"It's okay to touch me. I want you to."
"I-I don't know how…"
The words were spoken so quietly, so innocently, that it knocked the breath right out of her lungs.
She'd first seen him at the garage where she got the Cherokee serviced. He was bent over under the hood of a Chevy pickup and had reached up to wipe sweat off his forehead, leaving a streak of black grease across his face.
She knew his name was Daryl. Not because he told her but because she'd seen the embroidered patch on his work shirt.
She thought he was handsome in that rugged, tousled kind of way that had always caught her eye. Dirty golden-brown hair, electric blue eyes, and broad shoulders. There was something so attractive about a man who wasn't afraid of getting dirty, who was capable with his hands.
Her husband was useless when it came to mechanical endeavors or repairs. He called a plumber every time the kitchen sink got stopped up.
Her first attempt at friendly conversation with the boy named Daryl had fallen flat. He was like a wild animal, feral and skittish. He'd scramble away or curl into himself to avoid physical contact with anyone and everyone. And he never smiled. Not even once.
She knew him immediately. She recognized the signs. She should, after all. She'd lived in the same sort of hell for the past five years and her heart ached for him. He had to be in his early twenties, somewhere between five and ten years her junior, and she wondered who'd done the damage.
Somewhere along the way, her feelings evolved from simple attraction to an almost painful, desperate longing. He reminded her so much of a scruffy, wet puppy in an alley. She just wanted to wrap him up in her arms and take him home.
So she'd taken the Cherokee back again and again to have the boy chase down phantom squealing noises under the hood and imaginary clanking sounds. If he was suspicious of her pathetic attempt at subterfuge, he never said. He just nodded stoically every time and popped the hood, ducking his head to avoid eye contact.
It took her four visits just to get him to talk to her, eight to get even the slightest hint of a smile out of him, and a year to get him to this point. She'd lured him in like a stray, with warm smiles and kind words, and now here he was.
Standing in her bedroom, looking as terrified as a wild animal in a cage.
She knew she should be ashamed, should feel guilty about being unfaithful to her husband despite the glaring evidence of his countless infidelities. But she couldn't bring herself to feel anything but that damn longing. Longing for affection, for a gentle touch with no fear of pain. She could see the same need in the boy's eyes even though he tried desperately to cover it with a tough, unapproachable exterior.
He didn't seem so tough now. His mouth was slack, his breathing shallow. His calloused hands were trembling, hovering just at her waist. She watched his Adam's apple bob, his throat tight, but his hands didn't move.
She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be wanted by a man, needed by a man. To be looked at with desire instead of disgust and rage. She needed to remember, even if it was just for a little while.
So she reached out and showed him, moving his hand up under her shirt and across her ribs to cup her breast, still firmly encased in white cotton.
He sucked in a sharp breath, fingers clenching automatically at the softness beneath them, and she couldn't help but smile.
His lips pressed together tight as his eyes sought out hers and then he looked away quickly, focusing on the movement of his fingers under her shirt.
Her nimble fingers released the buttons on his shirt and spread it open wide, as far off his broad shoulders as his bent arms would allow.
He froze, grimacing, and as her eyes moved across the span of his chest, she realized why.
He was covered in scars. Some of them were old, white and faded, while others were newer, still shiny pink.
He tried to pull away, ripping his hand out from beneath her shirt, but she gripped his elbows and held on tight.
"Wait! Wait, it's okay!" she said almost desperately, releasing his arms to yank her own shirt off over her head, "Look, see, it's okay."
He peered at her body through squinted eyes and she knew what he saw. Small breasts, jutting ribs and hipbones, and pale skin mottled with bruises like a banana peel.
His eyebrows rushed together, his forehead wrinkling as he reached out to brush his fingertips against a particularly vicious-looking deep purple discoloration above her ribs.
"See, it's okay," she whispered again, capturing his extended hand and drawing him closer.
He met her eyes, searching for something within them, and she pressed a kiss against his chapped lips. He didn't protest and she took the opportunity to push his shirt down off his shoulders. He let it flutter to the floor.
She pulled him close, lips moving down his jaw to press against his neck. Her tongue snaked out to trace across his salty skin and she felt him relax against her, burying his nose in her short hair. She could feel his breath, wet and hot against her scalp.
His hands spread out across the small of her back, holding her against him, but whether it was to comfort her or himself she didn't know. She found herself clinging to him, somehow steadied by his presence, as she kissed her way down his chest.
Her fingers moved across his soft belly, following along with the trail of downy golden-brown hair that led her to his waistband, and she reached for his belt.
He toed off his boots and she had just pushed his jeans down off his hips when they both heard the front door open.
Their heads shot up at the same time, wide eyes meeting.
"My husband," she gasped, and saw the blood drain from the boy's face.
He cursed, stooping over to pick up his discarded jeans and boots. She grabbed up his shirt and caught him by the arm, dragging him behind her into the bathroom. She could hear Ed calling out her name as she pressed the door closed as quietly as possible.
