He gestures toward me to begin, and I summon instinct, moving the first piece into play. His brows lift in mild surprise, and he gives me a slow nod.
“Do you play often?”
He kicks back in his seat, the metal legs scrubbing slightly against the pavement. We both know my question has nothing to do with the game.
“I retired long ago, but I dabble on occasion if I have good reason to.” A silent communication passes between us until he lowers his eyes and makes his first move.
Hauling a bag of groceries in, I deposit it on the kitchen table, curious as to why Beau hasn’t pummeled me with his usual sloppy greeting. Surveying the back yard out the window, I come up empty for my two Frenchmen and begin to search the house. It’s in the study that I discover them both occupied. Beau stands propped with his front paws on Tobias’s thighs, nudging open his cupped hand to feed on potato chips, while Tobias sleeps practically comatose in my oversized, round chair. He’s in nothing but black sweatpants and wool socks, a soft snore coming from his gaping mouth. Bags of snacks and candies surround him, and I spy a half-eaten tub of Ben and Jerry’s peeking up from the end table. The TV blares next to me, muffling my laugh as Beau searches Tobias for remnants of more oil-soaked snacks.
It’s both funny and sad, and it’s clear my constant absence, along with the space I’m putting between us, is aiding in the creation of a French couch potato. Due to the state of sleep, it’s clear he’s eaten copious amounts of carbs that he used to forbid me from indulging in.
A splayed hand rests on his chest, and his legs are hooked over the side of the chair. Beau busies himself licking the other hand clean.
It’s evident he wasn’t expecting me home so soon. Aching to go to him, to swipe the remaining crumbs from his face and lick the leftover chocolate from beneath his mouth, I watch him as he sleeps. When I bought this house, I never pictured him here, and if I’m honest, I never imagined him in any domestic capacity. Sure, I lived with him in my father’s house, but then it was all fine dining, wine tasting, nights spent playing chess next to the fire, and sexy sessions that had us sweat-soaked and gasping for breath.
This dynamic is completely foreign.
Unease sneaks in that he’s so bored already, filling his days eating crap and binge-watching TV.
That gnawing of guilt and the fact that this is how he’s spending his time here only further reiterates my idea that he doesn’t fit, that small-town living will bore him to the point of restlessness.
Even in his slob state, he’s the most beautiful fucking man I’ve ever laid eyes on. And if I wanted to, I could go to him right now, swipe the crust off, and lose myself in him. I hate that I’m being so resolute, but my conscience demands it, and he’s forced me to be like this because of his past behavior. It’s been a little over a week since he showed up, and I’m determined to stick it out for my own purpose. He needs to know that any time he’s spending frustrated with me for the space I’m keeping between us, I’ve felt a thousand-fold—fuck that, a million times over when he pushed me away, exiled me and belittled our relationship. All the while I fucking begged him to acknowledge us. Immature as it may be to hold that grudge, I suffered at his hands too much to just give in. And I won’t. Not until I’m sure he understands I won’t ever stand for that again.
It’s not just the sins he committed and the lies he told in our time together that he never had to answer for, but his cruel denial months ago when I made a fool of myself. However, those combined are reason enough.
But the longer I watch him, the more drawn in I become, a little more helpless to the pull, a constant thrum of need for him, and only him.
Images of our past taunt me as I gaze on. A flash of me on my knees in nothing but panties as he fisted my hair and pushed his thick cock in my mouth, ordering me to suck. And I did, my reward…the stoking fire and satisfaction from the control I gave up evident in his eyes, in the grunts and murmurs from his mouth before he fucked me raw. I can indulge in the hellfire and draw that same satisfaction at any point in time, but sexual frustration will not be what breaks me. It will not be what has me giving in.
I honestly don’t know what it’s going to take, but I trust myself to know it when I feel it.
I’ll always want him. That’s a given. My body, heart, soul, all that makes me who I am, will forever ache for him whether he’s near or far. That’s a foregone conclusion my heart made long ago. But it’s that same addict’s heart that I refuse to give in to. For the moment, fuck my heart, I need peace of mind.
