Chapter Nineteen
Marianne watched numbly from her place in chairs, a heavy blanket draped across her shoulders. It had absorbed the water from not only her skin, but it taken the water from her clothes to, and now did little to warm her body as she sat in the dark lobby as she took in the scene across the way, towards the hallway, where Dr. Bartlett was showing an ultrasound tape and an MRI reading to a staff which had gathered quickly at his calls.
Owen came barrelling through the door thirty minutes after he'd left with the truck the boys, thoroughly soaked and chilled. He looked exhausted, and terrified, but the way he approached her when he'd seen her would say otherwise. He had a commanding aura about him as he filled the chair area with his presence, taking in her form, which had to have been pathetic. She'd been crying ever since she'd been separated from Delta and receiving the news that she'd perforated her stomach.
Marianne was bent at the waist, hands clasped between her knees, blanket heavy on her shoulders. She watched the floor numbly now, feeling Owen staring at her and causing her stomach and her feminine instincts whirl around her head. He crouched on his legs and she looked up at him slightly. He gave her a lopsided smile, all confidence, and she found him honourable for putting a brave front on for her when his eyes betrayed his aura. She knew he was terrified for Delta.
"You ok?" He asked softly. She nodded, even though it was partially a lie. She hated this feeling of not knowing – she felt partially responsible. She'd been down in the muck on her knees, looking for something to do, praying for some answer. She hadn't even thought to call the vet, all she'd thought about was Owen and his being there at the paddock. There, Delta had been dying, and she was so unnerved she could've killed the animal.
He smelled of rain, dirt, and jungle and she inhaled it deeply. Closing her eyes, it settled her nerves in her body. She exhaled slowly, standing from her chair, the blanket dropping off her shoulders and into her chair. She retrieved it and slung it around Owen's shoulders to take the chill off. "You look cold," she croaked, her voice hoarse. She rubbed her eyes and then rubbed her arms.
"I'm ok," he shrugged, pulling the blanket tighter around his arms. He scanned over her with his eyes, and Marianne looked past him towards the group of doctor's which were now dispersing. Her body tensed and her stomach flopped over as Dr. Bartlett approached, gowned in a operating uniform, mask hanging around his neck.
"Dr. Bartlett," Owen extended his hand for the man to shake, the other holding the blanket in place. Marianne joined them and wrapped her arms around her chest, watching and waiting. It felt as if her entire body had been thrown onto a bed of needles, pricking at her nerves and unsettling her composure. She sniffled, swiped at her eyes, and Dr. Bartlett shook Owen's hand. "Good to see you again."
"Owen. Good to see you as well, despite the circumstances." He gave Marianne a sympathetic smile, and reached out to rub her shoulder, "You did the right thing, you two. If you'd have waited, she'd have bled out and, well," he rubbed the back of his neck, "That wouldn't have been good." He sighed and puffed out a breath, "We're headed into surgery. It will take a few hours, as the perforation is extent." He shrugged a shoulder, "But, Delta is a healthy animal, despite her pre-existing conditions, and she should do wonderfully. I'm not concerned," he clapped his hands together, "I suggest you two get something to eat and change out of those wet clothes."
Marianne's brow dropped into a wrinkle, stepping toward him, shaking her head. Confusion befuddled her mind. He didn't sound concerned – at all. That terrified her to the point where she thought she'd be sick. "Wait. I thought a perforation was a big deal. You don't sound the least bit concerned." Her worries formulated into a verbal statement.
He shook his head, "Not at all. Miss Randal, perforations have become quite common among these animals, a frequent occurrence. We get them all the time," he shrugged a shoulder and waved them to the front desk, where he began writing on a pen and paper from his gown pockets, "I believe it has something to do with the lysine we put into their food and water supply, but that's Wu's department, not mine. I just fix them up, document the cases, and present them at the awareness meetings," he tore off the paper and handed it to Owen, who glanced at it.
Marianne wasn't convinced. "But, I –"
He stopped her with a chuckle, "Everything will be fine, Miss Randal. Delta is a strong girl. She will be fine." He clapped her shoulder, rubbed it briefly, and then looked to Owen, "Neela still has your number so she'll call you when we're finished. In the meantime, get some dry clothes on and get something to eat. Being here won't make surgery go any faster." He smiled at them, and turned, heading towards the entrance to the hallways.
Marianne heard him call for a size eight gloves, before his footfalls were silenced – most likely fading into an operating room. Stress pulled at her body in every direction, and she rolled her eyes, exasperated. Her heart ached, knowing Delta was in pain and alone in there, having to undergo a surgery. Dr. Bartlett had mentioned earlier she'd be laid up for at least a week, if not longer, and have more medication to go on. The thoughts aggravated Marianne to the point where she wanted to slam her fist into the wall. She sighed, rubbed her forehead and leaned against the admin desk of the vet building.
