Kiss Of The Blue Dragon

I sat up, tired of pretending things were normal. Tired of pretending I was satisfied with this cleverly crafted life of mine. I rose up on my knees, leaned against the back of the couch and craned my head out the window for a breath of fresh air.

I saw a couple walking by after a night at Rick’s Café Americain. Perfect timing. They giggled and smooched, obviously in love. Then my gaze wandered until I found something that floored me—Marco’s SUV. He was still here?

It looked like he was sleeping in his car. He was leaning his head against the headrest and his forearm hung out the window.

I listened to distant traffic noise, and the sound of someone’s music blaring from an apartment a block away, and wondered why. Why the hell had he stayed?

As if he heard my silent question, Marco raised his head and caught me staring. He got out of his car, and crossed the deserted street, heading toward my door. I walked down the stairs ready to tell him I could take care of myself. I reached the ground level entrance and paused when my hand grasped the doorknob. I pushed back the short sprigs of hair that clung to my moist forehead, then smoothed over my loose, long cotton pajama pants and spaghetti-string top. How silly to worry about how I looked.

I opened the door and found Marco standing in midnight’s shadow. He exuded masculinity like an aura, and I wondered how taught his muscles were beneath his crisp and fashionable linen shirt. I could reach out and find out myself, if I had the guts.

He thrust his hands into his pants’ pockets and squinted at me through a sliver of moonlight. “You change your mind about that beer?”

“No, I need you to get the hell—”

He closed the distance and the words died in my throat as one of his strong, tanned hands moved around my narrow waist, massaging the tight muscles in my back. He pressed me against him.

“Marco,” I whispered, stunned by his gentleness, “you’re very good at this.”

“Shut up, Baker, and try to relax for two seconds.” He pulled me closer against him in a bear hug. For one pure second I felt at peace.

And just like that, the moment passed. We slowly parted. At least he had the decency to look as disturbed as I felt. It was time for that beer.

We sat out on my second-floor garden balcony, silent for a long time. The embrace notwithstanding, I felt amazingly comfortable in his presence and began to relax. For some reason I couldn’t explain, I trusted Marco. Besides, we’d almost died together.

Part of the multilayered wooden deck nestled like a big tree house in the giant elm shooting up past my roof. Now and then the leaves around us rustled in a desultory breeze. Marco rested against the railing and drank from the bottle of beer gripped in his big fist. I sat in a wicker chair, occasionally pressing my cold, brown-glass bottle to my temples, occasionally sipping. When you’re really wiped out, nothing beats a beer in an old-style glass bottle.