He was always so attentive. Always so careful and thorough, leaving kisses across my shoulder, down my chest. The pressof his mouth made me shiver, and I wasn’t ready when he looked up at me, those earthy bronze eyes hooded and dark, and whispered, “Your skin is so soft.”
And weirdly enough, somehow, that was different—sweet, but not too personal. Not too much.
He scooted back up to straddle me again. He found my hands and brought them to his chest. His gaze was so earnest that I couldn’t look away. He said, “Do you feel how warm your hands are on mine?”
And I could. I could feel their heat, trapped between Bobby’s hands and his chest. And it may sound silly, but there was something so intimate about that recognition, about the fact that we both felt it, and that he had put it into words.
“I like how the hair on your legs scratches against mine,” Bobby said, and he gave a little wiggle so we could both feel it again. An unexpectedly wicked smile touched his mouth. “And I like the way your breath catches when I do something you like.”
The tears fell before I could stop them. Because he had done this for me. He had cared enough to learn how to do this for me. And because he was Bobby, and because I got to share these things with him. All these things that brought us together.
Bobby, of course, saw the tears and said, “Oh. Hey. I’m sorry—”
“No,” I said. “It’s good. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
He might not have believed me because he bent to check on me, brushing the back of his hand across my cheek. “Dash,” he said, and there was so much worry in my name.
So, I did the only thing I could think of: I tried to meet him halfway.
“Your breath feels like sunlight on my neck.” I curled my hand around his nape. “Like in winter, when it comes out from behind the clouds.”
For a precarious moment, Bobby’s eyes filled with tears. He smiled. And his voice was thick as he said, “That’s not fair. You’re a writer.”
Chapter 19
I must have slept, because I woke, loose-limbed and warm and content, with one of Bobby’s hands lazily wrapped around my arm like I might fly away during the night. It still caught me off guard sometimes, how much Bobby liked touch, physical contact, snuggling. I’d always enjoyed those things as parts of a relationship, but they’d never been the focus for me. With Bobby, though, it seemed like he was always finding a way to touch me: his hand on the back of my neck when he walked behind me, or his head in my lap while I read, or stopping to hug me, with no reason or explanation. A smile touched my mouth in the darkness. And lots and lots of sex. I thought, sometimes, it was because there was so much he wanted to tell me, and body to body was the only way he knew how. But, of course, that wasn’t true. Because it turned out, Bobby had plenty of things to say.
Of course, the snuggling got slightly less romantic when I needed to pee.
After fighting a losing battle, I finally wiggled out from under Bobby’s hand. The room was cold in contrast to the warmth of the blankets (and Bobby), and I shivered as I hurried into the bathroom. When I eased the door shut behind me, I caught a whiff of a deep fryer smell—a fast food smell. It was disorienting until I turned on the lights and spotted Bobby’s neatly folded clothes near the tub. They say odor is the sense most strongly associated with memory, and I liked the memory of Bobby hugging me to him, and the way the scent of crispy chicken goodness had clung to him. (I’m a simple guy, and I like what I like—sue me.)
I did my business. And, while I was stuck there with nothing better to do, my mind wandered.
Bobby was right, I decided. I needed to let go of this investigation. Step back. Remove myself. Bobby hadn’t put it in exactly those words, but I’d understood the subtext. Keme was in the clear. The sheriff had a viable suspect. If Foster was innocent, the truth would come out during the trial. I no longer had any reason to stay involved.
Except.
There was the small fact that someonehadtried to kill me. Or possibly Keme. Or both of us. That was a fairly good reason to stay involved, in my book.
And, a little lower down on my scale of priorities, I had to admit that criminal trials were rarely about truth. They were far too often about power and money, of which Foster had little. If he was innocent, it might come out at trial. Or it might not.
But aside from shouting,Woody did it!I had no idea what to do or how to proceed. I was sure I was missing something, but I didn’t know what it might be. There was something I’d overlooked. Something I’d taken for granted, or an assumption that was wrong. I needed that moment in my story—er, so to speak—when Sam Spade realizes Brigid O’Shaughnessy has played him for a fool. Or when Philip Marlowe realizes the truth about Mrs. Grayle. Or when poor Mrs. de Winter finally knows the real Rebecca. When some superficially true relationship flips or twists or suddenly reveals itself, and someone you thought was vulnerable or a victim or good—
Having a revelation while you’re peeing isn’t the most dignified experience. I guess, in hindsight, I was just lucky my aim stayed true.
She’d gotten ready for a night out: perfume, a dress, her jewelry.
Someone had sent her roses.
She’d been having an affair.
The fact that she’d argued with Foster at the motel. That he’d been in her room.
And that Bobby’s clothes smelled like fried chicken.
And the basic truth of all mysteries: that people lie.
If you’ve never seen someone frantically wrapping up a pee, it’s not a great experience—the flushing, the rapid washing of hands (I’m not a barbarian), the frantic whisper-screaming of “Bobby! Bobby!”
