So I smiled.

I looked down at the afghan Raiden obviously wasted no time using and I slid its beauty up my chest, smiling into the cashmere.

Seconds later, I dropped the blanket back to my chest, looked around and my smile died.

I was on a stacked set of queen-sized mattress and box springs that sat on the floor. The sheets were white and appeared clean, bright, even almost new. A comforter with a subtle geometric design in masculine colors of blue and red was on the floor, only the afghan on me.

The bed, as it were, was in the middle of an enormous room made entirely of wood, the walls punctuated profusely by huge, multi-square-paned windows that definitely needed to be cleaned. There was a lamp on the floor by the bed, its ceramic base chipped, a long extension cord running across the rough wood floor, plugged into the wall. Also by the bed was a small pile of condoms, some paperback books and strewn magazines.

Mostly to avoid the pile of condoms and what they said, my eyes wandered.

On the wall across from the foot of the bed was a wardrobe, one door open and dangling drunkenly. Some clothes could be seen hanging haphazardly inside, a variety of athletic shoes and boots spilling out the bottom. More clothes in a tangle on the floor that led to wardrobe.

To one side, a dresser, all the drawers open; tees, thermals and boxer briefs dangling out the drawers.

On the opposite wall, a battered countertop covered in boxes of cereal, crackers, jars of protein powder and piled dishes. A sink that was piled with dirty dishes. There was a fridge to one side of the counter that long ago should have been put out of its misery, and a crusty, old range at the other end that might actually be a health hazard.

In front of the scary kitchen, there was an old, chrome sided Formica-topped table with two chairs, their black vinyl seats torn, padding coming out. The top of the table had a laptop and papers, with more papers scattered on the floor.

There was a big, locked trunk against the back wall with a stenciling on the side that read “Cpl. Miller, R”. In the corner by it, a weight bench and a rack of weights surrounded by a mess of dumbbells on the floor that looked the size only Hercules would work out with.

And last, there was an old, faded plaid easy chair with a rickety standing lamp beside it and an even ricketier spindly table that also was covered to overflowing with paperbacks.

The whole thing screamed Beverly Hillbillies before they struck oil.

The only hints at décor were an alarming number of shotgun racks on the walls, three of them. Two were empty, one had two guns in the slots and boxes of ammo on the shelf under them. I was no gun expert, but they didn’t look like shotguns. More like fancy rifles.

And the other piece of decoration was a framed eight by ten photo on the dresser. The space was huge and the picture was far away, but I could see it was a mess of men, some holding guns, all wearing smiles and desert fatigues, probably because a bleak desert landscape could be seen behind them.

Raiden’s unit.

The unit that was mostly lost.

Nearly all of the men in that picture were gone.

Holy Moses.

I narrowed my eyes on the picture, like doing this would engage superpower vision I did not have and would make it come into better focus just as I heard the shower turn off.

I twisted to look at a rough plank paneled room that jutted out in the far corner. A room that looked like it had been added in a hurry, the work done by five year olds.

The bathroom.

I couldn’t believe Raiden lived here, but he obviously did. I recognized some of the cargo pants on the floor from the days I was crazy, creepy stalking him.

Actually, I couldn’t believe anyone could live here.

He didn’t need a housecleaner.

He needed a house.

On this thought, hinges screamed in agony. A section of the wood paneling swung open and Raiden strolled out, wet hair slicked back, droplets of water on his broad shoulders, a towel around his hips and the rest of his lusciousness on display.

The second and third time last night, I got to see (and explore) Raiden’s body.

It was amazing in clothes.

It was way, way better without them.

His eyes came to me. They grew warm and he appeared to be heading to the kitchen-ish area, but switched directions, walking to the bed.

He didn’t enter it or put a knee in it. He didn’t say hi.

He bent and hooked me around the back of the neck with his hand in a way that I had no choice but to go up, which I did. Once partially up, his other arm closed around me, and when I was crushed to him his head came down and he took my mouth in a good morning kiss that made my toes and my fingers curl, the latter of which did it in the hard muscle of his shoulders.

When my hands slid up into his wet hair, he lifted his head, caught my fluttering eyes and said, “Mornin’, honey.”

“Good morning,” I breathed.

He grinned then pulled me out of bed, incidentally pulling the afghan with me as it was squashed between our bodies, and he put me on my feet.

“Get dressed, babe, runnin’ late. We gotta get you to your house. You gotta do whatever you do to get cute then we gotta get your grandmother and get to church,” he gave his order and after issuing it, he let me go and sauntered toward the end of the bed.

I hurriedly wrapped the afghan around me and watched him go.

Then I froze because now I had his back and I could see marks on his skin. Three of them; red, and in sections the skin was broken.

Scratch marks.

From my nails.

Oh my God.

“Did I do that to your back?” I whispered.

Raiden stopped, turned to me and smiled a smile I felt right at the heat of me.

“Oh yeah,” he answered in a voice that ratcheted up the heat so significantly it was a wonder I didn’t burst into flames.

He liked that.

A lot.

Wow.

Then it hit me he said we had to get Grams and get to church.

“Uh…” I mumbled then got lost in watching his lateral muscles shift and undulate as he bent and gathered my jeans, top and underwear from the floor and tossed them on the mattress.

