Morning again. Maybe even too early to be considered morning. No one was awake now. He didn't want to be. Sleep, though, had given him all it was going to give. He let the icy water of the shower chase off the after effects of his dreams before trying to coax some heat out of it. Even before the majority of the rest of the occupants of the place should have been awake, there wasn't much to be had.
Somewhere between showering and buttoning down his shirt, he'd made a decision. He was going back to 1903 North Van Buren Street. Not to finish the job he hadn't finished Wednesday. Maybe he wouldn't even bring the gun, or at least he would leave it in the car. It made things too tense, turned it into a fight right from the start, right?
Given what he had done in April, and in January, and eight years ago in England, worrying about that now seemed a little mental. But this was a woman that who had slept with and tried to form a relationship with the addict who had tried to force himself on her twice in the span of a month. It wasn't truly as if he didn't have some chance to at least have a conversation with her, now was it?
If he could keep himself in check. If he could resist the instinct to resort to the one way he knew how to solve things when they didn't go his way immediately. That was going to be a monumental task, particularly with this woman.
He was still trying to decide on the best way when he parked behind her garish pink Jeep in the driveway. What was it with her and that damned color anyway? That was one little thing that he didn't know about her.
He felt nervous for the first time he could remember in ages as he walked across the front porch. He scanned the neighborhood, but it was too early yet for anyone to be stirring. The door was locked, but he still knew how to let himself in. She was asleep, as expected, up in bed instead of on the couch.
He didn't go up to wake her or watch her. That wasn't a good way to start things. Really there was no good way to do this. Good wasn't something he had a lot of experience with. What he did have was years worth of knowledge about the woman and her habits.
Aidan.
Not “the woman.” Not a target or prey. He had to think of her differently, because she was different.
He sighed as he looked around the kitchen, feeling a little bit lost. He wasn't used to feeling that either. He was always in control, by his own design.
The paper on the front of the refrigerator caught his eye. A meal plan, precisely regimented for each day with all her macros noted. They were all neatly crossed out, up until Wednesday, and then they marking became haphazard where she had skipped meals. His fault, and not unexpected.
He sighed again as he stared at Friday morning's plan. Not difficult, even for the inept. Was he really going to do this?
“Yes.”
His voice seemed far too loud in the still and quiet of the house. Logically he knew it wouldn't carry upstairs and wake her, but he still cringed. Then, with resignation, he got to work. Work that made him embarrassed for himself, but he did it anyway, all the while not knowing just how the hell he thought this was going to work.
It wasn't, but he was going to try anyway.
When he heard her finally start moving upstairs his breath caught for a moment. He didn't hold it in anticipation like some child on Christmas, but rather forced himself to a regular respiration pattern. If he was going to have to chase her he couldn't have himself winded before he started.
There was only one way in or out of the kitchen. It was a wide doorway, but she wouldn't be able to get past him even so. Still, she might fight him. He ducked back out, into the sitting room that was across the dining area from the kitchen to wait. She took her sweet time, so he just stood there, feeling like an idiot, as he waited for her to come downstairs.
It was hard not to stare when she stepped through the doorway from the foyer and turned into the kitchen. He had been expecting her to be wearing a little more, like one of the Mick's shirts or something. Instead it was boyshort cut panties and whatever the fuck that kind of bra that was mostly just a strip of fabric meant to cover things up was called. He watched the scars on her back—some so faint they were almost invisible and others darker—dance as she stretched, raising up onto her toes with her arms high overhead.
When she finally stepped further into the kitchen he crossed the dining room, using the area rug beneath the table to muffle his steps. She turned right as he blocked the doorway. Either the scene inside registered or she heard him.
She stared back at him. It was early, her mind still foggy from sleep. She was probably trying to decide if he was real or not. He could see her hands start to shake and her chest rise and fall faster as her heart rate picked up. A little bit of the color drained from her face as the adrenaline kicked in and she had to decide whether to try to fight or try to flee.
“Please don't run.”
The request, and he made sure it sounded like a request instead of a demand, caught her off guard. She looked bewildered, brows drawing together for a moment. Then her eyes darted toward the rack of drying dishes where several small knives sat amid the silverware.
Instead of trying to intercept her, he let her go for them without stepping out of the door. She looked even more confused as she held one out between them. It was just a paring knife, but dangerous enough in her hands. She wouldn't make the same mistake she had by the Thames.