Owen, sensing her unease, shrugged, "Well," he sighed, "all we can do is wait."
Marianne nodded and sighed again. She rubbed her eyes, a chill dashing across her skin and riddling her muscles. Her stomach grumbled uncharacteristically, and she let her arms fall to her chest again, where she crossed them. She looked at him, "I guess so. That's the hard part."
He chuckled, "Yeah. Well, you heard the man – let's go get something to eat, huh? I'm starving." He shrugged off the blanket and tossed it behind the desk, turning for the door. Her resolved snapped at that moment and she stomped after him, grabbing his arm and bringing him around. Surprised, he faced her, one hand on the door. Thunder cracked outside, lightning illuminating the building through the rain-streaked window.
"You're serious? How can you eat at a time like this?" Her voice was filled with disbelief as she imagined her face was too. She was frowning and he chuckled at her, shrugging a shoulder and jerking his thumb towards the truck he'd parked at the stairs. The rain had lightened, but the wind was still evident, whipping fronds and debri from the jungle around the resort square. It was overcast and dark in the sky.
"'Cause I'm hungry," he said, grabbing her wrist. "Come on. We'll quick eat something and come back. Delta is gunna be fine – Peter's the best doc on the island, Annie. He's been with Delta since day one." He grinned at her, "Besides. I know you're hungry too." Without further word, he pulled her out the door and they hurried down the steps. They arrived at the truck, hopping inside.
Owen started it quickly, turned the wheel ferociously, and threw the truck into drive. Marianne rested against the passenger door, her back to it, resting her head against the cool glass. She breathed steadily, watching him head out of the resort. She was about to protest, but then remembered they were going to change clothes first. Inhaling deeply, she exhaled slowly and let her muscles relax. Closing her eyes.
She only opened them to find the truck still, unmoving. It was quiet, and she looked to the keys through blurry eyes, to find the vehicle was off. It was warm, the windows fogged over, and it had stopped raining, and when she smeared the front windshield in front of her, she found it was misting outside. Popping open the door, she slipped down out of the truck and took in her surroundings.
They'd parked at a bungalow, and she crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed them, the mist refreshing her skin despite the torrential downpours of the day. The fronts danced slightly as they received rain dripping from other plants above them, and she took in the scene. The bungalow, on a property with a lake and beautiful backdrop of jungle forestry in the distance, was homey and complete with an outbuilding, closed to public eye. She moved around tools, and parts, and abandoned motorcycle frames and engines and other miscellaneous objects littered around the front. The light was on in the kitchen of the bungalow.
She moved to the grass, planting her feet firmly there and breathing in the fresh air. Thunder rumbled somewhere overhead, but it was peaceful as the mist tickled her skin. She scanned the backdrop of the lake and realized how beautiful it was. It was quiet, save for the chirping of birds and the distant call of jungle life, but it soothed her.
She didn't hear the door open behind her, "Nice, ain't it?" The voice came from behind, startling her. She jolted, whirling around and placing a hand on her chest to catch her breath. She found Owen, padding towards the railing of the bungalow's deck, a mug of coffee at hand.
Dressed in a green button down and brown cargo pants, he was clean and showered, looking dashing and insanely comfortable. She regretted her appearance, that of a drowned rat and a sleep deprived monster, and she tapped her boots together to dispel whatever mud and rainwater was left – they felt heavy on her feet. She answered his question, "Yeah, it is. I'm jealous."
"No view at your place?"
She snorted, "Unless you call dense jungle foliage much of a view, not really." They both chuckled together, and a chill overtook her body as a breeze came floating in to disturb them. He sipped his coffee, the steam circling around his face. He gestured to her and then pulled his thumb towards the bungalow.
"I made some coffee. Come on inside and I'll see if I can get you a dry shirt and some socks," He gestured to the house with his head and turned away from the railing. He moved inside, the screen door slapping back into place uncharacteristically. Marianne turned and took in the view again, before heavily climbing the deck steps and opening the door.
She stepped inside and removed her boots. Raising, she looked around – a typical bachelor pad. Decorated in hunting paraphernalia and Navy memorabilia, it was decently organized and somewhat clean. He had pictures on the wall and curtains at least, a full sized couch and recliner in the corner with a flat-screen TV. It was much different than her bungalow – more personalized and lived in, she assumed, and not so modern and sparse.
