Three played a 'Wicked Game.' Now, it's time for round two.
One will fight. One will meet The Maker. And one will try to keep them all safe.
The world may be black and white but to win this game, they'll have to play in the gray.
"Um...Isabeth." A heavy baritone snatched Isabeth out of her deep thoughts as she pillaged through the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. "What are you doing in my house?"
Isabeth set her faraway eyes on the masculine form in front of her. Barefooted with dark wash jeans hanging on his hips she knew he slept in from the wrinkles clinging to the pants legs. He held his chest, which had a thick band of gauze wrapped around it. His light and frequent breath reminded her why she stood in his kitchen.
"You need groceries." She affirmed holding up a loaf of rye bread. "And oranges, apples. Um..." She combed her hand through her hair nervously, "Spinach. Bok Choy. Kale. They're high in calcium which you need for the..." She pointed to his chest. "The broken ribs." She gave him a wary smile as she stood in the sleek white kitchen with its blue-gray cabinets.
Clayton took in a breath as he winched from the pain, "Look, you don't have to take care of me." His honey eyes fell from her and to the sturdy, muscular Doberman lapping water from a silver bowl—retrieved from one of the cabinets probably. He wouldn't know; he'd been eating take-out since he arrived in Evening. "I was just doing my job."
"FBI agent." She whispered his job title as she fiddled with the coral gem hanging from her gold chain necklace. She went home after meeting with The Messenger and took another long shower. She wanted to stay in there forever and keep washing away the guilt of leaving Alex to languish at the hands of The Maker but Clayton popped into her mind and his condition gave her a purpose. "I remember...but I am the reason you got shot so..." She weakly shrugged, the spaghetti strap of her dark teal cami threatening to fall. "I'm here to help."
Clayton shook his head brushing his feet against the rustic wood floor, as he approached her, "I don't—"
"Please, Clay," Isabeth begged in a feigned tone then her misty eyes flew to the ceiling. She clenched her teeth trying to rein in her emotions. The crashing tides from the beach just a couple of yards away swallowed up the silence between them.
Clayton drunk in the sight of her; the coral shorts just inches from where her thighs met, the gold watch accentuating her bronze mocha skin, the dainty pearls in her ears as her onyx hair was swept over one shoulder.
He thought the pain from being shot was excruciating but it wasn't as distressing as watching her in anguish and not being able to put his arms around her.
"Fine." Clayton held up his free hand in surrender with a charming smile. "But how'd you get in my house."
Isabeth's mouth curved into a slight smile as she turned back to him, "This is the Al-Haddin's beach house, and Fatima and I go way back."
"I beat you go way back with a lot of people in this town." He sidled next to her in the kitchen making sure to leave a fraction of space between them so their arms wouldn't touch. "You seem like the Susie Q type."
Isabeth grabbed the glass jar of fresh milk and yanked open the fridge door, "I don't know if that's an insult or a compliment."
"A compliment," Clayton affirmed leaning against the counter with a groan. "You look out for people. You have a conscience, which is rare these days."
Isabeth slammed the fridge door; his words stabbed her in her heart. "Not always. Sometimes I can be ruthless." She pulled a bag of oatmeal out of the cloth grocery bag. "I'm not as good as you think I am. I'm not the girl in Germany, anymore. I'm a wound scabbed over trying desperately to heal." She whipped open the cabinet door by the fridge and slid the boxes in.
"I don't see a wound," Clay said. He cut off her procession back to the counter with his strewn body. "I see beauty. Strength. Resilience." He raised his hand to her cheek and before Isabeth drew in her next breath he dropped it back to his side. "I see you...not the travails around you."
Isabeth gazed into his eyes biting on the bottom lip. She felt the heat radiated off his body. A heat she once loved to loiter in. "You should..." She blinked out of the trance his hypnotic eyes put her in. "You need to go lie down." She patted his shoulder, "You need your rest." Her phone chirped and she pulled it out of her back pocket.
"I just woke up," Clayton informed as he dug into one of the bags but Isabeth couldn't hear him she was rereading the text on her phone.
"He's back." She smiled from ear to ear regaining the bounce in her step. "Troy's back."
Do you think it's a good thing for Isabeth to be helping Clayton on his road to recovery?
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