“Hold on to that if it makes you feel better, but I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
One brow raised in justified disbelief.
“You just... want to talk? And what, fucking cook me breakfast?”
He spared a glance to the plate on the counter, and then he shrugged. His lack of confidence here was showing, and that wouldn't do. He had to find the balance between what he was, what he felt in the moment, and what he needed to be.
“I thought you'd appreciate the gesture, love. You like the little things, don't you? Well, not all the little things, but you know what I mean.”
The innuendo did the trick. She chuckled in spite of herself and then looked scandalized that she'd allowed it. Then she also seemed to realize exactly how she looked in her less-than-half-dressed state. The color returned to her cheeks, and darkened considerably.
He hadn't seen her blush before. It was enchanting on her. Like the juxtaposition of her white knuckle grip on the knife and uncomfortable set of her muscles over the lack of clothing. Carefully shrugging out of his jacket, he held it out and offered it to her.
“Here.”
For an eternity she stared at him like he was mental. She stepped forward and closed the distance between them instead of leaning and putting herself off balance. Good girl. She got just close enough for the jacket to be within reach before she took it, off hand still shaking. Could he be blamed for watching her skin disappear beneath it as she drew up the zipper? Afterward she immediately searched the pockets.
“Nothing in there love, not even the keys to the stolen car. Sorry to disappoint.”
Her eyes immediately lifted to him, his waistband and pockets. He turned around just slowly enough that she could see he didn't have anything, not slow enough she could try to put the knife in his back. With his shirt tucked in to his jeans it was obvious he hadn't brought the gun in.
“You can come pat me down if it will put your mind at ease.”
She gave him another look, resisting arching a brow.
“You'd like that.”
He smirked.
“I would.”
She backed further into the kitchen, but the knife didn't leave her grip. Her eyes flicked to the counter, looking for something bigger perhaps.
“Get the fuck out before I have to ruin my nice new floors.”
He took a step inside the doorway, but he didn't let her draw him in further and leave a gap for her to get out. He felt guilty of all things for having to trap her just to have his say. Instinct almost told him to hold his hands out in front of him to show her he had no ill intentions, but that was too much like surrender.
“I told you, I'm not here to hurt you. If I was, don't you think I would have done it while you were still asleep? Or when you had your back to me and didn't know I was here?”
There was a moment of hesitation on her face as she considered the question. She didn't believe it or trust him, of course. She had no reason to. Still, he pressed on, nodding toward the plate on the counter and back toward the dining table.
“Sit down and eat. Please.”
To no great surprise, she stubbornly refused.
“I'm not hungry.”
He had to take a breath to keep himself calm.
“I'll wager the only thing you've had since yesterday morning was tequila. So yes, you are. Please sit down and eat, Aidan.”
She started to take a step toward him with the knife, but stopped herself. He'd almost reacted.
“Don't you dare call me that.”
The demand wasn't one that he expected. The brief look of confusion crossed his face before he forced it away. He cursed himself for betraying anything at all but calm.
“What would you like me to call you? I was under the impression that you quite hated your old name.”
She didn't have an answer, he could see it on her face. She didn't hide her emotions well, not from him. Not from many who really knew her; the bald fuck, the Mick, the tag partner with the blonde minger.
“Just get the fuck out of here. Walk in front of a car, maybe a double-decker bus. Whatever it takes.”
She was trying him. It was intentional. She wanted to goad him into the physical fight. Some part of him would have relished that, but it wasn't what he had come for. The verbal battle was frustrating him.
“I know you don't trust me. You have no reason to, and every reason not to. I have done you a lot of harm. But I've never lied to you, Aidan. I'm just here to talk. I don't want to fight you, and I don't want to hurt you.”
She lunged. The blade came within inches of his abdomen before he got a grip on her wrist. She'd positioned herself inside his guard though, so he couldn't use the full strength of his arm at the odd angle. His heart sped up at her proximity, the smell of her perfume even if it was faint, tainted by the slight tinge of smoke in her hair from the bar the night before.
He used the other hand to distract her before twisting her body into his, back against his chest. It made is heart rate climb even more. While instinct had almost made him lay the blade against her neck, he'd managed to catch himself in time so that he just held it out away from the both of them with one hand while the other arm kept her trapped against him.
“Too slow love. Tired, dehydrated, and hungover. You know that. Will you sit down now?”
“Go fuck yourself. I'll find something you can use.”