Beau finally finishes his meal, doing a half-decent job of cleaning Tobias up before he bounds off the chair to greet me. I bend and run my fingers over his ears as he bobs in front of me enthusiastically, telling me about his day.
When the TV blasts the introduction of a new episode of Storage Wars, Tobias jars awake, his eyes wild and on alert as he jerks into a sitting position. He searches the space, eyes widening in surprise when he sees me standing just inside the doorway. A sleepy, sexy as fuck smile graces his stubbled jaw before he realizes he’s been busted grazing on the foods he’d once forbidden me from eating. He quickly snatches some of the bags into his fist before hanging his head, a sheepish smile gracing his lips. “You’re judging me.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely, yes, I am.” I bob my head for emphasis.
“You’re home early.”
“Only by a half-hour.” Beau whines at my feet. “I guess I should thank you for feeding the dog.”
One side of his mouth lifts at my raised brow. “I’m deeply ashamed.”
“Uh huh.” I cut through the hilarity of the situation and inch closer in an attempt to read him. “Did you have another bad day?”
“No, not really.” He seems to search his thoughts before his face lights up. “Did you know there is a show about treasure hunters who bid on stranger’s storage rooms? Incredible what they find!” He slaps his thigh and widens his eyes with pure delight. “This we can binge-watch together.” He’s truly excited about this prospect, and it’s all I can do to keep from buckling with laughter.
“You truly have been living on an alternate planet, Mr. King.”
Flaming eyes rake over me, and he reaches out a hand, and I take it before he pulls me into him so I’m straddling his lap. “Too fucking far away from you,” he murmurs softly, pulling off my beanie before stretching his fingers through my hair. “You’re cold.” He cups my face in his hands before sliding them up and down my arms, creating friction to warm me. Leaning in, he presses his lips to mine briefly before he nuzzles my neck.
Sinking onto him, I get lost in the feel of his olive skin, the taut and deeply defined muscles along his shoulders. “You’re going to get a relationship gut and blame it on me.”
“I wouldn’t give a shit,” he says, squeezing my hand when I run it over his carb bloated belly.
“You are going to get some greys soon, too.” I lean in with a grin and press my cold nose to his. “You’re getting old.”
“I’ve got plenty of prime years left,” he scoffs, lifting me on his lap so I can feel his growing erection, “and when the grey comes in, I’m going to let myself go. Eat fried chicken and drink whole milk.”
“Ah, well, I have no say in this? I’ll be stuck with a chunky chicken-fried Frenchman?”
“You will love me anyway,” he says in his thick brogue, again nestling into my neck. “Even if I’m fat and grey.”
I tug at his unkept onyx hair for another shot of amber, unable to stop the slight movement of my hips over his thickening cock, my words conflicting with my need for more. “I prefer we wait a bit longer to let ear hair be an issue.”
He jostles me in his lap. “Oh, let’s have fried chicken for dinner.”
Narrowing my eyes, I glance at the end table and lift a brow when I see the little antique box. “You got into my emergency weed stash.”
“Maybe,” he lifts guilty eyes to mine, and though he’s being playful, the sure tug of the truth of his
new reality is starting to weigh heavily, zapping some of the ever-present sexual energy.
“You’re bored here.”
His brief hesitation only confirms it. He grips me tighter when my fingers relax. “I’m not.”
“Tobias, you don’t have to quit. I told you when you got here. I won’t let you. The work you’re doing is too important to the people that rely on you, and it matters to you.”
“You matter more, and I’m on vacation,” he insists, running his hands along my back where my wings lay. When his eyes flare and his hands begin to explore, I push at his shoulders.
“I’ve got groceries to put away.” It’s a shitty excuse for breaking the intimacy, but I use it anyway and feel the hesitance in his arms before he releases me. I stand and grab some of the trash, and he grips my wrist, my hand wrapped around a soupy pint of Cherry Garcia.
“I will clean up my own mess, Trésor, and it wasn’t a bad day,” he insists, before releasing me and standing to gather his trash.
“But it wasn’t a good one, either. What’s next, an Xbox and a headset? You going to turn into one of those guys?”
