The Cure

Chapter 19

Nathaniel hesitated by the front door, his gym back as heavy on his shoulders as his sixteen hour shift, turning the key around and around in his hands. The corridor's auto-light had turned off five times already, and now he waited in the dark.

God, what if she was there?

Since she had walked away from him under the yellow light of the theatre foyer, her hair a blond waterfall down her bare back, a semi self-assured saunter, as if her eyes weren't reddened and her dignity wounded, he had felt unexpectedly and unnecessarily nervous around her.

Hell, since she had thrown him against the door and threaded her fingers into his jeans, the heady effects of her presence had unsettled him.

The way she had pulled her arm away from under his touch, as if electricity had thrilled up her skin the way it had his; the way she had looked into his eyes, those quick, intelligent pools staring back until he had to look down, seized with sudden and unanticipated temptation.

The sway of her hips had swept in an unstoppable loop in his mind for the rest of the evening, deafening him to Carmen's vibrato and Rosie's hopeful hints about dinner afterwards.

He cursed low in the shadows of the corridor before the flat door, condemning the hospitality industry and their irregular hours and Lola's probable absence, or potential presence, in one breath.

That silent strength, that ferocious charm; Lola was wild, and she was unpredictable, and she stalked his thoughts like the tigress that he was.

And Jared was a fucking idiot.

Nate clenched his jaw automatically as he remembered Lola joining Jared at the interval of the opera, and Jared's hand sneaking over her lower back, along her curves in the black satin of her dress, only hours after he had sucked salt off Frieda's fingers as Lola looked everywhere but at them.

Not that he could blame Jared for that, Nate admitted inwardly. She had looked impossibly beautiful, unbearably touchable.

But he had made her upset. And that was a harder pill to swallow.

He was brought back to the present by the sound of a masculine voice echoing from behind the door, furtively and fiercely shushed, the urgent whisper clearly feminine, and heat rose in his chest as Jared popped into his mind again.

Not under his roof.

He drew in a steadying breath as he pushed the door aside.

A large banner billowed low from the ceiling, Congratulations, Doctor Wells blaring in black paint upon it, and bellowed well from the lips of what could have been fifty people.

Nathaniel threw on a large grin, looking about the smiling faces, drowning in the applause and the whoops as he scanned the interlopers.

He caught the eyes of a few, finding no important blue.

Rosie darted forward from the crowd, throwing her arms about his neck.

'Didn't doubt you for a second,' she sang, pulling on his shoulders as he set his gym bag embarrassedly down on the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. Oh, God, and there was his father, his arm proudly around his mother; he took Rosie's arm from about his shoulders, kissing the back of her hand chastely. 'What do you want to drink?'

That was more like it; he accepted a beer readily, throwing its fresh, crisp confidence back in several gulps to the renewed applause of the starers, and Damien was tapping on a glass with a spoon from the back of the room, his smile impish as the din diminished.

Nathaniel winced. What an asshole.

'I think we all need a decent excuse to get fucked up. May as well take this one.' He held his half-empty bottle of beer aloft amid hearty whoops and the affectionate tuts of his parents. 'Cheers.'

The loft felt different when its air was swallowed by the tinny trills of popular music; Nathaniel wasn't sure he liked it, and so he drank relentlessly, only starting to enjoy himself when it neared midnight. Rosie turned gaily about with Melissa, serving neat platters of appetisers neatly made by his mother, who hooked her arm through his, now, revelling in the best of life.

'This is the best of life,' she confirmed, leaning her head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head. 'I'm so proud of you. Are you happy, my boy?' His smile would surely suffice, but she wouldn't stop looking at him, now. 'Nate?'

He couldn't lie to her, but he sure as hell wouldn't tell her the truth, either. The onslaught of questions that would surely follow were thankfully interrupted by the swaying arrival of his father, who tapped Nathaniel on the back of his hand with a finger.

'I was just saying to your girl that you two should hurry up and get married. No, no—' he held the same finger up as Nathaniel protested, urgently, '—you really are a wonderful match.'

'Jesus, Dad, you said that to Rosie?'

'Her parents are lovely, too,' Doctor Wells continued in the heady, hopeful oblivion of the inebriated. 'Have you met them?'

'God, no,' Nathaniel said quickly. 'No, it's not that serious.'

'It's only been a year, Greg,' Mrs. Wells reasoned with her wobbling husband, sensing her son's discomfort; Nathaniel took a hurried draught of beer.

Had it really been that long?

'Well, you should. Snap her up.' Doctor Wells looked smilingly on as Rosie appeared at Nathaniel's side, giving the old man a knowing, proud smile as she slipped her fingers through Nathaniel's and gave him a peck on the cheek.

'I'm tired,' Rosie whispered. 'Shall we say goodnight?' The smell of cranberry juice was strong on her breath. 'Or shall I stay—'

'One last shot!' Somebody cried, and somebody else opened a bottle of tequila; and gratefully bathed in its insistent ochre, Nathaniel had barely noticed that it was three in the morning, and that his party had greatly diminished, until the front door opened.