There was a beaten up guitar in the corner, magazines on the coffee table beside an abandoned glass and plate with a fork, and there was a basket of laundry on the recliner. A gun cleaning kit was on the end-table next to the couch, and a bookcase in need of cleaning possessed a few pieces of literature and mostly textbooks. Binoculars and a journal with a pen were sitting on the third shelf. She peered into the hallway, which was dark.
"You take anything in your coffee?" He called into the living room. She turned on heel and padded into the kitchen, stopping to take in the scene. He kicked the fridge door closed slightly, and moved to the island, a bottle of creamer at hand. Past him was a counter, clean; the sink filled on partially with dirty dishes. The stove was clean and had a pot and skillet on top, beside it a shelf with cookbooks. Hanging above the island was a rack of other cookware. The table was kept decently, only slightly full with mail and other pieces of paperwork.
"No," she shook her head. He nodded, setting the bottle on the counter after having poured it into his cup. He turned to put it back in the fridge and she stood awkwardly on the other side of the island.
"I wouldn't have guessed you were a black kinda girl," He chuckled, turning back to her. He lifted the mug and handed it to her, Marianne taking it and wrapping her fingers around it. She was still filthy, but she was grateful for coffee, and she shrugged a shoulder.
"And I wouldn't have pegged you as a creamer type of guy," she quelled. He nodded in agreement and took a drink, eyes latched onto her. She lifted the coffee to her lips and breathed in the steam, letting it soothe her worries and melt the iciness of her aching muscles. It warmed her skin, and she took a long drink. It burned a trail down her throat and settled in her belly, feeling good and warm.
They sat in awkward silence, staring at one another. Marianne took in his presence. Let her eyes wander over him, memorizing every detail like she always did every day, her chest burning. He had to have been the most beautiful man she'd ever seen, with the prettiest eyes. Marianne let her gaze drop when she thought about what had happened at the bottom of the hill.
She didn't blame him for what happened. She was a plain girl, a bit heavy, and that really never went over swell with men. Nick hadn't really cared when she was in college, but then again Nick was a laid-back kind of guy that was interested in money and whatever a woman would give him. Marianne had never been the prettiest bulb on the tree, and she was okay with that, for the most part. She'd grown up a tom – boy, strong and smart and quick to talk and even quicker to work. She knew that didn't go over good for guys like Owen, as he was good looking he knew it. He captured the attention of every girl he came in contact with, she was sure. Her father had always told her she'd end up with a hard working man, a man that would respect her ability to work and work hard, and who wouldn't care about what she looked like, but that would be more interested in her abilities.
Her mother, on the other hand, had promised her the heart knew the heart, and that it wanted what it wanted. She'd always said men never really had a choice when it came to women, because love struck like a plague: it was unprejudiced and no respecter of persons. She'd compared it to a supernova: sudden, explosive, and so powerful it shook the bonds of time and was earth-shattering. She'd said it was a beautiful, strong thing that was unbreakable no matter how hard men and women tried. That it didn't matter what you looked like or who you were, it just happened with the right person that a woman would know as soon as she laid eyes on a man that he was the one. That it would be unshakable, this person, and that no matter what you did you'd never fully be rid of them.
Heat flared through her chest, and blood pumped hot through her ears and blossomed onto her nose. He smiled at her. It was like delicious poison that was slowly paralyzing her from her feet up, seizing her heart in a slow death grip that she didn't want to let go. There, in her place on the stool in his kitchen, Marianne knew she wanted this man. She knew he was going to kiss her at the bottom of the hill regardless of what she looked like, regardless of the fact that he knew she was argumentative and quick to challenge him and was his complete and utter opposite.
The thought scared the living daylights out of her. They were so different. He was cocky immature, always shooting for the moon. A man that was bent on action and refused to take no for an answer, that would jump hurdles prematurely and be quick about it. She was outgoing and a spit-fire, always butting heads, opinionated and stubborn, always challenging his train of thought and reading his mind, which she knew frustrated him beyond belief. They both were passionate, both quick to teach, both far too clever and quick to jibe.
It was terrifying – but it excited her. From her place she studied his body, taking in the fine details. Marianne knew in that moment she wanted him. Wanted him to brush aside her curls, wanted him to give in to her. Her lips began to tingle at the thought of their would-be kiss, her body began to flare with heat. Her inner core began to quiver as she remembered his hands on her face, pulling her close, wanting her – she died for them to find her again, to move along her body slowly, to fill the gaps programmed into every woman for a man. Marianne had never seen a man naked, much less slept with one, but she craved feeling his firm build under her hands, running along every fine detail. She wanted to feel her fingertips on his skin, all the imperfections falling into perfection along her hands, adventurous and willing. She wanted to taste him, to know him, to please him. She wanted what every other woman in the world craved, and she wanted it badly. She wanted him to desire her, to love her, to kiss her in every way imaginable. It was making her dizzy. As much as she didn't want to care that he'd turned away she did, but it was overcome with so much more than that.
