The Song of David(46)

I left Henry in Millie’s consoling hands and went in search of rags and disinfectant, determined to rid the house of blood stains and bad memories. I threw myself into wiping down the kitchen, unloading and reloading the dishwasher while I was at it. Then I followed the blood trail up the stairs, through Millie’s room, and into the bathroom, trying not to think about what would have happened had Axel not arrived with Henry when he did. I could hear the sounds of Millie’s voice mixed with ESPN commentary, seeping out from beneath Henry’s door and sorted through my jumbled emotions by scrubbing the sink and taking an old toothbrush to the tiles on the bathroom floor. I removed the contents from the medicine cabinet, making careful note of how it was organized so I could return it to the same place, enabling Millie to locate everything when I was done. I finished up by cleaning the toilet and the shower for good measure.

“It smells like pine sol and sap in here.” Millie stood in the door, smiling softly.

“Ah. My signature fragrance,” I joked, though it fell flat. I’d left my good humor back at the bar, abandoned it when Henry staggered through the door in his pajamas, and I hadn’t had a chance to retrieve it. I stood washing my hands, but I didn’t turn around. My hands were red from cleaning, but my nerves were raw, and I didn’t really trust myself with Millie right now.

“Henry okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. Henry’s okay. Are you?” Her voice was timid. I didn’t answer immediately, and she waited me out, listening to me wash my hands and turn off the water before I finally spoke.

“When my sister disappeared, I kept thinking I’d come home one day, and she’d be there. Just a misunderstanding. A bad dream.” I found her reflection in the little oval mirror, my eyes clinging to her face before forcing myself to look away. Tonight had made me feel like the old Tag. The sixteen-year-old Tag who lost his sister and couldn’t save her.

“I’m glad Henry’s okay.” I was glad Henry’s sister was okay too. I was so glad. So ridiculously, tearfully, gratefully glad.

I felt Millie’s hand brush my back tentatively, finding me, and then she slid her arms around my waist and laid her head against me.

“Thank you, David. I don’t know why you are so good to us. But you are. And I’m not going to question it. I’m just going to be grateful.” I felt the press of her body against my back as her arms tightened briefly. Then she stepped back, releasing me, and I bore down on the desire that whooshed through me like a blow torch, only to curse at the heat, turn on her, slam the door, and back Millie up against it.

“Damn it, Millie!” I groaned into her hair. “Why do you have to be so damn sweet?” My lips were on her forehead, on her cheeks, nuzzling her neck before I found her mouth and forgot to be gentle.

She matched my fervor, biting at my lower lip before I licked into her mouth and felt a tremor run down her body. I wanted to feel her naked skin on mine, to pull her to the floor and shove our clothes aside, but I braced my hands above her head instead, gripping the door so I wouldn’t touch her, so I wouldn’t start something I had no business finishing. And I would finish if I started. If I saw her laying beneath me again, her hair spread around her, her hands pulling me to her, I would finish. And I couldn’t go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because regardless of what Millie said, insult or not, Amelie Anderson—beautiful, brave, and freaking BLIND—wasn’t the kind of girl you played. She wasn’t the kind of girl you played around with. I’d flirted. I had. But I hadn’t harmed. She said she didn’t need guarantees, but she sure as hell did. She sure as hell deserved them. And I wasn’t there yet. My body was. My body had been there and back multiple times. My body was running circles around my heart, raging at me, mocking me, begging me to get with the program.

But as ridiculously, gratefully, tearfully glad as I was that she was okay, I wasn’t there yet.

I wrenched my mouth away and buried my face in her hair.

“Are you a virgin, Millie?” I asked, my voice hoarse, my hands still braced above her head.

She froze, the hands that were curled against my chest, suddenly falling to her sides.

“Are you?” she asked primly.

I half-laughed, half-groaned at her sass and kissed the top of her head. The laughter burst the ball of tension in my gut, and I exhaled the residue in a long sigh.

“No, Millie. I’m not. Not by a long shot. Are you?” I repeated the question.

“No.”