When she turned, she found Daryl staring at her with wide, terrified eyes and an armful of clothing.
She reached out for him and his arms fell open, the clothing slipping to the floor. They both winced as his boots hit the tile with a loud thump.
She pushed him into the tub, shoving firmly on his shoulders until he got the hint and sat down, too frightened to protest.
"Carol!"
She heard Ed getting closer and dropped down onto her ass right in front of Daryl, crossing her legs so her bony knees were jammed against the hard, cold porcelain.
"Carol!" Ed called out again, sounding like he was in the bedroom this time.
Her eyes fell on the closed door and, to her horror, she realized she hadn't locked it. He could throw it open at any moment and see her sitting in their bathtub, half-naked, with a strange man.
On instinct, she reached around behind her back and flipped on the faucet. Icy cold water flooded into the tub, pooling around her legs and ass, and she heard the boy gasp. She reached out to steady him, hands on his warm shoulders. His piercing eyes met hers and she tried to smile, tried to comfort him even though she felt nauseous.
"Carol? You in there?"
Ed was suddenly at the door, his angry voice reverberating off the thin wood. Daryl's shoulders stiffened under her fingers, his eyes squeezing shut.
She sucked in a deep breath, steeling herself to keep her voice from trembling, "I'm taking a bath, Ed!"
There was silence for a moment. The sound of the water pouring into the tub seemed deafening in the small, tiled room. She noticed that Daryl didn't dare breathe; he seemed to be frozen solid.
"At this time of day? What the hell did I tell you about the damn water bill?"
She winced, expecting him to throw the door open and slap her across the face. But he didn't.
"I-I'm sorry!" she called out automatically, fingers digging into the boy's shoulders as she searched desperately for a plausible scenario, "I got all sweaty carrying the groceries in earlier."
He scoffed at that and she knew he was thinking she was a weak, pathetic creature who never did anything right. She knew that was what he was thinking because he'd told her so often enough.
"Well, get your ass out here and fix me some dinner, woman!"
She shuddered as his volume inched up another notch. Her eyes were fixed on the shiny golden doorknob, still expecting it to turn at any moment.
"Okay! Just a minute, I need to shave my legs!"
He snarled in disgust and both she and Daryl jumped as he kicked the door, rattling it on its hinges.
"Fuck this! If you're just gonna lay on your ass in the tub all day I'm going out! I'll find my own damn dinner, you worthless bitch!"
She heard his footsteps stomping back through the bedroom and out into the hallway, heard him muttering curses under his breath, and knew there would be hell to pay when he got home. She could only thank her lucky stars that he wanted to make her wait, wanted her to anticipate her suffering.
When she heard the front door slam shut she pressed her forehead to Daryl's, feeling almost weak with relief. His skin was feverishly hot against hers. She slipped her hands up around his neck, running her fingers through his soft brown hair, now damp with sweat. With a start, she realized his whole body was trembling.
She leaned back to catch his eye and he looked away, teeth chewing at his bottom lip.
They both opened their mouth to speak at the same time before pausing and falling silent again.
Taking in his burning red cheeks and guilt-ridden expression, she finally whispered, "I'm sorry about that."
He nodded sharply and tried to stand, feet sliding on the slippery porcelain. Gazing up at his tight jaw and clenched fists, she knew the moment was gone but she didn't want to let it go that easily. Not yet.
"He-he's gone now...probably won't be back for a while," she offered light-heartedly, tilting her head back to stare up at him towering over her.
His eyes narrowed, his expression turning incredulous, "You serious, lady?"
She looked away, focusing instead on the narrow rivulets of water trickling down his pale legs.
He stepped out of the tub, scrounging around on the floor for his clothes as she shut the running water off.
"I-I can't do this," he said, his voice low and gruff, "I gotta go."
She'd expected him to say that really, but she couldn't help but sigh at hearing the words said out loud. The boy pulled his pants on over his wet legs and soaked boxers, then sat down on the side of the tub to pull on his boots. She leaned back and watched him; the muscles across his scarred back and shoulders rippling as he tugged at his laces.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes and just shook his head, reaching out for his shirt.
She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to shudder against the cold porcelain and cold water soaking through her pants.
She heard his knees crack as he stood up. Heard him clear his throat.
"Think it's safe to go out the front?"
She opened her eyes to find him standing over her, his gaze lingering on her bruised midsection.
"You should probably go out the back way. I-I can drive you back-"
He cut her off quickly, "Don't worry about it."
She nodded, heaving another sigh as her eyes fluttered closed again. She didn't know why she had ever thought this would work. She wasn't the kind of woman who could pull something like this off and now she felt awful for dragging another damaged person into her disturbing reality.
She heard the boy's heavy footsteps on the tile and said again, "I am sorry, you know."
She heard him pause and take a deep breath before he replied, "Me too."