Dreams of 18(37)

“Well then, you’ll be disappointed because this is all I’ve got.”

Sighing, I step away from the shovel, which stays standing, buried in the soil that I haven’t finished prepping for the roses but I will, just not now.

Looking him in the eyes, I take off my gloves, pick up my fat hobo and begin to walk toward him.

I stop at the rickety stairs and tilt my neck up. “You do have water, don’t you?”

His answer is to keep staring at me with a dipped, neutral face.

His eyes are dark, but I can see little flecks of green shining through, as if light is breaking through thick clouds. As if there’s a softness in him and it’s seeping through the cracks of all that is hard in him.

“I’m thirsty,” I continue. “And I need to wash up.”

His eyelids drop low and take in my state.

I’m wearing a red t-shirt with a black rose printed on the chest along with jean shorts and red sneakers. My knees and calves are caked with mud. I somehow got a little bit of it on my clothes too.

He’s looking at all of that.

And I’m trying to stay calm and breathe normally. And not think about the glory that is his chest.

Man, I wanna touch it, like bury my fingers in that curling hair and…

“Yeah, you’re dirty,” he says in a tone as low and hooded as his eyes, breaking my quite frankly dirty thoughts.

But at the same time, I have to do something at his low words.

I have to make my body move or I’ll die. So I curl my toes inside my sneakers and bite my lip.

“There’s a lake right behind you. Through the woods. It should take care of both your problems.”

I shake my head at him and get a hold of myself. “I know you think you can make me do things but I’m not jumping in the lake for you.”

“Not today.”

I roll my eyes. “Not ever.”

Then, something happens that I thought was a myth.

I see the lines on the corner of his eyes. Three deep ones. They twitch just as his strawberry mouth pulls up on one side.

It’s not a smile. Not per se. It’s amusement – pure amusement – in its very thin and basic state. But it’s there and I feel myself flushing.

With pride, no less.

“Are you going to let me in?” I ask, hopping on my spot impatiently. “I’m dirty, as you said. And I need a little break before I go back to the roses.”

Frankly, I’m dying to see the inside of his cabin. Like, what am I going to find when the outside is so neglected and falling apart.

He doesn’t move, of course.

In fact, he leans against the doorjamb, crosses his ankles and folds his arms, his bottle getting tucked at his side.

“When did I hire you as my gardener?”

“You didn’t. I’m doing this for free and out of the goodness of my heart.”

“And what did I do to deserve that?”

“Absolutely nothing.” I raise my eyebrows. “I’m doing it because I’m awesome and fabulous and a hundred other words that you probably never use for me.”

He hums, as if really thinking about it. “Yeah, those are not the words that I use for you.”

I give him a sweet smile. “I was right. So…” I gesture toward the hallway. “Can I get some water?”

“Are you stupid?”

I draw back at his question. “What?”

“How is it that the entire world is afraid of me and knows to leave me alone but you don’t seem to care?” He nods, as if coming to a conclusion. “You have to be stupid. That’s the only explanation.”

I climb up another step so now we’re even closer. In fact, we’re the same height. I look into his dark brown eyes as I whisper, “I’m going to tell you a secret about me.” His frown is curious. “You know what’s my favorite fruit?”

“Is that the secret?”

“It’s strawberry. And you know what else?”

“What?”

I smile. “I’m allergic to it.”

“You’re allergic to your favorite fruit.”

“Uh-huh. But I still eat it if I’m in the mood to throw up. You know what that means?”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

He looks lazy and relaxed and so freaking delicious that I have to stop a second and gather my wits before answering. “It means I’m a masochist, Mr. Edwards. I like the pain. The pain doesn’t scare me. You don’t scare me. And let me tell you another secret – masochists like me? We have really tasty skin. You can eat me up all you want. You can eat me up a hundred different ways. I’m gonna like your teeth and your tongue and I’m gonna fall in love with the sting of it all. You’re my Strawberry Man. At least, that’s what I call you in my head.”

There’s a certain heat radiating off his sleepy, bare skin. Thick like molasses, and I’m reveling in it.

Reveling in the treacle that’s sliding down my bones and his smell and his nearness.

He flicks his eyes down to the side of my neck and I feel him there. I feel the sting of his teeth that he hasn’t given me. The wetness of his tongue that I’ll never know.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Jailbait.”

Jailbait.