Melting Into You Read online

  Hunter darted out, grabbed his arm, and pulled him into the trees. “I’m fine.”

  A math book was splayed open on a decaying log. A backpack and flashlight lay close by. A half-eaten white-bread sandwich with a slice of indeterminate meat sticking out rested on top. Hunter was anything but fine.

  “What’re you doing out here?” Alec asked even though he didn’t expect the truth.

  “Got a calculus test tomorrow with Coach Dalton.”

  “Why aren’t you inside?” He nudged his chin back up the street, not taking his eyes off Hunter.

  “Hard to study up at the house.” Hunter broke eye contact, directing his gaze into the dark woods. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’m not leaving you out here to spend the night, Hunter.” He had no clue what he would do with the kid, but leaving him in the woods as darkness and the cold crept in wasn’t an option. Even in Alabama, October nights were cold.

  “I don’t sleep out here.” Defensiveness sharpened Hunter’s voice. “It’s the music. The music makes it hard to concentrate.”

  Alec made a more careful assessment of the area. A cooler and sleeping bag were tucked behind one tree. Fast food wrappers were wadded up and stuck in a hollow at the base of another. Either Hunter had no idea what normal was anymore or he didn’t trust Alec. Probably both.

  “Get your stuff together. You’re coming with me. Now.” His voice had roughened and came out harsher than he intended.

  When Hunter didn’t move, Alec kicked the sorry-looking sandwich to the ground, gathered up the math book, and threw it in the backpack. Swinging it by one strap, Alec gestured around them. “Grab anything else you need. We’ll take my truck.”

  Alec walked away, but Hunter grabbed the back of his shirt before he got to the sidewalk. Hunter was as tall as Alec, but he hadn’t yet developed a man’s muscles.

  “You can’t take my stuff like that.” The plaintive note in Hunter’s voice made Alec feel like a schoolyard bully.

  No doubt, there was a better, more diplomatic way to handle the situation, but his people skills were rusty, and he was doing this for Hunter’s own good. “Watch me.”

  Something around the size of a small car rammed into Alec and drove him to the ground. His breath whooshed out, and his lungs cramped. Alec had been sacked enough to not panic. A mixture of grass and pebbles bit into his face and neck. His left shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall, too numb for pain—yet.

  The car that hit him had flailing arms and legs and manifested into a man-boy who would have gotten an unsportsman-like flag had they been playing football. He punched Alec in the side and pushed off him to gain enough leverage to ram a knee in Alec’s hip.

  “What the hell, Will?” Panic or shock or maybe both veered Hunter’s voice high. Alec wasn’t sure where his quarterback was but hoped he’d stay out of range.

  Still short of oxygen, Alec grabbed at anything that would disrupt the beating. He wrapped a hand around a bare ankle, twisting and pushing his attacker’s foot high into the air. The man-boy toppled on his ass. As if his playing days had been weeks in the past instead of years, Alec popped up onto his knees.

  A middle-aged white man in a wife-beater, smiling with tobacco-stained teeth, joined the fray. He aimed a kick toward Alec’s ribs but missed. Alec made a grab for the man’s booted foot, but his arm tingled, his grip strength gone.

  Hunter pushed the white man away. “Don’t touch him.”

  “Your brother and I will handle this.” The man sidestepped around Hunter and offered Will a hand, hauling him to his feet. Alec sat back on his heels, pressing at the shooting pains in his shoulder.

  There was no mistaking the family resemblance, but the sheer mass of Will Galloway was unexpected. Hunter was tall and lean, while his twin was tall and thick. The perfect defensive linebacker.

  Will moved within six inches of Hunter, the proximity designed to intimidate. “You shouldn’t be out here in the first place. Get inside, bro. Now.”

  “I hate it when you’re like this, Will. Why do you think I come out here?”

  “Get the fuck inside. We’ll talk later.”

  A battle played out between the brothers even though neither of them said a word or moved. Without warning, Will shoved Hunter in the shoulder, sending him shuffling back. With his head down and not sparing Alec a glance, he retreated like a kicked dog, stumbling over the unkempt yard. A screen door banged. Hunter’s backpack lay ten feet away, books spilling out and papers fluttering.

