Dark Touch Page 3

  “Yes.” I lean forward to open my door.

  Chris scrambles out of his seat and jogs around the Jeep to get the door for me, but I’m out before he can get there. He keeps pace with me as I head for the clinic. It isn’t until I’m stepping inside and he’s pushing something on his keys that makes the Jeep bloop that I realize he’s planning to stick around.

  “You don’t have to stay. I can get the bus home.”

  “I don’t mind.” He quirks one eyebrow and gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Anything to skip school, right?”

  Who does this guy think he is? First he touches me and pretends nothing happened, now he’s . . . what? Trying to play the chivalry card? But before I can ask him, the receptionist calls me over.

  “Can I help you?” She looks to be about fifty, and resembles a toad with wispy gray hair.

  “I cut myself.” I step up to the desk, holding my bandaged hand up where she can see it.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any communicable diseases?” she asks.

  “No. But I’m bleeding. I think I need stitches.”

  She sighs, takes a clipboard from a pile to her left, and places it on the counter in front of her. “Please fill this out. I’ll get someone to help you.”

  I choose a seat in the waiting area, catching the eye of a young woman with stringy hair and a huge belly beached in one of the chairs across the room. I avert my eyes and so does she, neither of us interested in making a connection here. Chris takes the seat next to me, shifting uneasily.

  I’ve just ticked the “No Insurance” box when a door creaks open and a hoarse voice calls “Tulip Harden?”

  Chris and I both stand. There’s a woman in scrubs standing in the doorway. She gestures at the hall behind her. “Through here, please.”

  “I can handle this part,” I say firmly to Chris. “I’ve been here a dozen times. I’ll be fine.”

  He keeps following. I can’t decide if he’s obnoxiously arrogant, or the nicest person I’ve ever met.

  The nurse leads us down the dim, gray corridor, past examination rooms and curtained alcoves on either side, until we reach one at the end of the hall. It smells sharply of disinfectant and something I hope isn’t blood. She motions me to the paper-covered gurney and pulls a pair of latex gloves out of the box.

  “How did you cut yourself?” she asks, snapping on the gloves.

  “On a chisel in woodwork at school.”

  Chris stands at the opening of the alcove leaning against the wall, watching me closely.

  “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”

  “Yes.” I haven’t, but I can’t afford to pay for one. This place says it’s free, but that only goes as far as examinations and dressings. Any medications from the pharmacy or shots given here are charged. I learned that the hard way.

  The nurse flips through some paperwork on the desk. “Your file says it was over ten years ago.”

  “Give her the booster,” Chris says quietly.

  I glare at Chris. “It’ll be fine.”

  The nurse glances at him over her shoulder, but doesn’t respond. She takes my bandaged hand and starts to unwrap it. The pain sharpens. My hand is covered in smears and splotches of dried blood, with a fresh trickle already dirtying the nurse’s gloves.

  “Ideally you want to have another booster, just to be safe.”

  “Do it,” he says.

  I grit my teeth and hate him for making me admit it. “I can’t afford it. Let it go.”

  “I can,” he says. Then to the nurse, “Go ahead. I’ll pay for it.”

  The nurse nods once as if this is nothing out of the ordinary. I feel my cheeks burn and hate him for making me feel small.

  She pulls a stainless steel table toward the gurney and is sorting through all the little drawers and containers, pulling out large metal tweezers, a rounded needle, rolls of thread, cotton balls, and dressings.

  “You’ll have to careful with this hand,” she says, taking a seat on a stool and rolling up next to me. “Bandages will have to stay on for a week.”

  “Okay.”

  We’re all silent as she cleans out my cut and stitches it up. Chris watches me the whole time. I concentrate on not flinching every time the little needle digs into my flesh. In a weird way, I like these moments. Someone is touching me. Sure, it’s through latex and powder. But I’m so unused to the sensation of another person’s touch that I always try to fix it in my mind. Even the painful parts.

