Page 38

Chapter eighteen

Manhood

R ai awoke, parched.

He should have expected it—the rain had begun fading when he and Poppy had been settling for sleep, and from the looks of the light coming in the windows, it was now well past sunrise.

The patch of sky he could see was cloudless, the anemic shade of blue he already associated with relentless heat, and though the loud electric box in Poppy’s window blew out cool air, it was also dry air.

The vents in his motel room—Ofelia had said it was a swamp cooler though that made little sense as this desert was the opposite of swampy—did not chill as deeply, but they did infuse the air with water, which was what Rai needed more than coolness.

Perhaps staying the night had been a mistake.

But gazing at Poppy’s tousled head, pillowed sweetly upon his breast, he knew he would choose the same again.

His heart was overflowing with affection, with contentment, and it was all he could do not to wake her immediately to share it.

To kiss her out of slumber into honeyed caresses and impassioned cries.

But that would be foolish. And while Rai was naturally a fool, he was endeavoring to be…

better. Wiser. Stronger. And so instead of stroking Poppy into wakefulness, he carefully extricated himself from her embrace, settled her tenderly upon her soft pillows, kissed her forehead, and slipped from the bed.

His limbs were weakened already, so he stumbled a bit, but he managed to make his way down the hall.

Her studio was awash with sunlight; its widest wall faced south, toward the sun’s daily course, and it had more windows to the east and west. The bright rays had already warmed the space uncomfortably, but the sweeter filtered water from the studio tap met his needs better than the more chemical water from the small kitchen.

He drank from the glass he’d left there the night before, cupful after cupful, until he could feel his strength returning.

Rai’s wings itched to be released, and he was tempted, but the chance of Poppy awakening was too great.

He had only so many weeks remaining to be her lover, and he could not bear now for them to be cut short.

Ofelia had encouraged him to reveal his secret, but how could he?

He already knew things were to end eventually, so best not to capsize the boat prematurely.

On his way back to Poppy’s side, he took a moment to fish his phone out of his discarded trousers in the living room.

The weather app predicted a dry day, only a miniscule chance of rain, and he sighed in frustration.

Poppy had promised he could come with her, and that the art store was not far, but it was going to be a nightmare walking outside with no chance of reprieve.

And he had not even had his nightly rejuvenating soak.

Well, he would have to do what he could. He had promised Poppy, and he desired the time with her desperately.

He peeked back into her bedroom. She had snuggled more deeply into the covers, a contented smile on her face.

He was not certain how late they had been awake, but it had been very late, and his phone said the time was still in the realm of crazy o’clock.

So perhaps she would sleep for a while still?

And she had not minded when he had used her shower the night before.

Surely she would not begrudge him a bath, nor be surprised if she found him there.

He would simply tell her he had needed to be cleansed, perhaps induce her to join him.

He strode to the bathroom, started the water running, and settled into the tub with a sigh.

It was lukewarm, despite his running the cold tap, but still refreshing, and he absorbed the water gratefully, setting the faucet to trickle just enough to replenish what he was absorbing and keep the tub full .

Though again he felt a fool. He spent so much of his time and effort simply staying hydrated enough to function. But then, did it matter when everything else he did with his time was useless?

He draped his elbows over the edge of the tub, his nerves sparking with frustration and worry, his chest rumbling with disgruntlement.

Poppy had been so kind, so encouraging the night before.

Yet her words had cut like shards of ice because all she had said, every word of it, had been praising him for his lies.

She was proud of his profession that did not exist. She had complimented the inspirational drivel that he had gleaned from Google and pretended to believe.

She had said he was needed, important, yet he was not.

The only things she had admired which were true were his strength, which any man could have, and his smile, which was merely the teeth he had grown.

They were not even straight! He had thought his appearance quite superior until he had looked in a mirror and compared his features to the many smiling faces he had seen in advertisements and movies.

Now he knew he was far from the human ideal of male beauty.

It was a wonder Poppy found him attractive at all.

And even then, what she saw was his glamour, not his true face.

Perhaps the magic made his teeth look straighter.

Perhaps if she knew his true smile, she would reject him.

Perhaps…what she saw in his falsehoods was merely the face of what she had lost.

He growled and snatched his phone from where he had set it on the floor.

He had pretended that he did not care of her past lovers, that the pain in her voice as she’d described her former husband had only moved him to sympathy, but even a river in flood was shaped by the rocks below, and he could deny the underlying truth no longer.

Poppy had once truly loved a man, Brendan Beaumont .

And when she spoke of him, Rai could hear unspoken words in the pregnant pauses, feel the pressure of what she was not saying.

Subtext , Ofelia had called it. The truth beneath the words.

There was something there, something about her husband, something dark and painful and secret.

And no matter how he tried to lie to himself, Rai was sick with jealousy.

It took him a few tries to find the correct spelling of the man’s name—what sadistic language pronounced eau like oh and ont like a nasal aught ?

—but finally Rai believed he had located the correct fellow, an award-winning literary author, celebrated philanthropist, and scion of a wealthy publishing dynasty in some place called Naperville.

Rai tapped on the top result, glaring at the face that filled his screen.

He despised him immediately .

The man was handsome, in the strong-jawed, square-faced way that was so ubiquitous in the images Rai had been bombarded with online.

Sandy blond hair. Blue eyes. Even white teeth—not as white as Rai's, perhaps, but unnaturally straight, as if witchcraft had been involved. Everyone knew witches did not exist, of course, but Rai could not think how a smile could be so flawless without magical intervention. The bastard even had facial hair, a close-trimmed beard and neat mustache that gave him an air of gravitas and maturity. Rai himself would not be able to sprout a beard like his father’s grand indigo waterfall for many years to come, and the idea that this man who had been cruel to Poppy bore such a badge of respected masculinity was deeply offensive.

