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Chapter 3

Nick shifted on the bed and frowned at the TV, where a sweaty Keanu Reeves and dirt-stained Sandra Bullock lay in the middle of a derailed subway and made out.

“I have to warn you, I’ve heard relationships based on intense experiences never work.”

“Okay. We’ll have to base it on sex then.”

“Who the hell thinks about sex after almost getting blown up by a psycho and then almost dying in a train crash?” he scoffed.

Next to him, Claire laughed. “Hey, you would if Keanu Reeves was the one who saved you.”

Nick looked at her in disgust. “Well, I wouldn’t, no. Don’t even tell me you have a thing for Keanu.”

“What? He’s hot!”

“So that’s why you wanted to watch Speed tonight. Because… ‘he’s hot!’,” he mocked her in a high-pitched voice, making a face. “What do the chicks even see in him? He’s all like, ‘whoa, that is most excellent, dude… my name is Keanu, and I know kung fu…’.”

Claire snickered. “That was a really bad impression, Nick. And what can I say – I like ‘em tall, dark, and handsome.” She grinned cheekily, while Nick scowled.

“Hey, I’m tall!” he contended.

“That you are,” she said with a nod. “And you’re blonde…” She reached up and played with the ends of his hair, flipping his gelled bangs up. He grinned and took the opportunity to lean over and kiss her gently. Her hand fell to the back of his neck, and her fingertips ran lightly over his skin as she kissed him back. “Good thing you got all that crap out of your mouth earlier,” she said when they broke the kiss, “cause there’s no way I’d get anywhere near it if your teeth were still all black and bloody.”

He smirked. “Yeah, good thing I did then.” He wrapped an arm around her, and without words, she lay back and snuggled up against him, the way they always lay together. Remembering how sore they’d been the morning after their night on the couch, they had opted to watch a movie in Nick’s bedroom that evening, and he had to say, it was much more comfortable that way.

They didn’t stay that way for long though. Action-packed though it was, Speed had left him restless, his attention span maxed out after two hours of lying still and watching the movie. He absently rubbed her back through her shirt, his fingers running up and down her spine. And then somehow, minutes later, his hand was all the way up her shirt, and she was all the way in his arms, planting kisses along his jawline as he caressed her soft skin. Her lips traveled down his neck, hitting one of the spots he was most ticklish in and causing him to squirm. She giggled against him and kept going, only to be met with the neckline of his t-shirt. She sat up, pulling him with her. Her hands dropped down to find the hem of his shirt, and she started to pull it up, then stopped, looking up at him, silently asking his permission with her eyes. He gave a short nod and lowered his own hands to help her. Within seconds, the obtrusive material was off.

She ran her hands up and down his broad chest, stopping at the feet he had tattooed there. “I’ve always liked these little feet,” she said, tracing one of them with her finger. “They’re cute.”

“They’re not meant to be cute,” he told her exasperatedly. “They represent my heritage – Blackfoot Indian.”

“Oh yeah? Well, whaddya know - I got a pair of shamrocks tattooed on my boobs to represent my heritage.”

He stared at her. “Are you serious??”

“I dunno… guess you better find out,” she replied with a smirk.

Was that an invitation? He took it as one, reaching for the hem of her shirt. His heart hammered in his chest the whole time, and his palms sweat as he guided the t-shirt up and over her head. She had a bra on underneath, but even so, he could feel himself beginning to grow excited, a feeling he had not experienced in a long time.

“No shamrocks,” he said hoarsely, eyes trained on the creamy white swell of her breasts as they disappeared beneath the black material of her bra.

She shook her head. “No… but I dunno, Tattoo Boy, maybe you can convince me…” Her hand left the foot she’d been tracing and ran up his chest, tracing his collar bone and ending up on his left shoulder. She ran her hand lightly over the ink he had there and continued on down his arm, eventually crossing back over to his chest. Her fingers were very close to his scar now, and he drew in a shaky breath. Too close for comfort.

Hearing his slight gasp, she looked up into his eyes. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, “yeah, I’m fine.”

She nodded, moving away from the scar, not touching it. Meanwhile, he stroked her back, running his fingers lightly down and up again, touching the ends of her silky hair, bringing his hand around front to caress her cheek and then come down, down the side of her tender neck, to her freckled shoulder. He repeated what she’d done earlier, running his hand down her arm, tracing her collarbone with his index finger. Very slowly, he continued downward, as she made the same path down his chest, lightly trailing her finger over his stomach. Just when he had reached her bra, he felt her fingers slide beneath the waistband of his shorts.

