Читать книгу Collide - Меган Харт - Страница 11

My knees hurt. Throbbed and stung. Blood oozed from several scrapes. My panty hose had indeed been shredded, but on this sidewalk now, not from me tearing them away in order to get at naked Johnny.

He had one hand on my elbow, the other at my hip, holding me in place. “You all right?”

I blinked rapidly, putting myself in place. I knew where I was. I knew who I was. Most importantly, I knew when I was.

“Fine. I slipped on the ice. I’m sorry, did I hit you?”

My breezy explanation wasn’t cutting it with him, I could tell. How long had I been dark? I hadn’t conveniently glanced at my watch before the fugue.

“You should be more careful,” Johnny warned, sounding stern.

I could still taste him. I swallowed against the flavor of his mouth and skin. We were standing too close for strangers, which is what we really were. He let go of my hip but kept hold of my elbow, and I was grateful because my legs had suddenly gone trembling and weak.

“You look like shit. You better come in here.”

Yew bettuh come in heah.

From anyone else I’d have laughed a little at that accent, but on Johnny it was utterly drool-worthy. I couldn’t say anything, could only let him pull me along and up the brick stairs, through his front door. And then I stood inside Johnny’s house.

It was beautiful, of course. I hadn’t expected anything less. I stood on his parquet wood floors, my panty hose shredded and the hem of my coat dripping. I hadn’t noticed that before, that I’d gotten wet. I looked at my feet and the growing puddle of dirty water, then at him.

“Oh, God. Sorry.”

Johnny had been hanging up his long black coat and that scarf on a brass hook on the wall just inside the door, and he turned to give me an up-and-down look that left me feeling totally lacking. “You should come into the kitchen. Get a drink. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

I felt white-faced and shivering, certain I looked like shit just as he’d said. “Thanks.”

“C’mon.” Johnny made a shooing gesture down the hall toward the kitchen, then followed me. “I’ll make you a cuppa tea. Unless you want something stronger?”

“Tea’s fine. Good. Thank you.” I sat in the chair he pointed to, at a table that couldn’t be the same one my brain had created, no matter how much it looked like the one in my fugue.

Sometimes, not every time, I did come out of a fugue this way, disoriented and a little sick. Most of the time it passed quickly. Today, I had to take slow, shallow breaths and sip at the air to keep my stomach from revolting up my throat.

Johnny moved around his kitchen in silence. He filled the kettle and settled it on the gas range. The burner hissed and sparked without lighting until he fiddled with something, and then the blue flame whooshed up, high.

“Damn thing,” Johnny said, but not to me.

Word vomit. That’s what Jen had called it. I’d laughed at her then, but understood it now. I had to clench my jaw tight to keep myself from blurting out the most random, insane thoughts crossing my mind and, even then, didn’t quite manage. “You have a beautiful house.”

Johnny grunted as he pulled a couple of oversize mugs from a cupboard and set them on the counter. He opened a tin canister marked Tea and filled a small mesh ball with leaves. Another cupboard produced a ceramic teapot.

“You’ve done a lot to it,” I continued.

My dad was fond of saying that only a fool speaks just to fill silence. I wasn’t making my dad very proud now. Nor did I seem to be impressing Johnny.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Fifteen years,” Johnny said finally, after he’d poured boiling water into the teapot and brought it to the table. He covered it with a knitted cozy and put the mugs beside it. He took a trip to the fridge and brought out half-and-half.

Johnny was making tea for me. This was more surreal and harder to believe than finding myself in the late 1970s had been. I sat with hands linked in my lap, watching as he sat across from me and poured the tea. He added three spoonfuls of sugar and a generous dollop of half-and-half to one mug, then pushed it toward me. I wrapped my hands around it but didn’t dare drink for fear I’d spill it all down my front and embarrass myself even more.

“It’s nice,” I said. “The house, I mean.” He looked at me. “Drink your tea.”

I blew on it, then sipped. It was perfect, exactly the way I’d have made it myself. My stomach settled. Then it grumbled.

Johnny hadn’t drunk a sip. He got up, went to the counter, pulled out a package of cookies from a bread box and set them on the table, too. “You need more sugar.”

“I’m okay, really.”

He took a cookie from the package and set it on the table in front of me. “Eat that.”

If he’d said it with a smile, cajoling, I’d have eaten it. It was my favorite kind, and I was hungry, craving sugar. But something in his tone and look made me ornery.

“No, thanks.”

