"Jeannie," Thorne murmured against her lips as she trembled in his arms.
"You two. Take it inside!" The judge called from his open window. He banged it shut a second later.
Thorne laughed. A low, gruff sound that was rusty from disuse. Green eyes held caramel for a moment as they both registered the hunger within. Thorne tore his gaze away from Jeannie to gather her dropped articles. He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. His long legs ate up the distance to the entrance. Up the steps. Down the dark hallway.
He tapped his foot impatiently as Jeannie dug in her bag's innards for her keys. Pulling them out, her hand shook with nervous anticipation. The keys fell in a flash of silver. Thorne's reflexes sprang into action, scooping them up before they hit the floor. He fit the key in the hole and turned the handle, opening the door wide.
He was on Jeannie the second they entered, pressing her against the wood as their bodies shut the door with a bang. Jeannie's shoulder dug into the door while the knob indented her backside.
Thorne lowered his head. His lips brushed hers, once, twice, before his tongue entered her mouth for a soul-searing kiss. Jeannie matched his movements, fisting the cloth of his shirt between her hands. She pulled him closer, leaving no air between them.
There they remained, tongues twining, mouths sucking, hands roaming to places they had only dreamed about. Gently at first and then with more and more intensity until they both had to come up for air.
Their ragged breathing rang out in the apartment's stillness. Staring into each other's eyes, they marveled at the depth of feeling the other displayed.
Thorne was about to lower his head for more kisses when his phone buzzed in his back pocket, breaking the spell.
He squeezed in a light peck on Jeannie's lips before reaching around to retrieve his phone. He moved from Jeannie to settle on the couch. Crossing an ankle over his knee, he put the phone to his ear.
"Hey, Quentin," Thorne said in greeting, his smile lighting up the room.
He is calm, she noted.
His chest barely rose and fell while she panted like a galloping horse. Her mouth creased into a frown. Thorne's quick recovery proved the kiss didn't affect him like it did her. While Thorne talked to his subordinate, Jeannie seized the opportunity to slip into the kitchen. She took a glass from the cupboard and opened the tap, letting the cold water fill it to the rim. As she gulped down the liquid, she prayed it would cool her ardor as it did her throat.
Thorne came in as she was refilling her glass for the second time. He leaned against the door and placed his cell on the countertop. "Quentin told me to tell you 'hey.'"
Jeannie nodded, avoiding his eyes. She set the glass in the sink and moved past him.
"What would you like for dinner?" Jeannie said over her shoulder as she rooted inside the bowels of the refrigerator. "Pepper Steak or Chicken Cordon bleu?"
Thorne wanted Jeannie in his armsâdamn the foodâbut he let her have her way.
For the time being.
"Which one is easiest?" he asked.
"Pepper steak."
Thorne noted her clipped tone, and his heart lurched. The coolness in the room had nothing to do with the Artic air coming from the open fridge. Jeannie's demeanor had dropped to fifty degrees below zero since he'd answered his phone.
Was she angry?
Thorne was afraid to ask. He didn't want her to send him away. He knew he wouldn't recover if she did. The kiss they shared outside wasn't just a kiss, it was a brand sealing her to him. A reckoning for whoever cared to take notice.
Jeannie studied him with wary eyes as he decided. "Make it pepper steak, then."
She merely nodded and gathered the ingredients, leaving him confused.
Did something happen?
Thorne's arms broke out in goosebumps at the thought. He knew Shon had attended the same meeting as Jeannie. Quentin had called to tell him so, shortly after he'd left Jeannie's apartment.
Has Shon won her over after all?
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but how could he explain how he knew Shon was with her? He couldn't, so he held his tongue.
Jeannie emerged from the refrigerator with a brick of meat wrapped in butcher's paper, four large green peppers, and two stalks of celery. She looked down her arm as she pointed a finger to the kitchen door, a pepper clutched tightly in her fist.
"Why don't you watch TV while I make dinner. It won't take long."
"I want to help, Jeannie." Thorne hoped that by helping her cook, he could find out why she was being so distant.
Jeannie shook her head. Her next words came out low and wobbly like a busted tire from a bike run over by a car. "I can manage, please... just go."
Thorne wanted to comfort her, but if he bungled the attempt and she became even more upset, he doubted she would let him get close again.
Instead of doing what his heart told him, Thorne created a canyon between them by leaving the room.
As he sat on the couch, facing away from the kitchen door, every knife chop or grease sizzle had his heart racing.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek. An old habit in the times of stress. The last time was at eight years old when he'd left the care of Diana Stevenson.
It was she who had given him the scars on his chest. The ones Thorne had tattooed over with his first earnings from The Source. Thorne had invested many hours, stinging pain, and a lot of cash to camouflage the thin scars.
But he still remembered how he'd gotten them.
He remembered everything.
Momma Diana clapped him on the back of the neck.
Hard.
"Your teacher toldt me you was a'talkin' during class." Her three pack a day habit, combined with her morbid obesity, had turned her voice into a thin wheezy whine. "Is that true, boy?"
Thorne nodded, hanging his head.
"I reckon, you a'needin' a'purnishment." She grinned, showing discolored stumps that peppered her empty gums. Her mousy brown hair, done up in the beehive of her youth, showcased her watery blue eyes that danced with malice.
Thorne trembled. His lanky frame quivering with fright as Momma Diana loomed over him. Her broad shoulders blocked out the overhead light bulb making the room take on a defeated glow.
"I only wunted Jeff to stop pinching me, is all."
