Helen Myers - Just A Memory Away

“Okay, just… don’t close the door.”

“I won’t.” Things were cramped enough as it was. She’d never thought about how small the shower was in all the time she’d owned the Silver Duck. But the stranger changed that the instant they were both inside the cubicle and she tried to help him onto the triangular bench. It was impossible. No matter how badly she wanted to avoid it, those long legs of his were tantamount to trying to maneuver around redwood trees in a gym locker. If she wanted to get him settled, not to mention cleaned up, she would have to suffer through a bit more body contact.

Tough work, Jonesy, but you are the only volunteer.

“Wait a minute.” Already wet, she was drenched by the time she maneuvered him to where he needed to be. “And we haven’t even been properly introduced,” she muttered, the third and hopefully last time his nose bumped against her breast.

Fortunately, he either didn’t hear her or else didn’t care to comment, and she quickly busied herself by adjusting the spray away from herself and back onto him. “Now, if you get dizzy or anything, hold on to me.”

For the moment, however, he seemed content to lean back against the fiberglass wall and close his eyes. In fact, he looked as if it would take dynamite to move him again.

That troubled her. “You can’t go to sleep on me.”

“Tired.”

“No, no, no. You have to help me to help you.”

“Try…”

She shook her wet hair out of her eyes and decided to work on his hair first. From the looks of the dirty water running down his face, she figured the sooner they got him cleaned up there, the better his chances of avoiding an infection in those cuts and scrapes.

Fortunately she used a fragrance-free shampoo and soap, so she didn’t have to worry about an allergic reaction; but she did worry about causing him additional pain. She asked him several times as she carefully worked the soap into a rich lather whether she was hurting him or not, until she finally believed he meant it when he said she had an “angel’s touch.”

“I sure hope so,” she said, getting more chatty to keep from focusing on how his thighs kept rubbing against hers. “I’d sure hate trying to explain to the police why I thought I could do a better job at patching you up than a hospital could.”

“No police. No hospital.”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you before.”

Once she rinsed out the shampoo, however, she had to sacrifice gentleness for thoroughness. Although she half drowned him, she used a washcloth to clean the wound at his temple; but, under the circumstances, it was the only way to make sure she got out every bit of grit.

By the time she had him lean forward to focus on the lump at the back of his head, he’d lost what was left of his equilibrium. When she released him to rinse out her cloth, he almost fell off the seat, nearly taking her with him.

She earned a bruised elbow for that one and a near heart attack. Once she got him steady, she tried again…and again. Each time, she had to deal with the same results.

“I know you’re beat,” she gasped, wearying herself, “but we have to get done.”

“Feel… sick.”

“Now, is that any way to talk to the woman who’s considering having your baby?” She peered at him, hoping that little shocker might have the desired effect. It didn’t. “Okay, then let’s try this. Brace your forearms on your knees and your forehead here.” She patted her tummy to show him.

At first the solution worked perfectly. He stayed steady, and she made good progress as she attended to the nasty bump on the back of his head.

Then she grew aware of how much hotter his breath was

than the water—against her tummy… her thighs…. And

as if that wasn’t enough, when he tilted off-balance again, he recovered by grabbing her legs!

Frankie froze, the feel of his big, strong hands moving on the backs of her thighs just a teensy bit more than she’d bargained for. “Um… mister.”

Could he be toying with her, after all? When he shifted his hold higher and almost cupped her bottom, she was nearly convinced. Then, just as she aimed the washcloth to slap his hands away, he uttered a deep, miserable moan.

“Can’t do this much longer.”

That makes two of us. But she forgave him. “Hold on. We’re almost through.”

“Too much trouble.”

“No, you’re a good sport.” Better than me.

“You. And you have… hands.”

She smiled. “There’s something else we have in common.”

“Great. Meant great hands.”

The fragmented compliment was another throwaway. He was grateful, that’s all; and yet a sharp little thrill raced through her. She was beginning to enjoy this a bit too much.

She tried to be discreet as she put some distance between them and concentrated on washing his neck and shoulders, his chest and arms. It didn’t help. How was she supposed to ignore that although he was on the pale side, his body had the well-developed tone of an athlete?

“Do you run, maybe on an indoor track? Work out at a gym?”

He was slow to answer. “Wish I knew.”

There it was again—that hesitant, anxious tone, As she dealt with yet another wave of sympathy for him, she forced a cheery note into her own voice. “I hate exercise myself. It’s crazy, because I’m going all the time. But tell me that I have to do some formal physical training and I turn into an amoeba. Almost failed gym in school.”

The stranger merely sighed.

It didn’t matter. They were finished anyway. Or finished enough. “Why don’t we get you to your feet.”

She instructed him how to stand, like before, and once again she tried to steady him. He had been a handful earlier; however, it took all her strength this time. As a result, there was no avoiding absolute intimacy—her breasts being crushed against his muscular torso, her cheek against the heavy thud of his heart, and lower…

Omigosh!

No longer was the stranger in a daze. At least one part of him was wide awake! He sucked in a sharp breath, as if only now realizing the problem himself.

“Here.” Once she had him out of the stall, she leaned him against the damp tile wall and reached for the towel. She needed to think, and she would do that better if they put something between them.

He seemed as eager to get the thick length of material around his waist as she was. But he also tried to catch her eye. “Frankie—”

“Careful where you step. We’ve made quite a puddle leaving the door open like we did.”

“Frankie.”

Blast him, but the man was persistent. “What?”

“Why won’t you let me…? I apologize.”

Yes, she was a wuss. She had only to hear his anguish, see the concern in his poor battered face, and she instantly turned into mush inside. And all this time she’d thought only animals could do that to her.

“Apologize for what? Being human?” She looked up at him and accepted another truth about his condition. “You’re not going to be able to endure another move tonight, are you?”

“Just want to… rest.”

“I know. Stay put.”

She’d been right about the hunch of letting him he down on her bed. She knew what to do now.

In the bedroom she flipped on only the small reading lamp, out of concern for his eyes. Then she folded back the coverlet from her queen-size bed and tugged down the sheet. Without trying, her imagination pictured him there, naked between her fresh sheets.

Get over it, Jonesy.

“I know you’re not quite dry,” she said upon her return to the bathroom. “But you won’t hurt anything. The important thing is to get you off your feet. You look ready to drop.”