“Hi, Curtis,” I say to tonight’s guard. He’s new enough—and young enough—that he straightens up the second he catches sight of me, his eyes going wide and his cheeks going ruddy. The kid is so obviously not from L.A. that I can’t help being completely endeared.
“Ms. Romero! Hello. Hello.” He fumbles for his clipboard, nearly drops it on the hood of my car in his haste to show me what’s on it. “I didn’t realize you weren’t home. A man checked in about an hour ago, saying he was going to your address.” He checks the clipboard again, though I’m pretty certain he’s got the name memorized by now. “A Mr. Ian Sharpe. I let him through because his name is on the list.” He turns back to the laptop resting on his desk. “It says here you called his name in a little after midnight.”
“I did, yes. Thank you for letting him through, Curtis. You don’t happen to know if he stayed, do you? Or if he left again?”
He looks dismayed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. We don’t monitor cars leaving—only those trying to get in. I wish I’d thought to look. I wish—”
“It’s okay, don’t worry. Please.” I reach into my purse and pull out a twenty to tip him. “I was just curious if you noticed. I don’t actually expect you to know.”
His eyes grow wide when he sees the money, but he holds his hands up in front of him as if he’s warding off evil spirits. “Oh no, Ms. Romero, please. You don’t have to tip me.”
“It’s Veronica, not Ms. Romero. And it’s okay to take the money. You earn it sitting here every night, keeping all of us safe.” I waggle the bill in front of him until he very reluctantly reaches for it.
He’s bright red by this point, but he’s holding the money like a lifeline. Either because he needs it or because it came from me. I’m not sure which idea makes me more uncomfortable. The need, I think, as he waves me through. Definitely the need. I hate to think of a kid like Curtis barely scraping by on minimum wage, especially in L.A. I make a mental note to stop by the booth more often and chat him up, if for no other reason than to drop him a few more tips.
I’m the third house on the street, so it only takes me a couple of minutes more on the winding road before I’m home. I click the remote and try to ignore the tightness in my stomach as I make my way up the long, hilly driveway. I’m nervous, and the sad thing is I’m not even sure why. Because I’m afraid he went back to the hotel or because I’m afraid he didn’t?
My hands are shaking a little by the time I make it to the top of the driveway—at least until I see his car sitting there in the shadows. Then it’s like all the tension leeches from my muscles at once and I’m left soft, pliant, needy.
He’s still here. After everything, he stayed—for me.
I don’t bother pulling into the garage tonight, choosing instead to stop my car next to his. By the time I turn the ignition off and gather up my purse, he’s here, opening up my car door and pulling me out.
He bumps his hips against mine, presses me into the car door even as his hands frame my face. I wait for him to kiss me—my lips all but aching for the feel of his—but for long seconds all he does is stare at me in the dim lighting.
I wish I knew what he was looking for. I’d give it to him. Then again, at this moment, I feel like I’d give him almost anything.
The silence throbs around us—soft and deep and comforting in a strange way I’m not quite ready to analyze. I wait for him to break it, for him to say something, anything. But instead he just waits, his thumbs stroking soothingly along my cheeks.
When I can’t take the silence any longer, I cover his hands with my own and squeeze. Then I whisper, “Hi.”
He smiles, the left side of his mouth quirking up a little higher than his right, the way it does when he really means the smile. When he’s not just being polite. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here,” I say, leaning into him. “I’m glad you stayed.”
“No worries. Big, fancy parties require some cleanup. I get it.” He bends his head then and finally—finally—brushes his lips against mine. “I’m glad you invited me over.”
“I’m glad you knew it was an invitation.”
“I wasn’t sure. But I hoped.” His eyes coast over me, lingering on my lips and the bruise on my breast.
I take his hand, press his fingers to the upper swell of my breast in much the same way as I did earlier. Only this time, I urge him to cup me, to feel me. “I’m not fragile.”
“You’re so fragile.” Before I can protest, his lips are on mine again. Warm, soft, sweet. So sweet I can barely stand it. So different than any other time he’s kissed me. “So beautiful.”
Something tells me he’s not only talking about my looks. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part. If it is, I’ll take it, at least for now.