  Will turned his attention back to Alec. Alec’s shoulder throbbed, and his side burned. Feet. He had to get to his feet or he was a goner. He staggered up.

  “What you hassling my brother for?” Will feinted toward him like a boxer testing an opponent. Twists that resembled short dreadlocks swayed with his movements.

  “Step back, Will.” The white man cracked his knuckles and spit a stream of tobacco to the side. Brown dribbled off his lip to stain the front of his shirt. “You a cop?”

  Alec’s pain-fogged brain focused on the answer that wouldn’t get him killed. “I’m not.”

  The white man assessed him and craned his head to see his truck. “You looking to score some weed from Will?”

  “Shut your mouth, Bone-man.” Will pushed him aside and looked Alec over, this time more carefully. The smell of nicotine and marijuana were strong on both men. “Ah, hell. This is Hunter’s coach.”

  Alec backed toward his truck, putting some distance between them. Should he try to get Hunter out? Or would his interference feed the animosity between the brothers? Reality was he was in no shape to take on Will and Bone-man considering Hunter seemed unwilling to cross his brother.

  “I expect to see Hunter at practice tomorrow. Healthy and ready to play. You got me?” He held Will’s gaze. The boy gave in first, dropping his head to chuff a few times and rub at wiry, sparse hair sprouting out of his chin.

  When his face came up, his smile contained a sickening amount of charm considering he’d been beating Alec to a pulp not three minutes prior. “Hunter’ll be fine. Boy Scout’s honor. Sorry about the dust-up, Coach. Yo, you know Bone-man was joking about the weed.”

  Will’s chin rose a fraction, and Alec realized he expected an answer. “Yeah? Hilarious.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed. “This ain’t the best place to be wandering after dark, Coach.”

  Alec continued backward toward his truck, his voice shot with irony. “You don’t say? Tell Hunter I’ll see him at practice.” He raised his voice, sure Hunter was watching out of a window. Pulling out his key, he unlocked his truck and slid onto the seat, muttering a curse. Now that he was sitting, each breath he took sent needles of pain down his side.

  Forcing himself to act, he started the truck and checked his rearview mirror. His face appeared in shades of gray. Blood had already started to congeal on several long, shallow cuts along one side of his face. He’d have a raging case of road rash by morning.

  The street behind him was deserted as he pointed the truck toward town. Even the backpack had vanished. He wasn’t hurt enough for medical attention. Football had taught him to assess his own injuries—bruised ribs, banged-up shoulder, a few cuts. Everything would heal on its own. Still, it hurt like hell.

  His phone dinged. Hands trembling slightly, he checked the display. The text had come in five minutes ago. A local number.

  If the offer stands, I would appreciate help with my wiring. Give me a call or stop by. L.

  His house was on five acres of land outside city limits. His neighbors were barely acquaintances, people he waved at from afar if he was feeling especially friendly. The effort involved in navigating his dark house and seeing to his injuries made his stomach roll with nausea.

  His subconscious made the decision for him, and he turned down Lilliana’s street. Hancock House sat at the end, a stately white-columned throwback from Gone with the Wind. Light shone behind the front parlor windows like a guiding beacon. Though it was only seven o’
clock, it felt like midnight.

  He turned the truck off, opened his door, and looked at the ground. Too far away. The front door opened. Framed in a halo of light from the big chandelier, Lilliana’s expression remained a mystery. A shot of insecurity kept him teetering between dropping to the ground or starting the truck and driving off.

  “That was fast. I didn’t expect you to rush over and start work tonight.” Enough warmth and welcome weaved through the uncertainty in her voice to keep him in place.

  She came closer, stopping on the second step down. The door creaked halfway closed, dimming the weak fingers of light illuminating the path to her porch. Two more steps, and she was at the base of the stairs, barefoot in the grass-gravel mixture of her drive. The red of her tank top glowed. She craned her neck to see him, her face scrunched. “Is everything okay?”