  With the efficiency of someone who’s done it a thousand times, the nurse has my hand stitched and bandaged in a few minutes. She throws the excess bandage in the trash and gets up to wash her hands.

  “Keep your hand up at your shoulder,” she says over the rush of the water. “I’ll go draw your shot, then you can go.”

  Chris watches her leave, then turns back to meet my glare. “Stop getting pissy about the shot. It’s for your own safety.”

  “You embarrassed me,” I snap. He opens his mouth, but I talk over him. “Listen, I get that you’re trying to do the knight-in-shining-armor thing, or whatever, but I don’t need your help. And I definitely don’t need you humiliating me.”

  His chin drops, and for a second I think he’ll finally leave. But then he says, “I’m sorry that I made you feel that way. I’m only trying to help.” When he looks up, his face is so earnest, I feel like a jerk.

  I bite my lip. “I’ll live,” I mumble to my knees, refusing to let him see me soften.

  We sit in silence for a long beat. Finally, the weight of everything that’s happened presses in on me. My hand is cut, which means I won’t be able to work on my shop projects for at least a week. In a few days Dad will be home from his truck-driving job, which is good because there’s very little food in the house and he should have gotten paid, but bad because he’s got three days off, which will mean three days spent on high alert. And Chris has touched me. Felt me.

  There’s enough crap in my life, I don’t need another complication. I don’t need to feel the pull toward him, to be measured by him and know I come up short.

  I don’t need it. I don’t want it.

  The nurse swings into the room with a little tray in her hands. On it is a glass bottle and a syringe. She puts another pair of gloves on, yanks the sleeve up on my good arm, paints something onto my skin with a cotton ball, then shoots me up. I bite down on the pain, but she’s done quickly, pressing a Band-Aid to the site.

  “You’ll need to put a plastic bag over your hand when you’re in the shower. Tape it up good so no water gets in. As long as you take good care of it, the stitches should dissolve and we won’t need to see you again. But you come back here if you have any swelling at the site of the cut, or if a stitch pops.”

  “Okay.”

  She gives me a hard look. “You don’t want to mess with cuts like this, Tulip.”

  “It’s Tully,” I mutter. I hate it when people use my real name.

  The nurse turns to Chris. “Can you keep an eye on her? Make sure she’s taking care of it?”

  I suck in hard. “He doesn’t—”

  “Sure, no problem.” Chris grins and winks at me over her shoulder.

  I will not smile.

  “Hopefully, I won’t see you again then,” she says to me, then turns to clean up the hazardous waste I seem to leave behind me at every turn.

  “Let’s go, Tulip.” Chris grins again and swings into the hallway. I’m treated with the view of him from behind—his broad shoulders taking up more room than they should, jeans hanging off his hips in a way that makes my stomach tingle.

  Chris holds the door to the reception area open for me, then goes to the desk to pay for my shot. I’m so uncomfortable that I keep walking, through the door, across the parking lot, to Chris’s
Jeep. He’s there in a couple of minutes and doesn’t say anything. Just opens my door for me. A minute later, we’re pulling away, back to the highway, back to the train wreck that is my life. I am twitching and shifting to try and ease the tension in my stomach. But I can’t. So finally I decide to get it over with.

  “Thank you for paying for my shot,” I blurt. I can’t look at him. In my peripheral vision I see him turn his head toward me for a second, then back to the road ahead.

  “It’s fine. Honestly. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

  “No need,” he says. Suddenly, he seems almost as tense I feel.

  “Yes, there is,” I say firmly. “I’m not a charity case. I’ll pay you back. It just might take some time is all.” A lot of time. But I’ll do it.

  He exhales and sits back in his seat. “Tully, I have money. I don’t care about your shot. But if you wanted to do something for me . . .”

  He trails off and it’s as if my veins have become ice.

  Of course.

