Notes: I read The Body for the second time last week – the first time I read it was nearly ten years ago – and I can't believe how sassy the boys are! I actually felt pissed off at them during the Junkyard scene! Poor Chopper. And that book is severely lacking in Ace, thank the hollywood heavens for the movie, amirite?

Disclaimer: Cobras are Stephen King's, everyone else isn't.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor stopped me from going over the note another time, and I heard Ace ask me, "Everythin' all right?"

Hoping that the words – and the knowledge – that we were alone in the house together weren't printed across my face, I turned to see Ace sitting in the chair. He'd already put on the shirt I had left for him – a dull brown with the sleeves permanently rolled up – instead of swamping him like I had thought, it actually made him look broader. He was busying his hands with the towel, patting his hands dry, and watching me with interest.

"Yes," I nodded, desperate for the colour to return to my face and the goose-pimples on my arms to fade away. I took the few steps to the kitchen table, pulled out my own chair and set the first aid kit down. I stole a brief glance at Ace's hands and noticed how some of the skin looked like it had been dragged away – it reminded me of scraped knees and elbows.

I remembered mom in those situations with me and Davey, and how meticulously she'd washed away the dirt before covering us in bandages or band-aids. Opening the first aid kit, I pulled out a bag of q-tips and set them on the table, mirroring what mom had done when we were younger. Ace watched me as I wordlessly walked back over to the counter, filled a glass with warm water and quickly washed and dried my hands. Setting the glass down on the table, I slid my chair closer to Ace, and tried not to dwell too much about how our knees were nearly touching when I sat down.

Unlike the last time, when I was so overwhelmed by the excitement of the boxing match and Ace's confrontation with Butch, the thought of touching Ace's hands made my heart thump and my mouth dry. I held out an open palm on my lap, keeping my gaze on the table. Ace eyed the q-tips with an obvious curiosity when I dipped one in the warm water, and settled his hand into my own. I slowly rolled the cotton bud over his knuckles, lifting away the more stubborn pieces of grit that had settled into his skin and tried not to think about how warm they were, how hard they were - the roughness of his skin. I imagined how it would look to someone who happened to see us like this - keeping my mind away from reality - and thought it would be easy for someone to believe that I was actually giving Ace Merrill a manicure. Safe, silly thoughts.

Ace, in typical fashion, didn't seem the least bit bothered by my administrations. He was relaxed back into the chair, his legs stretched out, drinking in my attention like a house cat. The more I manoeuvred his hands, angling them in the light, lifting them up for closer inspection, the more I noticed the shape of his fingers, the light hair covering his arms, the muscles underneath his skin. How hadn't I noticed all of it before? I didn't like how I could sow up one guy's upper thigh without feeling anything, but just looking at Ace Merrill's hands made my insides bubble. What made matters worse was the shirt Ace was wearing, even in the distance between us I could smell earth – the calming, nurturing smell I'd always associated with dad. It added an extra disturbance to the situation – for such a comforting scent to come from someone who had caused me no end of discomfort. Unable to continue distracting myself, I quickly moved onto disinfecting, quickly but lightly dabbing the soaked cloth over the ridges of Ace's knuckles.

"You're pretty good at this."

I briefly glanced up – the expression on Ace's face was unreadable – and I wondered if he'd forgotten that I'd told him that I'd practically been mom's apprentice nurse since my early teens.

Nodding, I thanked him and was about to tell him my plans to go to medical school after senior year when he said: "Couldn't wait to get your hands on me again."

Keeping my head down and my thoughts to myself, I wished – for my own personal reasons – that he'd at least show a little sign that the alcohol was stinging him. I didn't need to look to know he'd be grinning at his own joke, the smugness was radiating off him. Disinfecting complete, I pressed down a few more times – a little harder than necessary – before placing the cloth aside and removing the gauze and bandages from the first aid kit.

It was when I'd secured the thin strip of gauze on the first hand, and was beginning to wrap the bandages around his knuckles that I noticed Ace shift slightly in the chair. I stole a look from beneath my lashes and saw that he was cocking his head towards the fridge. "We're alone in the house, aren't we?" he asked calmly.

Purposely, I didn't answer – and because I was surprised that it had taken him so long to realize and declare the situation. With one hand finished, I turned my attention to the other, making no attempt to hide the fact that I was ignoring him.

Moments passed. I felt him staring at me, enjoying how at a loss I was, how eagerly I was trying to finish bandaging his hand. His tone was teasing when he spoke, "Did you plan this?"

My hands came to a stop and I deliberately looked up, furrowing my brow. I pulled on the ends of the bandage – tightly - for emphasis and felt somewhat pleased when his grin faltered a bit. "All done," I said with a thin smile, quickly getting up from the chair before he could find a way to retaliate.

Cleaning up the used cloth and gauze scraps from the table, I threw them in the trash before putting everything back in it's rightful place in the first aid kit. My hand knocked against a small bottle whilst I was placing the bandages back, causing a rattling sound. I eyed the bottle and spotted the word Vicodin on the prescription label. I asked Ace, "Are you going straight back to the Junkyard?"

Ace, who had been examining my handiwork whilst I busied myself around and away from him, pushed himself up from the chair. "Yeah."

"Here." I picked up the bottle and handed it out to him, "For Charlie." Seeing Ace scrutinizing the label I added, "My dad sprained his ankle last year, they're what's left."

Turning the half-empty bottle over in his hand, Ace nodded approvingly. "Strong stuff."

