Chapter Nine
Macy
I finish taking off my coat and wait for a moment, until I can't hear footsteps on the stairs anymore, and then I crack open the door. It sounded as though Dawson was going slowly then, but he probably needs to, just in case he falls. I don't like that thought, but I can't afford to linger on it, any more than I can afford to linger out here. He said he was just going downstairs to turn out the lights, which means he'll be back soon, and I think it's best for him if I'm not around when he does. He needs to sleep… and so do I. It's late, and while I know I said I'd send a message to Aunt Bernie, there's no rush. She'll be asleep by now, anyway, and what's more important at this moment is that I need the bathroom…
I duck outside and go along the hall, pushing open the bathroom door and turning on the light. It's bright, revealing a modern room, with white tiles and an enormous walk-in shower, alongside which is a roll-top bath. I imagine that was Stevie's choice… like everything else up here, according to Dawson. It seems like a more feminine addition to a bathroom, and I imagine it's quite a comfortable place to relax after a hard day's work.
I'm aware of Dawson's imminent return, though, and I don't waste any time, darting back to the bedroom the moment I'm finished.
I can see yet more feminine touches in here. There's no pink to speak of, but there are floral patterns on the green and cream drapes, and the matching pillows on the bed. It's made up with white bedding, and the oak nightstands on either side provide homes for tall lamps with bright green shades that seem to be the same color as the desk against the far wall. I take a moment to admire the beautiful landscape picture that hangs above it, and then I remember… Aunt Bernie.
I pull out my phone from my back pocket, sitting on the edge of the bed while I send her a message, explaining the situation. She won't reply, and I reach over and put my phone on the nightstand, checking the time. It's nearly midnight, which I suppose could explain my sudden tiredness, and I pull back the covers, wondering if I should sleep in my clothes. I doubt that will be very comfortable, though. I'm used to sleeping naked, but that feels like a step too far, so I compromise and quickly strip down to my underwear before climbing into bed.
It's chilly, although I assume that's because I know there's a thick layer of snow outside, and I wonder about getting up and closing the drapes… except I don't want to. It's warming up in here already, and I snuggle down, staring up at the ceiling and wishing I didn't have to be alone… especially as Dawson is so close.
So close, and yet so far away, because nothing can ever happen between us, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.
It's getting harder and harder all the time, especially now I've seen him with his guard down… just a little.
He was worried that I knew about his drinking. That much was obvious. But I think his reaction was quite positive. He wasn't defensive. If anything, he seemed ashamed. He certainly apologized. And that response is more likely to lead to him giving it up, if you ask me. Not that I'm any kind of expert in these things… but that's how it felt to me.
As for everything else he told me tonight, that's a little more complicated.
He seems to be caught up in his memories. Not in denial, but confused by them. I can't be exactly sure why that is, but maybe if I can get him to talk some more – preferably when he's sober – then I might understand it, and maybe then I can help him. Because I think he might want to be helped, even if he's not willing to admit it yet.
Dawson smiles down at me, caressing my cheek with his fingertips, his lips grazing gently over mine.
"I love you so much," he whispers, gazing into my eyes.
"I love you, too."
He smiles, kissing me again, more deeply this time, his tongue dancing with mine as he lowers his other hand, letting it rest on my ass and pulling me onto him. I can feel his arousal and I moan into his mouth while he rolls me onto my back, and although we were just fully clothed and lying on a couch, we're now naked and in bed, the green and cream drapes billowing in the breeze. I stir, almost waking, but my dream reclaims me as I spread my legs and he settles between them.
Neither of us says a word, although I gasp, feeling him enter me. He hesitates, checking I'm okay, and I nod my head, reaching around and placing my hands on his ass, pulling him closer.
"Whoa, babe," he says, chuckling. "Not so fast."
"Why not? I want you."
"I want you too. But I also wanna last more than five minutes."
I laugh…
The sound is still ringing in my ears as I sit up. I heard a noise then; I know I did, and it had nothing to do with laughter, or anything else in that most perfect of dreams. It was a thud, like someone, or something falling over, and while I'd much rather be back in my fantasy, I listen for a little longer, even holding my breath for a while, until I hear it again. There's a definite scuffling, and then I hear the words, "Fuck it," followed by another thud.
It's Dawson, and from the sounds of things, he's in trouble.
The moonlight coming in through the window gives enough light for me to see the door and as I leap out of bed, I run straight for it, pulling it open and checking along the hall. Dawson's door is closed, and while the bathroom is open, there's no light, although I poke my head around just to make sure he's not lying on the floor.
"Shit."
I hear another curse, which definitely came from the stairs, and I turn around, making my way down the short corridor and into the main room. There's light at the other end, courtesy of the doors that lead onto the balcony, but here it's darker and I tread carefully around the dining table, wary of stubbing my toes, before I reach the top of the stairs. It's dark below me, and I can't see well enough to do anything, so I feel for the light switch, turning it on.
The room behind me is flooded with light, although the stairwell remains in relative darkness. Even so, I can see Dawson, half-way up the stairs, struggling to get to his feet. He must have fallen, and from the looks of things, he's incapable of doing anything about it.
I'm tempted to ask if he needs help, but I think the answer to that is obvious, so rather than waste time, I make my way down the stairs, treading over his outstretched arm until I'm at a level where I can do something useful.
"Let me help you," I say and he startles, unaware of my presence it seems, and then he turns and looks up at me. He frowns, tipping his head, and lets his eyes wander, looking me up and down, and taking his time about it… and it's only now that I realize I'm wearing a white lace bra with matching panties, and nothing else.
Why on earth didn't I stop to at least pull on my blouse, or my jeans… or, better still, both?