Jerking in surprise, he looked down. He saw the tips of her fingers emerge from under the material… and just beyond that, he saw the empty left leg of his shorts… and something in him snapped.

“Stop,” he said abruptly, yanking his hand away from her skin as if he’d been burned. He saw the expression on her face, one of shock and confusion at the sudden change in mood, and he rolled away quickly, not wanting to look at her. He lay with his back to her, and his whole body began to tremble, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“Nick?” he heard her say softly.

Unexpected tears sprang to his eyes, and he sat up quickly, trying to blink them away. Swinging his leg over the side of the bed, he stood up and reached for his crutches. He knew he should say something to her, but his throat felt tight. He was quickly losing it and didn’t want to, not in front of her, so he took off, hobbling as fast as he could to the bathroom. He went inside, closed the door behind him, and locked it. And then he collapsed to the ground, pressing his back against the wall, stretching his leg out in front of him, and burying his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving with each ragged breath he took.

It took a few minutes for him to calm down and regain his composure.

And then he just felt stupid. Foolish. Ridiculous, even.

What was wrong with him?

He was mortified. What the hell had happened? He had freaked out, that’s what. Totally freaked.

This had never happened to him before, and it scared him. He’d made out with so many girls in his lifetime, some he hardly even knew. And of course he’d gone much further than that with many of them and hardly batted an eye. And yet, with Claire, whom he usually felt more comfortable around than any other woman he’d ever been with, he had freaked out at the slightest insinuation of sex.

His eyes traveled down his body, hating every inch of it. How could she love him and touch him when he was this way? How could she even stand to look at him? He was ugly, from the long scar that stretched around his left side, to the stump of a leg that ended where his knee should have began.

He sighed. How was he ever going to go back out there and face her? What would he say? That Nick Carter, once infamous for making girls of all ages scream with his sexy smirk and the occasional pelvic thrust, had balked and run away to cry in the bathroom when his own girlfriend made a move on him?

He was pathetic. And now Claire would know just how pathetic he was.

***

Claire knew nothing. Still sitting on Nick’s bed, her knees tucked to her chest, her bottom lip between her teeth, she could only wonder. Was he all right? Should she go to him or just leave him be? What had gone wrong anyway?

That she did know, or at least she had a good idea. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he was still very self-conscious about himself. She knew that before, and she should have seen it coming, the way he flinched when she got close to the scar from his lung surgery. She felt horrible, knowing this was her fault. She’d gone too far, too fast, and he had freaked out. She knew she should have been more careful. After all, she could understand what he had to be feeling right about then.

It had been the same way for her the previous summer, when she had first started dating Tim. The newly-hired dentist at Dr. Somers’ practice, Tim had apparently taken an interest in her instantly. He had spent his first few weeks there pursuing her, flirting with her constantly and feeding her all kinds of cheesy pick-up lines that, nonetheless, never failed to make her smile. At first, she’d blown him off, but after hearing Nick tell her that her kiss meant nothing to him, she saw no reason to keep rejecting Tim. She’d agreed to go out with him one Friday night, and from there, it had escalated into a full on relationship.

She still felt a little guilty about it though, knowing part of the reason she’d gone out with him so willingly was Nick. After what he had said to her, she was desperate to prove that she was fine without him, that she had a life of her own that did not include him. And if she was being perfectly honest with herself, a part of her had hoped to make him jealous by dating another man. It was pathetic, and she was not proud of stringing Tim along for as long as she did, but that was how it was. Tim was a nice guy and handsome, too, but she’d never had more than a friendly crush on him, which had quickly faded after she’d been with him a few weeks. Still, she had stayed with him, and he had moved their relationship along at a fast pace. Almost too fast for her.

It had been a long time since she’d been in a relationship, and after all the changes she had been through the previous year, she, too, had been self-conscious. In the course of a year, she’d lost all of her hair, while her weight had fluctuated like crazy, the result of the various medications she’d been put on. The bone marrow transplant had thrown her entire system out of whack, and it had been a long time before she’d felt “normal” again. By the time Tim came along, she was both looking and feeling better, but she was still scarred. Not on the outside, like Nick, but deep down on the inside. She’d already had the love of her life reject her because of her cancer once, and she could not bear the thought of another relationship failing because of a man who could not handle her problems.

