Lathan nudged the dog’s thick haunch with his boot until Little Man gave him the look. The I-swear-I’ll-never-chew-on-the-table-legs-ever-again-if-you-just-let-me-have-it, please, please, please look.
“No. Leave it.” He put the you’re-not-allowed-to-play-with-it-or-eat-it tone in his voice. “Little Man. Come.”
Little Man heaved a giant sigh that fanned his massive jowls outward, but stood and headed upstairs. Lathan followed, carrying Honey. By the time he got into the bedroom, Little Man was settled on his mastiff-sized dog bed in the corner.
“Stay.”
Lathan laid Honey in his bed. Her body was deadweight and awkward, so he adjusted her arms, her legs, her head until she looked comfortable.
He tore off his gloves, pressed his fingers to her neck, and concentrated on finding her pulse. The steady pressure of her heartbeat tapped against his fingertips with a Morse code rhythm all its own. He laid his other hand on her chest, just below her clavicle, to ensure the rise and fall of her breathing. He tried not to notice how close his hand was to her breasts. Failed.
If he fanned out his pinkie finger—no. He pulled his hand away.
She must’ve just passed out.
He went into the bathroom, soaped up half the stack of clean washcloths, and washed the lingering scent of decay from her hand.
Her skin was rough and red, her fingers knobby and strong, her nails ragged and short. She had the body and clothing of a stripper, but he expected something more faux sexy than torn-up fingernails and blistered feet. What kind of job abused her hands and her feet? Nothing seemed to fit.
He had questions and not one answer. What was her name? Why didn’t he get SMs from her? Why was he able to touch her? Where the fuck did she get a human eyeball?
He stared at her face as if the answers were written in the delicate arch of her brows or in the gentle curve of her lashes. Or in the small sickle-shaped scar at the corner of her mouth that curved upward, giving her the curious appearance of smiling on one side of her mouth, while the other side frowned.
Her eyelids fluttered. Opened.
“How are you feeling?” That question was more appropriate than interrogating her on how she came into possession of a human eyeball. He’d wait until she was fully conscious before tripping down that trail.
“Cold. So cold.” Goose bumps pimpled over her bare skin. She scooted toward where he sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping herself around his hips, seeking his body’s warmth.
He should get the heavy sleeping bag from the closet. He should cover her with it and leave the room. He should, he should, he should. He didn’t. He pulled off his boots and eased into the bed. She latched onto him before he fully reclined.
She molded herself to him. His shoulder her pillow, her arm around his middle, one of her legs draped over his thighs, her knee just a few miniscule inches from his groin. Everything vanished except the vivid sensation of her feminine curves burrowing into him, seeking his safety, his comfort, his warmth. She was cool where he was on fire. She was soft where he couldn’t bend. She was sweet where he felt bitter.
She fit into his arms, against his body, and into his soul like she was designed especially for him. He wanted to believe he could have a happy ending with her, but his reality was a cruel, hard place where good things just didn’t happen. Or if they did, they never lasted.
*
Bzzzz.
Evanee’s muscles clenched, and she startled from the sudden sound of a phone vibrating.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
“Shhh… Honey, it’s just my cell,” Lathan whispered against her hair, his breath warm against her skin.
Her tension evaporated. What exactly was it about his voice that calmed her? Was it the timbre, the accent… It wasn’t quite an accent, more like a lisp, but not? Maybe it wasn’t his voice. Maybe it was him calling her Honey. Maybe it was him taking care of her—not advantage of her—when she had been as rational and coherent as a zombie. His size and his tattoo were a warning and a threat, but he’d bought her complete trust the moment he saved her from Junior. Something not one person in her life had ever earned.
“It’s just Gill letting me know he’s arrived. He’ll be handling things, or at least seeing that they get handled privately.” He slid away from her, just far enough to look down at her.
His pale-gray eyes stood out against his tan. No, it wasn’t a tan. He was thickly freckled. Seriously freckled. Boyishly freckled. She should’ve realized that from the rich reddish-brown of his hair. A smile tugged at her soul. How could she think his tattoo frightening when paired with a face full of friendly freckles?
“You’re feeling better.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway.
“I’ve got to let Gill in. He’s gonna have some questions for you.”
“Questions for me? About Junior?” She hated the tremor in her voice and cleared her throat. “I don’t want to press charges or anything. That’d just piss everyone off.” Not only would Junior be mad, Sheriff Rob would be angry, and Mom would be furious—at her—for causing Junior trouble.
While she spoke, Lathan’s gaze focused on her mouth. The way he looked at her reminded her of how a man concentrated on a woman’s lips before coming in for a kiss—like he was calculating angle, pressure, distance to the target.
“Not about Junior—”
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
“Take a few minutes—however long you need—then come downstairs.” He got out of bed and headed for the doorway. A colossal black dog rose from the corner and followed Lathan. A shudder ripped through her.
That she’d had a nightmare wasn’t new; that she remembered it was astounding. The dream had felt so real, and the part about waking up with the eye in her hand was a total mind fuck. Only when she woke up in his bed with him staring down at her did she realize the entire thing had been one long, gruesome dream.