“Why the fuck not? I’ve earned it.” He follows me to the kitchen, trash in hand, and tosses it in the bin.
“I’m not saying you don’t deserve it.”
He crosses his arms over his taut chest, his dark hair limp and slightly curled around his ears. “Why don’t you just say what you want to say?”
“This isn’t you.”
“No? Fine, what would please you?”
“It’s not about pleasing me.”
“Isn’t it? You seemed to have some preconceived notion about me and this life with you. I guess I’m not living up to it.”
“I have no notion. That’s the point.”
“And I’m telling you, I’m exactly where I want to fucking be.”
“Well, pardon me if I don’t believe you because I know better.”
“Yeah, well, excuse me if I think the same about you.”
I pause with a granola box halfway out of the bag. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He crowds me where I stand at the kitchen table. His eyes lit with animosity. “This isn’t you, either. This is the life of the Cecelia Horner—who you might have been—before you knew what true living meant for you. You aren’t exactly living the standard of the woman who ran a board meeting with spiked fucking heels eight months ago and spent her spare time taking down adversaries of her choosing.”
“You’re calling me a hypocrite?”
He presses in. “Yes. I saw you. I saw the victory in your eyes when you cornered your prey. I’m not faulting you for the life you’ve chosen to live, but it’s not exactly suited for who you really are, is it?”
“I know who I am.”
“Do you? Because the woman that left me eight months ago was far more fucking daring than the one I hold at night.”
I slam down a box of angel hair pasta on the table, and he lets out an exasperated breath. He begins to stalk off and thinking better of it, turns around and rushes toward me. “I’m not going to act like I’m not having a hard fucking time not being in control—or in the know—but the least you can do is admit to me that this isn’t what you see for yourself permanently. You’re hiding because I hurt you. Your confidence took a blow because I broke your heart, again.”
“You don’t get to credit yourself for the life I chose to live the minute I walked out of your office. You don’t have that much sway over me, not anymore. You lost that right,” I snap.
Jaw set, I see the sting I inflicted with my words in his eyes a second before I flit my gaze away and start unloading the rest of the groceries. He keeps his stare on me while I wordlessly finish my task, refusing him the fight he wants. I feel his disappointment when I don’t rise to his challenge as silence lingers between us before he turns and storms out of the kitchen. The front door slams minutes later, and I know he’s gone for another run.
Later that night, I feel the dip of the bed before he pulls me tightly to him, so I’m snug against his chest. Wrapped in his arms, I feel his apology, his need to make it all right with every beat of his steady heart against my back, but I stay mute with the burn of the truth he spoke. If the conclusions I drew were also the truth—which they were due to his bite—then we’re both adrift for the moment.
Age Twenty-One
“What’s with you today, man?” Tyler asks, taking a chair as I toss another log onto the fire. Sean and Dominic finish setting up camp just as the sun begins to dip past the tree line.
I’m still jet lagged from my flight in, on Paris time, the realities I’m living between worlds blurring as I scan the clearing. The burden of maintaining my roles in each is beginning to wear on me, but I refuse to let it deter me. Especially after today. Ten years ago, in this very place, I set out on a path to avenge my parents’ murders, and being here grounds me, reminds me of how far I have to go to seek that justice. But my presence here, in this place I consider sacred, also lets me know how far I’ve come and how close I’m getting.
“I’ll get to it,” I tell him as I glance over at Dominic who takes his chair and meets my pensive gaze. I swat at the mosquito sucking on my forearm as Sean uncaps a beer. Fresh from his first school pep rally, Triple Falls’ budding star quarterback is still clad in his jersey.
“I told you we aren’t drinking tonight.” I snatch the bottle from his hand just as he lifts it to his mouth.
Sean glares up at me. “You make it through a two-a-day football practice and tell me you don’t deserve a beer. And newsflash, I have a set of parents. They live a few streets over from yours, and they’ve taught me right from wrong.”
“As much good as that’s done you,” Tyler jabs.
