Until We Fly
Page 12

Because my pelvis likes being pushed into her pelvis.
Her heat emanates into me, and she stares up into my eyes.
“You don’t want me here?” she asks breathily, her fingers curled around the counter edge.  Her knuckles are white.
“I didn’t say that,” I answer quietly, still not moving.  Because right now, with her soft curves pressed into me, I do want her here.
And unfortunately, my dick chooses this moment to agree with me.
It hardens against her and her eyes widen.
“I see,” she murmurs. 
I rotate away, straightening up and leaning on my crutches once again.
“Sorry about that,” I tell her.  “I hope I didn’t crush you.”
With my hard-on.
Her mouth twitches.  “No worries.  Let’s get you back out to your chair and I’ll bring you your pills.”
I don’t argue, I simply turn and begin the slow hobble to my chair.
Nora follows at my elbow, and as I’m twisting to drop into the chair, she gasps.
“Holy shit, Brand,” she breathes.  “Your leg.”
I glance down and find a large spot of blood spreading on my inner thigh.
Fuck.  I must’ve jostled the sutures in the kitchen.
Without another word, Nora bends over me, yanking the elastic band of my shorts down. I lift my h*ps to let the shorts slide down, and Nora’s cool fingertips find my inner thigh.
I grit my teeth.
Not because of pain, because there isn’t any.  But because Nora’s fingers are literally a couple of inches away from my dick. 
Cold fish.  Cold fish. Cold fish.
Cold.
Fucking.
Fish.
“You broke open your wound,” she says needlessly, her voice panicked.  She pulls at the blood-soaked bandage, examining the injury.   She covers it with the gauze again, pressing her fingers firmly to it for a long moment before looking at it again.
“Okay.  I think it’s fine.  It was just a little tear, and it stopped bleeding.”  She looks up at me, her face calmer now.  “But you’ve got to be more careful, especially these first few days.  If you need something, call me.  Don’t try to get it yourself.”
I nod curtly, but I’d probably agree with anything right about now.  Her fingers are pressed to my groin again and she’s kneeling in front of me.  My thoughts aren’t on my f**king injury.
In fact, my thoughts are far from my f**king injury, but thankfully, I’m saved by someone clearing their throat in the doorway.
Nora and I both turn at the same time.
My mother stands there, her face disapproving, her shoulders stiff.
“Am I interrupting?” she asks icily.
I stare at her hard, because I haven’t seen her in nine years, because no one invited her here, and because she didn’t even bother to knock.
Bethany Killien is smaller, frailer and grayer than she was nine years ago. 
Her thin arms stay at her sides.  She doesn’t approach me, she doesn’t reach for me, she simply stands there, limp and quiet.  Her face is tired, her hair pulled into a bun at her neck. She looks like someone who has lived a thousand lives.
“No, you’re not interrupting,” I tell her coolly, while Nora scrambles to get up. I don’t acknowledge the fact that Nora was on her knees in front of me, or that I’m in my underwear.   I know what it might look like.
But it’s none of my mother’s business.
“Well, I see that you’re deep in grief,” she says curtly,  “so I won’t stay long.  I just brought your truck down for you.  The mayor brought it to my house after the explosion.  There’s some fire damage to one side of it, but it still runs.”
My mother stares pointedly at Nora, and Nora looks at me.
“Should I give you a few minutes?” she asks quietly, staring only at me.  She acts like my mother doesn’t even exist. I could hug her for that.
I nod.  “Yeah, that’s fine.”
She regally walks past my mother without another word or glance.
Again, I could f**king hug her for that.
I stare at my mother, who hasn’t moved even an inch toward me.  I don’t bother asking how she knew I was here.  I just cut to the chase.
“Well, are you going to come in and tell me why you need me?  I assume you need something or you wouldn’t have bothered calling me.”
I hate that I sound so bitter and hateful.  I hate that she’s done this to me.  I hate that I’ve let her do this to me.
I try and swallow the hate.
It won’t hurt anyone but me.
My mother walks into the room and sits at the chair across from me, holding her small body stiff.  There’s no maternal concern here.  She doesn’t bother to ask how I am.
It’s only now that I notice she’s carrying something.  She places a wooden box on her lap and stares at me.
“It’s your father’s will,” she says simply. “You’re the sole heir.”
Shock slams into me like a Mack truck, and I stare at her in confusion.  Her face is a steel mask, unyielding, expressionless.
“There’s no way, “ I manage to say.  “Why would he do that?”
She shrugs.
“I’m as surprised as you are.  After everything you did, I don’t understand it either.”
Everything you did.
The words linger in the air between us and I swallow hard, trying to contain my hate.   I don’t bother to try and defend myself.  It doesn’t make any sense anymore.  My father is gone, so what difference does it make?  There’s no point.
But that doesn’t mean that I deserve her resentment.
“I don’t want anything of his,” I tell her icily.  “Not his shop, not his truck, not anything.”
She stares at me, her brown eyes hard.  “So you’re telling me that everything he left you… the shop, his truck, his bike, even the house… you don’t want any of it?”
I level my gaze at her.  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
I pause, thinking of his bike.  A glistening, aggressive 1964 Triumph.  It was my grandfather’s before it was my father’s, and my grandfather meant for it to come to me.
“I want the bike,” I amend.  “I don’t want anything else.  You can have it. Or burn it.  I don’t care.”