I stared in his rich brown eyes that were so very close to mine. The brown was deep, intense. His lashes were thick and spiky.

His eyes really were beautiful.

“Okay,” I whispered.

I watched those eyes smile. Then I felt his lips touch mine.

He pulled away and asked, “You doin’ okay? You need pills?”

I shook my head.

He nodded, grabbed his beer, then let me go but took my hand.

He led me to the couch and put his beer on the coffee table, picked up a remote and arranged us so he was sitting, feet up on a coffee table, and I was lying on the couch, my cheek to his thigh.

He turned on the TV, the sound low, and handed me the remote.

I gazed blankly at the TV, switching programs randomly as I listened to him send out the call for Tia to someone named Gash. Then he talked to Breaker, who I figured was Breaker Walinski, the man Esposito had sent me to visit, and I figured this because it was unlikely there were a lot of men called Breaker.

After that, he talked to one other, and he called him Tucker.

Clearly finished with his rounds, he tossed his phone to the side table, grabbed his beer, took the remote from my hand, found a program and slid deeper into the couch.

We watched TV together for a while.

And doing it, I fell asleep.

7

Is That Enough for You?

I felt the sun on my eyelids but didn’t open my eyes.

I was on my back, the only position that was comfortable since my ribs were bruised, thus I couldn’t sleep on my stomach, my right hip was scraped and battered, and the left side of my face was swollen and aching.

I felt something heavy on my belly and I knew it was Buck’s arm. I could feel him close to my side and he was somehow managing to be close and hold me without causing pain.

Even when he was asleep.

This said a lot about him (especially the fact he could do this…even in sleep) and I hoped what it said was true.

I opened my eyes to see bright sunlight coming unhindered through the windows.

But without a view to the angle of the sun, I couldn’t tell the time.

In August in Arizona, the sun shone bright from early to late.

It could be seven in the morning.

It could be noon.

I turned my head and saw Buck partially on his side, partially on his stomach next to me.

He looked good in his sleep, his face relaxed, those thick, dark eyelashes resting against his cheeks, his hair falling on his forehead.

He’d carried me to bed the night before, setting me in it gently.

I’d woken on the couch the minute his thigh slid out from under my cheek and stayed awake the twenty seconds it took for him to walk up to the landing and into the bedroom.

I was out when my head hit the pillow.

I hadn’t slept this much in ages.

Usually I tossed and turned, wondering how I was going to manage to eat the next day, how I would escape the repo men, if Dallas would come around to give me grief.

Then my mind would move to remembering the night the police came knocking on the door or when I’d call a friend and the phone would ring and ring and I’d leave a voicemail that would never be returned.

I hadn’t slept well in over a year.

Until last night where I slept the whole night through.

The night after the day I got beaten by a psychopath.

And that wasn’t about the pain pills because I didn’t take any before I went to bed.

It said something, and I was thinking about that something as my gaze moved over Buck’s sleeping face and I felt an almost overwhelming urge to touch him.

But touching him might wake him and I needed a shower, badly. I hadn’t had one in two days. I felt like walking, talking, breathing ick.

Carefully, for my body’s sake and not to wake Buck, I slid out from under his arm.

I noticed with movement that I felt no better than yesterday, but also no worse.

I decided to treat this as good.

I picked my way through the clothes on Buck’s floor to the dresser.

Top drawer, underwear and socks. I closed it quietly and opened the next drawer down and found his T-shirts, not folded but shoved in.

I grabbed a clean one off the top and headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I went to the medicine cabinet in hopes that he’d have an extra toothbrush.

He didn’t.

He had a razor, shave cream, a beard trimmer, toothpaste, a comb and deodorant.

Even with this dearth of toiletries, his medicine cabinet was jammed full. The shelves taken up with gauze, bandages, medical tape, antibiotic cream and bottles of alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, ibuprofen, acetaminophen and aspirin.

If the contents of a medicine cabinet defined a person, Buck’s said scary things.

Though I found no product for his hair.

That was interesting.

I closed the medicine cabinet, looked in the mirror and surveyed my injuries.

The swelling in my face had gone down.

This was good.

Unfortunately, that was all that was good.

The purple bruising around my eye had intensified. I lifted my T-shirt and saw the same amplification of color on my ribs and hip.

I dropped my T-shirt with a sigh.

Then I went about my business.

The water of the shower felt good—the stream strong and hot.

Again, if the toiletry stock of Buck’s shower defined him, it would say he was not a man who wasted his life primping (more mystery behind why his hair always looked so good).

He had a bottle of drugstore shampoo and a bar of soap.

That was it.

The shower was a place to get clean, the end.

In fact, it was clear the bathroom only had utilitarian purposes on the whole and perhaps served as a mini-emergency medical ward.

Not that this was a surprise. Buck was definitely not the kind of man who took bubble baths.

Drugstore products were in my shower at my apartment too, except with the addition of conditioner.

But this lack of pamper paraphernalia was only due to necessity.

Back in the day, I had more bottles, tubes and tubs than a small but exclusive salon. My bathroom was not utilitarian. It was an oasis.

A soaking-tub, Swarovski-crystal-knobs-on-the-cabinetry, mirrored-trays-covered-in-masks-exfoliants-oils-and-lotions, walk-in-closet-complete-with-massive-jewelry-island-leading-off-it oasis.

I was definitely the kind of person who wasted life primping.

Or I used to be.

Rogan teased me about it. Rogan used to say that I didn’t need all that stuff. Rogan would tell me I looked beautiful, felt beautiful, smelled beautiful no matter what products I put in my hair, on my body and on my face.

And he said it like he meant it.

Then again, Rogan Kirk was a consummate liar.

There were a lot of things I missed about my old life, such as waking up and facing a day which consisted of making decisions on what to wear to work and what to make for dinner, not how to escape reporters or wonder if I’d get thrown into debtor’s jail.

These things constantly nagged at me, but I pushed them down and focused on missing things like salon-quality shampoo and facial masks.

Since those weren’t really important, I could handle that.

I shampooed and washed and then let the hot water run over me in an effort to work out the aches if not the pains. I got out, toweled off, and with difficulty, due to the tangles caused by no conditioner, pulled Buck’s comb through my hair.