I contemplate trying to cover myself, although I'm not sure what with, but then I realize he's no longer looking at me. He's resting his head on his arm, groaning.
"I'm such a fucking fool," he says.
"No, you're not." I lean over, putting my hand under his arm. "Come on… let's get you up."
He doesn't move an inch… although I don't know why I thought he would. He's twice my size and made of solid muscle. How did I ever think I could move him?
"You can't lift me," he says, stating the obvious.
"I know. I just worked that out for myself."
He takes a breath, shifting his body, and with a great deal of effort, he kneels up.
"How does that feel?" I ask, moving aside so he's got more room.
"Honestly? It feels fucking awful." I giggle, unable to help myself, and he turns his head, staring at me. "What was that noise?"
"What noise?"
"It sounded like bells ringing."
"There are no bells, Dawson." I shake my head at him and he lets out a sigh.
"I'm sure I heard bells."
"Only the ones in your head," I mutter. "Can you stand?"
"Probably not."
I wonder about suggesting he crawls up the stairs on his hands and knees, but before I get the chance to say anything, he tips himself back, and somehow stands up.
"You did it."
"Fuck knows how." I giggle again, and he sways, so I grab him before he can fall. "That wasn't me that time," he says. "It was the bells. They're distracting."
"There are no bells," I repeat. "Try climbing up the stairs. I'll hold on to you."
"I wouldn't if I were you," he says.
"Well, you're not. So… right foot first."
He thinks about that, and I wonder if he's working out which foot is the right, and which is the left. Eventually he decides, and raises the one closest to me, putting it down on the step above the one where we're both standing.
"Can I stop now?" he says, looking down at me.
"No. You've got a few more to go yet."
"Damn."
He sucks in a breath, the effect of which is to make him wobble backwards, and rather than just holding onto his arm, I raise it and put it around my shoulder. That seems to help a little, so I place my arm around his waist and look up to find he's staring down at me.
"That's better," he says, nodding his head.
He's more stable now, although I'm not sure which one of us is in control here. There's still no way I could stop him from falling, so it seems wise to keep going upward.
"Take the next step," I say.
"Do I have to?"
"Yes. You can't sleep here."
He studies the stairs for a moment. "You sure about that?"
"Positive. Come on…"
He lets out a sigh and raises his right foot again. This time I'm able to help him more, and we keep the momentum going, taking it one step at a time until we reach the top.
As we go inside his apartment, I quickly turn and flick off the lights, plunging us into darkness.
"What happened?" he says. "Why's it gone dark?"
"I—I thought it might be too bright for you."
I also realized how exposed I'd feel, in the glaring electric light, holding onto you in nothing more than my underwear.
I wait a second for my eyes to acclimatize to the darkness, the shadows of the furniture standing out against the moonlight, which I guess is enhanced by the bright snowy landscape outside. I still feel exposed, but he's probably less capable of noticing… and hopefully more focused on not falling over the furniture.
"This way," I say, guiding him past the kitchen and around the dining table. He's gone quiet on me now, so I just steer him down the hall to his bedroom, opening the door. I daren't switch on the light, but to be honest, I don't need to. This room is at the front of the building, and as with the living area, it has a balcony and large glass doors leading onto it. They might be shielded by sheer white drapes, but there's more than enough light in here to see the enormous bed, the head of which is against the left-hand wall.
I help him over, wondering how I'm going to lie him down… or even sit him down, for that matter. His hand is resting on my shoulder, and my arm is still around his waist, and the only option I seem to have is to sit down with him, which I do, right on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to get my breath and look around the room.
It's much less feminine in here, and although I can't tell what color everything is, I can see the tones are darker than in the guest bedroom. The wall at the head of the bed seems to be wood paneled, and in this light, looks almost black.
"We made it," he says, his voice sounding closer. That makes sense, though, because he's leaning in to me.
"We did."
He turns his head, looking right into my eyes, and while this is like a dream come true for me, and part of me would like nothing more than for him to close the gap between us, there's no way I can let anything happen. Not only is he my boss, but he's drunk. Very drunk. It's more than a recipe for disaster. It would ruin everything.
I pull away from him, getting to my feet, and take a step back.
"Are you okay?" I ask, even though it's clear he isn't.
He doesn't answer, but bends down to undo his shoes. It's a dangerous move, and he almost topples head-first onto the floor.
"Shit," he mumbles, and I grab him by the shoulders, sitting him up straight again.
"Let me help you."
I kneel before him, making quick work of untying his shoelaces and pulling off his shoes, placing them by the nightstand.
"Better," he says, nodding his head, and then flopping sideways onto the pillow. He's on top of the covers, which is hardly ideal, but there's a throw at the end of the bed and once I've lifted his legs onto the mattress, I pull it up over him.
"I'll let you get some sleep," I say, straightening the throw.
"Thanks, Macy."
I have to smile. At least he knows who I am. That's something.
I wonder about closing the drapes and shutting out the light altogether, but I realize he might need it, if he has to visit the bathroom during the night, so I leave them as they are and turn away, letting out a yelp of surprise when he grabs my hand.
"What is it?" I say, looking down at him.
"You," he says, his eyes raking over me, just like they did on the stairs earlier, only with more hunger in them this time. "It's you, Macy. You're fucking beautiful."
"And you're drunk," I whisper.
I pull my hand from his, overwhelmed with regret and embarrassment. Why did he have to say that… now, of all times? Why is it that the only time he's ever paid me any attention is when he's too drunk to stand? It's humiliating, and I don't want to stay here, under his gaze, for a second longer.
Without a word, I turn and run.