He installed me in his bedroom. I have to say, if you're recovering from a gunshot wound, an open room full of light in a mansion in upper Manhattan is a great place to do it. I slept in the sinfully luxurious sheets, covered in the puffy white down comforter, and Malcolm, so as not to disturb my healing wounds by sleeping in the same bed as me, hauled a mattress up the stairs and slept on the floor.
The world whirled by, but that beautiful, light-filled room was a haven. Felicia called every day, but had the good sense to stay away, and I was grateful for that. I wasn't ready for our sanctuary to be invaded yet. Malcolm and I would lay in bed and talk, or read together, or watch a movie on his iPad. His long, hard body warmed me up, and once I started physical therapy I'd be beat at the end of my sessions, and he would lie in bed next to me and stroke my hair until I fell asleep.
When I needed a bath, he would carry me down to the third floor and put me in the tub, fill it with a few inches of water, add lavender and chamomile perfumed salts, and wash me with gentle hands and soft cloths. His fingers slipped over my breasts, up my throat and down into my pussy without demanding anything, leaving me hot and aching for him, though sex—or even a soothing orgasm—was out of the question, and even the sweet tensing of sensual pleasure made my side hurt.
“Patience,” he would say then, and kiss me, calming me. We were the only two people in the world, it seemed, and even if we weren't Malcolm acted like it was true. He was there. Gentle and attentive. Caring. Entirely present, entirely with me.
It was a side of him that I'd never thought I'd see, and it was sweet as the honey-spiked tea he would brew for me on the days the clouds covered the sky and the rains poured down the windows.
He was focused on me like a laser, and at the time I thought it was because he was wracked with guilt for his part in my indisposition, but I found I couldn't care less about the wound. People get shot every day and for way stupider reasons. This was one scar I was going to whip out at parties and show off. I'd totally earned it and it would make a great story. So this one time I took a bullet for a guy who wasn't even my boyfriend...
A few weeks passed and I was finally up and around again, stretching my legs, walking the length of his absurd bedroom, from the bed to the computer and back. It was only then that Malcolm started to take his eyes off me, as though he hadn't really thought my recovery was for real until he actually saw me standing on my own two feet. A tension I hadn't even known was in him disappeared.
He began to work again, lying next to me in bed or curled up on the white couch and overstuffed chairs he had dragged up the stairs one afternoon. He'd arranged them in a little semi-circle, giving us a little suite in the bedroom. I wondered what part of the house he'd cribbed them from since I'd never had a grand tour when it was full of stuff, but when I finally trusted myself to go downstairs on my own, I was shocked to find the house still empty.
“Where's all your junk?” I asked him when I came back up the stairs. He sat on the white couch, a book on his crossed legs as he wrote on a piece of paper.
“I told you,” he said. “It didn't make me happy so I'm getting rid of it. I've decided that I'm not going to keep anything that doesn't make me happy.”
I felt my mouth twist. “I liked the Rodin,” I said. “Sorry I had to ruin it.”
A faint smile graced his lips at that. “Don't worry. I've lent it to the Museé Rodin where it will be meticulously restored and displayed, then returned. I always liked that bust, but if it makes you happy then it is a definite keeper.”
I couldn't help but grin at that, relieved. “That's good to know.” Then he turned the piece of paper in his lap and I frowned, realizing that he wasn't writing—he was drawing. “What are you working on?” I blurted, then bit my cheek. I thought he'd given up sketching in his angry outburst on the boat.
The look he gave me could only be described as smug. “My masterpiece,” he said.
“Can I see?” I asked him.
“Oh no. That would ruin it.”
I scowled. “What, is it like a quantum masterpiece, where it's genius if you don't look at it and it sucks if you do?”
He laughed. “No, but that's a pretty brilliant idea for a piece of art. I don't think I could pull that off, but I bet you could.”
I blinked. “What? I haven't painted in months...”
“You don't have to paint, just make art.” Delicately he placed the eraser of his pencil between his teeth. “Or perhaps you have already made such a piece? The theoretical piece of art that you could produce, and yet persist in not producing because you have a job and are now respectable?”