His grip on her wrist tightened and he squeezed around her middle harder than he meant to. She squeaked at the pressure to her ribs, the ones he had damaged Wednesday night, whether she remembered or not. He instantly eased the pressure, but not enough that she could get away.
“What do I have to do? Do I have to treat you like Ian Bishop? Do I need to beat you half unconscious and try to have my way with you? I'm not even asking you to come running to me in the middle of the night, I just want you to listen.”
“You're a fucking psychopath!”
His temper was flaring.
“And what the fuck was he, huh? What was he, Aidan? But you went to him, didn't you? You tried to make something with him just to hurt someone else. How did that turn out for you? Need me to shove you down some stairs?”
She tried to throw an elbow back into his ribs, but she couldn't get enough force behind it for the blow to matter.
“I know what I am, Aidan.”
She froze as he tapped the tip of the knife against the zipper of his jacket, right between her breasts.
“And I know what you are too.”
She was wavering.
“You don't know a goddamn thing.”
“You know that's not true, love. When it comes to you, we both know I know almost everything there is.”
He could feel the anger from her. That anger that she always used to mask other things. His own was abating.
“Sit down and eat. Please.”
Her silent fuming dragged on for what seemed forever. The tension in her muscles finally eased, slowly. She stopped straining against his grip with the knife. He pried it out of her hand first, but merely set it down on the counter, and then he let her go... after he turned her toward the dining table.
She stared at him for a long while, but his gaze wandered. From her slightly messy hair to the little scar on her jaw, the tension in her neck to her perfect lips, the way his jacket was too big for her and came down to just the right spot on her thighs. There was a scar on her leg he'd never seen before. She'd had a pedicure recently. The flaws, their origins, made her perfect.
Finally, she pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. He had to get the plate from the counter himself and slid it in front of her. Naturally, she eyed it suspiciously. She had good reason, he knew that, but for once it was unfounded.
When she finally picked up the fork he pulled out a chair and sat down as well, close enough he could catch her if he had to, but not so close he was crowding her. Or so he hoped. There were goosebumps on her legs from the cool wood of the chair against her bare skin. He tried not to stare.
He was drawn out of the thought when she turned the chair and started to stand. He blocked her path, resisting the urge to grab her shoulders and force her to sit back down. For her part she looked like she had to resist the urge to stab him with the fork.
“I'm just going to get a drink.”
She wouldn't look up at him, and that made him smirk. He knew that she knew if she looked her heart would start to race in that particular way she didn't want to acknowledge. Remembering to try not to be what he was, he stepped back, and apologized.
“Sorry, go ahead.”
His eyes were glue to her as she walked into the kitchen, straight to the fridge, and pulled out a can. At first he thought it was a beer, but upon closer inspection saw that it was an energy drink. She even hesitated a moment, like perhaps she was thinking about offering him something. But she didn't, she just came back to the table and opened the thing.
“Those are terrible for you.”
She gave him an unconvinced look, one brow arching in that way she had.
“Really? Gonna tell me what's terrible for me? I'm pretty sure you top that list.”
The barb made him smile.
“Only because you make it that way. I don't have to be.”
“You fucking tried to kill me. Repeatedly!”
“If we're keeping score you've got me beat four to one there, love. I tried to stab you once. You stabbed me, got me shot, tried to beat me to death with a brick, and then had your boyfriend come try to finish the job.”
The comments were getting under her skin. He couldn't help goading her.
“That's not even counting this morning. You came at me with a knife after I made you breakfast. So really, you're the savage here.”
Her muscles twitched. She almost came out of the chair, almost. The chiding sound he made didn't help matters.
“You threatened people I care about.”
“You threatened my brother.”
“Yeah, how's he doing anyway?”
He laughed at that sarcastic, needling tone.
“Oh that button won't get you anywhere now, love. He's gone and I don't miss him. I only got heated on principle. I wager I didn't feel anymore loss for him than you would if your mother found her way into a grave.”
“She's not my fucking mother!”
Of all the things that might have been the tipping point, that was the one. Fascinating.
He caught her wrist so she couldn't stab him with the fork. In the same motion he twisted out of the chair and took them both to the floor. What the hell did they call it in wrestling? Something like a scoop slam? Yet kept his hand under the back of her head to protect her from the impact on the hardwood floor.
“Yes she is, Aidan. Maureen Carlton is your mother. No amount of hate will ever change that. The longer you deny it and run from it, the more it weakens you. She made you what you are. Just like my father made me what I am.”