Taken By The Bull

“Glad to hear it. Though I admit, I was a little worried there for a while.” He shrugged, and pushed his hands down, deep into his pockets. “Thought we might be sending you off home to your mom in two pieces or more.”

“Don’t say that.” Staci drew a sharp breath, her voice strained. “That’s not funny.”

“Hell, I’m sorry.” Steve turned his head away, taken aback at her reaction. “Didn’t mean to make it sound like I was making light of the situation. I know, it must’ve been a shock for you.”

“No, that’s… Not it.” It was hard to breathe as she pushed back, as hard as she could, against the unwelcome rise of old memories. I don’t want to talk about this. Or think about it. Nope, not now, not ever. “I guess, it was quite an evening, huh?”

“It was, at that.”

They were almost at the door; Staci wondered if the same woman would be at the front desk as was there when she left this morning, if she’d even notice that her jeans were dirty and torn and her shirt had the imprint of a tree-branch still lingering across the front. “So, ah… I never did really get a full, proper interview, did I?”

“Not really. I guess we just got on a little too well for professional business.” There was a certain awkwardness in his voice as he shrugged, pulling his broad shoulders up high. “I’m a little sad that you’ll be back in Jackson tomorrow, I admit.”

“Well-” They were at the door. She put her hand out onto the handle – but as soon as she made contact with it she withdrew, as quick as if the metal were heated. “I don’t actually have to go back to Jackson tomorrow. I mean-” Clearing her throat, she stared down at her feet, tight against each other. “Maybe we could have lunch or something, before I go.” That sounds so bad! “For an interview, I mean?”

“I thought, you were asking me out for a moment.” He ran his hand through his short hair, messing it up a little; his hand dropped to his side and she found herself staring at it. The same hand that laid on the head of the bull, soothing it; that pressed so softly against her knee when it hurt. “Not that-”

The rest of the words never came as she moved forward; leaning up on the balls of her feet to press her lips against his, feeling the scratch of his close-trimmed beard that was nothing more than a shadow on his skin. He inhaled sharply and she felt the breath drawn from her, and into him – and she was sure he was going to pull away, to thank her politely for a nice day and pleasant conversation and be gone. Then she felt his hands steal up, fingers curving around the sides of her face, thumbs along the angle of her jaw to tilt her head upwards as he moved in closer.

A tiny sound escaped her lips, like a whimper, like a sigh. She tasted the warm-bitter remains of whiskey, just a touch; like a memory of hot ashes after the embers of a campfire died down. “I don’t – I don’t normally do things like this-”

He didn’t reply, at least, not with words. His left hand brushed through the loose strands of dark hair that fell forward over her ears as her own hands slipped around his waist, pulling him closer. Things had moved so fast, and so quickly – and she was lost in the warmth of his body, drinking in his scent as he kissed her deeper, moving slowly as if afraid he might break her.

You won’t though, she thought. I know you won’t.

She felt her skin flush as the tip of his tongue brushed along her lower lip; wanted to feel his hands move over her skin, trace the contours of her body – wanted to press her own hands against the hard muscles of his arms and chest. How would he be, in the darkness, in the stillness of her bed? If she opened her eyes, all she would see is him.

Her fingers tightened on the fabric of his shirt as she pressed herself forward into him, felt him push back – and there was no space in between as she rolled her hips forward and curled her leg around his, aching for more. Wanting, so much, to bring him closer still.

“Come in with me,” she murmured, the words almost lost between them. “Up to my room.” With his hips pressed against hers, she could feel that he wanted to, at least – that a part of him wanted to.

He sighed, a shuddering, heavy sigh… And then pulled away, his hands moving to her shoulders, looking her straight in the eye.

He has such beautiful blue eyes. Not dark. Why do I keep thinking of them as being dark…?

“I can’t. Not tonight.”

Disappointment flooded through her, her eyes big and apologetic. “I’m – I’m sorry. You’re quite the gentleman, I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not that much of a gentleman. Not always, anyway.” Again, his hand moved to her face, large, warm, tender. “It’s just, a bad night, is all. And tomorrow, you’ll be in Jackson.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” She bit her lip, eyes half-closing as she glanced downwards at her feet; then back up to his face again. “Lunch, tomorrow. I’m asking you out.”

“Well, now…” He leaned in and she parted her lips in readiness for the kiss that she was sure was coming; and felt his lips brush her forehead, as light as a feather before drawing back to look into her eyes again. “I couldn’t say ‘no’ to that, even if I wanted to.”

*****

Staci’s head felt light and giddy as she let herself back into her room; her body warm and feverish, as if she’d just been running so long and hard that she’d needed to gasp for air. She wished he was here with her, instead of heading off home in a cab; but maybe tomorrow. Maybe…

I’m taking an extra day here to spend time with someone I met. It’s bad. It’s real bad. But I’m going to do it. She hummed a tuneless refrain as she kicked off her shoes, peeled her clothes from her body. I’ve worked like a demon at this job since I was eighteen, hardly taking a day off. Morning til night. I don’t need to feel guilty over this. Hell, no.

Her shirt landed more heavily on the floor than it ought to have done, by rights; and, remembering the voice recorder still in the pocket, she bent to take it out. Her knee twinged a little with the motion; but it wasn’t much of anything.

She bit her lip at the sight of the hole torn in her jeans, at the flecks of blood lingering on the frayed fabric. Thoughtfully she rubbed the skin of her knee, which was unbroken and unbruised. Okay. That’s odd. How could I have blood on my jeans from a wound that doesn’t exist?

The song died on her lips as she stood, her other hand moving to her hair to loosen the tight braid that had bound it up through the day. Her eyes moved down automatically to the voice recorder, and saw that it had reached its capacity; a blinking light signaling that a new SD card was needed to keep recording.

The last time I used it was before Steve went to get his last drink, and he found Seth in the kitchen. Long before I had my tussle with Thunderbutt the bull. So – what else is on here?

Her thumb moved to the ‘playback’ switch and hit it as she drifted towards the bed, listening. “I used to be, well, what you’d call an angry young man, I guess. Angry about my mom dying, angry that my dad got diagnosed with something long-term and terminal, angry that there was so much to deal with in the world that I wasn’t ready for.”

A smile touched her lips, despite her unanswered questions, despite the blood on her jeans that shouldn’t, by rights, be there. After this, she thought. After he talked about his mom and dad. She pushed the ‘forward’ button, let the tiny cursor on the screen move forward through time and then hit ‘play’ again.

Her own voice, this time; quick, panicked, like a terrified child. “Please, go away! I didn’t mean it!”

Drawing a sharp breath, her thumb moved automatically to the ‘stop/off’ switch; she didn’t want to hear that. Didn’t want to remember how she’d thought she might be about to die. Then she saw that there was still almost fifteen minutes recorded after that, and instead of turning it off she just moved forward.