My calendar is packed this week—taking Mom to her physical therapy, Dad to his doctor's appointment for his vaccine shots, restocking the fridge, and cleaning the house. Taking care of my parents has grown into a weekly part-time job. At least school is manageable.
I swing my chair slowly around noting the mess in my warehouse. Without my PI work, my warehouse office is scattered with papers, pinned-up notes, and lists of potential secret lives I can explore next. Ideas like creating a cybersecurity firm, developing a social media app where people could post crimes they witness that would immediately notify cops of the location and scene, or even constructing a teleportation device, are all being entertained. The doctor's office called again for the eighth time today, four times yesterday and the day before. They are persistent.
It's been over three weeks since I spoke to Jimmy. I've been busy resuming my life after the hospital and crossing off ideas as I research them that I haven't thought about Mr. Silence... much. Does he think of me when we're not together? Probably not.
I roll my eyes as the phone lights up again. I hate hospitals, I ignore most required checkups, but it was fun while he was there. Leaning back in the chair, I extend my legs and rest my feet on the table, then lift my shirt, exposing four scars from the laparoscopic kidney transplant—ranging from less than half an inch to two inches—on the lower right side of my abdomen, near my hip. They're slightly pink, and the edges are beginning to flatten. One of them is completely flat, while the other three still feel firm to the touch.
They're healing well. I smile at the memory of how Mr. Silence checked these scars every day. It didn't matter if I was standing, walking, sitting, eating, or lying in bed—he'd unbutton my pajama shirt and inspect them. His touch always surprised me and turned me on. Had I known better, I'd have protested how he treated my body as if it belonged to him. In fact, he always acted as though every inch of me was his.
I sigh and push away the thought of him as I refocus to the long list of ideas pinned on the board, many already crossed off. I zoom in on the pinned paper next to it: Diego Ramirez. Should I focus all my attention on finding him now? I'm sane enough not to do something I'll regret, and reasonable enough to ask the needed questions about Roberto.
The warehouse door opens. Fast approaching footsteps grow louder. Spinning around, I almost fall out of my chair, but Mr. Silence catches me. He scoops me up and carries me out.
What! What's happening? Why—? My mind's racing with my heart as his scent and presence surrounds me. The limousine driver holds the door open. He sets me down on the limousine's seat. The door closes, and I watch, perplexed, as he walks around to the other side. He sits a few inches away from me, closes the door, and the limo starts moving. I swallow, trying to wet my dry mouth, which has been open in shock.
Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he takes it off, and tosses it onto the opposite seat. He tugs his sleeves straight. Before I can compose myself, he lifts my shirt and pats the scars, inspecting them. Just when I think my body has calmed down, the tenderness mixed with concern in his eyes meets mine, and my mind goes blank.
Unlike the other times, I can see myself clearly. I can't think because, when you touch me like this, all I do is feel. I feel... everything. His fingers spread across my cheek the same way he stroked it in the hospital. Twenty-two. Crap! And like clockwork, I count it. I feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. The unbearable burning desire to rip off your clothes and have my way with you. I feel this overwhelming love that slams me against the vastness of longing like a bully slamming me against the icy metallic lockers. The heartbreak that comes with it. The joy that cuts like a knife through that it.
"Do they still hurt?" His questions, accompanied by his thumbs wiping my tears, wake me to the fact that I'm crying. He uses the silk brown pocket square from his waistcoat to wipe under my nose as I sniffle.
The crying helps because I feel more at ease. My lips form a half-smile as I reassure him, "They don't hurt anymore. I'm fine." Staring into his worried eyes, I see, for the first time, that he genuinely cares. Not that I imagined he would or desired that he did, but he sincerely does. With a bittersweet smile, I add, "I'll be fine. I'll always be fine." Even after you... even without you. For a man who speaks with his eyes, subtext is his native language.
His lips pinch for an instant, his eyes become watery. There's a flash of panic in that usually cold gaze as I search his expression, confused by his reaction. Then his hands wrap around my arms, his fingers digging in. He whispers in a choking voice, "I'm not fine... not even close."