But Tim was not like Jamie. She had forced herself to fill him in on the basics at the beginning, and he had been very accepting. Accepting… but not so understanding. Not that he didn’t try… but he could never fully empathize with the fact that after all she had been through, she wanted to take things slow.

She had been right in assuming that Nick would be the same way. In four months, they had gone no further than making out. She had a feeling that two years ago, a relationship with Nick Carter would have moved much faster than that. But things were different now. They had never spoken about it, but she had always understood and never pushed the issue. It was actually nice to be in a relationship where there were no expectations, where she was not the one being pressured to go places she didn’t want to go.

But with Nick, she was ready to go there, to take the next step. Only he wasn’t.

Then I’ll just wait for him, she thought, reaching for her t-shirt and slowly pulling it back on. She would wait for as long as Nick needed. And when he was ready, she would be there.

***

Nick splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror, wishing the redness in his eyes would go away. He didn't want her to know how upset he'd gotten. That would make the situation even worse when he got up the nerve to leave the bathroom.

If she was even still there.

He sighed heavily, knowing that if she was, he'd have to face her sooner or later. Might as well get it over with. Patting his face dry with a towel, he squared his shoulders, adjusted his crutches under his arms, and slowly hobbled across the tiled floor to the door. He hesitated a moment, and then opened it, emerging cautiously, like a turtle poking its head out of its shell.

The first thing he noticed was that she was still there.

The second thing he noticed was that her shirt was back on.

She lay on his bed, her back propped up against the pillows, her legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed. She was watching TV, the remote in her hand. When he had crossed the threshold of the bathroom, she looked over at him, then glanced back at the TV. She hesitated a moment, then clicked a button on the remote. The television shut off instantly, filling the room with an awkward silence.

He knew he should say something, but he didn't know what to say or do, so he just stood there. It was she who made the first move, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing up. He waited, stock still, while she walked over to him.

She stopped in front of him and looked up at him unsurely for a moment. He shifted his weight uncomfortably and avoided her eyes, trying to think of what to say to her.

But words were not needed. Without warning, she reached forward and pulled him into a gentle hug. He stiffened at first, caught off guard. He could feel her start to pull away, and he reacted quickly, letting his crutches fall and wrapping his arms around her, bringing her back to him. Leaning on her for support, he embraced her tightly, breathing in the scent of her hair, closing his eyes in relief at the comforting sensation of her warm body against his.

One of her hands rubbed up and down his back, while the other simply held him. "I'm sorry," he heard her whisper.

"It's not you," he replied, sighing. "It's me."

Pulling back so that she could look up into his eyes, she said simply, "It's all right."

"I'm sorry," he repeated her words, feeling ashamed.

She shook her head. "You don't have to be sorry, Nick. I understand. You know that, right?"

He nodded slightly, touched by her words, but at the same time, thinking, No, I don't. Claire understood a lot of things, but not this. This she could never understand. She was a nice-looking girl with an anatomically correct, complete body. She was used to dating men who were physically perfect, a far cry from Nick. Sometimes he couldn't believe she was still with him. She deserved more, a man who could give her anything she desired, who could love her the way she was meant to be loved. Not some scarred and scathed freak.

She patted his back and then backed away, bending down to pick up his crutches. She rose slowly and handed them back to him. “I should get going,” she said softly. “I have stuff to do tomorrow, and you probably want to be alone.”

Again he nodded, while his thoughts contradicted his actions. No, I don’t want to be alone. I want to be with you. Only he’d blown his chance to be with her by freaking out on her. Now she would never want to touch him again. He had shot himself in the foot. And that wasn’t good – he only had one.

“Okay,” Claire said. “Call me tomorrow if you want to hang out. I need to run some errands, but you’re welcome to go with if you want.”

“All right,” he said hoarsely.

She rose onto her tip-toes and placed a feather light kiss on his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered in his ear.

He managed a smile. “I love you too.”

She returned the smile. “I can let myself out,” she said, starting slowly for the door. “Goodnight, Nick.”

“’Night,” he echoed after her and watched her walk away. He slowly made his way back to his bed, discarding his crutches and climbing onto it. He curled up in the center and just lay there, listening the sounds that interrupted the silence. He heard her footsteps slowly fade and the click of the front door as she closed it behind her. Minutes later, the engine of her old Toyota rumbled to life and gradually died away as she pulled out of his long driveway and drove off into the night.

***