Page 5 of Mean Streak

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L ive.

He wasn’t being glib, and Emory sensed that he didn’t intend to elaborate. He held her gaze for a moment, then set his spoon in his empty bowl and pushed back his chair. He carried his utensils to the sink. Returning to the table, he politely asked if she wanted any more crackers.

“No, but I’ll keep the Coke.”

While he set about washing dishes, she excused herself.

Treading carefully to keep the walls in place and the floor from undulating, she made her way into the bathroom.

The space heater was the old-fashioned kind like her great-grandmother had had.

Live blue flames burned against blackened ceramic grates.

She used the toilet, washed her face and hands, and rinsed her mouth out with a dab of toothpaste squeezed from the tube she found in the medicine cabinet above the sink.

Also in the cabinet were a bottle of peroxide, a razor and can of shaving cream, a box of Band-Aids, a jar of multivitamins, and a hairbrush.

The shower stall was made of tin. The wire rack hanging from the shower head contained only a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo.

She longed to wash the blood out of her hair but didn’t for fear of reopening the cut on her scalp.

The goose egg beneath it hadn’t gotten any larger, but any pressure she applied caused blow darts of pain.

She couldn’t resist peeking into the small cupboard. On the shelving inside it, folded towels and washcloths were neatly stacked. It also stored rolls of toilet tissue, bars of soap, and cleaning supplies.

Out of the ordinary were the boxes of bullets.

They were on the highest shelf, labeled according to caliber. She had to stand on tiptoe to lift one down. She raised the lid. In the glow of the light fixture above the sink, the shells looked large, long, and lethal.

She quickly closed the box and replaced it exactly as she’d found it, wondering where he kept the guns that corresponded to his arsenal of ammunition.

She left the bathroom to find the main room dark except for the flickering light of the fireplace and the fixture above the kitchen sink. He was folding a dishcloth over the rim of it. Hearing her, he turned his head, speaking to her over his shoulder.

“I figured you’d want to turn in early.”

She glanced toward the bed, where the covers, which she’d left rumpled, had been straightened and, on one side, folded back at a precise ninety-degree angle. The bloody pillowcase had been replaced with a clean one.

“I’ll sleep in the recliner.”

“You’ll sleep in the bed.” He yanked on a string to extinguish the light above the sink.

The action had a finality to it that strongly suggested arguing over the sleeping arrangements would be futile.

Emory sat down on the edge of the bed. She’d been in her running tights all day.

Her jogging bra felt uncomfortably tight.

But there was no way in hell she’d be removing so much as a single thread, and he was in for a fight if he intended to take her clothes off.

Her breath caught when he started toward the bed, but after setting the bottle of analgesics and the can of Coke on the nightstand, he walked past and went into the bathroom, returning within seconds with the bottle of peroxide and an applicator formed of folded toilet paper squares.

“I don’t have any cotton or gauze,” he said as he poured the solution onto the toilet paper. He set down the bottle and leaned toward her.

“I’ll do that.”

“You can’t see it. If you start feeling around, you might reopen the cut.”

She knew that to be true, so she lowered her hands.

“Turn your head…” He nudged her chin with the back of his hand. She complied and sat there, strained and nervous, while he dabbed at the wound.

“Does that hurt?”

“A little.” It hurt a lot, but she couldn’t think of a proper way to complain without sounding critical of his technique.

In fact it was hard to think of anything with him standing so close, bending over her.

The proximity of her face to his middle was unsettling, and she didn’t breathe until he said “There” and stepped away.

“I hate to dirty another pillowcase.”

“Blood washes out. Most of the time.” He picked up the pill bottle and shook two into his palm, then extended his hand to her. “They’ll help with the headache.”

“I’ll wait to take them. See how I do.”

He looked prepared to argue but returned the tablets to the bottle and replaced it on the nightstand. “They’re there if you change your mind. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you. I will. But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe I should wake you up at intervals. Just to make sure you’re all right, to make sure that I can wake you up.”

“That’s a good idea. But rather than disturb you, I’ll set alarms on my wristwatch.”

Mouth set with disapproval, he said, “Suit yourself,” and turned away.

