She rolled over and sat up. She needed a shower, she supposed, though at that moment she didn’t want to move. She would have to though, wash him away, physically and metaphorically. Because it was over.
She looked down and knew a moment’s shock. There was dried blood on the sheets, dried blood on her body, as well as other marks she didn’t want to think about. He’d hurt his hand, she remembered, wincing. And yet he hadn’t even seemed to notice when they were in bed together. She should look at, make sure it wasn’t broken, make sure it was properly cleaned and bandaged.
She was fooling herself. He was adept at field dressings, and his hand would be easy enough to tend to. He wouldn’t need, wouldn’t want her help.
God, how was she
going to look him in the eye and not think about him inside her?
It was already late morning, and she’d tried very hard never to be a coward. The longer she put off facing him the worse it was going to be. With a final surge she pushed out of bed and headed for the shower.
It was probably the oddest shower of her life, she thought afterward. Some parts of her were sore – her thigh muscles, for example. Other parts were still exquisitely sensitive – if she brushed the washcloth against her skin it set off a rush of heat and excitement.
She turned the water colder and finished quickly, using the towel to pat rather than rub her skin. It wasn’t until she was dressed in her baggiest jeans, now baggier from her infrequent meals, and an oversize t-shirt proclaiming “Go ahead, make my day,” that she realized the boat wasn’t moving. At all.
She ran over to the porthole and let out an involuntary shriek of joy. They’d docked.
She raced out of her cabin, taking the gangway at record speed, emerging on the deck flushed with pleasure, momentarily forgetting her embarrassment over the night before. MacGowan and Dylan were standing at one end, watching the unloading, and it took all her effort not to run towards them, bouncing up and down with joy. After the first few days she’d managed, but eating still hadn’t been a pleasure. But now they were on dry land, in a world of olives and tapas and heavenly spices. Some of the very best food in the world.
They saw her, and Dylan waved enthusiastically, signaling her to join them. MacGowan was watching her with perfect indifference, and she knew her fears had been right. He wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.
She should want the same thing. It would be much too embarrassing to deal with such a momentous happening in public, particularly since it wasn’t going to be repeated. It was much better if it were relegated to the level of unimportant events, easily forgotten.
“We’ve landed,” she said with a cheery smile when she joined them. MacGowan didn’t look her way - he was watching the horizon with what she thought of as his hawk-gaze. Always looking for trouble, when he didn’t realize trouble had just walked up to him.
What would he do if she just went up and kissed him? The thought amused her enough to lighten her dark mood. He’d probably react like she had earlier when he’d come near her. Oh, it was tempting, just to watch him squirm. But he was right. Least said, soonest mended and all that.
Except that she didn’t particularly hold with that philosophy. If there was something that needed to be dealt with then she would much rather talk it out instead of letting it fester beneath the surface.
And come to think of it, she didn’t particularly want to forget about it. Not when she looked at MacGowan’s tall, spare figure, his averted face, the long strands of multi-color hair glistening in the sunlight.
“We can get off in another hour, once the first bit of cargo is off-loaded,” he said, his eyes still trained on the milling crowd. “I’m meeting someone at a middle-eastern restaurant in the western section of town. From then on you won’t need me any more.”
It was going to be like that, was it? “What about the money we owe you?”
At that he did glance her way, his gray eyes flinty. “You and I are even. Dylan’s family doesn’t want him anywhere near them, so I’m guessing they’re not going to reward me for bringing him down off the mountain. It’s up to you, but I would think you’d be ready to get away from me.”
There wasn’t anything she could say to that. He was right, whether she liked it or not. “Fine,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation, and she turned on her heel and stomped away as best she could in flip flops. She only hoped he’d broken his goddamned hand, she thought furiously, throwing the small amount of clothes she’d brought with her into the small carryall. She didn’t need him, not any more. He hadn’t bothered to ask her, but she had money and credit cards stashed inside her mattress, and she’d been carrying it with her since they left the mission. She could take Dylan with her and he could go fuck himself.
“We need to talk.”
“Fuck!” Beth said, jumping back. “What are you doing here? And don’t sneak up on me – I don’t like it.”
He was looking sober, distant, but there was just a trace of amusement in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse before, Sister Beth.”
“If you call me Sister Beth one more time you’ll get more than cursing from me,” she said in a dangerous tone. “What do you want?”
“I didn’t use a condom. I don’t suppose you’re on birth control pills.”
Oh, God. Not only was she going to have to talk about it, she was going to have to discuss embarrassing details. “No,” she said shortly, resisting the impulse to say “what do you think, asshole?” “Am I going to die from some horrible disease?”
“I wouldn’t know, but if you do you won’t have gotten it from me. I’m always very careful, and it’s been three …”
“Years, yes, I know.” She finished the sentence for him. “Then we don’t need to worry.”
“There’s always the off-chance you might get pregnant.”
His words hit her like a sledgehammer, and she turned away from him, rather than let him see her expression. “I would have thought you’d have had a vasectomy.”