“I’m sorry,” I say. “When did she die?”
“Years ago,” he says, and there’s only acceptance in his voice and not the grief he spoke of earlier. “I’m a strong believer in what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
“I hope so.” The thought of my mother not beating her cancer and of the frightening aloneness I see in my future if she’s not here isn’t bearable. I shudder slightly at that bleak landscape. The emotions of the day overwhelm me and tears start running down my nose. I duck my head because I’ve never been one of those girls who look tragic and delicate while crying.
Vainly I don’t want Ian to see me like this, and I burrow my face against his chest. The cotton of his shirt smells like sun and heat. Against my hip, I feel an insistent pressure which surprises me but makes me feel welcome. I’d like to stay in this position, curled up and hiding from it all, but he tips my head back and wipes away my tears.
“I want you to know that I’m not hard because you’re crying but because any normal man would have this reaction if you sat on his lap for more than a second.”
This makes me burst out into laughter which is, I suppose, what he intended. He stands up, ensuring that I’m stable and orders me to walk him to the door. At the doorway, he leans down and lightly brushes his lips against mine, leaving me wanting so much more.
“I want you, bunny, and I’ll have you. This will be the last night you cry alone.”
With those words, the door closes behind him. He’s right about one thing: I cry into my pillow for a long time. I’m not certain about the exact source of my tears. It could be my mom, but it’s more than that. The emotion is almost…relief.
That night I dream of Ian again. He’s in his Batman costume and he flies into my bedroom, cape swirling behind him. This time I’m not a bunny. I’m me but I’m still quivering. With fear? Anticipation? I can’t tell. His gloved hands are at his utility belt. “I want you,” he says, and I spread my legs like a wanton.
The belt, the cape, the clothes are all magically dropped away and then he’s on top of me. His hands are palming my br**sts and his mouth is leaving a heated wet trail down the side of my neck. If this is fear, I want to be afraid all of my life.
I hook my legs around his hips to draw his hardness down against me, but he’s immovable. All I feel are light caresses from his hand and his tongue and his lips. The need for more pressure, for the hard thrust of his c**k against me, builds until I wake up gasping for relief. But Ian is nowhere to be found. It’s me and the sheets and the cool morning air. I roll over onto my stomach, close my eyes and see if I can recapture the fantasy—but it’s gone. I slide a hand between my legs and rub myself to a small release.
Chapter 12
SUNDAY MOM AND I PUTTER AROUND the house. She doesn’t bring up Ian and I make inane chatter about how cute I thought the sea lions were. On Monday, we quietly prepare for the chemo trip. We’ll need to be outside for the bus in about twenty minutes. The blender whirls, mixing up the banana, strawberries, and protein powder that will be Mom’s breakfast. We’ve learned through trial and error that this is about the most that she can handle before her drip. Too much food and she’s violently ill. Too little and she’s weak and ill. Always ill, but Dr. Chen agreed that the protein powder and fruit in a drinkable form was our best option.
“I wish you wouldn’t take the morning off to sit with me,” my mom says as I hand her a hard plastic drink container full of her breakfast.
“I earn more today than any day of the week,” I say, my sound muffled as I pull a long sleeve shirt over my head.
“Because you’re riding at night, and that’s very dangerous.”
“Even if you didn’t have treatment, I’d still take this route.” Kissing her lightly on the cheek, I ignore her further protestations and pack up my supplies. Because I’ll be riding in the evening and it will get chilly, I make sure I have long biking pants and a wind-breaker.
“Because of the money,” she says with some disgust. The treatment, the illness, our circumstances, the whole situation is eroding our patience. I bite my tongue to prevent saying anything I’ll regret.
“Ready?” I ask. Before she can say another word there’s a knock on the door. We exchange puzzled looks, but I go to see who it is. It’s Steve.
Pulling the door open but not unlocking the chain, I ask with suspicion, “How did you get up here?”
“Trade secret.”
I can’t tell if this is a joke because Steve’s expression is no different than the last evening, but the two words do reveal something about him that I wasn’t aware of before: He has an accent. Then I remember Ian saying that it was expensive to fly Steve’s family over from Australia.
“So are you here to pick up the leftovers?” I think forlornly of the mounds of leftover Thai food that I planned to gorge myself on later tonight after biking around the city for hours.
This time he shows a real emotion—confusion. “Leftovers? No. Hospital.”
Ian. Sighing, I unhook the chain and open the door so Steve can come in. “We’re almost ready.”
There’s no fighting this, I can tell. Steve would pick my mother up and carry her down to the car. “Hey Mom, look who’s here.”
She looks at me puzzled, and then I remember she was asleep when Steve came to deliver the food. “Mom, this is Steve . . . um, I don’t know your last name.”
He looks like this is more painful than a root canal. He’s standing in the middle of our living room, legs slightly spread, arms straight at his side like he’s some soldier awaiting orders. Oh, holy crap. Ian said that Steve doesn’t like it when he can’t keep track of Ian. It hits me that Steve must be Ian’s bodyguard.
And then I wonder why Ian needs a bodyguard. I give Steve a frown and he glares back at me.
“Thomas.” He doesn’t even move to shake my mom’s hand, and my mom looks completely flustered.
I pick up my pack and then Mom’s handbag and steer her toward the door. “Jerk,” I mumble under my breath, but they both hear it. My mom gives me a reproving look but doesn’t disagree. Steve grunts like a Neanderthal. Why does it not surprise me that Ian surrounds himself with guys like Steve? There’s probably a whole bunch of grunting cyborgs back at the Bruce Wayne f**kpad ready to take Steve’s place if he utters more than three words or, heavens to Betsy, cracks a friggin’ smile.