Johnny shrugged and snagged a cookie from the package. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it like a magician getting ready to do a coin trick. He studied it, then looked at me. It crumbled when he bit it, and when he licked the crumbs off his lips, I had to concentrate on the mug of tea in my hands. The surface of the liquid shook the way the glass of water trembled in Jurassic Park, announcing the presence of the T. rex. I was pretty sure there weren’t any dinosaurs here.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

It was stupid not to eat it, so I did after another half minute. Sweetness exploded on my tongue, and though it might’ve been the placebo effect, my stomach instantly settled and my head stopped swimming. I licked melted chocolate from my fingertips and took a long, slow swallow of tea.

The fugue was fading, the memory of Johnny’s taste replaced by tea and chocolate. I didn’t want to let the sensations go, but they’d become slippery as a fistful of spaghetti and no more easily gripped. I sighed and took another cookie when he pushed the package toward me.

“They’re not very good.” Johnny didn’t say it like an apology, just a fact. “Homemade’s better.”

“Homemade is always better,” I agreed. “But I guess you have to take what you can get, huh?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t crack a smile. He sat back in his seat, gaze shuttered, mouth thin and straight without even the hint of curve. “You got some color back in your cheeks.”

“I’m feeling a lot better, thanks. This was just what I needed.” I lifted my mug and pointed it toward the cookies, praying I didn’t have chocolate smeared on my mouth or teeth.

“Yeah. I know. You okay now?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. Thank you.”

Johnny gave an unsubtle look at the clock on the wall. “You live here, in the neighborhood?”

“Yes. I just moved in a few months ago. Down the street,” I added. “Number forty-three.”

Word vomit. I was about to fall prey to its insidiousness. Fortunately, Johnny cut me off before I could spew out anything really embarrassing, like an offer to take him home and fuck him until we both saw stars. Unfortunately, he also stood in a way that made it obvious I was supposed to leave.

I paused on the front porch. “Thanks, Mr. Dellasandro.”

He’d kiss me now, I knew it. Or I’d kiss him. He’d push me up against the wall and put his hand under my skirt. We’d fuck right there on the stairs… .

“Be more careful out there,” Johnny said, and closed the door in my face.

He hadn’t even asked my name.

“You didn’t.” Jen sounded horrified and fascinated at the same time. “He took you into his house? And gave you a cookie? Damn, girl … did he ask you to sit on his lap, too?”

“No, God, no. Too bad.”

“Really.” She shook her head and held up a skirt she’d pulled off the rack. “What do you think of this?”

“Hideously ugly.” I fingered the fabric, a polyester blend in shades of orange and green. “And yet appealing.”

“I know, right? How about this?” She held up a dress, which had been made to look like a shirt and skirt but was really one piece. “It has a matching belt.”

“And it’s half off,” I said with a glance at the tag. Wednesdays were price-reduction days at the Salvation Army. Jen and I had made it a weekly date. “Where are you going to wear it?”

“Oh. To work, I guess. With a pair of supercute boots. Maybe hem the skirt a little. I love the sleeves.”

The sleeves were pretty awesome, cuffed tight at the wrists with the rest blousy. It wasn’t a look I thought I could pull off, but it would suit her. “It’s artistic.”

“You think so?” She held up the dress again. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

She put it in the cart and we inched down the aisle. The store was always crammed with shoppers on Wednesdays, making it nearly impossible to navigate with a wonky-wheeled cart unless we both maneuvered it. I pulled out a sleek black dress with a scoop neck and an A-line hem. It also had a glittery broach. Bonus! I stuck it in the cart, even though I had no place to wear a dress like that. At five bucks, half off, I couldn’t resist.

“Cute,” Jen commented. “But listen, tell me more about Johnny. What’s his house like? Did he come on to you?”

“Gorgeous. And no way. If anything, he couldn’t wait to get me out of there.”

“Bummer.” Jen pulled a blue sleeveless tank dress from the rack. “This is a great color.”

“Yeah. I guess I couldn’t be surprised. I mean, I did nearly knock him over on the street like a huge, giant doofus.”

Jen laughed. “But you managed not to ask him if you could bite his epic ass, right?”

“At least there’s that. Hey, I’m heading over to the shirts.” I couldn’t look at any more dresses. I’d end up spending twenty bucks on vintage finery I’d never wear.

I have a theory about thrift-store shopping. I’ve spent hours going from store to store in search of something specific, but I’ve never gone away from a thrift store empty-handed. For whatever reason, whenever I shop at a thrift store, no matter what I want, I find it. When I wanted an emerald-green cardigan sweater, an item that was both out of season and not in a trendy color, I found the perfect one at the Salvation Army. When I needed a jean jacket to replace the one I’d left behind in a hotel, I had my choice of ten or so from the local church bargain basement store. I think there’s some higher consciousness involved, or maybe it’s a matter of perception that allows your eyes to be opened at just the right time. To see things you wouldn’t have noticed before.