Jill Shalvis - The Street Where She Lives

She wasn’t sleeping with Adam. Thank God. “You’re right,” he said primly, folding his hands. “It’s none of my business.”

Across the table, she groaned and cupped her face in her hands. “You’re such a jerk,” she said, muffled.

“Yeah, it’s a special talent of mine.” He took in her confusion, and disgust filled him. Self disgust. What right did he have to want her single?

It was possible that by this time next week he’d be gone, so far gone.

The waitress brought the iced teas. To keep them there, at the same table, talking, even if the air was filled with tension, Ben ordered a large brunch.

“Tell me something,” Rachel said, playing with her straw. “What are you in such a hurry to get back to?”

“A personal question, Rach?”

She put lemon and sugar in her iced tea. Took a sip. Pushed the drink aside and looked right into his eyes. “Yes. Maybe it’s because I’m older. More mellow-” She glared when he laughed. “I am,” she insisted, and lifted a shoulder. “I’d really like to know. Tell me why you can’t stand being tied to one place for longer than it takes to do a load of laundry, when there’s no place in particular even waiting for you. No place and no one.”

“Hey, I’ve done my laundry here. Quite a few times. I’ve even done your laundry. I like your pale-peach satin panties, by the way, and that black lace bra…”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Yeah. Yeah, he did. And because her curiosity was honest and not bitter, because she obviously really wanted to know, he found he could try to admit some of what he thought of as his secret shame, the one thing he’d never told another soul. “Staying in one spot, making roots…it infers you’ve found your home, found yourself.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“But I don’t even know who I really am. I can’t seem to find myself.”

She sat back, looking a little stunned. “But you know who you are.”

“Who I am is a man with no idea who his parents were or where I came from.”

Her eyes softened. “I didn’t know that.”

“Because I never told you. I couldn’t.”

“Oh, Ben. Were you always in a foster home?”

“Yes. It was ‘Christian duty.’ They liked to say that.”

“That’s so wrong!” Her voice was thick, emotional. “No child should ever feel that they weren’t wanted. I hate that for you.”

“Don’t,” he said a bit harshly, unable to take her pity. “I’m just trying to explain.”

“You were never given any information about your past at all?”

He downed half his glass of tea for his suddenly parched throat. “All I know is that when I was about two days old, I was found in a trash bin in Los Angeles, nearly dead of exposure and starvation.”

She covered her mouth with her fingers, fingers that shook, he noted. No, it wasn’t a pretty story, but she’d asked. “So yeah, I always knew I belonged nowhere, with no one.”

“How cruel! How could a foster parent, someone trusted with a child, do that? Make you feel that way?” she cried.

“Hey. Hey, it doesn’t matter now,” he said, a little surprised, and touched, at the tears shimmering in her eyes. He put a hand over hers. “I’m trying to make you understand, that’s all. Why I don’t like it here.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me all this before?”

“I never told anyone.” He could hear the hurt and shock in her voice and for some reason, sought to alleviate both. “I just pretended it wasn’t so bad. And when I was with you, it wasn’t.” He smiled into the face of her tears. “Look, Rach, the point of all this is, I always planned on getting out of South Village, only I couldn’t do it until I was eighteen. My entire childhood and adolescence, I was stuck. Held by circumstance, poverty, disregard, whatever. So the minute I graduated-”

“You got the hell out,” she finished softly.

“I got the hell out,” he agreed.

“You never said. I never knew. I never understood.”

“I wasn’t real great at sharing that side of my life. I was so full of frustration and rage and the need to get out, I didn’t know what I wanted-other than to go, of course-or even what I’d do with myself when I did.”

“But you found out.”

“Yeah.” He thought of all the places he’d been, how in each one he’d learned something new, and had added it to the stack, accumulating experiences and emotions in a way he hadn’t been able to growing up. “I loved it. I still love it.”

Her eyes were immeasurably sad, and yet full of something else too, a new understanding. Finally, she understood him.

Why was that the most bittersweet thing of all?

She turned her hand over in his and held on. “Ben? I want to tell you something. Something I should have told you a long time ago, too.” She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t belong anywhere, either.”

“You belong here in South Village.”

