Page 20 of Heavy
I stay quiet, because now I want to just observe, and move to the house door, opening it just a crack as she steps through the front door.
From here, I watch her move toward the half-demolished kitchen that leads to the garage. With all the lights disconnected, she can’t make out my face in the shadows, and I can only trace her silhouette as she quietly shuts the front door and heads down the hall toward the bedrooms. I slip in behind her, closing the door softly and nudging off my shoes with a silent push.
Prison taught me that silence is my best weapon. I’m a big guy, but I found the motivation to master quiet pretty quickly. So it doesn’t surprise me that she hasn’t noticed me watching her—whether she’s working during the day or asleep when I enter her room at night. I haven’t touched her, but like I told Ken, she’s a nice piece of eye candy. Her sleeping is probably the prettiest time of day for her.
I peek down the hall and see her in the tiny half bath, just a sink and a toilet. The water’s running, and I hear the bristles of her toothbrush scraping against her teeth. Then the faint pop of a bottle, and another. Probably taking Tylenol.
Anger stirs in my chest.
Did she really drink and drive? What a fucking idiot.
A minute later she steps out of the bathroom, turns left, and heads straight into the guest room, closing the door behind her. I wait, then move in to see what she took.
I open the cabinets in the half bath she’d mentioned gutting during the renovations. Just two bottles: Tylenol, like I figured, and Melatonin.
Sleeping pills…
I hum and pick them up. The bottle is pretty full, whereas the Tylenol I can see from the clear bottle, is halfway gone.
Setting the bottle back, I close the mirrored cabinet, step out of the bathroom, and make my way to her room. I press my ear to the door, listening for the soft shuffling of her blankets. I think I catch a sigh, maybe a few mumbled words, but otherwise it’s silent. No music, no TV. The only place she wanted a television was in the living room, and that's exactly what she got.
I’m not sure how long I stand here, but I know from experience that sleeping pills take a minute to kick in. Only when I hear nothing but her breathing do I reach for the doorknob and slowly turn it. The door opens with a faint crack, and I pause, listening for any sign of surprise—a gasp, a shift in the bed.
Nothing.
I step inside, my gaze locking onto her form in the bed. With the curtains drawn open, the nearly full moon casts enough light for me to make out her face. I approach slowly, taking in her side profile as she lays on her side. Her lips are slightly parted, and the urge to touch them is incredibly hard to ignore.
Instead of giving into that idiotic idea, I lift the edge of the blanket, seeing she’s still in her work clothes.
Her shirt’s dirty, a thin layer of dust on her chest, though I see no tears. It reminds me of the gritty buildup on a parked car—I’ve scrubbed enough of them to know the look. The faint, heavy scent of exhaust and concrete clings to her, like the smell of a parking garage.
“Hmm…”
Moving my hand up to her face, I brush aside her hair, my fingers caressing across her skin. She’s soft, not something I’ve felt in a very long time. The last person to feel this way to me was my mother: gentle, soft, and safe.
I can’t let her sleep in her dirty clothes.
I shift onto one knee on the bed, unbuttoning her blouse and carefully tugging it free from her pencil skirt. Her white bra comes into view, and while desire threatens to cloud my judgment, I keep control. As much as I might want to see her pierced nipples, that’s a line I refuse to cross. Consent is as firm to me as my fists: unbreakable and unwavering.
The sleeping pills mixed with her alcohol consumption,I assumekeep her knocked out cold while I pull her shirt off, then her skirt. I don’t miss that her toes look bruised and swollen.
Honestly, I never saw Calista as the type to be reckless with her safety. Curiosity is one thing, but actually putting herself in a life-threatening situation is something else entirely.
You don’t care, Ronan.
Putting the blanket back up at her shoulder, I roll her back over onto her side and take one last draw of my hand across her skin. I do so right at her neck, feeling her pulse under it. It’s now, just as I’m about to step away, that I see a hint of black and blue.
I narrow my eyes and brush her hair further away from her neck, but it’s difficult to see anything.
You don’t care...
Goddamn it.
I grab my phone and click the screen on, casting just enough light to reveal the bruising across the back of her neck.
My brows pinch and I slip my phone back into my pocket.
She could have met up with someone and had a nice rough fuck on her car. I’ve caused bruising to the back of a neck like that without thought, so entranced in fucking some ass that I lost myself to my grip. It’s possible that’s the case, and I should leave it at that.