Beaumont would have fit in perfectly with the mystifying array of images that Rai had found when he’d inquired about the Manly Man Award Poppy insisted he could expect in the mail any day.

A gallery of manhood that Rai had not seen himself reflected in once, not his long waves of hair, nor his slim, wiry body, nor the lean lines of his face.

Rai scanned the article that the photo accompanied, frowning.

There was no mention of Poppy, though there was a paragraph describing in glowing terms the books she had named.

Beaumont’s prose was praised for its wit and verve, his story structure called clever and unique, his denouements—Rai frowned at that word but didn’t bother looking it up—inspiring and fulfilling.

The article went on to speak with eager anticipation of the new Brendan Beaumont novel to be released in just a few months.

His latest work , the article said, has been shrouded in secrecy over the years since his second novel was released to critical acclaim, yet it is to be expected that it will join his other works as masterpieces of the twenty-first century.

The rumbling in Rai’s chest nearly burst forth. There was nothing in the article that referred to Poppy, for good or ill, yet there was something about the fawning language that felt like an insult to her. We were a team , she had said, yet the article had praise only for her former husband.

And there was something more that set Rai’s not-straight teeth on edge.

It took him a moment for the sick realization of the truth to seize his gut.

Brendan Beaumont, the man Poppy had once loved enough to wed, had accomplishments.

He had written books. He had won awards that were not simply words from a kind woman.

He was everything Rai pretended to be, yet was not.

Everything Rai had never wanted to be, yet now inexplicably did.

And the man had hurt Poppy. He had betrayed Poppy, sabotaging her livelihood, her spirit, even her mother.

Rai felt a sudden urge to Google the benighted place Naperville , find his way there, seek the traitor out and rain lightning and hail and tornadoes upon his household and his person.

Only the promise of a glorious, if dry, day with Poppy kept him from leaping forth from the tub and setting out on a quest of justice.

Rai groaned and set his forehead to the cool porcelain of the tub’s edge.

He had not felt jealousy this deeply since he had been a stripling, a mere child who had not yet learned to share his friends and playthings.

He was a man, whatever the internet told him.

It was unworthy of him to feel such bitter envy of a human he had never met, whom he likely never would meet, a man who had already cast Poppy aside so harshly she would never turn his way again.

Rai was part of Poppy’s life now. He was her lover.

There was nothing this Beaumont could have that Rai need covet.

Except his place in Poppy’s heart, the scar he had left. And even that, Rai did not want . He wanted to erase it, to wash it away like a tsunami and leave Poppy’s heart smooth and clean again. He wanted her to be refreshed by his existence, revived.

But Rai’s only true skill was destruction.

Would he, too, scar Poppy’s heart? Would he leave her spirit ravaged when the rains ended?

She was the one who insisted that that moment would be a true end, but did that mean she would be heart-whole when he left?

Or would she regret that she had ever joined her life’s stream with his, even for a moment?

He fumed imagining it, but he could not lie to himself and insist it was impossible for him to cause her harm.

He had no skills, no purpose, except to bring wrack and ruin to the earth below.

And he was a liar, a trickster who had only entered Poppy’s life to torment her.

A spoiled brat with rocks for brains. Who would not regret wasting one's days with a foolish passing breeze, an aimless zephyr lacking all substance?

Poppy deserved better. More.

Rai wanted desperately to be that more .

He had marinated in his roiling thoughts for nearly an hour when he heard a noise from the direction of Poppy’s room and shook himself free of the whirlpool of his misery.

The sound was not repeated, but he rose from the tub regardless, absorbing the last drops of water and turning off the trickle from the tap.

He felt much better, and there would be other opportunities to hydrate.

Perhaps he could coax Poppy into another bout of lovemaking that would then mandate another shower.

Or perhaps another bout of lovemaking in the shower!

The thought cheered him, and he hurried to Poppy’s bed.

She blinked her mossy brown eyes open when he slid into the bed beside her. “You were gone,” she murmured, closing her eyes again. Her voice was curious, not accusing .

“Water,” he replied. His voice was rough with emotion; he cleared his throat. “Must you wake?”

She frowned and stretched cautiously. “Probably? But no.” She nuzzled back into Rai’s chest as he eased beneath her. “This is nice.”

“It is perfect,” he murmured back, kissing her forehead. Her room was still dim, the diffuse sunlight blocked further by curtains at the one westward window. Her skin glowed like a dusky pearl, and Rai stroked his hands over her exposed shoulder with careful hunger, trying to soothe, to comfort.

“We can…sleep…a little more.” Her voice was slurred, though she was smiling.

Rai tucked his arm around her. “Yes. Sleep.”

She relaxed into his embrace, slumber taking her swiftly.

Rai closed his eyes and tried to follow her, but he could not.

Instead, he lay there with her, listening to the soft whoosh of her breath and the thump of her heart and the underlying magical current of her blood, flowing, flowing, flowing through her veins.

He would not destroy her. He would not. It was of no matter that chaos and wrenching and tearing were all he knew.

He could learn to be different. He had been soft for her, sweet for her until now.

He could choose to stay sweet, to be a gentle spring rain instead of a typhoon.

He held both within him, and he could ensure that his adoration buoyed Poppy up rather than dragging her down to the dismal depths.

He could. He would. He told himself this fiercely, over and over again, as Poppy breathed into his skin and gave him her warmth and trusted him with her slumber.

And yet, though he tried to relax into the comfort of her arms, he did not sleep again.