"Handful," he replied, not taking his eyes from the screen. "I'm a big Al Pacino fan."
"Me, too," she said. "And Keanu Reeves is just comical in this movie."
Heath's full lips pulled up into a smirk. "Yeah, come to think of it he is. Probably the worst actor in Hollywood."
"Pretty close," Drew agreed. She moved the sofa cushion so that it was between them, but she placed her elbow on it, propping her head on her hand, and leaned closer into him. She felt better about doing so with the barrier between them.
They watched the film for a while, laughing at the parts that Drew was certain the filmmakers had not intended to be funny. She felt herself blushing and inwardly cringing during the sex scenes, wishing she could hide her face in the pillow. Sex scenes in and of themselves didn't bother her, but she struggled with watching them with anyone but herself. Especially with a guy she happened to be attracted to sitting right next to her. For his part, Heath seemed totally unmoved by it. He watched it with the same expression as he had watched the rest of the movie and seemed completely nonplussed by the naked female breasts and thrusting on screen.
When Drew could no longer endure it and thought she'd have to make up an excuse to go to the bathroom or into the kitchen, Rocky saved the day. He jumped onto the coffee table, staring at the two humans before him, and proceeded to casually knock Drew's open bottle of water off the table with a swipe of his paw. The bottle toppled over, spurting water out onto the carpet as the cat licked his paw and rubbed it over his ear, unfazed.
Drew jerked upright, Heath slowly following her action. "Rocky!" she exclaimed, swatting out at the cat who easily dodged her hand and leapt gracefully off the table and took off toward her bedroom. "You little brat!"
Heath chuckled and picked up the bottle as Drew raced into the kitchen for a dish towel. She hurried back out and dropped to her knees, soaking excess moisture up off her large rug and carpet.
"That was his way of saying 'Fuck you, pay attention to me,'" Drew explained as she mopped up the water. "He can be an attention-whore sometimes."
"That was actually awesome," Heath said. He held up a hand at the glare Drew shot him. "Except for the spill. That was a bad kitty."
Drew burst out laughing. "Hearing the word 'kitty' come out of your mouth just doesn't seem right," she commented, carrying to sodden towel into the kitchen. She squeezed out the excess water and draped the towel over the faucet. Heath settled back into his place on the couch, subtly arranging the cushion for her against his side. She smiled slightly, not missing it, and dropped onto the couch, pulling her feet up as she sat.
"Anyway, back to more Keanu ridiculousness," she joked, reaching for the remote when she noticed Heath had paused it. Suddenly she felt his hand drop onto her forearm to stop her and she froze, looking at him. He was staring at her leg.
"What's that?" he asked quietly.
Drew glanced down and horror filled her. The hem of her yoga pant-leg had negligently flipped up when she'd sat down, revealing the inside of her ankle—and a dozen raw, red, deliberate slices in her skin.
Chapter Eleven
Heath watched her with a calmness he didn't feel as she yanked the hem of her pant leg down. But it was too late; he'd seen the wounds. The clearly self-inflicted wounds.
He'd known a few Marines overseas, so depressed from being away from home, from witnessing their brothers-in-arms die, that they'd done similar things to themselves to cope. From cutting to burning themselves with cigarette butts to other forms of self-harming, he'd seen it all.
It hurt his heart. He didn't know Drew well, but he wanted to get to know her better. She was so beautiful, so smart, so talented, that it made him ache a little to know that whatever demons she was battling forced her to take it out on herself. He wondered how he'd never noticed before, but then realized that with the exception of the bar, he'd always seen Drew in long pants. And when they'd gone to Cliff's, she'd been in shorts, but he suddenly recalled the boots she'd been wearing. They'd gone well over the area with the wounds.
He studied her face, watching as her cheeks reddened and her eyes filled with shame and tears. Normally, he would have felt uncomfortable dealing with a crying woman, but after seeing what he saw, he pushed that to the side and focused on her. Knowing what he knew about his Marines that had self-harmed, he knew it was a cry for help. He also knew that if someone didn't do something, it wasn't hard to believe that the emotional pain someone who self-harmed went through could become enough to push them over the edge, for good. And he be damned if he let it happen to anyone he knew.