The One That Got Away

Chapter 8

Six years ago when she’d joined the army, Enzo was stationed at Andrew’s Air Base because she’d shown an aptitude for engineering.

“Hey, Monique.”

Monique looked up and fumbled for the name. “Enzo. Hi.”

Enzo looked pleased that Monique remembered and came to an awkward stop. Like Monique, he was a new recruit, trying to find somewhere to fit, perpetually awkward in the too-large shirts that he seemed to prefer as if he had an unrealistic view of his actual size. “You know, most people around here tend to call me stuff like Fonzi,” he said. “I hate that.”

“Did you want something?” Monique prompted him. It was really late, she was only about halfway through her précis for Dana Michaelson and her head ached something fierce after an epiphany that had her calling Oliver’s number; wanting to talk. It kept going to voicemail though and she’d finally given up. Reflexively, she glanced at her cell on the desk next to her. The display was still dark and showed only the time. She kept expecting that Oliver would call her back, if only to find out why she was calling. And Monique was trying to convince herself that the fact he hadn’t didn’t mean anything, that Oliver was mad or something. Not that he didn’t care about her desertion. He’d refused to sign the divorce papers after all…

“Oh. Yeah.” Enzo smiled and it must have hit her then that it had been forever since she’d gotten laid, because she felt suddenly blinded by how brilliantly pretty it was. That had been before Emily had swooped down on them and swept him off his feet though.

*****

The penthouse was huge, with three ensuite rooms and a living room area, Jacuzzi, kitchen and breakfast room. Monique glanced at Oliver, wondering if he was trying to impress her or what. His face was impassive though. Crossing over to a cabinet and extracting from it a first aid box. It was just her, the way it was always just her, drawing lines that didn’t exist and protecting herself from all the wrong things.
I’m seriously concussed, she thought and it was such a stupid, prosaic thought that it made her laugh, jittery and ugly.

Oliver just looked at her, that one eyebrow quirked up.

Monique shook her head and resisted the impulse to smooth her thumb over that arched line. She knew—remembered—how it would make Oliver’s eyes drop instantly shut, his expression going blank and almost ecstatic. He liked having his scalp rubbed too, Monique’s strong fingers massaging knotted of tension and soft, warm skin… Monique looked away, the skin of her neck warm enough it felt like it might spontaneously combust. “This place is huge,” she mumbled and flopped down on the couch.

“Really?” Oliver asked, sarcasm barbing the words. “And here I thought it looked kind of tiny.” He looked around and thunder rolled, the rain that’d been promised by the overcast sky all morning finally sweeping in. “Are you ready? We should get that head looked at.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Monique slumped lower on the cushion and industriously toed her sneakers off.

“Lean up,” Oliver said opening the kit, sliding half behind Monique with one hip on the couch’s arm. He tilted the gooseneck lamp to give himself better light and then threaded the needle. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Monique was breathing’s a little fast, but it wasn’t pain. “Go ahead.”

Oliver had always had a gentle touch; other than the first startling-cold prick of the needle, it didn’t hurt at all. Halfway through, Oliver tilted Monique’s head to a new angle and readjusted the lamp again. “You were drinking?” he asked and Monique wasn’t sure if it was the question or the carefully noncommittal tone that made her stiffen in resentment and sudden swirling anger.

“I don’t see how that is any of your business. I was in my suite, not bothering anyone. It’s not my fault you saw the need to keep tabs on me and-“

“It was just a question.” Oliver interrupted

“No, it was a thinly veiled accusation,” Monique answered. She started to turn around and Oliver’s hands clamp down on her skull, holding her still. “I don’t drink like that, Oliver. I’m not a drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Oliver sighed and the needle bit a little harder than before. Monique hissed through her teeth.

“You didn’t have to. You know, I didn’t fu*king ask you to come, Oliver. I could have done this myself just fine.”

Oliver didn’t say anything but his thumb swept gentle over the knob of bone behind Monique’s ear. Monique wasn’t in the least mollified.

“I had a sh*tty day, okay?” she snapped and it felt like she was whining but she was also really fu*king pissed that Oliver would accuse her of that, after everything… “A stupid fu*king horrendous day, and I just wanted to relax a little bit. Did you know we have a mutual friend in common?” she went off on a tangent. “Except I was tired and clumsy and I took a header into the fu*king toilet. I’m not a drunk, Oliver.”