Either way, they were probably the only nice clothes he had, and possibly one of the only times he’d worn them.
He parted his lips to respond, but closed them again and simply nodded with confirmation. There was a thick, vertical gash on the right side of his bottom lip. It was mostly healed, with new, pink scar tissue. It wasn’t there during the will reading, and his jaw wasn’t wired then either. Had he been in a fight? He looked like a fighting type, rough and rugged, with broad shoulders and thick arms camouflaged partially by his baggy shirt. Guys at Summerlin Prep fought, but those fights usually ended quickly. I think they were too worried they’d mess up their pretty faces or get booted from the country club. Nevertheless, what they lacked in physical fights they made up with ego assaults and head trips: who had the best car, best girl, bigger dick. Who could nail the most chicks. The testosterone flowed from them whether they sparred with their tongues or their fists, and the damage was equally bad. They were as ruthless as us girls when it came to trash talking and could ruin reputations with one well-placed rumor.
“Well, Benjamin, what are you doing in here ?”
He lifted the handle of a large wrench attached to his tool belt. “I was told to check the water. I didn’t think any of you were here. I mean, I knocked, and no one answered downstairs, so ...”
His voice was a little clearer this time, clear enough that I didn’t need to reprocess his words. I bit my bottom lip and glanced around the room, wondering if he was going to add anything else. He didn’t speak again, but he pressed his lips tight like he was contemplating something.
“So …” I prompted, deciding to interrupt whatever internal battle he had going on, or kill the possibility of him stalling to wait for more of my bath bubbles to pop.
He turned his back to me, sliding in front of the vanity, and began to check the faucet. He caught my eye in the mirror’s reflection and turned the corners of his lips up, revealing soft dimples hovering just above his scruffy jawline. It was like he snapped out of whatever trance he’d been in. He dropped his focus back to the faucet without a word.
Oh, he is being rude. “You already know the water works. The bath is full,” I snapped, this time fully intending for my voice to sound harsh.
“Yeah,” he replied and squatted in front of vanity. He opened the cabinets and peered at the pipes underneath. “But it’s my job to check.”
I gathered up more bubbles while he was turned. I didn’t want this perv taking advantage of the fact that I couldn’t get out of the tub. He was probably enjoying this torturous encounter. I wanted to say something mean, or scream at him to make him leave, but curiosity got the upper hand. “Why is your jaw wired? Did you get into a fight?”
Still crouched, he spun on his toes and slid the vanity doors closed behind him. He was at eye level with me, which was only comforting because he no longer had a bird’s-eye view of the tub. His brown eyes were easily the darkest I’d ever seen, and his pupils pulled them deeper still. They laced together, nearly indistinguishable. He reached a hand up to the side of his head, gliding his palm over his shaved hair, which was a lot shorter than it’d been at the will reading. He smirked to himself before looking at me straight. “No, not a fight,” he said simply. “I guess I’ll see you around, LJ.”
“It’s Lila,” I replied, irritated by his smugness, or downright disrespect. I couldn’t read him as quickly as I could some other guys. His mannerisms had literally bounced all over the emotion spectrum within the last few minutes, and it was difficult to keep up.
He stopped at the bathroom door and leaned against its frame. “What, you don’t like that nickname, LJ?” His voice was low, hypnotic. I was pretty sure he was teasing me, gauging me.
“Your last name is Shadows, right?” I asked,
John B. Garvey, Mary Lou Widmer