“What changed?”
“Junior year in high school. I had a rep—and there are always going to be the type who need to challenge the rep. New guy comes along—tough guy. He goes after me; I take him down.”
“Just like that?”
“No. It was vicious, on both sides. We hurt each other. I hurt him more. A couple weeks later, he and two of his buddies jumped me. I was with a girl, making out in the park. Two of them held me while he took his shots. She’s screaming for them to stop, screaming for help, and he’s laughing and beating me until I don’t even feel it anymore. At some point I blacked out.”
“Oh my God, Simon.”
“When I came to, they had her on the ground, holding her down. She’s crying, begging. I don’t know if they’d have raped her. I don’t know if they’d have gone that far. But they didn’t get the chance. I went crazy, and I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember getting up off the ground and going after them. I beat two of them unconscious. The third ran off. I don’t remember any of it,” he repeated, as if it still troubled him. “But I remember coming out of it, out of that red zone, and hearing the girl—a girl I was half in love with—crying and screaming and begging me to stop. I remember the look on her face when I pulled in enough to see her. I’d scared her as much as the ones who jumped me and nearly raped her.”
Then she was a wimp, in Fiona’s opinion. Instead of screaming and crying, she should’ve run for help. “How badly were you hurt?”
“Enough for a couple days in the hospital. Two of the three who came at me spent longer. I woke up in the hospital—a world of hurt. I saw my parents sitting together across the room. My mother was crying. You had to practically cut her arm off with a hatchet to make my mother cry, but tears were just running down her face.”
That, Fiona saw clearly, troubled him more than the memory lapse. That had been the mark that had turned his path. His mother’s tears.
“And I thought, That’s enough. It’s enough. I leashed the crazy.”
“Just like that?”
“No. But eventually. Once you learn how to walk away the first time, or realize the one baiting you is an idiot, it gets easier.”
So, she thought, that’s where the control had its roots. “What about the girl?”
“I never made it past second base with her after all. She broke it off,” he added when Fiona said nothing. “I couldn’t blame her.”
“I can. She should’ve found a big stick and helped you instead of crying. She should’ve grabbed some rocks and started throwing them. She should’ve kissed your goddamn feet for saving her from being mauled and raped.”
He smiled. “She wasn’t the type.”
“You have faulty taste in types.”
“Maybe. Up till now, anyway.”
She smiled, leaned over the take-out box to kiss him—and flipped open another button on her shirt. “Since I’m tonight’s pizza slut, I say we take the rest of this upstairs, where it’ll be handy if we want some after.”
“I’m a fan of cold pizza.”
“I’ve never understood people who aren’t.” She rose, held out a hand for his.
Fourteen
Simon woke with the sun in his eyes. At home he slept in a cave, shuttering the bedroom windows so he could wake up, get up, whenever the hell he wanted. He considered it, like eating whatever and whenever, a perk of adulthood aided by being self-employed.
Of course, the dog had changed that, demanding to be let out at questionable hours by jumping on the bed, or licking any body part that might hang over the bed. Or his newest, and fairly creepy, method: standing beside the bed and staring at the human.
Still, they’d worked out a routine where he let the dog out, stumbled back into bed and caught some more sleep until Jaws wanted in again.
So where the hell was the dog? And more important, where the hell was Fiona?
Deciding they were undoubtedly together, Simon grabbed a pillow and put it over his face to block the light so he could sleep.
No good, he realized in seconds.
The pillow smelled of her, and her scent drove him crazy. He indulged himself for a moment, just breathing her in while a picture of her formed in his mind. The soft coloring, the sharp features, the long, strong body. The dash of freckles and clear, calm eyes.
He’d thought if he figured out what there was about her he found so damn compelling, he’d get past it, or around it.
But now that he had, at least partially, he found himself only more tangled up. Her strength—mind and body—her resilience, her humor and what seemed an almost bottomless well of patience combined with an innate kindness and an easy, almost careless self-confidence.
He found the mix fascinating.
He shoved the pillow aside and lay there squinting at the light.
Her bedroom, he thought, showed a strong, imaginative use of color. The walls glowed a coppery hue in the sunlight and formed a good backdrop for some decent local art—probably picked up at Syl’s. She’d indulged herself with a big iron bed with hints of dark bronze along with that copper, and high, knobbed posts.
No fuss, he thought. Even the obligatory female bottles and bowls on the dresser had a sense of organization, while the trio of dog beds across the room spoke of her passion and profession.
Attractive lamps, simple in style, an oversized chair draped with a beautifully made throw—likely Syl’s again. A low cabinet holding books—and he’d bet they were shelved alphabetically—photos, trinkets.
No clothes tossed around, no shoes left on the floor, no pocket stuff scattered on the dresser.
How did anyone live like that?
In fact, he noted, the clothes he’d peeled, tugged and yanked off her the night before were nowhere to be seen, and the clothes she’d peeled, tugged and yanked off him sat neatly folded on the chest under the window.
And since he was lying there thinking about how she decorated and organized her bedroom, he obviously wasn’t getting any more sleep.
He used her shower, found it stingy on the pressure and the hot water. Her bathroom, he thought, needed some serious updating. The old fixtures should be replaced, the tile work redone, and the basic layout wasted space.
Despite what he considered a poor design, it was tidy, organized, scrupulously clean.
He dropped his towel on the floor, went out into the bedroom to dress. Walked back into the bath, picked up the towel and slung it over the shower rail.
He dressed, thinking about coffee, then started out of the room. Walked back, snarling a little, and picked up the pillow he’d shoved off his face and onto the floor. Tossed it back onto the bed. Muttered, but pushed his neatly folded clothes into his duffel. Satisfied, he started out again.
“Goddamn it.” Since he couldn’t shrug off the guilt line between his shoulder blades, he backtracked again, yanked the sheets into some semblance of order, then flipped the bold blue comforter up and over—and considered the bed made.
Feeling put-upon, he trudged downstairs and decided there better damn sight be coffee.
It waited for him, hot, fragrant and seductive. Next to a woman, he thought as he sloshed some into a mug, coffee was the best thing a man could consume in the morning.
He drank, topped off the mug, then went to find the woman and his dog.
They were in the sunny side yard fooling around on what he thought of as the playground equipment while the other three dogs sprawled on the grass. He leaned against the porch post, drinking his coffee, watching the
