Chapter 32 Citrus
As soon as he’d found himself something to do, Lydia headed back upstairs, climbing the stairs two at a time and rechecking the protective plastic.
She set all of his personal effects—a body scrubber, toothbrush, and water flosser set up, a single-blade razor—in the personal effects caddy, set it in the closet, and turned on the shower, angling out of the shower door to soak the floor. Water swirled around the drain in the floor. Lydia dropped a cup over it to keep the water pooling and climbed up to start with the dust on the light covers.
The sound of running water pushed the remnants of the day to the back of her mind. Her muscles uncoiled as she worked, and she relaxed.
Damn Jax, but also damn his own mind. He’d meant what he said about what kind of woman would be best to stick it to the Society. He had not wanted to think about how he was describing the picture he’d had in his mind of Lydia or what it would mean for him to really start wondering if Lydia could be an option, especially since she was already entwined with the Society.
Animkii had looked at her employee file with the Bar: the right age, a part-timer, had roommates, and was an Arts student on the island. Probably one of the affiliated little studios around the island.
If she were an Aegis student, there were so many better jobs she could have gotten, even as just an Art major.
The most important thing was that she wasn’t anything like Amber or Mason’s ex, or any other woman the Society would readily deem worthy of being with a founding son.
They’d hate the match, but if he could convince her… if they could be convincing together, they’d have to shut up before they even started to truly terrorize her any more than they likely already had.
So, he lingered and watched, trying to see beyond her black professionalism to see if it could work.
After she’d taken the photo of the right laundry detergent and used some of the same stuff the team’s staff used to clean their uniforms, he was relatively assured he’d stop itching sooner rather than later.
Becca was staying with her boyfriend for the night, some athlete at Aegis who wasn’t good enough, but made his baby sister happy. He’d be alone for the evening, for better or for worse.
He’d be lying if he wasn’t imagining what it would take to convince her, how the play would have to form around their lives to be convenient and convincing for both of them.
Contrary to Animkii’s belief, it was unlikely he’d have to stop partying. He’d just have to be a little discreet about it if he was going to give a damn about her dignity.
She seemed like the type to want that. Not a hardship. He didn’t like to party after every game; he’d just gotten used to it because fuck the Society.
The sound of running water drifted from upstairs, then footsteps and doors opening in quick succession. The washing machine hummed.
She came down the stairs with more laundry: the rest of the towels, it looked like. The water was still going upstairs. She stopped to sort clothes into piles down the hallway and disappeared into the other rooms, opening windows and doors. Back with more sheets, then she was grabbing a stick with a brush at the end and a branded spray bottle: one of the cleaners the floor specialist recommended. A small package of powder was shaken, and she was heading upstairs with the brush-like broom.
It wasn’t until the trickle of water started coming down the stairs that he understood what she was doing. And anyone who handled his floors the same way the flooring professionals had when they’d first cleaned them probably knew what they were doing.
Competent. Though after four years, it made sense that she was.
He grabbed his tablet, settled into the couch, and started reviewing play tapes, keeping one ear free in case someone came or she needed anything.
The scent of citrus drifted down the stairs along with the sound of falling water. She came downstairs, waving her spray bottle lightly over every step, her broom on her shoulder. A few minutes later, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the bottle and broom in front of the island. Cabinets opened and closed, more water and soft clinking.
More citrus, lemon this time came. He tried not to watch when she came out of the kitchen with a small bucket and a rag. A ladder was pulled from a side closet he’d forgotten about, then she was up, wiping down the light fixtures.
His gaze dropped to her ass and the round curve of it in the plain black pants. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were the same jeans from the bar. She was an artist. He’d always thought they tended to have a lot of color in their wardrobe, the exact opposite of Becca.
Working at the Kudu, maybe she didn’t make enough around her fancy art classes to throw any pizazz into her wardrobe. So money? Clothes? Shopping? He made enough to support a habit or five.
He having some sort of whacky style would definitely piss off the Society. Might make her feel a little empowered about it, too.
He thought of her on the ground, shaking, the faint scent of vomit in the air…
He’d been sixteen in that same position, skin crawling and rattled to his core, staring bleakly into a future he couldn’t see a way out of.
Fuck.
He was going to do this, wasn’t he? He was going to try, at least. Not even for the corpse of the sixteen-year-old in him, but for that haunted look in her eyes.
His mom had that look the night before he’d sent her home. She hadn’t wanted to go. She had refused to leave without him, but she had to, or she wouldn’t be leaving in anything but a body bag.
Dorian set his tablet on his lap, letting them play in his ears, but he got nothing from the tapes but noise.
If not tumbling through his own memories, his attention was glued to the woman cleaning his house in complete silence.
Thoughtful, heavy silence. Was she always like this, or was she being respectful of his presence here?
He remembered cleaning with his mother. It was never so quiet, not because she played music or chatted. She liked to sing to herself or make up a song to the rhythm of washing dishes. His grandmother was the same way.
Lydia was far more relaxed than she had been earlier, or even at the Bar. The sound of running water, the ocean lapping at the shore, and the soft sounds of her moving around in the space uncoiled the tension in his shoulders.
It wasn’t the same kind of orange or lemon, but it was close enough.
If he closed his eyes, he could see his avó’s house in São Paulo that summer before he became Dorian Knox.