I led her to the upstairs’ bathroom and hit the light on the way in, then I turned and helped myself to a handful of her hips to either side, my hands sliding over her body covered as it was by the flannel of my shirt as I lifted her and sat her on the edge of the counter. She made a slight cry of surprised protest when I did it, her green eyes wide and her pale face draining of color even more, and I crooked a one-sided grin and apologized.
“Sorry.”
Even sitting this high up, her feet dangling over the floor, I still had to look down at her, and she wasn’t exactly a short or even a petite woman… just shorter than me.
I picked up a washcloth off the stack on the back of the john, within reach of the shower without looking.
“Take a deep breath,” I said eying her, and she stared up at me, her green eyes still startled and wide, framed in her wild blond curls, the tinge of red around them from her crying making them somehow more vivid. Bright.
She jumped slightly when I smacked the arm of the faucet up, the cold spray a slight shock against my fingers as it soaked the washcloth I held under it. I wrung the square of rough cloth out, folded it in into a padded quarter of its original size and raised it up. She leaned back, and I gave her a look. I admit, it was stern at first, but it wasn’t my goal to scare her into submitting – I was trying to help, in my own heavy-handed way and shit, I didn’t want to make things worse.
“It’s cool,” I said and tried to keep my tone in check.
She stilled, and I carefully washed her face with the cool cloth as though she were a child.
She broke the silence first, leaning back when she’d had enough, grasping my wrist gently to pull my hand away, putting the other with its perfect, long nails, against the cloth to push it down along with my hand.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and her voice was distressed.
“It’s not a problem,” I said neutrally, then asked a little more gently, “You want to tell me what that was all about?”
She stared at me mutely for several seconds and I could tell that, yes, yes, she did want to tell me, that she needed to tell someone, but she finally bit her lips together and stayed quiet.
“It’s alright, you don’t need to. Just thought it might help to get it off your chest.”
At the word chest, she crossed her arms over hers, tucking her hands beneath her arms, and I smiled and chuckled.
“You’re a strange woman, Aspen,” I said.
“How did you know my name?” she asked.
“Driver’s license,” I answered, shaking out the washcloth, folding it in half once, and laying it over the faucet’s neck to drip into the sink - if it was going to drip.
“Oh,” she said softly, looking away.
“Couldn’t find your clothes?” I asked.
She looked back at me and blushed faintly.
“I don’t remember what happened,” she said.
“You were pretty drunk.”
“I only had one drink, maybe two, but I never drink more than that when I go out.”
I grunted and gave a nod.
“Your friend left with a couple of guys, think one of them maybe slipped you something?” I asked.
“I don’t know…” she looked on the verge of tears again and I shook my head.
“Doesn’t matter,” I told her with a sniff and she looked back up at me, those clear green eyes of hers slaying me every time they met mine. “You’re safe, nothing happened to you last night. No one touched you but me, and only to get you cleaned up so I could put you to bed. I swear it.”
She swallowed hard, hesitated and finally said, “Thank you.”
“It’s no problem,” I reiterated. “I’ll get you your clothes. You get in the shower and I’ll leave ‘em right outside the door. Uh, keep the shirt – your sweater was marked ‘dry clean only’ and I put it in an oversized Ziploc until you could decide what you wanted to do with it.”
“Okay.” She nodded, wincing as she hit a rough patch in her hair, smoothing it behind her ears with her hands.
“Yeah, I couldn’t keep it out of your hair, sorry.”
“It’s no problem,” she said with a slight smile, and I gave her one back.
“What’s your name?” she asked as I got half way out the door.
I looked back over my shoulder and said, “I go by Fenris.”
“Yeah, but I mean your real name.”
I smiled and I knew it was a bit feral, but I couldn’t help it.
“Not to be alarming, but it’s the only name I need.”
“Okay,” she whispered, her eyes a bit wide.
I shut the door and went up the hall to get her clothes out of the dryer.
“What the fuck was that all about?” my dad groused when I got to the bottom of the stairs.
“No clue,” I said with a shrug. “She’s getting a shower.”
He grunted, slapped some scramble on a plate and set it in front of me at the breakfast bar. I slid into a seat and dug in, elbows to either side of my plate, taking a protective stance over my food. Some old habits die hard.
The squeaky tread on the stairs gave her away as she came down, and my dad and I were both stopped and looking to the mouth of the stairway when she peeked around the corner. She blushed, her hair, which had been full of body and a little wild before her shower, hung lank around her face, heavy with damp.
She put her hands in her back pockets, took a deep breath and emerged more fully into the room.
“Sorry, again, about earlier,” she said shakily, and I shook my head.
“It’s nothing.”
“Come and eat.” My dad echoed the dismissal of her apology and set out a plate for her.
“Oh, I’m not really that hungry—”
My dad snorted and cut her off, “I didn’t cook all this so his big ass could eat it all, now sit down.”
I smirked and shook my head. “Crotchety old bastard,” I muttered.
“You’re just like me, so shut the hell up, boy.”
My smirk turned to a grin and I didn’t say anything about it, just shoveled another bite of food into my mouth.
She slipped onto the stool beside mine, her face a study in beauty and confusion, and I tried not to stare. I didn’t know what her deal was, but clearly, she had some shit going on. I thought back on my sister and shifted slightly in discomfort.
I hadn’t pried back then. I should have, and by letting shit slide, I’d let her slide right into her grave. There wasn’t a day that went by that didn’t weigh on my soul. This chick right here, though? She wasn’t my sister. I didn’t even know her.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly as my pops put a plate in front of her.
“Welcome,” he grunted and started cleaning up between forkfuls off his own plate. I slid my empty one to the side and picked up my cup of coffee, swilling down some of the bitter brew.
“So, what’s yer name?” he asked, drying off the cast-iron skillet he’d cooked up the scramble in a few minutes later. We’d all been silent for the most part – simply eating our food or drinking our coffee as the occasion called for it.
“Aspen,” she said.
“Your parents some kind of hippy peace freaks?” he asked, and Aspen snorted a delicate little laugh.