appropriate ingredients. That done, she made a pot of coffee. She loved coffee, but she especially loved it with flavored creamer. Lance told her to start enjoying it black.

Maggie had been regulated to a limited carb, sugar, and dairy diet. It was hell, although, to be fair, she was able to eat more frequently, even if the portions were smaller. The idea was to eat a lot of protein, whole grains, vegetables, and fruit. Maggie felt better and had more energy. She wasn’t as hungry either. She knew there were healthy and unhealthy ways to be thin—she’d personally gone through them all at one point or another. Then she’d given up, letting herself completely go. It was the cravings that would be her downfall, if she chose to give in to them.