I came out of my stupor when he moved to the wardrobe and the entire thing swayed dangerously as he opened the closed door. I fought the urge to rush across the room and put both hands on the side to brace it before it settled. Then Raiden reached in and yanked some clothes off hangers. Repeat the swaying and me fighting the urge to rescue his wardrobe before he turned, tossed the clothes on the back of a chair and moved to the dresser.

I found my voice and asked, “Are you going to church with Grams and me?”

“Yep,” he replied, digging in a drawer.

I looked down at my clothes on the mattress then reached to grab my panties, finding I was totally okay with that.

I had on panties and bra and was pulling up my jeans when I spoke again.

“Can I ask you question?”

“You can quit askin’ if you can ask and just ask,” Raiden replied, a smile in his voice, his eyes coming to me. Then he yanked off his towel.

My mouth went dry.

He was perfect everywhere.

Everywhere.

This made me suddenly aware that I was not.

I had great legs, this I’d already noted. I had an ample chest, which sometimes worked for me, sometimes was annoying when blouses gaped at my breasts. I also had a tiny waist, which made buying jeans a pain in the patoot, but looked good in dresses.

I also had a little pouch at my belly that no amount of cycling and snowboarding got rid of, mainly because I did crunches and pushups about twice a week rather than what I told myself I’d do (four times). I also liked hot fudge sundaes, Grams’s biscuits smothered in apple butter and a variety of other things that weren’t real good for me, so it was a battle I had no hope of winning.

Raiden had an eight pack (yes, eight), noticeably limited body fat and hip muscles so significantly cut you could lose yourself in those valleys for days.

Therefore, I decided no more hot fudge sundaes, definitely five days a week of crunches, pushups and I was adding planks. I was also cutting out sandwiches and eating salads for lunch, just in case the rest didn’t take.

“Baby, you stare at my dick any longer, Miss Mildred’s gonna have to send out a search party.”

My body jolted and my eyes shot to his to see the creases at the corners standing out in amusement.

“I was staring at your hip muscles,” I corrected.

“Whatever,” he muttered, his lips now smiling too, then louder, “just sayin’, anything in that vicinity, your eyes on it, it’ll get thoughts on its own.”

“So noted,” I mumbled and shrugged on my top.

“You had a question,” Raiden prompted, stepping into some boxer briefs.

I decided to stop watching so I could concentrate on buttoning my blouse, so I tipped my chin down to watch my fingers do just that as I asked, “What is this place?”

“Dad’s hunting lodge,” he answered and I looked at him again.

He was moving back to the chair and I was shocked at his words.

His sister Rachelle and I were only acquaintances, but friendly ones who had known each other our whole lives. We talked, gossiped, shared news and pleasantries, and if time allowed, sometimes this could go deep, but she’d never mentioned her Dad. The same, but obviously less, due to age differences, with Raiden’s Mom, Mrs. Miller.

What I knew was Mr. Miller took off and was persona non grata in town. He even once tried to come to one of Raiden’s football games and some of the men not so cordially invited him to march back to his car, and when he didn’t they escorted him there.

He never came again.

I looked back down at my buttons and said carefully, “Your Dad?”

“Yep,” Raiden replied, and I again looked at him to see he had a pair of suit pants up, zipped but unbuttoned and was shrugging on an attractive, moss green dress shirt.

Surprisingly, he also kept talking.

“When I was sixteen, tracked him down, told him to deed it over to Rachelle and me, seein’ as he paid child support when he wanted, which meant never, and Mom was havin’ troubles makin’ ends meet. It wasn’t a surprise, because he’s a massive dick, that he wasn’t feelin’ generous, though his words were that Mom could go fuck herself and I could too. So I drove to his house every night, let myself in and shared my thoughts with my fists. And when he got smart and started to talk his bitches into lettin’ him spend the night at their places so he could avoid me, I found ways to track him down and let myself in, shared he was a massive dick who didn’t pay child support and when he was at home and had a steady woman, he knocked her around. He suddenly found his choice of beds was dryin’ up, so he got smart and deeded it over.”

His words slicing through me like a dozen razor blades, I stood absolutely still and stared.

Raiden seemed not to notice my immobility. He went to the wardrobe, slid a belt off a hanger, turned to me and kept speaking as he did up his pants and added the belt.

“Meant we got the monthly money from rentin’ out the bottom half where Mr. Lean kept his old tractors and whatever we could get from hunters who don’t give a shit where they sleep and cross country skiers on a budget. Didn’t help a lot, but did mean we didn’t lose our house.”

“You nearly lost your house?” I asked quietly, and he smiled at me.

“Seems you didn’t pay that much attention to me.”

I did.

Still.

“I know you—” I started.

Raiden interrupted me, “Worked nights and weekends. Reason Rachelle is such a great cook is because she did the same at the nursing home, junior nurse’s aide. She loved downhome cooking and she pumped old folks for recipes. She’s got about eight card files full of ‘em.”

That explained that.

Now the hard part.

“Your Dad knocked your Mom around?”

“Yeah, babe, why do you think I set his ass out?” Raiden answered, and I went back to staring.

“You set him out?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“But weren’t you only fourteen?”

“You can fuck someone up, Hanna, you get a good boot in his crotch. He’s so busy dealin’ with the pain, can’t defend himself when you land a fist repeatedly in his face or a boot to his ribs.”