Playing Pretend Box Set

by Natasha L. Black

  I had fallen asleep in that hotel bed with him, our limbs tangled, his fingers still slick between my legs. Every night seemed like a honeymoon, a chance to finally declare our love in private whispers, in orgasmic shouts. So long we had held back our love and feared admitting it, that it demanded to be announced every minute now. He came in from the ranch in the middle of the afternoon sometimes just to kiss me, to hold me in his arms. Sometimes I’d ride out on Moonlight to where he was with the herd, supposedly to bring him some iced tea in a jug, but really to slip behind a tree with him, his hands under my shirt and his lips, insatiable on mine.

  The Amalfi Coast was so beautiful—the rocky cliffs, the bursts of bright pink azaleas in bloom framing the view of that glorious turquoise water. I felt like I could just drink the sight in with my eyes forever. His villa—our villa—had this exquisite view from the broad terrace high up on a hill. The breeze was soft and salty, and the limoncello was tart and bright, or so I was told.

  Four months pregnant and not drinking anything stronger than fresh lemonade, I lie on a cushioned lounge in my loose white sundress with my dog curled up napping at my bare feet. Months ago, Raul brought me here the first time for a belated honeymoon the week after he finally admitted to loving me. He took me sightseeing in the beautiful towns and hiking along secret paths. We made love on a sun-drenched private beach. The room where we slept was wide and cool from the sea breezes that ruffled the sheer white curtains in pale moonlight. Raul’s arms were always around me. In sleep, as we ate breakfast in bed, even when we toured the leather goods headquarters. I was his wife, and every word and gesture announced to those around us that we were together, that I belonged to him and he belonged to me.

  For our first anniversary, we had come back to spend a few weeks. On Santeria, we were a team that fueled and expanded the family legacy. Here though, here we basked in the sunlit glory of being in love, of being so lucky and so joyous. Every moment felt golden with bliss, and the daughter we were having could grow and blossom in this rare, perfect life.

  Raul had finally admitted that I was right, that our child would be a girl. He wanted to name her Allison after me. I laughed at that. I’d always thought men naming children after themselves was silly, and no less so for women. I suggested naming her Amalfi, after this beautiful, romantic place, but he objected that other kids would call her Fifi or something stupid. We joked now about things to name her—Azalea, Italia, Parmigiano. They were all such ridiculous ideas to make us laugh, to let the baby hear our fun and our joy where she was and feel the rush of love and happiness that our playfulness brought me.

  He joined me on the terrace. I moved over on the chaise so he could stretch out beside me. I settled into my preferred spot with my head on his muscular chest as his arm went around me.

  When he suggested we name her after cheese, I laughed so hard that Dori barked at me in dismay.

  “Do you want to call her Hermione?” I teased the dog, who barked even more indignantly.

  “That’s right. No one’s naming our baby that!” Raul agreed with the dog.

  “We could always name her Dori after the dog that brought us together.”

  “Or we could name her Stray or Lawyer Appointment or Hot Vet Tech,” he said. “All equally bad ideas.”

  “What about Antonia? After your Papí.”

  “After that controlling old buzzard?” he said.

  “Yes. Because if you think about it, all of this is his fault. He wanted what was best for you and look how it turned out.”

  “I refuse to honor him by naming our child after him. I was extremely lucky that we met, that you said yes at all. It was a crazy deal, asking you to marry me for three years.”

  “I said yes because it was you. Because I liked you and saw the potential for us to be happy together. And being happy for three years isn’t nothing.”

  “It is compared to being happy for a lifetime, Allie.”

  “Ok, yeah, a lifetime is better, but I would still rather have had three years with you than a lifetime with anyone else,” I said, kissing him.

  “Speaking of a lifetime,” he said, reaching down into his pocket. “I brought you something from town.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Is it more leather baby shoes? Because she doesn’t even have feet yet.”

  “No, it’s for you this time,” he said, handing me a velvet box.

  I flipped it open and gaped at it, a ruby so big and blood-red that I could not take my eyes off it.

  “Rubies stand for good fortune, which we had a lot of, loyalty and purest love. So I want you to wear this ring to remind you. They’re also supposed to be healthy for reproductive organs.”

  “So this represents love, loyalty and good blood flow to my uterus?”

  “Something like that,” Raul smirked.

  “Are you sure the reproductive thing isn’t just because men who buy giant rubies usually get lucky?” I teased.

  “Oh, do they? I never thought of it that way. Let’s see if it works.”

  He slipped the ring on my finger. I kissed him softly. He took over the kiss, capturing me, sliding his tongue into my mouth in a way that made me open for him, warmth and yearning suffusing my languid body. I shuddered when his fingers brushed my chest as he unbuttoned my dress. My full breasts were sensitive and desperate for his touch. I bit my lip as he rubbed and stroked my nipples. His mouth came back down over mine, kissing me deeply as he reached down to part my legs.

