Broken Girl(60)

I pushed on the faucet determined to keep from looking at him. I went from being in a world of hurt to being pissed at the world in a matter of a couple of days, and, well, unfortunately for Briggs he happened to be the first who showed up. The water poured down, cradled in the curve of a soup spoon before it splashed up like a lawn sprinkler drenching me, the countertops, backsplash and even Briggs who was standing behind me.

Briggs’ massive hand and beastly inked arm shot over me and shut off the faucet. His determination to get through to me grew as he flung me around to face him. He wasn’t delicate, and the expression on his face told me he was done playing a fool. He clutched my arms in his mammoth hands and held me so I couldn’t run away. I was soaked from head to waist as the tears that streamed down my face became the exclamation points to my pain.

“Now you listen to me. I’m not here to play games. I kno’ you’re hurtin’ but, you gotta get a grip,” Briggs huffed as he shook me with each word. He was bound and determined to get me to snap out of it.

A feeble moment, weakened by the vodka in my system and made more intense by my grief, I ached to have someone tell me life will be all right, that everything I had gone through would lead to a bigger purpose. He let go of my arms, his wide thick thumbs brushed my cheeks as his long chunky fingers tangled in my hair. He held my head between his hands, his eyes, cast with demons he wasn’t willing to share blinked slower than I ever had seen before. I felt the pain of who I was begin to dissolve with his touch. It was as if he was willing to sacrifice himself for my greater good. I saw everything he hated about himself, every moment he clung to in the flimsy idea of who he had become, and for a moment, he let me in to see that he had fears planted deeper than I ever thought.

I dragged my hands over Briggs’ warm, wet arms drenched in inked stories planted just below his flesh, stories still too raw to talk about. I craved to feel his pain, I wanted to believe he hurt as deeply as I did. I gazed at his full brown lips and I hungered to savor the sweet to my salty existence. I wanted to taste the all-consuming pain he had carried around his entire life and just as badly needed him to devour whatever happiness I had left. Take from me the last piece of hope Shane gave me so I would just stop hurting so badly.

Our eyes met at the crest of my despair, and we both disappeared, suddenly, he wasn’t Kean Briggs and I wasn’t Rose Newton. I was a woman in need of medicine and he was just the man to give it to me. His lips became my antidote and I wanted him to heal me. Kiss me, to want me, to savor me the way Mister had over a year ago. I wanted him to want me as bad as Shane wanted me, I wanted to be loved as intensely as any prince would love his princess. I rose on my tiptoes, as if I possessed the grace of a ballerina, locked my fingers together behind his head and pushed up until my lips were hard against his. I pressed for him to consume our kiss, but he pulled away. The cold chill invited itself between us and instead of being our kiss, it was just mine. I had misconstrued his pain for passion, his demons for angels, and his empathy for desire.

“Whoa, slow down t’ere, Rosie gir’.” Briggs held me away from his body. His cannon shaped arms rock solid between us. His words were a sobering splash in my face.

“Oh, f*ck, what did I just do? What the f*ck did I just do?” I repeated the same words several times under my breath as I turned back to the sink and made busy work for my hands.

My mom used to scream at me about fidgeting with things, she told me that the devil gave bad children busy hands. I was scared to death to fidget in front of her. She’d convinced me the devil himself was coming to take me to the fiery pits of hell . . . personally. I was just eight years old. Never a moment’s rest for the wicked or fidgety.

Briggs pinned me between the entire length of his body and the sink. His oversized hands swallowed mine, stopping me in my tracks. I succumbed to his massive embrace. He lowered his mouth next to my ear.

“Me gir’, you did nothin’ wrong. Nothin. You’ hurtin’. You’ achin’ for sumthin I just can’t give ya’. I ain’t the one you want.” His words rumbled in his chest as he whispered.

He caressed his hands up and down my arms creating a rhythmic pattern that paralyzed me into submission. Loaded with guilt, and ashamed of the actions I so easily gave over to, I was completely mortified that I compromised our friendship by kissing him.

“I can’t be with Shane. He deserves someone better, someone who can differentiate a friend’s compassion from a whore’s needs,” I snapped.

Briggs’ hands froze, his grip across my arms became firm as he pulled me back and turned me to look at him.

“This isn’t about w’at I tink, Rosie. We both know’ who's got your heart. Shane’d be lucky to have you. Don’t cut yourself so short. You’re a mighty fine ca’ch.” Briggs pushed his finger under my chin and brought my eyes up to meet his. His dark orbs contained within them a renewed fire, a spark that burned just behind his retinas.

“You don’t want to piss me off. Aye, Rosie, this isn’t w’at I came here for.”

Every muscle in my body went lax. It was as if the words he’d been carrying around for the last couple of days could’ve saved my soul. Like any one of those televangelists who dramatically pushed on the foreheads of the weak, broken, lost and suddenly within seconds they’d fall back into the arms of his planted disciples, healed. I wanted to fall back into the arms of someone who’d say all my sins were forgiven. But then I remembered, you gotta believe in God before any televangelist would lay a finger on you.