Part 38
She had beautiful lines and curves. He wanted to run his hands along them, just for the joy of feeling them.
But he wasn't stupid.
He wasn't about to do it with the 200-pound, tattooed, and leather-clad owner of the black and chrome Softail Fat Boy standing not ten feet away. No, he was just drooling from a foot away, wondering—
"See something you like?"
He smiled at the question from his lover. After eating, she'd gone to the ladies' room and he'd ventured out for a closer look at the Harley that'd pulled up while they'd dined. They had a couple hours before they caught the train again, back to the lodge.
"Would you ride it?" he asked.
"I ride that missile of yours and this looks like it'd be more comfortable."
"It would be," he said, explaining, "It's a cruiser."
Her hand slipped into the bend of his elbow. The leather creaked with the gentle pressure of her grip.
"Have you ever owned one?"
He again admired the sweet slope of the rear fender and the little flare on the edge.
"Nope. Never my style." And it hadn't been. He'd aways liked the naked power and speed of a sportbike.
"Is it now?"
Her tone was serious, prompting him to look over at her. Her attention was on the bike, her gaze gliding along the same lines he'd been admiring. It pleased him that she was interested. If she hadn't been in such a distracted state that day he first took her for a ride, he doubted he could have talked her into getting on his Repsol. But she had and he hadn't had to talk her into it since. She seemed to enjoy it when they went for a ride.
"Maybe," he said then looked back at the cruiser and considered that the biggest factor in getting one had nothing to do with taste.
He sized it up, his mind calculating the approximate weight, added her weight and his own to the mix, then gauged what seat height would best allow him to balance the beast on his good leg and still be able to hold it up with his bad one in an emergency.
He didn't like the numbers on the latter and resented them, but his analytical mind began presenting solutions…
Physical therapy. A brace to—
"You're really thinking about it," she interrupted his thoughts.
"Yeah," he said, his eyes still on the bike.
"Think it comes in orange?"
That was a tease, prompting him to look at her. She raised an eyebrow at him, making him smile.
"No clue."
"Test drive?" she asked and was serious.
"Don't think Tiny over there would like that too much," he said and waited for the eye roll … and there it is.
He shot her a wicked grin when she scowled at him and tugged on his arm.
"Come on."
He went but only after taking one more look and making another mental observation: She'd look good on it.
Crossing the street, they stepped up onto the sidewalk that ran along a picturesque row of shops. It came close to belonging in a Norman Rockwell painting. He didn't find picturesque small-town American as charming as some people did — as Cuddy apparently did.
She was pausing here and there, peeking into the storefront windows. He humored her, even though he had no interest in most of the things. Some he found downright boring, like scented candles.
He did go into an antique shop with her, despite his having given her crap about antiquing earlier. She made him buy an old hat — a black porkpie. He thought the hat was a weird combo with his racing jacket but she said it looked good on him. He wondered if it was payback and set his mind to working on how he could get payback for the payback. He was different with her, but he wasn't going to stop doing outrageous things. She seemed to like them when they didn't involve the destruction of someone, including himself.
He let her lead the way but eased his arm around her when they passed a shop with children's and baby things on display. She didn't say anything, but leaned a little closer to him after that. That wound was going to take time to heal. His heart didn't hurt for most people, but it hurt for her.
Spying a spirits and tobacco shop, he suggested they stop in. He told her he wanted a good scotch to have for later, but she begged out and gestured down the way, toward other stores. Then she ushered him toward where he wanted to go.
"We'll catch up," she told him.
He wasn't sure what to make of the smile she gave him. It communicated something, but he couldn't identify it.
Puzzled, he watched her retreating form until she was several dozen feet away then went into the shop. He perused the shelves for a while before he finally made his selection. He considered picking up a box of cigars, too, but decided against it. He only smoked them during poker games, which he hadn't had in a while. But Wilson would ask soon and he'd get them then. Or make Wilson buy them.
That is a better scenario, he smiled to himself.
Then he frowned when the man behind the counter didn't put his purchase in the usual plain, brown paper bag, but a fancy bag emblazoned with a gilded logo and handles made from a blue, braided satin cord. It looked weird, even if the scotch wasn't the cheap stuff. He took the sack and headed out of the store, confused as hell as to why society felt the need to dress up everything when said dress was probably going to end up in the trash.
Glancing down the sidewalk, he looked for Cuddy. He didn't see her and she should have been at least headed back this way. Unless something really caught her eye.
He set out to find her but was nearly mowed down a teen-aged boy on a skateboard who came zooming out a narrow alleyway between the buildings. He dodged and his thigh rewarded him with a lancing pain that had him yelling at the kid.
"Cripple here!"
Others yelled after the boy, too, telling him to watch where he was going, but the kid didn't even look back.
"Delinquent," House muttered under his breath and shrugged off the assistance other pedestrians offered. "I'm fine," he said even though he winced with every step he took toward the nearest bench.
He sat, his mood turning foul as the pain took its time in ebbing. It wasn't severe — he actually hadn't had a bad bout in several weeks — but it was enough to have him wishing he'd hurled his cane at the kid.
Digging into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his Vicodin. He set his fancy-bagged booze just under the edge of the bench and took two of the pills — more than he needed — mentally cursing the kid and his leg as he did.
He glanced down the sidewalk, in the direction his companion disappeared as he put the prescription bottle away. Still no sign of her. Not worried, yet, he shifted and stretched his leg out across the length of the bench.
He people-watched while he waited, eventually locking eyes with a pre-schooler on an adjacent bench who began a face-making war. He ignored the kid at first but caved eventually and gave it his all. The kid cracked up and House internally declared him the loser by default.
"That was mature."
It was Cuddy. She was standing at the end of the bench. He'd missed her approach. She looked better, but there was still something not quite what it should be. She was smiling though.
"He started it," he said, pointing toward the kid.
She gave him a long-suffering look then frowned when she looked at his leg. For a moment, he was confused as to why.
I forgot. He never did that, not when he was still hurting — and he was.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Near collision with a Tony Hawk wannabe," he said.
"Who?"
"Skateboarder," he replied, snapping up his cane and swinging his leg off the bench. It hurt, but he ignored it best he could as he got to his feet.
As he did, she picked up the bag with his scotch. He noted that she didn't bat an eye at the fancy-schmancy packaging, which didn't really surprise him since she bought stuff that came in bags like that all the time. But she didn't have one now.
"Didn't find anything cool?"
Oh, her smile became wily and she stepped very close to him. Her hand found his and he looked down when she pressed something into his palm.
A key. A room key.
He looked past her and down the sidewalk. He hadn't seen a hotel.
"There's a B&B a few blocks away," she said softly. "I thought…"
Expectant. That's what he'd call the way she was looking at him. He closed his fingers around hers, trapping the key between their palms. Then he smiled.
"I like the way you think."