  I settled myself on his lap, my dress pushed up my thighs as I straddled him on the lounge. I made quick work of his zipper, his hard length jutting out into my greedy hands. Raul reached between us, giving a growl of approval as he realized I wasn’t wearing panties. He took me by the hips and positioned me just right so he could thrust into me, slick and so full, so deep that I rocked into him with a cry. It always felt so good to make love with my husband and doing it in the idyllic Italian sunlight on our terrace, the soft rush of waves far below made it even sweeter.

  The scent of lemons from the nearby grove, the salt of the breeze and the musk of his sweat as I kissed his shoulder—every sense was satiated with riches. His flavor and the rough calloused fingers that never failed to make me moan in ecstasy, the thrust of his tongue in my mouth moving in sleek rhythm with the big cock that impaled my aching, slick core. Want was the thing I felt most, and the tight squeeze of love for him clenching in my chest as I came and came again. Words would never be enough to express our deep love. Only through physical joining could we begin to explain it to each other, in a heavenly union both romantic and earthy, love and lust twisted together in a tangled perfection.

  Every touch, every kiss and thrust felt perfect, glorious. I know I said thank you as he made love to me. I could never thank him enough for this life, this joy we found together. When we were finished, sated and sleepy, we lay in each other’s arms on the lounge and watched the sun set. His hand curved around my belly where our child slept. She would wake and kick me at night, I knew, but for now we had perfect peace and love.

  “You’ve given me all I ever dreamed of and more,” I told him.

  “I never even dared to dream of anything this wonderful,” he said. “But you gave it to me anyway.”

  He kissed me tenderly and I smiled against his lips. Dori barked from her spot on the other lounge chair.

  “Stopping to help that dog was the luckiest thing I ever did,” he said with a sigh.

  “You know, we could name our daughter Lucia,” I said, “and call her Lucky.”

  “I like that,” he said, “I’ll think about it. But for now, I don’t want to think about anything but this.”

  I snuggled up in his arms and settled in for a nap as he kissed my forehead, his hand tangled possessively in my hair. It wasn’t just our baby who was lucky. It was all of us.

  Brother’s Best Friend (Sample)

  Enjoy a free sample of one of my other novels.

  1

  Layla

  “A
lright, guys. Take your seats. Today, we’re going to be making our own animated flip-book.”

  The kids groaned as they made their way to their seats. All I did was smile. At the beginning of my career three years ago, I would’ve taken their groans personally. But now, three years into teaching art to elementary students, I didn’t take anything personally.

  Elementary school was hard enough. We weren’t the hardest teachers to find, but we were the hardest teachers to keep. It was easy to dream about working with innocent kids all day. But elementary school kids were some of the most brutally honest people I’d ever met. They had no issues criticizing, teasing, and crying at the drop of a hat in order to get their way. And while most people argued that middle school were the hardest three years of any child’s life, I begged to differ. Elementary school came with shifts and social settings and stimuli that were completely foreign to them.

  These were some of the toughest years for any child.

  That was one of the reasons why I made it my concentration while getting my Education degree. I felt like elementary school kids needed teachers that were able to buckle down and stay in their atmosphere for more than a couple of years. Object permanence developed during those years, so students were painfully aware of teachers that came and left quickly. At that age, they needed stability away from home. They needed other adults they could trust, create foundations with, and lean on since their parents weren’t around during the school day.

  So, I did whatever I could to make myself that person.

  “I know, I know. Flipbooks aren’t as cool as the comic books your parents read you at night. But if you’re good for me in class today and do as I ask, I’ve got a special surprise for you guys,” I said.

  The kids perked up, and they quickly took their seats. Surprises always got them in their seats. Every once in a while, we’d have a good streak where three or four days in a row, they wouldn’t give me any trouble. But this week had been rough. It was the middle of the semester, and assessments were stressing them out. The holidays loomed around the corner, and the kids kept trying to talk about their plans. It was hard gaining their attention. So, I reverted to the old “surprise box.”

  “What’s the surprise, Miss Harper?”

  I smiled. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

  They groaned again, and I held up my finger, which promptly ceased the groans. I started passing out supplies they’d need for their flipbook, then started jotting down the instructions on the whiteboard. Some of my students learned by reading things on the board, and some of them learned by me showing them. So, I implemented both tactics in my classroom to get the best of both worlds.

  Suddenly, my phone pinged at my desk.

  “Ooooo, Miss Harper has her phooooone oooooon.”

  The students giggled as I shook my head. I finished scribbling the words onto the whiteboard as nicely as I could. Then, I walked them through the instructions. I showed them my flipbook. I showed them where to draw the images and why. I passed my booklet around so they could take a look at it to see how I decorated it. As they ogled over my handiwork, I sat down at my desk and pulled my phone out of my drawer. My hands trembled as I saw my brother’s text message. Last night had been a doozy. His best friend’s sister had gone to the hospital after being found unconscious on the floor of her bedroom. Her sweet little daughter had called 911 while trying to shake her awake, and we all feared the worst.

  Lance: Come to my house after work. Susie died.

