STEPPING UP

PART 4...by Jo (Riley has her own large site going and has moved across the

country from Pittsburgh and so the storyline from now on will be written entirely by me)

He lay there for what seemed like ages, trying not to move, not entirely

succeeding in that endeavor and, so, the thorns gradually attached them-

selves to him more deeply, more firmly. Any moment, he expected, the

ground would open beneath him and Pittsburgh would have swallowed

him, if not whole, at least in the little bits and shreds of him that was

left.  

The tendons and muscles in his neck began to tremble with the effort

of holding his head up out of the brambles somewhat. If he just let it

lay back...no, he didn't want to know what would happen then. 

He could see back up to the top where his bike was parked. Good Lord,

was it really that far? It was obvious no one used these particular steps

any more. No one would be coming up or down, only Holli. But where

was she?  He closed his eyes but then opened them immediately. Lying

there in darkness only served to make him all the more aware of each

and every incurving, embedded stab of sharpness.  

Panic rose in him as the minutes slowly ticked away. He'd never been

so utterly trapped in his life.  Knowing it was stupid, he twisted slightly

anyway. He had to! If he lay there like that much longer he would start

screaming. 

Then the dark shadow of a car pulled up at the top of the steps and he

could see Holli's form pause briefly, surveying the situation.

"Hol...Holli!" he gasped, his voice not getting much past his dry throat.

She disappeared. "No," he cried. Oh, God, where was she going? 

Holli peered down the flights of stairs, squinting, trying to see where 

Steve was. Ah, there, the broken railing. He had to be just off to the

side near that. Hurriedly, she opened the trunk of her car, getting out

a couple of thick blankets, a small canvas tarp, leather gloves, pruning 

shears, and a first aid kit. 

"Hang on!" she called as she started her descent. "I'll be right there!"

Hang on? he thought. I'm about as hung on as it's possible to get!

But the sight of her approaching form was near-angelic to him. He 

blinked rapidly, his self-composure on its last legs. 

"Oh...Steve!" she almost groaned at the sight of him.  At first she'd 

thought  maybe it was kinda funny, that he'd gone and got himself all 

tangled in a raspberry bramble, but standing there looking down at 

him, she knew there was nothing humorous about it at all. 

He twitched a couple of fingers on his right hand, all he could move

without thorny repercussions. "Be careful, Holli," he said hoarsely.

"Don't want you to get trapped in here, too."

Smiling encouragingly, she squatted on the step, slipped on the thick

gloves and began snipping at the brambles around his feet and lower

legs. It was a slow, delicate process as each individual piece of the

raspberry bramble had to be carefully detached from the material of

his pants and socks, even his shoelaces. Then there were those thorns

that had embedded in his skin. Those were even more of a problem.

He closed his eyes, biting his lip as she worked, trying to hold as still

as possible. "What happened to your knee?" she asked softly.

"Knee? Oh...that.  Fell off the bike in the alley behind your house.

Hadda protect my camera equipment as the bike went down so...."

"So you couldn't protect yourself," she finished for him.

"Something like that," he grinned feebly. 

Several stems of the raspberry were wound firmly in the torn edges of

his pants leg. "Gotta cut a bit of your pants here," she said. "These won't

let go, I'm afraid."

"Guess I'll never play the violin again, eh, Doc?"

"Vio...," her eyes widened, then she realized he was joking. She stopped

a moment and looked at his face. Behind his slightly crooked grin, his skin

was quite pale and she caught the sparkle of tears in his eyes. Quickly he

closed them, not wanting her to see. 

Her own eyes stung and she cleared her throat and turned to fold one of 

the blankets. "I'm going to slide this under your legs now so you won't get...

reattached," she said, "so if you can manage to lift them just a bit...."

Next she spread the tarp over the brambles beside him and stepped

gingerly out atop it so she could reach the rest of him. "Let me do your

head next."  She could see what a strain it was for him trying to hold it

up. Several long stems had become firmly attached through his hair and

one row of thorns was embedded in the curve of his left ear. Her fingers

felt clumsy in the thick gloves, so she slid them off and worked on his

hair and ear bare-handed. More than once a thorn punctured her own

skin as she worked, giving her a small taste of what he was going through.

