Touch Me Now. Donna Hill
lowered his head. “No.” He folded the paper and shoved it in his pants pocket. “Time up?”
She moistened her lips. “Yes.”
He bobbed his head. His jaw clenched as he turned toward the door. “See you next week, Doc.”
Maurice opened the door to his one bedroom condo apartment. He’d lucked out and was able to purchase the condo from his Veterans benefits in one of the most sought after communities in the quickly gentrifying neighborhood of Ft. Greene. One of the perks of fighting for your country, he thought derisively.
He’d been in the space for nearly a year after leaving rehab and it was still sparsely furnished, only the basic necessities. It didn’t matter much to him. It was only him. He didn’t have company, there was no woman in his life and all he needed was a place to sleep, eat and bathe.
He tossed his keys into a plastic bowl on the kitchen counter and limped over to the window. He drew in a long, slow breath. Never in a million years would he have imagined his life coming to this point. His breathing echoed in the cavernous space. Alone. Broken.
Dr. Morrison’s words bounced around in his head. …if you are ever going to regain some semblance of life, of an existence, you’re going to have to try. You’re going to have to work at it, just as hard and with just as much passion as you’ve put into being a decorated fighter pilot.…And think about getting back in touch with Ross.
Ross. He almost smiled. Ross McDaniels was his best buddy all through high school and into college. They discovered their love of music together and that it was a surefire way to charm the ladies. Ross was the sax man, he the piano. The two of them together were a lethal combination. Ross had been in his corner when he lost his father and never once came down on him for cutting himself off from his family, even if he didn’t agree. They’d stayed in touch throughout his years in the service and it was not until the accident that Maurice cut off all contact. He didn’t think he could stand to see the look of sympathy in Ross’s eyes. That, he knew he could not take.
He slung his hands into his pockets. Ross didn’t deserve that. His stomach muscles clenched. Was his number still the same? He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contact list.
Ross McDaniels. What could he possibly say to him after all this time?
Maurice swallowed over the tight knot in his throat. Ross had a birthday coming up. His was a month earlier to the day and Ross used to always tease him about being “the oldest.”
He stared at the number, debated a million reasons why and why not and finally pressed Call before he could change his mind.
The line rang three times before it was picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ross, it’s me…Maurice.”
For a moment the line went completely silent.
“Mo…” he finally said. “Don’t B.S. me, man, is this really you?”
The tight knot in his gut burst loose and a tentative smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, man, it’s me. You usually have impersonators calling you?”
Ross laughed from deep down in his belly, a sound so welcome and familiar. Maurice’s eyes stung.
“Not usually. I…where the hell are you?”
“In Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn? You’re back? Why haven’t you called? I tried to find you for months. The Navy wouldn’t tell me shit. What happened? How long have you been home, man?”
Maurice waited a beat. “I’ve been home a little over a year,” he said quietly.
He could almost see the waves of confusion pass over Ross’s face as he tried to process what he’d just been told.
“Say what?”
“It’s a long story. I…would have…I should have called…”
“I’m gonna forget that I should be pissed as hell right now. Brother, I thought…we all thought you were dead, man.”
Maurice heard Ross’s voice crack and that nearly broke him. “Look, I had my reasons.”
“I’m listening. No, as a matter of fact, this is not for a phone conversation. I want to put my eyes on you. Where are you in Brooklyn?”
“Fort Greene. Why?”
“You driving?”
“Yeah.”
“Janet is throwing me a little birthday party tonight. I want you here.”
“Ross…man…”
“I’ll text you the address. Eight o’clock. Not taking no for an answer. Besides, I spent enough birthdays without my man at my side.”
He thought about it. “Things are different. I’m different.”
“We all are,” he said softly. “Eight o’clock.”
“All right. Eight.”
Chapter 3
Layla was never one for sitting in traffic and knew that city dwellers would be packing up to head to the shores come Friday afternoon. The idea of bumper to bumper cars, noise and horn blowing put her spine in a vice grip. She decided to hit the road on Thursday at mid-day. Getting around the winding streets of lower Manhattan was half the battle. Once she hit the William Floyd Parkway toward Shirley, Long Island it got easier. She put her foot down on the gas and didn’t let up.
The two and a half-hour drive took just about two hours and before she had a chance to get tired she saw the signs for the Sag Harbor turnoff up ahead.
She pressed the button on the armrest to lower the windows and took a deep inhale of the ocean-tinged air. The scents of salt, sand and sea were carried along by the balmy breeze. Layla inhaled deeply. Her grip loosened on the steering wheel and her shoulders slowly lowered from their sentinel position near her neck. She had no idea how tightly wound her body was until she felt the embrace of the leather cushion of the seat.
Her clients were lukewarm about her departure and one woman began to whine about how Layla’s leaving was interfering with her calendar. Mona told her that her job at Jack and Jill’s would be waiting for her when she got back and not to worry about a thing. Mona had lent strong shoulder strength after the utter devastation of her engagement to Brent. Mona spent many an hour and drank countless mimosas listening to Layla pour out her heartache and fury and just as many assuring her that it was Brent who was the asshole, that it was his loss not hers and that a real man was out there waiting for her—when she was ready. She was certain she would never be ready. She couldn’t survive another hurt like that and the only way to get hurt like that is to love someone. That was something she had no more intentions of doing. She was going to build her business, travel, enjoy her friends and maybe even write a book one day about the art of healing through touch. But love…she was done.
She’d paid up her rent for three months, had her utilities and cable temporarily suspended, packed her bags and hit the road. Taking in the magnificent view and allowing the tranquility of the shore to seep into her limbs, she knew she’d made the right decision.
Her foot eased off the accelerator as she entered the town proper. The cobblestone streets were lined with bright colored canopies and shiny glass windows advertising the array of shops, restaurants, bakeries, specialty stores and art galleries. The waters along the pier were home to everything from basic fishing boats, to outboards to large yachts and party boats that lolled atop the soft waves.
The Port was beyond the center of town, across a wide swath of beach and soft rolling hills. Lincoln had built the place up from two small cabins to a dozen, complete with the kind of amenities expected at high price hotels—a bar, sit down restaurant, exercise room, a lounge and room service. And now The Port had its