Out of Love(14)

He had nothing to say.

In what had become our routines since the convenience store incident, I slipped into the garage. He ignored me.

I checked my social media pages and responded to messages.

He ignored me.

Occasionally, I’d touch some of the pieces on the floor, trying to figure out what they would make. That always got his attention.

Nothing life changing. Just a pause. On a good day, he’d flip up his welder’s mask and give me a look. I’m pretty sure it said, “You’re crossing a line.” Since he didn’t say the actual words, I kept doing my thing—getting a little braver … a little more curious each time.

“It’s hot in here. And I’m going surfing with the girls. Wanna come?”

He flipped up his face shield and inspected the piece in his hands, sweat trickling down his forehead, snagging on his long eyelashes.

“Well, we’ll be leaving around four. So …” I opened the door. “You know where to find me.”

Nothing.

After closing the door, I heard Jericho bark from the house. A rare thing. I’m not sure I’d ever heard him bark. I followed my instinct—in spite of it failing me fifty percent of the time—and opened the back door to the house.

A holy-shit moment. I was going into the infamous firehouse. Not even the eighty-five-degree day could stop the goose bumps from popping up along my arms.

“Hey, Jerry. What’s up? You okay?” I squatted just inside the door and scratched behind his ears as he licked my face. It was just a kitchen. No big deal. Except it was the kitchen. The place Professor Dickerson prepared meals for his wife and the young college girl he kept in the dungeon.

Then my mind wandered to the other mystery … did Slade have drugs in here? The granite countertops and tile floor were tidy. What I could see of the living room seemed just as clean. No white residue or haphazardly discarded bongs.

“I should leave,” I whispered to Jericho as I slowly stood. Should always had the best intentions. I really should have listened. Instead, I did nothing to stop my feet from moving toward the fridge.

I did nothing to stop my hand from opening it. For some unknown reason, I felt like a map of his daily diet would let me into his head.

No such luck.

Inside were just the basics: eggs, condiments, a bag of lettuce, carrots, bottled water, beer, white butcher-paper wrapped meat, string cheese.

After closing the door, I peeked out the back window and glanced at my watch. I needed to get home, but my insatiable curiosity pulled me farther into the house to the living room with a small, modern gray sofa, a dark blue recliner, a dog bed, and a TV on a console in the corner.

“Go home, Livy …” I whispered to myself, unsure which was more disturbing—the need to talk to myself or the fact that I was seriously contemplating going upstairs.

“You’re taking trespassing to a whole new level.”

“Shit!” I whipped around at the eerily calm but stern voice behind me.

Jericho stood from his bed and took his place at Slade’s side as if he needed to pick a team.

“You let her in. Why?” He kept his intense gaze on me, but the question was for Jericho.

“He was b-barking. I-I hadn’t heard him bark before. So … I just wanted to check on him.” My voice shook like the rest of my body. With the front door a few feet to my left, I knew I could probably make a mad dash if necessary, but the chances of my sweaty hand unlocking it in time were slim at best.

He pushed the long sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, showing me those veins. I curled my lips together to hide their uncontrolled trembling. How could one man make me feel so protected and utterly terrified at the same time?

“Are you going to cry?”

My eyes widened as I shook my head a half dozen times.

“Are you cold?”

My wide eyes narrowed at him. “What? No.”

“You’re shivering.”

We were having a conversation. Sort of. I was uninvited and shaking like the San Andres Fault waking up. He moved his lips and actual sounds came out. Good words that didn’t feel threatening. I didn’t know what to do with his curious way of communicating or showing concern.

“You make me …” I hugged my arms to my torso.

He took three steps forward, keeping two small steps between us. I could feel the heat of his sweaty body.

“I make you what?”

My gaze stopped mid-chest, unable to withstand the weight of his stare. “Nervous,” I murmured.

“You’re in my house without permission. You should be scared.”

“No.” I forced my gaze to his face. “Not scared.” My head inched side to side. “Nervous. Like …” I risked a step closer to him. “Butterflies.”

“You’re delusional.”

I lifted a shoulder and dropped it on a slow exhale. “Feelings are real, not delusional. I think pretending you don’t have feelings is what’s truly delusional.”

He studied me with an unreadable expression—not that I could ever really read him, but that particular expression was new.

Contemplative.

Distant.

Subdued.

“You need to go.”

My gaze flitted along the sculpted lines of his stubble-covered jaw and the prominent angle of his cheekbones while I fisted my hands, holding back the need to touch him. “Yeah.” I smiled before hunching down to massage Jericho behind his ears and cupping my hands to smooth them up to the pointy tips. “Love you, Jerry.” Stretching forward, I kissed the top of his head and stood up again. “I’m sorry. I overstepped.”