ONE
Slowly rising out of the fog of a deep sleep, I felt Max’s hand on my shoulder.
“Do you need a Lortab?” he whispered into my ear.
I was lying on my right side, with Max spooning me. This is how we had been sleeping for the last couple of weeks. It was Max’s idea to keep me from rolling onto my left side where the broken rib was.
My eyes were slowly opening, focusing on the bedside table and the clock that read 5:42 a.m. “No, I’ll be okay.”
“You were groaning,” he said. “Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad.”
Max nuzzled his face into the crook of my neck, planting a soft kiss just below my ear. I nestled closer to him, as much as I could without irritating my damaged yet slowly healing rib. His warm naked body enveloped mine, contrasting with the cool sheets. Despite the little stab of pain I felt as we shifted on the bed, I couldn’t imagine a more comfortable place to be.
Or a safer one.
Max’s breathing grew slow and regular, and I knew he had gone back to sleep. I, however, probably wasn’t going to be able to.
I had indeed groaned in my sleep, but only somewhat from the rib pain. According to the doctors, I still had a few weeks to go until the pain would subside, and every once in a while I’d feel a quick, sharp, shooting pain in the area. If I were awake, it would make me reflexively inhale quickly. When asleep, it would sometimes wake me, but other times it would trigger a dream.
This night, I had been dreaming about the attack, the fourth such nightmare in the last couple of weeks.
They were just dreams. Nothing more. Chris had been locked up and had denied bail because he lived in Ohio and authorities in Los Angeles argued that he was a flight risk. The case was already over. There was no trial, thanks to Chris accepting a plea deal. I wasn’t all that happy about it, but I didn’t really have a choice. On the good side, though, it saved both Krystal and me from having to testify and face that monster once more.
More than once, Max had expressed guilt over the fact that he hadn’t been there that night to protect me from Chris. He’d been on his way over, but hadn’t arrived in time.
I brushed off his guilt, telling him not to think about it. What was done was done, and Chris would no longer be a threat to me. Each time, Max dropped the subject.
Not wanting to add to his guilt, I kept the dreams from him.
. . . . .
I woke up around 10 a.m., surprised that I’d been able to drift off to sleep again. Facing out the floor-to-ceiling window of the master bedroom, I watched the sun glint off the Pacific Ocean’s water and the tops of tall palm trees swaying in the breeze. Max had opened the sliding glass door to let some fresh air in.
I heard the shower going and briefly thought about joining Max in there, but decided instead to do something about the cottonmouth I woke up with.
I got out of bed, didn’t bother putting on any clothes, and went downstairs to Max’s kitchen.
Actually, our kitchen, now that I was living with him in Malibu. It was farther away from L.A. and Hollywood than my apartment had been. Depending on traffic, it could take anywhere from twenty minutes to over an hour to get back to the city.
It was modern house, set high on a hill, overlooking the Pacific. At almost 3,000 square feet on eleven acres, with five bedrooms upstairs, it was more space than anyone really needed, but as with all things in his life, Max had spared no expense for luxury and enjoyment.
The floors were dark marble, and most of the back of the house was glass, making the place virtually gleam during the day. The downstairs was one massive open space with a fireplace separating the kitchen and the den.
I would say the view over the ocean from the hilltop home was breathtaking, but that’s too cliché to cover it. Plus, recently my injured rib was doing enough to take my breath away.
I opened the stainless steel refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of orange juice. I didn’t bother getting a glass. I twisted the cap off, tilted my head back and guzzled right from the bottle as though I hadn’t had anything to drink in days.
“It’s the pills.”
I lowered the bottle and turned around to find Max standing there with a towel wrapped around his waist and a huge smile on his face. His medium-length hair was slicked back on his head, a few damp curls around the edges.
Swallowing the sip of juice, I said, “What?”
“The painkillers. They’re making you thirsty. It’s a rare side-effect.”
I closed the refrigerator door, turned around, and leaned against the counter. “Thanks, Doc.”
Max walked over to me, eyeing my naked body. “I had to take those once. I had the worst dry mouth from it. That’s how I know.”
I took another swig.
He stood inches from me, leaning closer, placing one hand on the counter next to me. He smelled of cologne, soap, and shampoo. All perfectly clean, and I wanted to dirty him up.
Max’s face got closer to mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his other arm reaching up, and I waited for his fingers to sink into my hair.
But he just looked at me for a moment, then pulled his arm back and held up a drinking glass. “Feel free to use these. They’re yours now, too.” He grinned and kissed me on my forehead.
I took the glass from him as he opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water and made his way over to the sliding doors that lead to the backyard as I filled the glass with juice.
“Coming?” he asked, looking over his shoulder as he unlatched the door.
“Let me get my robe.”
His hand dropped to where the towel was tucked on his hip and he set it free, letting it drop to the floor, teasing me with his seemingly flawless body. “You don’t need to wear anything.”
I walked over to the door, juice in hand, and we went outside naked together.
Just outside was a patio that ran the width of the house. A dozen reclining lounge chairs took up most of the floor, along with several tables, and two kerosene heaters for the cooler nights spent outside.
The backyard was boxed in by ten-foot stone privacy walls to the left and right. Only the ocean side was open. The entire space — from the walls to the ground — was covered in stone, with several cutouts from which palm trees sprouted and reached for the sky.
There was a rectangular pool at the edge of the yard, backing up to what Max said was a 30-foot cliff overhanging the shoreline, with wood stairs that lead down to the beach.
The pool’s water level was flush with the ground, and if you were sitting in one of the chairs on the patio near the door to the house, you would see an optical illusion: the pool seemed to be an extension of the ocean, the only difference being the Pacific’s rough surf and the pool’s glassy surface.