“I didn’t always. You know we moved at the drop of a hat while my father raided and pillaged corporations.”

“Yes.”

“Until we came here, until I found South Village, I never had roots or a real home, either.”

“And yet we ended up on opposite sides of the fence.”

Her eyes filled again. “I never saw it that way before…but how I feel about my home…that’s how you feel about your travels. My God, and all this time I thought we were so different.”

“I know.” His throat felt raw, talking to her like this. Sharing. Feeling it all over again. Chest aching, he leaned forward, wanting to be closer. “Want to hear something shocking?”

That got a short laugh. “After all this?” she asked. “Please. What else would shock me?”

He let out a sheepish smile. “Truthfully? It’s not so bad waking up every morning to view the sunrise from the same porch. Not so bad having a tangible address in a full but clean and happy city leaping with life… I can admit that much, even if I can’t share your love for it.”

One lone tear slowly spilled over, slipped down her cheek. “Oh, Ben.”

His gaze dropped to her lips to watch the words come out.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, too.

“This hasn’t changed, has it?” He leaned close over the table, so that her breath mingled with his, making him shiver in anticipation, awareness. Need. “This physical attraction.”

Her tongue darted out, wet her dry lips, making him groan. “It always was crazy,” she agreed in a hushed whisper. “Always uncontrollable, this…this…”

“Need. We need each other, Rach. It doesn’t change anything about who we are, but damn, I’d really like to hear you say it.”

“What, that I need you more than my next breath, in a way I don’t want?” Her eyes were big on his. “Well, I do. God, Ben, I do.”

“Good.” They were so close it seemed like the most natural thing in the entire world to close the gap between them and capture her lips with his.

With a low sound in her throat, she pushed even closer. Ben shoved the things cluttering the table out of his way so he could get more of her mouth, more of her. It was good, and he angled in for even more, which she gave, until a shattering crash of glass had them both pulling back, blinking like moles coming out in to the daylight.

Rachel stared at the ground at their feet, where one of them had knocked over her iced tea. “Was that us?”

He laughed, but it backed up in his throat when she licked her lips again, as if she needed that last taste of him. “Maybe we should get out of here,” he suggested, thinking somewhere…like her bedroom.

She let out a low laugh that was so innately female, so sensual, it revved his engines all over again. “Oh, no. We’re not getting out of here. This is not leading back to the question of my…” She blushed.

“Your orgasms?”

“Uh, yes.” She stole his tea and sipped. “We’re staying right here. Out of temptation and trouble.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes to cool off.”

Great. “More iced tea, please,” he said to a passing waitress.

THE CODED KNOCK came before dawn. Manuel made his way carefully through the dark, damp cellar. He still didn’t dare risk using a generator at this time of day, so a small flashlight was all he had.

Specs of dirt and dust danced through the air in the beam of light, but he couldn’t focus on that or he’d lose his mind. He answered the door eagerly, too eagerly, but he couldn’t help that, either. Everything hinged on this. “Did you get it?”

“The raid got a little bloody,” came the hesitant answer. “The villagers fought back.”

“Did you get the money?” Manuel Asada repeated with dangerous calm.

“Y-yes.”

Everything within him relaxed. Finally. The tide would turn now, because with the money they’d stolen tonight, it was a start. Money was power, and with power he could do anything.

Like destroy the man who’d brought him down.

FOR RACHEL, the next few days fell into a rhythmic pattern of continued physical therapy, attempting to connect with her daughter and a silent, intense, arousing sort of dance with Ben. The longing, the hunger was unmistakable, but she knew it would be so much worse if they gave in.

So she did her best to ignore the sensual, earthy humming inside her body-and Ben’s promise to ease that humming.

Always in the past, work had been her savior, but Gracie continued to elude her. Instead, when she sat at her easel, she ended up with a sketch of…Ben of all things. Ben on his knees, his arms around Emily, who was not only smiling as she always had in the good old days, she was cradling the well-behaved-ha!-Patches.

A fantasy. She pulled the sheet off, tossed it aside and started again, this time ending up with a sketch of South Village’s joyful, exuberant nightlife, the refurbished firehouse and the street where she lived in the midst of the scene.