"He'll need them when he wakes up," I responded, watching Ace tuck the pills into his pocket, being careful not to disturb his fresh bandages. Placing the first aid kit back on top of the refrigerator, I decided against asking Ace for dad's shirt back. I'd ask him at a later date – when we weren't alone in the house together – and for the other one I was sure he hadn't returned yet.

It took no prompting on my behalf to get Ace to leave, he made a comment about how he 'couldn't leave those idiots alone for too long' and we walked into the hallway in silence. At the doorway, I felt at a loss, murmuring a response when he said, "See you around."

Was that it? I was stupefied that he wasn't trying to prolong his stay – especially when he knew we were the only ones home, especially after his teasing. Watching him walk onto the porch, I wondered if it was because I'd brushed it all off, that maybe – somehow – that's what he'd finally needed to take the hint, despite all my previous efforts. I looked at his back, at his feet that were about to take the first step off the porch and felt overwhelmed. Something forced me to take a step into the doorway, and the words tumbled from my mouth. "Wait! Is that it?"

There was a pause before Ace turned around to look at me, his expression blank. "Was there something else?"

What had I expected? "No," I answered quickly, suddenly embarrassed. I dug my fingers into the door-frame, wishing the house would swallow me. Why had I said anything? I looked at my feet, willing them to run back inside. "I mean-"

Ace's voice was low, "Do you want me to come back inside, Jude?" If that wasn't enough for me to jerk my head back up, the thud of one of his mechanic's boots moving towards me was.

His smile was gentle – as if he had proposed something as innocent as helping me carrying groceries – but his eyes told a different tale.

It was like I had been struck by an onslaught of hail in the hottest of summers. My body didn't know how to react - what to do with itself. "I-"

"Do you," He cocked his head to the side, keeping his voice in that low relaxed tone. "Want me to come inside?" His grin finally matched the look in his eyes. I watched his pupils dilate and thought I was a goner.

The dam that tried to keep the memories of our few kisses at bay was swept aside, destroyed by Ace's probing. That warm feeling of melting returned as I remembered the carnival lights and the front seat of his car. Not even my very first kiss had had that much impact. How easy it had become for him to sway me, to make me question myself – maybe it was just simple curiosity, maybe that's how he ensnared girls. I began shaking my head, trying to order my thoughts. "No. I-"

BAM.

My voice died in my throat. Ace had slammed his open palm against the wall. I winced slightly, his hand only a foot away from where I was stood in the doorway, directly level with my head.

There was a fire in his eyes. "Stop thinkin' of some shit to avoid the subject, smartass." His free hand found it's way to my neck. The softness of the bandages only made his hand seem that much more warmer, stronger, as his thumb massaged my jawline.

"I just-" Whether from being overwhelmed or out of anxiety, I felt like I was going to burst into tears, my voice wavering. "I don't-"

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

I was trapped. Even when I felt his hand trail to the back of my neck and pull me in closer, I couldn't look away from his eyes.

The gap was closed and Ace rested his forehead on my own as his fingers ghosted over the nape of my neck, brushing the short hairs. "The neighbours will see, Jude." His voice was soft, barely a whisper. "Neighbours talk." It was either a test or a warning, a 'this is your last chance to get out safely.'

The reality that his body had covered mine, suggestively blocking it from view to any of our more curious neighbours hadn't escaped my notice. Alarmingly, it hadn't bothered me. I took a deep breath, considering, when something inside me snapped. Soil and grass. I could smell dad. I pulled away, my eyes fixated on the shirt I had seen dad wear so many times in the garden. It was all wrong. "You should go."

My voice had lacked any real resolve, I hadn't tried to hide how it shook, but Ace didn't question it. He looked at me, nonchalant, "If that's what you want."

Finally taking my eyes away from the shirt, I looking down. Solemnly, I said, "It is."

As soon as the door was closed between us – I couldn't bring myself to watch him walk away - and I heard the Ford's engine disappear down the street, I slumped against the wall. I let my legs give out until I slid to the floor, wanting to feel numb, wanting to cry, wanting all things I shouldn't want.

I told myself I should hate him. I pictured Barbs, miserable with mascara dripping down her cheeks, confiding her pain in me. I tried to remember all the girls - all the ones I had seen with my own eyes, all the ones I had heard spoken about in hushed tones, all the ones I knew nothing about except that they had made a single mistake with Ace Merrill. I went over their names, their faces, and how the life had been sucked out of them – friendless, avoided in the school halls and cafeteria, the last picked for teams, their birthday party invitations thrown in the trash. I thought of the countless other girls I couldn't know about, girls from out of town, girls he'd never taken to school, girls he'd had drunken encounters with and couldn't remember them the next day. It circled my mind like a chant, over and over again.

It did nothing.

It didn't scare or discourage me, and I hated myself because it should. Where had my contempt for him gone? Brushed away by a few smooth lines and brief kisses? All the times I'd hoped that that time would be the last I'd have to spend with him, only to be left pining for something I didn't fully comprehend. And the panic I had felt that morning, seeing him bruised and bloodstained – how the tears had stung the corners of my eyes when I thought he could be hurt – when such a sight a mere month ago would have prompted no feelings whatsoever. I covered my face with my hands and took deep breaths, beginning to tell myself to forget about it, only to remember that I had been assigned as Charlie Hogan's nurse for the next couple of weeks.

Faced with the impossibility of avoiding Ace Merrill, I finally admitted it to myself: I don't want to avoid him.

This chapter was brought to you by JUDE FINALLY GETS IT.