The ceiling was silent, telling me that Cecilia was probably in bed. I envisioned her the way she looked when she came out of the bathroom wearing nothing more than a towel, her long hair wet and tangled. At first my gaze had gone to her lower arms and lower legs. It wasn’t because I wanted to see her injuries.
My attention went to those areas because in that moment and time she was allowing me to see them.
I couldn’t explain that sensation; it was as if she trusted me with her pain.
Cecilia didn’t know me. She didn’t know that I wasn’t a trustworthy man. If I had been, my life would be different. I wouldn’t be traveling the world alone as a gun-for-hire or a mercenary. I wouldn’t have the Dellinger princess sleeping in the middle of nowhere and the mob boss of San Diego most likely on my trail.
As she stood in that bathroom doorway, I quickly refocused on her.
That one word had an all-inclusive meaning.
The all of her.
I wasn’t fixated on the towel or what it hid. I was obsessed with her—the entirety. Her fucking doe-like eyes resonated into my soul, brimming with emotion, dark and deep. If I stared long enough, I’d be sucked into their gravitational force, into a black hole.
I couldn’t let that happen.
One day I’d be delivering Cecilia to one coast or the other.
That eventual decision wasn’t debatable.