“This is important,” I snap. Sean’s eyes flit to the confiscated beer in my hand before I toss it into the flames. This past summer was supposed to be my time to reconnect with my brothers, but I was absent, often flying back to France, and mostly because of Antoine’s demands. But I still need him for the moment, so I’m stuck being his errand boy until I can find a way to be less dependent. He’s been the resource I thought he would be, supplying me with damn near everything I’ve needed while remaining greedy with his wealth, so he’s the only leg I have to stand on. It’s the right move on his part to keep me contained, keep me reliant on him, but it’s stifling my progress to the point I need to make moves to ensure I can sweep his legs if need be.
“Can we get on with this?” Tyler says, pulling my attention from the fire.
“You have somewhere you need to be?”
“Yeah, I do, actually,” he darts his eyes away.
“He’s been disappearing a lot,” Sean supplies. “And won’t tell us who she is.”
“Because there is no she,” Tyler snaps.
Sean grins. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Methinks you’re going to lose some baby teeth if you don’t shut your fucking mouth.”
I ignore their exchange, eyes trained on Tyler.
“Anything I need to know?” He jerks his chin in reply. He’s clearly hiding something, and it’s personal from his bite. There most definitely is a she, and that’s one of the reasons I’ve called the meeting.
Sean kicks back in his camping chair, and in a sudden move, Dom leaps from his own and shoves Sean’s chest, tipping him over. Dom and Tyler both chuckle as Sean curses and stands brushing the dirt from his pants before fishing out a pack of cigarettes from his jeans.
“You broke my fucking smokes, dickhead.”
“Shouldn’t be smoking anyway,” Dom says, pulling a joint from his backpack.
I lift a brow. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Serious enough, brother,” he mumbles, lips wrapped around the joint as Sean strikes his Zippo.
“Just hold off on that a minute,” I order.
Dom reads me and nods, tucking the joint behind his ear.
“What’s the update
on the garage?” I ask, between the three of them. “How close are we?”
“It’s done. As soon as I get my settlement money,” Dom says. “No other offers on the table because no one else around here has the money to buy it.”
Tyler chimes in, his brows drawn tight. “What’s the point of the garage with everything else we have going on? Is it just a front?”
“No,” I say, gaze straying back to the fire. “It will be a legitimate business. We’ll be fixing cars and taking money for it. The legal age for mechanics in this state is sixteen. But we’ll need a few more in order to make a decent profit and handle overhead costs.”
“I know someone,” Tyler adds, “name’s Russell, he’s been teaching us how to work on the classics Sean’s uncle left us. He’s old enough. And he’s fucking good.”
“Trust him?”
“Yeah,” Tyler nods. “He’s good people and never been printed either.” We have a strict no print rule when vetting new birds for obvious reasons. We don’t want anyone associated with us with fingerprints in any database—even as a juvenile—which makes it harder to find the type of recruits we need. We need smart thieves and good men, but in our neck of the woods and with the meth spike, they’re hard to come by.
“Bring him in. I want to meet him.”
Tyler nods. “I’ll see if he knows anyone else.”
My eyes drift back to the flames, and it’s then I’m struck by the thought of my parents, locked in a room as similar flames surround them while they scream for help. It’s no mystery why that image of them is weighing on my mind.
Picking up some kindling, I toss it into the fire. “I saw Roman up close for the first time today.”
“Where?” Sean asks.
“The library,” Dominic supplies, “when he came to pick me up.”
I glance over at my brother, mildly surprised. He was in the far corner of the library, engrossed in his book when Roman strolled in, looking weightless as if he wasn’t responsible for ruining lives. But I guess he wouldn’t be weighed down with guilt. Men like him consider my parents ‘the help,’ no more than liabilities whose murder probably inconvenienced him more than anything else. He’ll never know that my mother was the only woman capable of getting me out of my moods, of soothing my temper with a few words, of making me smile not just with expression but with my whole being. He’ll never understand the notion of my stepfather’s American dream. Or that my parents chose the town he’s monopolized to create a better life for us—and for the woman he rescued from her mad husband and her bastard son. Even if he was made aware, I doubt he would care. Because it was evident by the way he treated his own daughter today, he’s got no weaknesses of his own.
The Finish Line Page 14