  The overhead light of the cab must have revealed the more superficial of his injuries. Her eyes went wide, and before he could act, she was in the door of his cab, grabbing his arms.

  “Ohmigod. What happened?” Her voice squeaked high. “Were you in an accident?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure the dude meant to tackle me.” His weak laugh faded into a groan.

  “Who was it? Were you mugged?” She tugged him out of the truck. His feet hit the ground. The jarring sent pain streaking from his shoulder to his fingers and into his chest, leaving his ankles and knees shaky. Damn, if this had been a game, he would have been expected to suck it up and run the next play. He’d gotten soft. Or old. Or maybe both.

  She tucked herself under his right armpit, but was too short to provide much support. Instead, he let his eyes almost close and allowed her to guide him into the house, his arm draped over her shoulders. He turned his face toward her and took a deep breath. The sharp tang of turpentine and paint cut through the fuzz gathering at the edges of his mind.

  The last time he’d been this close, she’d smelled of citrus with a hint of … marijuana? Every detail about their afternoon together had etched itself on him as surely as his tattoo. The smell from Hunter’s house triggered the realization.

  Somehow, it seemed more important than his pain. He stopped in the middle of the foyer “Were you high the other day? Is that the reason you had sex with me?”

  “High? Not really.”

  Her answer was vague enough to keep him in place despite her tugs. “Not really? That means yes.”

  She huffed a sigh and moved in front of him. “Okay, yes, I took a couple of hits, not realizing I had the day of the inspection wrong. And, no, being high had nothing to do with what happened later. You can blame your tattoos for that.”

  He ran a hand over his cotton-covered ink, the skin tingling as if her lips were tracing the lines once more. Was he really one to judge? He wasn’t her boyfriend. He was her one-night stand. “Is it a regular thing?”

  “Jumping men with sexy tats or smoking weed?”

  He blinked. Sexy tats. The one thing he hated about his body she thought was sexy.

  She stared at him as if expecting an answer. When nothing came out of his mouth, she shook her head and tugged him toward the front room. This time he followed.

  “If you must know, I do neither on a regular basis.”

  He draped his arm back around her shoulder in a half hug, fighting the urge to pull her fully into an embrace. Had he hit his head too?

  The back of his knees hit the velvet cushion of her ornate Chippendale-type couch. He sank down, taking care not to jostle his sore shoulder. He rested his head back against the decorative wooden frame and closed his eyes.

  A hand brushed his hair off his forehead. Her touch cast him back to the simplicity of childhood. He sighed and unknotted his spine, sinking farther into the couch. Her breath whispered along his cheek. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  He opened his eyes to find her close, examining his stinging scrapes. “I went to Hunter Galloway’s house to check on him. His brother thought I was … Actually, I have no idea what he thought I was doing. Blindsided me.”

  “Gracious, Will’s a bruiser. He’s has got to be two-thirty if he’s a pound.”

  “I’d guess closer to two-sixty these days.”

  “Your face looks terrible.”

  “It looks worse than it feels. It’s my shoulder that’s killing me. And I think I bruised my ribs.” He rotated his shoulder and raised his arm, the movement painful but doable. Nothing torn or dislocated, just wrenched. “A couple of days, and I’ll be all good.”

  Half of him wanted to pull her hand back to his forehead, wanted her to continue soothing him. While the sane half wondered why in hell had he come to her in the first place? He hadn’t needed anyone to take care of him for years.

  “Shouldn’t you get checked out at the ER?”

  Feeling like an idiot, he tried to push himself to standing, his teeth clenched against the pins and needles pain shooting through his arm. “Sorry I bothered you. I’ll head home.”

  “For goodness sake, that wasn’t code for ‘get out.’ Lay down.” She slipped a hand around his neck and eased him to prone, her hair brushing his cheek. He turned toward the soft caress, but it was gone, her voice growing distant. “Don’t move.”

  He’d lost the will to leave. Closing his eyes, he disassociated from the various parts of his body throbbing with pain, his mind wandering in a state of limbo where time didn’t exist. Warm water on his cuts and the smell of disinfecting soap brought him back to reality.