She wanted to prove him wrong, to show him that she was more woman than he'd ever dreamt of. To show him she wasn't all arguments wasn't all stubbornness and thick-headedness. That she was a woman who craved him, who couldn't live one more minute without his hands on her emotions. She wanted to show him that he liked her challenge, her spunk, and her ability to think on his level and be his equal. She wanted to show him that everything he knew about her was not only wrong, but that is deliciously wrong, and that he liked it, that they were entirely opposite but it was so perfect.
Her heart quavered in her chest, heat flushing her body of all colour. Her core rumbled around her, pushing her to do something, anything to signal him. But, her pride kept her anchored and as reserved as a wallflower. She wouldn't beg for this. If he was going to kiss her and want her, than he was going to do it, and do it willingly. Marianne took another drink of coffee, letting the strong smell swirl around her senses – but all she ended up smelling was cologne, jungle, and bike exhaust wafting throughout his house. It sent her dizzying in her stool, and she had to slap a hand on the counter to snap her out of it.
He set his mug on the counter, and rounded around the island. He rubbed at the back of his neck and gestured for the hallway. He seemed nervous, his eyes flighty. Maybe he'd sensed her, what she was thinking, maybe he'd read into something in her eyes. She studied his face, realizing it was a bit red, "You want to take a shower, because you're welcome to it if you want –" Without thinking, she put her mug on the counter with a quick thunk. He froze when she grabbed his wrist roughly.
He looked at her hand wrapped around his wrist, her eyes to the floor, adrenaline lacing through her body. She was all instinct now, all territory she'd never ventured to within herself before. It was terrifying but it felt so fantastic she couldn't imagine ever going back to the same Marianne again, couldn't think past this moment and what she wanted. She lifted her head to find him staring at her, his eyes now furiously searching her own, and he moved towards her.
The silence was bliss, but it was so tense she could've cut the air with a piece of paper. He moved closer and her inside began to crumble, her stomach dropping into her feet and her heart melting into her ribcage. Her brain was so befuddled she couldn't have argued if the sky was blue or pink polka dotted. Her mouthed parched and he moved a hand to rest yet again along her jaw line, the energy soaring throughout her body. Heat exploded into her belly and she felt it cascade down her nerves and muscles. She looked up at him, his face soft but with confusion etched onto his brow.
"Marianne Randal, what are you doing to me?" He breathed, his voice floating down around her like pixie dust, sending her in a million different places. It was sweet like honey, but heavy like darkness, and she craved his next words, pleading with him in her brain to keep going. He was going to say it and she knew it. She couldn't wait for it anymore, couldn't imagine her life without it anymore. For four weeks she'd been dreaming of him, been fantasizing what this moment would feel like, been hoping and praying he'd come to see her as a woman – a perfect woman. "I…I haven't been able to get you out of my head since you got here."
She could hardly form words, but somehow managed to push out a squeak in a response as her throat constricted. Terror began to pool in her stomach, but it was instantly replaced a microsecond later as satisfaction and pleasure began running a race through her veins. Questions popped into her mind like popcorn: he'd been thinking about here? All this time? And he hadn't said anything? So she'd been right about the hill – he was going to kiss her on his own accord! It excited her, and she no longer cared about anything else, just this moment. "You have?" she whispered. She felt cemented to the stool.
He took the hand she still possessed and interlaced their fingers, running his thumb across her cheek, which she knew was still dirty with mud. He scanned her eyes, took in her face and her body, moving aside her damp curls. He gave her a sultry half smile that sent her stomach roaring in a herd of fluttering butterflies which churned her blood. "Yeah, Marianne; I have."
She smiled, giggling in her place, joy exploding in her soul. She felt warm, all over, and she couldn't have been sad if she had tried. She scanned his eyes – such beautiful, honourable eyes – and found him somewhere inside, creeping through the doors of his heart, ready to come out of the dark places and say it. He didn't care – there, in his eyes, she knew he didn't truly care about what she looked like. She felt safe, though exposed, in his shadow. " I –"
"Not now," he shook his head, releasing her hand to put a finger to her lips. When she didn't protest, he smiled and chuckled, then let his hand fall into place along her face, now cupped his hands graciously. She lifted her hands and ran them over his arms, feeling all the intricate details, connecting their skin. Her eyes fluttered closed as he moved towards her, lowering his head. Her head automatically tipped to the side, all instinct, and her fingers gently dug into his firm arms, signalling him that he had better not let go of her.
