Chapter 5
Don was not having a good game.
Not only had it been too long since he'd played, he kept thinking about Charlie.
How scared, and sad, he had sounded after that nightmare.
How the haunted look was back in his eyes, this morning.
He lined up a putt. He hoped Charlie was having a good time.
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Charlie perched on a barstool at the tasting counter, sipped the cabernet, closed his eyes. Maybe he should drink more. Right before bed.
"That's good, isn't it?"
He opened his eyes, found a redhead smiling at him. Green eyes, and that was a little disturbing…but they were so different from the green eyes he saw in his dreams every night. They were bright, twinkling, spilling light — anything but vacant. He smiled back. "Yes. What did the sommelier say? 'Fruity and Heady?'"
She giggled, and he actually felt his toes curl. What was that?
"I saw you on the ship, last night. Eating ice cream, by the pool."
He felt himself blushing. This was ridiculous. "Yes. I can't seem to stop eating."
He felt those green eyes travel down, back up. "I don't think you have to worry about that."
He took another sip of wine. Mostly, he wanted to lift the glass again to see if he was the same color as the liquid inside.
"My name is Amy."
He lowered the glass. "Charlie."
She smiled again, and everything about her face changed, the smile involved it all. "I took the cruise with a girlfriend," she said. "We live in L.A., just wanted to do something fun this weekend. It's been a long winter."
He nodded. "I live in Pasadena — teach in L.A. My brother suggested this trip. Long winter for us, too."
"You're a teacher? That's nice. My sister is a teacher."
"And you?"
"I work in a dayspa. I'm a stylist." She contemplated his head. "I'd love to get my hands on that hair."
He laughed. "If I were thinking about a haircut, I might take you up on that. But I like my hair the way it is. Sorry."
She shook her head. "Charlie, I never said I wanted to cut your hair. I just said I'd love to have my hands in it."
Charlie was suddenly very glad he was sitting down.
She laughed at his discomfort. "So was that your brother I saw talking to you by the pool last night?"
He tried to pull himself together, stop imagining her hands in his hair. "What? Oh, oh, Don. Right. My brother. He's golfing today."
"Is he a teacher, too?"
"He's a…he's in law enforcement." Why didn't he tell her Don was an agent with the FBI? Charlie squirmed a little. He knew why. What was sexier than an agent with the FBI? The redhead would dump him faster than he could calculate Pi.
She had asked him something else, and he had missed it. "I'm sorry. What?"
"I asked you what you teach. My sister teaches third grade."
"That must be a challenge. I teach mathematics. At a university."
Her eyes widened. "Wow. I bet you could balance my checkbook."
He smiled.
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Don was miserable.
He was hot, and sweaty. He had shot a 100 on a par 71 course. He had a headache.
Hopefully, a quick shower would solve everything but the golf score. He grabbed his key card out of his pocket and checked his watch. Dinner in two hours. If Charlie wasn't in the cabin, he'd just leave a note for him to meet up in the main dining room.
He paused, about to swipe the card.
Was Charlie kidding?
There was not a little red dot next to the key slide. He smiled. Funny, Charlie.
He started to swipe the card again, hesitated. What if he really did walk in on something? He shook his head. This was a joke, it had to be. He really, really wanted that shower. His hand hovered over the key slide.
He sighed in frustration as he turned away. He was going to kill Charlie for this.
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He slept the sleep of the exhausted.
He woke up because his leg tickled.
He couldn't quite get his mind to work, but he knew that couldn't be right.
In the beginning, it had burned. Then, a dull ache settled deep in his thigh that never seemed to go away, just got worse the longer the day went on. There had also been a drive-you-crazy, unscratchable itch, while the flesh was healing. But his leg had never tickled.
He tried to move, see if that would help.
"I'm sorry. I woke you up."
Charlie's eyes popped open, slammed shut again. Maybe she hadn't noticed.
Fingers were tracing the scar, now. Feather-light.
"What happened?"
He opened his eyes, again. She was looking at him, those brilliant green eyes clouded with sympathy. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a croak came out. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"I was shot."
She kept looking at him.
"Did…did you hear about the terrorist attack on the L.A. FBI office?"
She nodded.
"I was in there." He'd never actually said it before. During his one appointment with the shrink, he hadn't said anything. G-d. It sounded so much simpler than it felt.
Her eyes filled, and he felt a tear drop onto the scar. It spread through him, entered his blood stream and traveled all the way to his own eyes. He turned his head so she wouldn't see him cry.
Soft hair rested on his chest, and a hand cupped his face.
"It's all right," she whispered. "It's over, now. You're all right."
He couldn't stop crying. "But I'm not," he choked out. "It's made me…ugly."
"It's just a scar, Charlie, it's not important…"
He tried to move, again. He was crying harder. "Not…not that one. Th…Th…That one's nothing." He gripped her head, an ear still to his chest. "That's not the only scar I have."
She was petting his cheek, and he turned into it, made himself listen to her soft voice. "Scars only happen after you heal," she said. "If you're talking about the gaping hole in your heart…that's not a scar, yet."
He shouldn't have listened.
Roughly he sat up, forcing her to do the same. He gulped a few times while they stared at each other. "How did you see that?" he hissed.
She smiled sadly, caressed his face once more before she stood, wrapping the sheet around her and walking away, leaving him naked on the bed.