Heathens & Hand Grenades (Book 1 of the Heathens Duet)

Chapter 20- Callie

He turns back around and his eyes search, for what I can't began to imagine, but they seem to find it and his shoulders relax.  His eyes close slowly, a deep sigh passes through his lips, and a throat clearing cough rattles his chest. "Did you get burnt?"

I can honestly say that I completely forgot about the pain when faced with a distraction free moment alone with God. My heart is terribly out of shape for the marathon these men have it running. God's practiced calm is a far cry for the emotional ninja course the past twenty-four hours have been for me. It's a marvel how he does it. I could rival Alice Liddell herself in curiosity at the moment.

There is so much more to these men than just bank robbers. There has to be. No violence, no panic. They worked together like a well-oiled machine until I threw myself into the mix like a rusty wrench.  So stupid. I don't know what I was thinking. I mean I do, Nicole, but I wish for once I could have had just an ounce of self-preservation.

But that's never been me. The whole reason for this mess of a life. Rose colored glasses make red flags so easy to ignore. Great time for introspection Callie.

"Calista?" God crouches in front of me, his hands resting on his knees as he waits. Judging by the concern, I'd guess he's been trying to grab my attention for a moment.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It got me a little bit, but it's fine now. Barely even feel it," I say a bit to brightly. Real convincing Callie. A sinkhole isn't too much to ask for, right? Because the ground opening wide and swallowing me up sounds ideal right about now.

"Do you mind if I take a look?" His husky voice feels like a warm hug, impossible to resist.

So I don't, nodding my head as I peer at him through my lashes. There's something about his eyes that feel like they can see though all the secrets buried in my soul.

Rough hands marred by old scars and burn marks slowly ease my shirt up as he keeps his eyes on mine. Sucking in my stomach does little to keep his knuckles from dragging across my skin, heat following as my breath hitches in my chest. He has to feel it. My thighs squeeze together, itching for something between them and I pray he can't.

This close, it's easy to see the variations in his eyes. Blending in with the dark railroad tie brown is sunlight hitting the fall leaves, and a hint of sea glass green around the pupil. Gorgeous. He licks his lower lip, swallows, and continues his inspection. My heart is thundering in my chest so hard I'm positive it's visible to the naked eye and I feel like I'm in my birthday suit doing the wobble under his gaze. 

I lean back on the bed as his fingers pass my bra to the middle of my chest where I spilled his drink. "Just a bit red. Doesn't look too bad. Just be a bit more careful next time," he says as he eases my shirt back down. "Here's a shirt if you want to change. Let me know when you're done," he says before turning around and giving me a moment.

Sweet baby Jesus do I need it. Has it really been that long since a man has touched me?

I slip off my shirt, bundle it into a ball, and toss it at my feet before sliding his black shirt over my head. I've clearly underestimated our size difference. The same size shirt that clung to him like a second skin looks more like a night gown on me. I suppress a squeal as his warm whiskey scent envelops me. Whiskey and hand rolled tobacco cigarettes, a warm comforting mix that reminded me of what a dad would wear. Yeah, I'm pretty sure a therapist would have a field day with that. It would honestly explain a lot.

God shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Done yet?"

"Yes sir," I say sitting up. I've really got to ease up on the sirs, but my manners are on autopilot. God and the others can't be more than five years older than me, no need to be so formal.

God stops shifting, his back straightens, and he rolls his shoulders. A cough clears his throat before he turns to face me. I scoot back at the intensity in his eyes even as they narrow at the movement. "What did you come here for Calista? I strongly doubt it was to borrow my shirt," he says, canting his head to the side as his eyes rove over me.

I prepare myself to feel disgusted by his perusal like I would with Colt or indifferent like Blake, but I feel neither. Instead my body lights up like the Fourth of July and in an enclosed space like this, it's bound to start a fire I have no hope of extinguishing.

My foot by some miracle of fate, bumps the mug, reminding me of my original purpose. "Your throat," I shout out. Much louder than I thought if God's quirked brow is any indication. "I brought you a Hot Toddy. Though at this point it's more of a lukewarm Toddy. Family recipe. Known to cure all sore throats. Might not fix yours because of the whole-," I exaggeratedly gesture at my throat because the good Lord couldn't give me words to make this any less awkward. "But it should help. Hopefully. I'll just shut up now." I sigh. Why do I put my foot in my mouth every time I talk to these guys? Nicole never has this problem and I've been her wing woman at the bars enough to know. 

He looks just as flabbergasted as me at the words that just came out my mouth. His eyes crinkle as a smile takes over his face. The expression seems rusty and halting. It's a shame really. God really is beautiful when he smiles and I'd love to see it brighten up his face more often.

Whatever was simmering in the air between us dissipates as the mood lightens. "Thank you. I'm sure it'll do me some good." Still he sniffs the drink carefully before taking a small sip. I anxiously wait for his reaction before he splutters and coughs.

"It's the cayenne powder. Always does that at first, but you eventually get used to it and it's supposed to help. I don't understand it either, but I know better than to mess around with any of Aunt Rachel's recipes. That woman is a mad scientist in the kitchen and I'm not stupid enough to mess with things beyond me."

He takes a seat beside me on the bed, turning to face me as he nurses his drink. "My grandmother was the same way," he says as he looks off, lost in a memory. "I'd been meaning to talk to you after," he waves his hand around as if searching the air for a word. "Earlier. Sorry about Rave. He's an ass when he's trying to make a point, but he's our ass. Give him a bit to adjust and I'm sure he'll agree. Probably find his own way of apologizing."

I snort. Doubtful. I'd have a better chance of a white Christmas in Florida than Rave apologizing.

He leans in close until barely a breath separates us. "Do me a favor and make him work for it," he says before resuming our earlier distance.

         I doubt I can make the brute do anything he doesn't want to do, but the thought of telling God that makes me itch. It feels like letting down a teacher, a hot one, but a teacher nonetheless. He's got that stern stare and hard mouth thing down perfectly and to be honest, it's working. I don't want him to turn that disappointed face my way.

         "I'll try my best," I offer.

         "That's all I can ask for," he says as he takes three fingers and lightly cups my chin. I'm stunned by the intimate gesture and my tongue turns to putty rendering me plumb, dumb, and stupid. He's got to know the power that move holds. Heaven help us all if he thinks that was anything innocent.

         "Moving on, I really wanted to ask you about something you said earlier. 'After all, sometimes it's heathens that understand God better than the rest of us.' Such an odd thing to say, isn't it?"

         All these abrupt changes in conversation are giving me whiplash. My brain is still firmly focused on the way his fingers felt when he grasped my chin. I can only imagine what they'd feel like wrapped around my neck.

         "Are you thirsty? Cause I am parched," I squeak out as I try to stand. Anything for a break because it's only a matter of time before I utterly and completely embarrass myself, if I haven't already.