The slap, a backhand this time, was quick. The force rocked the boy on his heels. Thorne blinked back the moisture, which threatened to spill from his blank green eyes.
"No sass, boy." Momma Diana lips, a cut of red in her doughy face, thinned even further.
"Yessum," Thorne said, his shoulders sagging in resignation.
Without another word, he trudged into the kitchen and retrieved the plastic measuring cup from the pink dish rack. Thorne scooped up enough kernels from the ten-pound bag to fill it to the brim.
His "purnishment" was to lay on the rice, usually for half an hour, while Momma Diana pressed her smelly feet into his back, grinding the kernels deep into his upper torso.
In the two years of "getting the rice," small scars had formed in a crisscross pattern on his chest. They served as a reminder of his past transgressions.
"Spread out the newspaper nice 'n thick, cause you're a'gonna be there for a spell."
Thorne nodded as he blankly stared at his caregiver for a few moments before doing what she asked.
Mama Diana followed Thorne's movements with feral eyes like those of a rabid dogâwild and psychotic.
Thorne arranged the paper. The rice came next, spilling out of the cup in a thin layer. The comic section with its brightly colored pictures under the coating of white pain made Thorne's stomach bubble and churn with misery.
When it threatened to choke him, he jumped up and ran to the sink, expelling his free school lunch onto a pile of dirty dishes. The small insects nestled among the filth, ran in all directions.
Momma Diana came from behind to cuff him on the head. Strands of his dry blond hair caught on her rings. When she drew her hand back, his hair ripped out.
Thorne schooled his features into a blank mask as he massaged the stinging sensation. Momma Diana bent down to his level. She railed at him with narrowed eyes. With her crusty lips curled into a sneer, she said, "You're weak, boy. You need to toughen up."
Thorne nodded, knowing what awaited him if he dared to disagree.
"Well, git to it, boy. Bingo is down ter the church tonight, 'n you ain't 'bout to make me late."
Thorne slowly removed his shirt, a bargain-buy from the discount store. Momma Diana had paid only half the price of the T-shirt. While the cashier had helped another customer, she'd sneakily made a hole under the arm with her key. Still undetected, she'd used her dentures to tear some fabric from the collar.
Most of Thorne's shirts were in a lot worse shape. Filled with holes, rips, and tears, some of them were downright nasty. Not even ten washes on high heat could take out the sour smell from the armpits.
Staring at the rice, Thorne took a moment to reflect on his life.
After the policemen found him, he was shuffled through the system until a place opened up at a boy's home. The two men that ran the place were ex-military, and they were strict, but not overly so. Thorne had been...content. He had thrived in school and made a few friends. It didn't last. Due to lack of funding, the boy's home had to close. Fast. With no time to inspect every foster home, Thorne paid the price. He was sent to live with Momma Diana and from day one, his life became a living nightmare of abuse. To escape, he retreated into himself. Like he had to do when forced to lay on the rice.
Thorne watched as Momma Diana took her seat on the kitchen chair. The stool groaned and swayed in protest. Her knitting, a pink scarf to wrap around her thick bull-neck, was already on the table. The dull silver of the needles was the brightest item in the kitchen. The small window above the dripping sink was smudged with years of fingerprints and dust and it let in little light.
Carefree laughter of the children playing outside made Thorne's heart spasm in anguish. Why couldn't he have one day of fun in the fresh air? Momma Diana never let him outside to playâ
"Hurry up, boy."
Under Momma Diana's watchful eye, Thorne knelt on the crusty linoleum floor. He didn't dare to complain when a peeled-up corner punctured his knee. Before he laid down, Thorne twisted towards his abuser, his eyes pleading for mercy. His heart sank when she pointed to the floor. Her wheezy breathing had already sped up, and her mountainous bosom heaved with sadistic glee. She liked seeing him in pain.
Momma Diana licked her lips while her heavy lids narrowed over her piggy blue eyes. "Go on," she whispered, leaning forward in her seat, her tongue protruding from her puckered mouth. "Do it, boy."
Just as Thorne did as she ordered, Divine Providence struck.
The chair, in poor condition from years of strain, faltered under its heavy burden. Momma Diana's considerable bulk had shifted just the right way for a leg to splinter and crack. The sound, like the clap of a gunshot, startled Thorne.
As gravity carried Momma Diana down, the splintered wood impaled her chest. Blood spurted into a high arc, hitting the once white ceiling, which was now gray with smoke and grease.
Her right leg slid out at an unnatural angle and the sound, like a gigantic balloon exploding in a rush of wind, echoed in the dingy room. Her kneecap had popped.
Momma Diana hated blood. That was why she always chose "the rice" instead of beatings. Blood, especially her own, paralyzed her. She groveled on the ground while rich red liquid pooled from under her. She whimpered in ragged breaths. Her pudgy right hand stretched in a plea of help, and her fingers curled into claws.
Thorne's feet kicked up the paper on the floor, scattering white kernel in all directions. He shrank from her touch. His eyes strained from his head while his heart beat like a caged bird in his chest. He hatedâ
Lost in thoughts, Thorne heard Jeannie approach a second before she spoke. Only his training kept him from flinching when she placed her hand on his shoulder, gazing into his face.
"Hawthorne?"
In reality, Jeannie's eyes held concern for his haunted expression, but to Thorne, they seemed calculating... cold.
"Dinner's ready," she said, stepping back as he rose.
Thorne needed to leave. He had to get his head on straight. The memory of Momma Diana had anchored him in the past. He wasn't good for the present... the future that stood before him. He was weak and only by leaving now could he get strong.
"I'm sorry, Jeannie. I need to go."