  I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier. This wasn’t about chivalry. Or being a nice guy. He didn’t pay for my shot because he’s generous.

  Quid pro quo, Tully.

  I sink further into my seat and try to decide whether my disappointment or relief is stronger. I thought maybe he was different. The fact that he’s not is disappointing. But at least I know where we are now. I’ve got him figured out.

  Having sex is the last thing I feel like doing right now. But he’s cute and a lot sweeter than most of the guys I’ve slept with before. Maybe if I get drunk enough—

  Chris clears his throat. “If you want to do something for me, you can tell me what I felt when . . . I mean, your hand. When I touched your hand”—he swallows audibly—“Tully . . . what was that?”

  Chapter 6

  “It won’t hurt you,” I mumble. He was bound to ask, but somehow it still stings. “It’s just feelings.”

  “Feelings?”

  I stare out the window. We’re passing the older part of town, where chain-link fences circle decrepit lawns and cracked driveways. We rumble over the land bridge leading into the newer subdivisions and gated communities, full of tall fences and sprawling estates.

  “Tully?” Chris prompts.

  No point sugarcoating it. He knows the truth now anyway. Might as well scare him off on my own terms.

  “My feelings. Whenever anyone touches my hands they feel what I feel.”

  I give him the time to chew on it. I’ve been here before. It takes a while for people to get their heads around it, to realize the world doesn’t work the way they thought it did.

  “What I felt . . . that’s what you feel? Like, all the time?” His voice is quiet, but higher than usual.

  I try not to sound defensive. “Apart from the pain in my hand. Yeah.”

  We reach a red light and as soon as the Jeep comes to a complete stop, he turns to me, brows pinched together. I can’t tell if he’s mad or afraid.

  “What happened?” he asks quietly.

  “You saw, I picked up the chisel.”

  “No, not that.” He turns away for a second, back to the road. “What happened to you? What I felt was so . . .” He trails off.

  The bottom falls out of my stomach. No one has ever tried to describe what I feel before. I want to sink into a crack in the floor and die.

  “And how the heck—”

  I glance at him and he cuts off.

  Heck? Really?

  “Leave it,” I say. “It just happened. I don’t know how.”

  My hand gives a particularly sharp pang and I wince. The light turns green and Chris takes off so fast I am pressed into the back of the seat. I guess he’s pretty eager to get me out of the car. I can’t say I blame him.

  “Where’s your house?” A little muscle at the back of his jaw twitches.

  We don’t talk more except for him asking directions and me giving them. When we finally get to my house, he pulls his Jeep into the driveway and yanks up on the hand brake. I pop my seat belt and reach for the door handle but hesitate. This is probably the last time we’ll talk, so I need to tell him.

  “I appreciate you helping me. Especially . . . especially with my hand. I know that’s weird so . . . thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” But he doesn’t look at me.

  I get out of the car feeling the heat of his gaze on my back as I make my way up the little path through the grass, to our front door with its old, peeling paint. In the late afternoon light the whole place looks wilted.

  Chris doesn’t back out until I’m inside and the door is locked. Little does he know that I’m safer out there than I am in here.

  Chapter 7

  Mr. Garrison is late to shop on Thursday. We’re not allowed inside until he’s there, so we’re all milling around in the courtyard. I’m leaned up against the wall. My bandaged hand aches. I pray it isn’t getting infected. I tried washing it in hydrogen peroxide this morning but it hurt so much that I gave up halfway through.

  Chris is a few feet away, pretending to read a fitness magazine, but I can feel his attention on me and I don’t know what to do with it. He’s been watching me all week—across the quad, in the cafeteria, in the halls. He hasn’t said anything; I haven’t given him the chance.

  But he looks up suddenly and our eyes meet. He smiles and, in spite of myself, I can feel the answering smile coming.

  Just then Rudy swaggers past Chris, kicking Chris’s backpack from its place next to his feet, sending it skittering across the quad. “Oh, whoops,” he says as Chris straightens to his full height and stares Rudy down.