She lay down and pulled the covers to her chin. Although she closed her eyes, her ears were on high alert as she listened to him moving about the room, adding logs to the grate, scooting the fire screen back into place.

Blood washes out. Most of the time. Spoken like someone who had experience with that dilemma.

She shuddered to think how exposed she was. She couldn’t even stand alone for more than a couple of minutes. If she had to protect herself, what would she do?

While in college she’d taken a self-defense class, but that had been a long time ago.

All she recalled of it now was not to think of the assailant as a whole, but to focus on individual parts of him that were vulnerable to counterattack.

Eyes, nose, ears, testicles. She feared that rule wouldn’t apply to a man who appeared as solid as a redwood.

She wished she’d secreted one of those deadly looking bullets. The tip of one jammed into an eyeball would do serious damage. It would stop even a giant long enough to slip past him.

She heard what sounded like boots hitting the wood floor muffled by the carpet, then the squeak of leather as he settled on one of the pieces of furniture.

She opened her eyes to slits and saw that he’d chosen the recliner over the sofa.

He was leaned back in it, a quilt pulled over him to midtorso.

Disconcertingly, he was looking straight at her, his eyes reflecting the firelight like those of a predatory animal.

His voice rumbled across the distance between them. “Relax, Doc. If I was going to hurt you, I would have by now.”

Reason told her that was true. She’d been sleeping defenselessly all afternoon and he hadn’t harmed her. Nevertheless…

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Told you.”

“But I don’t believe it’s the truth. Not completely.”

“I can’t control what you believe. But you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

After a time, she asked, “Is Drakeland the nearest town?”

“No.”

“What is?”

“You’ve never heard of it.”

“How far is it?”

“As the crow flies? Twelve miles.”

“And by road?”

“Fifteen.”

“I could easily run that. Going downhill, that wouldn’t be a challenging distance for me.”

He didn’t say, Oh, for God’s sake, lady, you’ve got a concussion and can’t even walk a straight line, much less run one.

He didn’t say anything at all, which was more unnerving than if he’d cited how illogical that prospect was.

His silence was also more menacing than if he’d told her flat out that she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, that he’d brought her here to be his sex slave, and that upon pain of death, she had better not be plotting an escape.

However, she did escape his opalescent gaze by closing her eyes. For five minutes, they shared nothing but a thick tension and the snapping of the logs in the fireplace.

In spite of her fear, her body was exhausted. On their own, her muscles began to relax. She sank deeper into the mattress. Her concussed brain dragged her toward oblivion. She was just this side of it when she jerked into full awareness. “You never told me your name.”

“That’s right,” he said. “And I won’t.”

***

Before going to sleep, Emory had set her alarm to go off two hours later, but the precaution proved to be unnecessary. Minutes before the alarm jingled on her wrist, he was at the bedside, his large hand lightly shaking her shoulder. “Doc?”

“I’m awake.”

“Have you slept?”

“Catnaps.”

“Does your head hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Want to take a couple of pills?”

“Not right now.”

He stood there for a moment without saying anything, then, “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“Maybe.”

In this case, maybe meant yes, because nausea had awakened her a half hour ago.

She’d been lying there, trying to talk herself out of it.

At the risk of waking him, she didn’t want to get up and stagger into the bathroom.

She didn’t want to ask for his assistance, but, worse, she didn’t want to throw up in his bed.

So when he asked if she needed the bathroom, although she committed only as far as maybe , she was grateful to him for taking it as a definite, emergency-level yes.

He pulled back the covers. She slid her legs to the side of the bed and set her feet on the floor.

He cupped her underarms and helped her to stand.

Knees wobbly, she took a tentative first step. “Steady.” He placed one arm around her waist and secured her against his side.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No bother.”

The distance to the bathroom was a matter of steps, but it seemed longer than the Great Wall of China. When they got to the door, he reached around her and flipped on the light, then pulled the door closed, saying, “Take your time.”

But she didn’t have time to do anything except drop to her knees in front of the toilet bowl.

There wasn’t much to throw up, but the spasms were intense, wracking her whole body, and she continued retching even after her stomach was empty.

When at last it stopped, she flushed and, using the sink as a handhold, weakly pulled herself up.

He spoke from just the other side of the door. “Okay?”

“Better.”