When his head was free, she slipped another folded blanket under it and

for the first time he could relax his neck.  The tension from his shoulder

and neck muscles had resulted in a blasting ache all up the back side of

his head. 

She turned her attention to his arms, which seemed to have got the worst

of it, especially his forearms, both of which were encircled with long, deep

scratches.  Another half hour passed and she said, "Ok, now, Steve, I want

you to roll toward me onto the tarp...slow and careful...just a nice turn,

ok?"

It wasn't easy. He had nothing, really, to push against and some of the

brambles were still attached to the middle of his back where Holli couldn't

reach, but somehow he managed and found himself lying face-down on the

tarp. She helped him scrabble to his knees and before long he was sitting

on a wooden step, his face in his hands, as she opened the first aid kit

and began to spray his largest wounds with Bactine.

"I'm afraid the rest will have to wait until I can get you home," she sighed.

"Do you think you can make it up the steps to my car?"

He lifted his head, which made his headache spread round to his temples.

"Sure," he said. "Steps. Just what I'd most love to do right about now."

"Well, there's no getting around it, I'm afraid," she added. "You're gonna

have to do it."

It was slow going. The stress on his muscles from trying to hold his body

still, trying to hold it...up...for so long had made them all stiff and very

sore. He stopped after about 30 steps, holding onto the railing. "I feel

like I'm 90 years old," he sighed, breathing hard.  Pittsburgh had...

aged...him.

He managed to help her mount his bike onto the car's rack and load his

camera equipment into the back seat.  His knees were trembling as he

got into the passenger seat and he sat there, panting, staring at the

dashboard as she drove home.

It was after five-thirty by the time he headed up the stairs to shower.

"Dinner reservations are at six-thirty," she said behind him, reaching

a hand out to steady him when he stopped part way up. "We don't

have to go."

"We do," he said. "I'm not going to let you down. Not again."

"You wouldn't be letting me down."

"It's all right, Holli, really. I'm all right. Or I will be after I stand in the

shower a while."

"You want me to wash you?"

He smiled at her, mostly with his eyes. "With the state I'm in, your

maidenly virtue would be in no danger."

"None?"

"Not a bit. Well, not...much."

She giggled. "I could take a rain check."

"Make that a shower check and you're on."

She chose the softest of the sponges, squirted on some mildly antiseptic

soap, and wiped it lightly across his wet back. Involuntarily, he flinched.

Even the gentlest touch simply...hurt. 

Seeing him like this, standing naked as the cool water streamed in rivulets

down the broad span of his shoulders, she realized just how covered with

scratches and small wounds his body really was. He had his head bent

forward, palms flat against the tile in front of him, letting the main force

of the shower beat down on his neck and hair. 

She moved beside him. "You all right?"

"Bit of a headache, that's all. Water feels good."

He stood as he was, letting her wash him with soft, gentle strokes of the

sponge. Lord, he wanted her...even then. But there was no way he could

engage in full body contact, not right now, not...yet. 

Later, she dried him, gave him aspirin, and as he lay atop a towel on the

bed, she applied antiseptic ointment to his injuries. He lay quietly, watching

her face as she worked, her lips curved in a slight smile, her brow knit in 

concentration.

She was aware of his eyes fixed on her, but did not meet his gaze. How new

they still were to one another, yet here he lay, wearing nothing as her hands

moved over his body, her fingertips shiny with ointment as she touched him

here and there.  Much of him looked like he'd walked through a plate glass

door and the sight of all the red markings moved her heart. Yet...still...the

sight, the feel of his body under her hands moved her in other ways, too.

Despite all the marks, he was beautiful to her and she lingered in her

ministrations, not wanting this time to be over. And there was something

in how quietly he lay, trusting himself to her, that was...important.

"Your knee needs bandaging," she said at last, reluctantly standing to fetch

gauze and tape. "But if I bandaged all your wounds, you'd look much too

much like a mummy and I doubt they'd let us in the restaurant."

"Or imagine me at the funeral home."

"You really don't have to go there, Steve, not if you're not feeling up to it.