  I start toward them, grabbing Chris’s backpack on my way, weaving between the gathering group of guys anticipating bloodshed. By the time I reach them, Rudy’s up in Chris’s face.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  Chris doesn’t even blink. “Noticed what?”

  Rudy tosses his head again. “How you’ve been following Tully around all week.” Several of the guys inch closer, pull out their phones. “You stalking her or something?”

  I want to slap Rudy, but Chris shakes his head. “Just keeping an eye on a friend.”

  My chest throbs.

  Rudy shoves his chin up and grunts something I can’t hear. Chris remains expressionless, but his shoulders tense. Both are making fists at their sides. It’s the last thing I need.

  Careful to keep my un-bandaged hand tucked into my sleeve, I slip sideways between them, keeping my back to Chris.

  “Don’t be a prick,” I tell Rudy.

  Rudy’s grin has an edge that is chilling. “You got a boyfriend now? You don’t need me anymore?”

  “He’s a friend. I know the concept is foreign to you.”

  Rudy glances up, over my shoulder, and snorts. “Friend, my ass. I saw him touching your hand Monday.”

  “Back off, Rudy.”

  He straightens up, but doesn’t stop watching me. “You canceling tomorrow?” he asks abruptly.

  “I never cancel,” I say, and mean it. No matter what else he may be, Rudy is my only escape. I’m not giving that up for anyone.

  Rudy visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop and his expression turns smug. Then he ducks his chin at Chris and winks, claps him on the shoulder. “Tough luck, bro. She doesn’t want you.”

  Chris’s breath flutters in my hair and he’s so close that I can feel his stomach muscles clench. The heat of him burns from my neck to my knees.

  “What’s going on here?” Mr. Garrison’s voice cuts through the tension and everyone snaps around to face him. He eyes each of us, but no one offers an explanation. With a final scowl, he unlocks the door, pushes it open, and steps back to let everyone precede him into the room. He glares at Rudy, then at Chris, as they pass him. When I rea
ch him, I keep my head down. But he catches my elbow and pulls me aside.

  “What’s going on, Tully?” he asks, low enough that he won’t be heard over the din of warming-up machines and guys pulling tools and wood from the shelves.

  “Nothing. Don’t worry.”

  His expression remains skeptical. “Be smart,” he says.

  When he doesn’t say anything else, I gesture toward the room. “Can I go in now?”

  His lips press together, but he lets me go. I walk up the aisle, inhaling sawdust and turpentine, and pray this workshop won’t be ruined for me. It’s the only place left where I can breathe. Then I see that Chris has returned to my bench and is pulling up a stool. My arms prickle with goose bumps.

  Since I can’t work with my left hand, I’m still sketching in my notebook, planning all four assignments I’ll do this year. It’s been frustrating to be off tools the past few days, but I know I’ll be glad for all this prep work later. I turn the book to a new page, marking off lengths and widths as my design comes to life. Chris keeps glancing at me, then away, and those little muscles at the back of his jaw are twitching.

  It bothers me that I notice this.

  “So . . . you and Rudy?” Chris asks ten minutes later, barely loud enough for me to hear over the echoing room.

  “No,” I say to my notebook. “He’s . . . he helps me out sometimes.”

  Chris scoffs. “Helps. Right . . .” He frowns at the wooden frame in front of him. “So, what’s he helping with at this barn place tomorrow?”

  “Nothing,” I say, trying not to squirm. “We’re going to a party.”

  His head comes up and I risk a glance. The gold in his eyes sparks.

  “You party a lot?” Chris sounds like he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

  I grab my eraser and rub out the line I just drew, brushing the rubber shavings away. “Sort of. I mean, only with certain people.”

  “People like that jackwagon?”

  Every thought in my head pauses. “Uh . . . jackwagon? Are you serious?”

  Chris just waits.