And then in a whirl, he pressed his lips against her own, soft at first as if to bait her in. Her stomach did a whirl, like a dancer leaping across the stage; her heart, a swish, as if it were gliding across her chest. It sent her to her feet, now to stand from her stool, and as her head spun, the world around her began to fade into a dizzying array. She knew she was baited into this trap and had fallen for it, now a vicious cycle of passion and pleasure that neither one of them could've stopped.
Marianne had forgotten it had started so tenderly, because now it was voracious, as if thye were starving, unable to get enough. His insistent mouth was parting hers roughly, demanding, as his right hand moved from her face and to her shoulder, down her back and back up, where he used the left to drape her head back onto his arm. Flustered but no inexperienced, Marianne's hands left his arms, one arm snaking delicately around his neck, the other grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him into her. He put a strong step forward, preparing to brace over her – but she collapsed back onto the stool, pulling him down with her. And as much as she wanted to admit that he was kissing her, she knew she was kissing him back just as savagely.
He spun her around on the stool, just so her back would lean against the island, forcing her against it. Her chest was alive and pumping hard, her lungs gasping for breath which she denied them. His moustache tickeled her top lip delightfully, his lips tasting like rain and cologne, but soft like roses. It was like a battle, every hard kiss she gave him, he turned, unbreaking it. Realizing neither of them would give in, she broke off and gasped for air, letting her head fall back. He was staring at her, positioned over her neck as if he were going to bite her, his eyes wickedly blazing in a queer look that sent her knees rocking. The tremble in his arms around her body was inviting and evident, but terrified her, and they both panted for air, not saying a word.
A second later he kissed her again, this time moving his hands down her sides and along her hips, underneath her thighs. She kissed his forcefully, over and over, until in a burst of strength and speed he lifted her onto the island, her bending to meet him, hands on his jawline, her fingertips brushing against his unshaven face. Her hair had long since fallen out, bouncing around them in a wild dance of curl, and he took a strong arm and abruptly swept whatever was on the island off – resulting in everything crashing to the floor around them. They both ignored it, and he forced her onto the island, her complying. Before she could smack her head, he put a hand behind her head and helped her down carefully, breaking their kiss.
"You don't think – this – er –" he crawled onto the island over her, bracing himself above her, scanning her eyes wildly, queerly. She was breathing so hard she thought she'd suck the room in around her, but she didn't care. She shook her head from side to side as he positioned himself above her, her grabbing his collar again and cupping her hand along his jaw, almost pleading with him to come down again. "Marianne – "
She forced herself up into almost a sit up to silence him with her mouth, pushing back only to prop herself up on her elbows, "Would you just shut up?" She rumbled, bringing him down again. They kissed again, more savagely than before, possessing each other as if they were invading armies. He began untucking his shirt, and she instantly pulled back, shaking her head, "I'm not sleeping with you, Owen. Just so you know that. I'm not that kind of girl."
He scanned her eyes and nodded like a child having something explained to them would, and he gave her a half smile. "I'm not that kind of guy," he teased her. She furrowed her brow but couldn't maintain it, giggling instead and allowing him to continue running his fingers through her hair. He chuckled, "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," she shook her head, wrapping an arm around his neck. With the other hand she ran her fingers through his hair and he lowered to touch their foreheads together, "I was just wondering if that's the best you can do."
His brows rose and he pulled back, a look of mock surprise on his face. At this she giggled again and blushed. In an instant, he seized her shoulders and straddled her body, fully untucking his shirt and madly messing his hair. She full out laughed at him, pinned against the counter, and grabbed his hands, interlacing their fingers. "You haven't seen anything yet, Randal. I'm barely getting started."
"And who said I was?"
He huffed and rolled his eyes, ducking to kiss her again, lifting her partially off the island, where she wrapped her arms around his neck. He again draped her neck on his arm, his other hand running along her hips and lower back, pressing her into him, where her body molded into his perfectly. Her heart began to jog again, belly pooling with warmth, and he parted their kiss, breathing, "Do you always have to be so argumentative?"
"Only if I don't get my way," she huffed back, pushing her lips back onto his. He kissed her madly, harder with each breath, respectively holding and making her thoughts melt into jelly. She became lost in their scuffle, a modest romp that didn't result in anything other than hard kisses, nothing ever leaving the lips, nothing ever venturing farther than she was willing to go.
And it was glorious.