“C'mon. Just open the door.” He dropped his forehead on the frame. What would he do if she let him in?
Fantasies spilled from the oily, malignant lesion that was his mind. He would take her was what he'd do. Strap down those toned limbs until they strained in agony and bury himself in her so deep she'd never be able to purge the stench of him. He was his father's son, after all.
Except Mr. E had not only enslaved and ruined his mother, he'd left her to rot in an El Paso colonia with her unwanted infant.
Van bit down on the toothpick, snapping it in half. He pocketed the pieces, his bitterness cursing at him to embrace his nature. The rancid bits of his life in that ghetto were inside of him. He wanted to pocket those, too.
Yet here he was, growing hard at the thought of ruining another life.
She'd grown too quiet on her side of the door. Had she decided to end the conversation and retreat to another room? He tightened his hands into fists. “Amber?”
The door jostled with her movements.
He sighed in relief. “Just give me one reason why you're holed up.” Give him something vulnerable he could break off and sharpen into teeth.
“I'll give you several.” Her tone was clipped, angry. “I'm allergic to pollen. I'm hiding a dead body. And I don't like you.”
There it was. She did like him. He hadn't missed her gape of appreciation when she'd shut the door. What she seemed to be oblivious to, however, was her enjoyment in their verbal scrimmage. But where was the terrified girl who could barely utter a sentence outside? She really put a lot of faith in that door. He grinned. “Maybe I'm the reason.”
“Mighty full of yourself.” Her volume rose. “Let me clear it up for you. Fuck. Off.”
He'd rather fuck her. And he would. The brick walls of her bungalow might've suspended her earlier panic, but it was a deception he could shatter with little effort. He could wait till she fell asleep and pry open the rear sliding door. A precaution he should've taken six months ago rather than assuming the house was vacant. He'd been careless, and now his favorite bench—and its view—was compromised.
Though, since the moment Amber had stumbled out, something had happened to his focus. “Are we done talking through the door?”
“What are you doing on my porch in the middle of the night?” She sounded tired, defeated.
“I was looking for some old friends and got the wrong house. You’re not exactly rolling out the welcome mat, but I kind of like here. It beats going back to an empty home.” It was more truth than he'd planned to share.
“You don't have—”
He pressed his ear against the wood, desperate to hear the rest of it. Let it out, Amber.
“You don't have anyone...at home?”
His pulse hopped through his veins. His honesty had opened a precious doorway into hers. “No one, Amber. There's not a soul that cares if I live or would miss me if I died.” Maybe he'd laid it on too thick, but the truth was always denser and darker than shit.
The flooring creaked beneath her footsteps. Was she pacing? Considering another swine-related retort?
Finally, the creaking stilled, and her voice drifted over him, sealing her fate. “I'd like to make you an offer.”
Whatever sanity Amber had left evaporated in her desperate state of do-or-die. The decision roiled through her stomach. She needed the dye to complete the projects, and even more troublesome was how she would transport the finished orders from the door to the mailbox before the Saturday mail carrier motored by.
Was enlisting the help from this man the smart thing to do? It felt right, like a nuzzling, belly warming, union-of-lonely-souls kind of right. She knew, too well, how forceful loneliness was, how it could make a person desperate enough to grasp at strangers.
She rubbed her temples and released a frustrated breath. She was making an emotional decision, as Dr. Michaels liked to say, anchored in empathy and illogic. And Brent had always said she was too stupid to think for herself.
Her hands dropped to her sides. There had been a time in her life when she'd ignored Brent's commentary, when her self-image was as true and sturdy as her pageant pose. Perhaps too sturdy. The more she'd let his disgust roll off her shoulders, the crueler the words had become. For years, he'd tried to penetrate her pride, to elicit a reaction. One she'd refused to give. Until, eventually, he'd cut too deep.
Maybe she'd hardened herself so much she'd become an undesirable person, a detached wife he could no longer love. For that, she only had herself to blame.
You're excusing his behavior.
Dr. Michaels was right. Besides, she was anything but hardened now, and Brent wasn't around to savor it. She squeezed her over-popped fingers, and the silent bend of joints pushed her pulse to her throat.
“What's the offer, sweetheart?”