  “You’re awake. I wasn’t sure,” she said softly. “Open your mouth.”

  Beyond arguments, he obeyed. She put two pills on his tongue, and he swallowed with cool water she offered through a straw. Tipping his head to the side with the palm of her hand, she continued to clean his face, her touch gentle. After dabbing some sort of antiseptic-smelling ointment on his cuts, she ran fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp.

  How long had it been since someone had touched him like this? Like they cared about him and not his money or his name. Maybe his mother when he was a kid, before football became the family obsession. None of his girlfriends had ever soothed his football-related injuries. They preferred him dressed up and escorting them to the city’s hotspots, not wallowing in pain.

  “I thought you hated me.” His lips felt numb, his ears stuffed with cotton. Her hands stilled, and he cursed his tongue.

  “I don’t hate you,” she said quietly, but in his head, the words echoed into his chest, disintegrating the tight bands squeezing his heart. He didn’t realize how much he had been bothered by the thought.

  “I don’t know why I came here. Did you have plans tonight?”

  “Yeah, a hot date with my Chinese food delivery boy.” The humor and sarcasm in her voice made him want to smile, but his lips refused to obey.

  “I didn’t want to be alone.” He tried to stop the admission, but couldn’t. His eyelids were heavy, but he forced them open. Colors ran together, and the cogs in his brain moved slowly. His tongue felt thick, his words slurring. “What’d you give me?”

  * * *

  Lilliana knew beyond a shadow that he would never have admitted a weakness if it weren’t for the painkillers. His hazel eyes had dilated, leaving them darker than normal, and his gaze travelled slowly over her face and hair as if she were a figment of his imagination. Maybe she should have only given him one of the pills.

  “Some pain medication I had left over. Threw my back out last year pushing furniture around. I should have moved you upstairs before I gave them to you. Can you walk?”

  He mumbled something, but lifted his torso off the old couch that was at least three feet too short for him. She grabbed his right hand and helped him to standing, notching her shoulder under his arm.

  He shuffled forward with her, making good progress until they came to the stairs. The climb was arduous and slow. He alternated between groans and laughter, the pills at least starting to do their job. By the time they reached the landing, Lilliana had broken
into a sweat from both physical exertion and anxiety. She guided him into her room and to the bed. He sprawled over the mattress like a starfish, one leg hanging over the side.

  She still wasn’t convinced he didn’t need a doctor, but getting him back down the stairs and into her SUV wasn’t happening. Will Galloway had assaulted him, and she debated on calling the police, but hesitated. That would be his decision to make.

  She turned on the bedside lamp and let her gaze take him in from head to toe. Her heart had jumped into her throat when she’d gotten close enough to see him, leaning against his truck, a wild, desperate look in his eyes. Rivulets of blood had trailed down his cheek like dried tears, but the cuts were superficial. She was more worried about his shoulder and ribs.

  She pulled off his boots and socks and allowed herself the weakness of skimming her hands up his pants, from calf to thigh. The muscles flexed. Bypassing his belt, she went to work on the buttons of his shirt. Blood and grass had stained the cotton, and she’d gotten the collar damp during her meticulous cleaning of his cuts. She spread the edges of the shirt open, catching her breath. His inked chest was as amazing as she’d remembered. If things were different, she might spend hours exploring every dark curve.

  With some creative rolling of his body, taking care with his shoulder, she tugged the shirt off and dropped it on the floor. During all this, his eyes remained open, but glassy, and she wasn’t sure how aware he was or how much of the night he’d remember.

  With the shirt off, she sat on the bed and examined him. Purpling bruises diffused from his tats like ink stains. Any damage to his shoulder wasn’t visible. Her hair fell forward, but before she could push the mass back, he wound a thick section though his fingers and brushed the ends along his lips.

  “I’ve dreamed about your hair.” The words emerged as a slurry whisper that had her leaning even closer to hear.

  “You have?” She pushed a lock behind one ear to keep it out of her eyes. She had thought about cutting her hair for years but couldn’t quite stomach losing the thick, dark waves, even though most of the time she wore it back in a ponytail or braid.