Micah - Laurell K. Hamilton [8]
The lipstick was very, very red. It made my skin seem almost translucent in its paleness. My hair gleamed black in the lights, matching the deep, solid brown of my eyes. I’d added a little eye shadow and mascara at home, and called the makeup done. I rarely wore base.
Micah was right, without the base the makeup wasn’t ruined, but . . . but. I was still pissed about it. Still wanted to be angry. Wanted to be angry, not was still angry. Why did I want to hold on to the anger? Why did it make me mad that he had the ability to drown my anger with the touch of his body? Why did that bug me so much?
Because it was me. I had a real talent for picking my love life apart until I broke it. I had promised myself, not that long ago, that I’d stop picking at things. That if my life worked, I’d just enjoy it. It sounded so simple, but it wasn’t. Why is it that the simplest plans are sometimes the hardest to do?
I took a deep breath and paused at the full-length mirror on the way out. I would have worn black but Bert always thought that that gave the wrong impression. Too funereal, he’d say. My silk shell was the red of the lipstick, but Bert had already complained months ago: no more black and red—too aggressive. So I was in charcoal gray with a thin pattern of black and darker gray through it. The jacket hit me at the waist to meet up with the matching skirt.
The skirt was pleated, forming a nice swing around my upper thighs when I moved. I’d tested it at home, but now I tested it again, just in case. Nope, not a glimpse of the top of my stockings. I didn’t own any panty hose anymore. I’d finally been won over to the truth that a comfortable garter belt, hard to find but worth the search, with a pair of nice hose was actually more comfortable than panty hose. You just had to make sure that no one caught a glimpse of them when you moved, unless you were on a date. Men reacted really oddly if they knew you were wearing stockings and a garter belt.
If I’d known that Agent Fox had already been prejudiced against me, I might have worn a pantsuit. Too late now. Why was it a crime for a woman to look good?
Would I get fewer rumors if I dressed down? Maybe. Of course, if I wore jeans and a T-shirt I got complaints that I was too casual and needed to look more professional. Sometimes you just can’t win for losing.
I was delaying. Dammit. I did not want to go back out to Micah. Why? Because he was right, this was the first time we’d ever been alone together for this long.
Why did that thought tighten my chest and make my pulse speed like something alive in my throat?
I was scared. Scared of what? Scared of Micah? Sort of. But more scared of myself, I think. Scared that without Nathaniel, or Jean-Claude, or Asher, or someone to balance things, Micah and I wouldn’t work. That without everyone interfering, there wouldn’t be a relationship. That there would be too much time, too much truth, and it would all fall apart. I didn’t want it to fall apart. I didn’t want Micah to go away. And the moment you care that much, a man has you. He owns a little piece of your soul, and he can beat you to death with it.
Don’t believe me? Then you’ve never been in love and had it go to hell. Lucky you.
I took a deep calming breath and let it out slow. I used some of the breathing exercises I’d been studying. I was trying to learn to meditate. So far I was good at the breathing part, but I just couldn’t still my mind, not without it filling with ugly thoughts, ugly images. Too much violence inside my head. Too much violence in my life. Micah was one of my refuges. His arms, his body, his smile. His quiet acceptance of me, violence and all. Now I was back to being scared. Shit.
I took another deep breath and walked out of the bathroom. I couldn’t hide in there all day; the Feds were waiting. Besides, you can’t hide from yourself. Can’t hide from your own head going ugly. Unfortunately.
Micah smiled when he saw me. That smile that was just for me. That smile that seemed to loosen something tight and hard and bitter inside