It's not your family. It can get a little, well, intimidating."

"Don't you want me to come, Holli?"

“Oh Lord, yes. I just don’t want you to feel . . . well . . . out of place, 
that’s all.”

Steve sighed. “Listen. Maybe it isn’t my family yet, but it will be, right?

So all I have to do is stand beside you and smile. It'll be fine, Holli."

"Well," she said, tearing off the last piece of tape, “Martin, my ex-husband, 

will be there. He’s a real . . . um . . .”

“Prick?” Steve offered and she grinned.

“Yes. I’m afraid he’ll be rude to you.”

“Don’t worry about me facing your ex. He lost you, I’m the one who got the 

prize, you know.” He reached out, touching her hair as she bent over him.

 “Oh, and I sent a flower arrangement to the funeral home.”

“Great.” But Holli wondered how she’d ever find it amidst the massive 
collection of vegetation Martin had sent. So much that it was almost hard to 
find Auntie Tara!

Finally Steve got to the point where he had to say something. The waiter
had stared at him at first covertly, then openly, for the last half hour.
"Cat-o-nine-tails," he whispered conspiratorially as the man refilled his
water glass. "I forgot to salute the captain." He winced elaborately. "You
should see my back." 

Indeed, though he joked about it, a goodly amount of his body, especially
the more rearward portions, burned and pricked sharply with the slightest
muscle movement. So he tried to sit still. That helped...but not entirely.
Then there was his knee, aching profoundly beneath the quiet covering of
the white tablecloth. His face still hurt, too. They should put warning
signs over the arrival gates at Pittsburgh International. Enter At Your
Own Risk. Yes. That's what they should do.

It had been too hot to wear long sleeves, but now he wished he had anyway.
Both of his forearms were crisscrossed with scratches of varying depth and
length. He looked like he'd been stuck in a burlap bag with several large
feral cats and the cats had won. Well, nothing to be done about it now.

He turned his full attention to Holli, focusing on the play of the candlelight
on her features. He was a photographer.  It was how his mind worked. His 

fingers itched for a camera.  

She was talking about Martin, about the sort of man he was, obviously trying
to prepare him for tomorrow. He loved her for trying so hard, for caring how
it would be for him. He didn't like the guy. The more he heard about him, the
less he liked him.  Sipping his ice water, he kept his eyes on Holli's face, both 

listening to her and thinking his own thoughts.  The goddamn bastard had
really hurt her.  He could see the shadows of it in her eyes as she talked.

He found himself forming a mental image of the guy. Probably nothing at all
like the way he actually was.  He didn't like it that Martin was inserting
himself back into Holli's life and, thereby, into his own life. Things were
complicated enough, what with the whole New York/Pittsburgh scenario. Who
needed an ex plopped into the middle of it? Maybe Monica could come to town
and Martin would follow her off a cliff like a lemming.  Down into that infernal
river below Mount Washington he could never remember the name of. Mo...

something or other. Mo...non..gah...something. 

He made little affirming grunt sounds as Holli talked so's she'd know he was
paying attention, but his mind was darting around like a fish dropped into
an unaccustomed bowl. He kept seeing Martin in, yes, an Aston Martin, of 

course, scooting across some hilltop in Monaco on his way to the casino. He 

had black hair, slicked back with lots of oil, and a moustache that curved up 

just slightly at the ends. A long white scarf blew out behind him and an Afghan
hound perched regally in the seat beside him, one paw resting on a machine gun.
Martin's chin was very large with a pronounced cleft. Without thinking, his 

fingers reached up to touch his own cleft. Instead of tobacco, Martin's long, 

gilded cigarette holder contained a rolled up hundred thousand dollar bill, its 

tip a glowing ember. Large deep black aviator glasses covered his eyes and part 

of his chiseled cheek bones. He laughed as he drove, a loud cruel laugh that 

flowed back behind him in the wind with his white silk scarf and the ashes of the 

hundred thousand dollar bill. No one ever accused Steve of not being able to 

come up with, um, interesting mental images of male rivals. 

"Wh...what?" he stammered, realizing a bit late that Holli had asked him a
question. 

ON TO PART 5

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