  My world came to a careening halt. My first thought was that of Millie, Susie’s five-year-old girl. Tears rushed to my eyes as my fingers typed across the keyboard, and I didn’t care that my students heard. I didn’t care that they were staring at me and whispering among themselves, trying to figure out what was wrong while the only adult in the room attempted to gather herself.

  Me: I’ll be there.

  I sniffled as I turned my phone on silent, and as I looked up, all eyes were on me. The students’ heads were cocked, staring at me as if I’d grown a third eyeball, waiting for me to teach them. I felt frozen in my spot. I felt empty. Weak. I’d known Susie for years. I’d tried to help her for years. Postpartum depression was a nasty devil, and some women never recuperated.

  Some women like Susie turned to other sources of relief, not understanding they’d leave their children behind.

  “Miss Harper? What’s wrong?”

  I drew in a deep breath. “Would you guys like to make a flip-book today? Or would you like to listen to some stories?”

  The students looked around at one another before putting their supplies down.

  “What kind of stories?” one girl asked.

  I stood from my desk. “We do a lot of creating in this classroom. Painting. Studying. Learning. But there’s a secret to stories that not many artists talk about.”

  “What’s the secret?”

  “The secret is that every artist takes their stories and uses them as inspiration. They tuck their stories away until they need them for their projects and then use those stories to draw and paint.”

  “And make flip-books?”

  I smiled. “Yes. And make flip-books.”

  “So, you want to tell us stories?”

  I walked to the front of the classroom. “I want us to each tell a story about ourselves. And tomorrow, we’re going to make a flipbook based on the story we tell the class. How does that sound?”

  I had twelve kids that needed my attention before classes changed and then I got another twelve that needed my attention, in the next hour. They needed my undivided mind. So, what better way to use my art class than to teach these kids where art came from in the first place?

  “Do you guys want me to go first?” I asked.

  The kids nodded, and I pulled up my stool. I sat down, relieved I had some time to sink into something that wasn’t the floor. Because I wanted to melt away. Poor Millie. Poor Cole.

  Poor, poor Susie.

  “The story I’m going to tell you today is about the girl who inspired me to become an art teacher,” I said.

  “What’s her name?” a student asked.

  “Her name was Susie Yarrow. And she was the only person in my corner all throughout school who told me I needed to pursue my love of art, no matter where it took me.”

  I told them the story of how Susie found me crying one time on campus. She’d come to visit me, just shortly before her daughter’s first birthday party. I was supposed to come by and help her set up for the party. But instead, I was holed up in my dorm room, crying over something a professor told me: “If you want to teach, teach something the kids will take with them, not something they’ll discard once they graduate.” The statement hurt. It drove me into a well of depression that followed me for weeks. But when I finally let Susie into my dorm room, she looked me straight in my eyes and told me something that still stuck with me to this day.

  “Anyone who tells you that you shouldn’t follow your dreams is jealous because they didn’t follow theirs,” I said.

  My students smiled, and it made me smile. I reached my hand out to the boy next to me, and he straightened up in his chair. Around and around the room we went, telling stories and laughing with one another. Some kids talked about their parents. Some kids talked about their grandparents. A couple of kids talked about their pets and home, and one of my students even talked about his younger brother. I watched these unsure, homesick elementary schoolers set aside their insecurities and their fears and their biases and their emotions, and I watched them open up to one another as we revealed beautiful memories that sometimes housed painful secrets.

  “I’m so proud of you guys today,” I said breathlessly.

  We all wiped at our eyes, and I passed around tissues. I looked at the clock, noticing we still had fifteen minutes before our class changes. So, I decided to give them a break.

  “Now, who’s ready for the surprise box?” I asked.

  The students shot their hands
in the air, and I smiled as I walked to my desk. I pulled the treat box out from my lowest drawer, then walked it around the room. The kids stuck their hands in and pulled out everything from small bags of candy to keychains to put on their backpack zippers. I watched them trade and barter. I saw a couple of the kids already making sketches on their flipbooks for tomorrow. I put the box back in my desk and sat down, giving them the space they needed to breathe and decompress from the heavy topic, to talk amongst themselves and enjoy their prizes and just be children for a little bit.

  And exactly fifteen minutes later, their teacher stuck her head in the classroom, beckoning for them.

  “Bye, Miss Harper!”

  “Thanks for the chocolate!”

  “This keychain is awesome. Look, it lights up!”

  “We need to put our name on our books, right?”

  “Yes! Put your name on your books before you leave!” I exclaimed.

  Classes rotated and another class of twelve students came in. And we did the same thing. I passed out supplies for their flipbooks, we told stories, then they got the treat box. I did that five separate times for five art classes, filled to the brim with twelve students apiece. And as my day wound down into my free working period, the treat box had been emptied. I made a note in my phone to pick up more things from the dollar store.

  My planning period happened to be at the end of the day. Not the most convenient some days, but I would typically prep my lessons for the next day, or if we were in the middle of a project like we were currently, I would be able to pack up and leave early. I took advantage of that today and locked my art room door promptly at 1:45.