Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  I scramble out and frantically push him onto his back. “Condom?” I demand.

  He nods to his end table. I yank it open and almost send the drawer flying. Finding an unopened box both excites and infuriates me at this moment—I’m thrilled because the box was bought with me in mind, but I’m so resentful of the extra seconds to rip it open and tear off the square packet.

  “Give it to me,” he growls, then tears it open with his teeth before quickly sheathing himself. I’m bitter by the fact he once again got to touch his cock and I was denied the pleasure, so I don’t wait for him.

  Shoving him back, I straddle him and rub my wetness all over him so I can take him deep.

  But Monty has other ideas.

  Rolling me onto my back, he lifts one leg under my knee until it’s arched almost to my shoulder. Sliding the head in, he lets me adjust to his size before pushing in.

  “Yes,” I groan next to his ear before I take a nip at it. Like it was the signal he was waiting for, he pulls out slightly and thrusts back in. And again, and again. Soon, I’m coming around his cock, and he picks up speed. Moaning out his release, he’s a couple of quick thrusts behind me.

  We’re both panting like we just did back-to-back shows with no break when he lifts his head and grins. “Do you still remember your name?”

  I’m not sure how I have use of my arms, but I do. Running my hand up and around his neck, I whisper, “Yours,” and watch the teasing look melt from his face.

  “You know that goes both ways, right? I’m not letting you go through this alone.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were,” I tell him honestly.

  Muttering something incoherent, he lowers his head to my chest and listens to my heart for a while. I hope he’s not offended that’s it’s saying I’m scared as hell, but I’m going to give this a try.

  Forty-Six

  Evangeline

  “As a master-at-arms, I rarely had time when I wasn’t on duty. But there was one night in San Diego…” Monty trails off. His fingers sift through my hair rhythmically. I arch against him, purring like a cat.

  We’ve been lying in bed for hours making love and talking after a quick raid of the kitchen. I was mortally embarrassed when Monty’s phone rang about thirty minutes ago. He answered it with a gruff “Hey Mom.” I tried to push out of his arms, but the bands tightened. “No, she’s with me.” There was a long pause. “I think we’ll be all right if you and Ev want to go out to eat.” His voice is sardonic when he tacks on after another pause, “No, I think we’re okay just where we’re at.” Even as my face flamed hotter than the sex we’d already shared, his softened. “We’re good, Mom. Tell Ev things will be just fine. We’ll see you both in the morning.” Closing his phone, he rolled into me before announcing, “We’ve got about thirty minutes, and then we can pillage the kitchen. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

  After I beat him over the head with a nearby pillow, I had to give up my righteous indignation when my stomach agreed quite vociferously it needed food.

  Now that we’re both done consuming our smorgasbord of fruit, cheese, and bread, we’re lying with our heads cradled by one arm, our fingers interlocked with the other. Monty’s been recounting some of the stories about the military experience. I’m avidly listening as each one reveals another part of his character: the autocratic leader, the loyal friend, the mentor. But this one’s holding me captive for a different reason.

  “We were going to be in town for a few days. And even though I knew Mom and Ev were planning on meeting me early the next morning, we decided to hit the bars in Gas Lamp.”

  I snicker. “Sounds like a wise life choice.”

  His broad chest shakes in front of me. “Right? So, here we are, a bunch of drunk idiots wandering the unsuspecting streets of San Diego…”

  “Uh-oh,” I singsong.

  He smooths his hand down my side, tickling me slightly. “We weren’t that bad. Cocky as all hell, sure. But we knew we’d have to answer to the XO if we did something stupid. But as we were trying to find our next watering hole, we make a wrong turn and end up on the street littered with art galleries.”

  Pushing up, I lay a hand over the center of his chest. A V’s formed between his brows. “What happened?”

  “I fell in love.” My heart lodges in my throat. “Through the window, I saw her. Magnificent. Powerful. Wretched. And I wanted her badly.”

  Somehow, I manage to scrape out, “So what happened when you went to talk with her?”

  His lips curve. “I found out she was $32,000.”

  I jerk back. “She was a prostitute?”

  “She was a painting. A renowned local artist named Marie T. Williams had painted her. The painting was of Virginia during one of the most violent of storms to hit in recent memory. But to me, it was every emotion I had brewing deep inside me.” I feel the rise and fall of his chest. “I stood there for hours staring at it—no, absorbing it until the guys came back for me.” With a sad smile, he says, “They were such a hot mess, the owner threw us all out.”

  “What happened?”

  “I went back to the gallery the next day with Mom and Ev. The owner was appalled when I walked in with them, not realizing, of course, I had been a serious buyer.”

  “And?”

  “He’d sold it to a couple from the West Coast who were looking for something for the foyer of their vineyard after I left. I was devastated. To this day, I still want to find out what vineyard so that I can go and see it.”

  Curiously, I ask, “Have you found it online?”

  He shakes his head. “Either they don’t have it publicly displayed, or it’s been resold.”

  “Did it have a name?” My heart aches. As an artist, this is precisely the kind of emotion we want to elicit—an ongoing love affair.

  “Yeah. It was called Forgiveness. I always wondered if the artist named it that because of the storm or for some other reason.”

  “I know some people…” I begin, but Monty lays a finger across my lips.

  “I appreciate that, sweetheart. But I wasn’t going to let Ev buy it for me. I knew then, and I know now, to own something like that is something I’d have to earn. If it ends up in my hands, it’s because it was meant to.”

  I accept what he’s saying, but I wish I could hand it to him. It takes someone with such emotional fortitude to want something so badly and to not accept it out of hand. It takes a sense of honor that I’ve never brushed up against before. It makes me want to stay where I am.

  Here. With Monty. Figuring all the rest out.

  Because maybe with his strength to lean on, I won’t collapse as I try.

  Forty-Seven

  Montague

  Her skin feels like a bolt of satin beneath my worn hands. I’m afraid my fingers are going to catch and snag against my fingertips as I brush them up and down her arms, her hips, her stomach. It’s terrifying and intoxicating to hold a woman so delicate, so perfect.

  I bury my face in her hair the color of dark mink, inhaling the scent of lemon. Shyly, she explained she only washes her hair every few days, so she hoped I wouldn’t be grossed out by it. I’m selfish for wanting to wake her so I can see if her eyes will be as bright as the grass or as dark as the fir trees when the long lashes flutter open. Is it daylight that changes them? Her mood?

  Everything about her is perfect. Everything that is, except her feet, which are hard and calloused as they rub against my legs in her sleep. It’s a relief, to be honest, to know there are parts of her that aren’t, that she won’t expect me to be that way.

  That there are imperfections within her just as there are in me.

  I want to take her breath away. I want to shatter her soul. I want to become her purpose.

  But then I catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room and realize I still haven’t earned the right for all of that.

  The ache and pain begin to settle in for their nightly visit. My eyes drift to the one thing I kno
w can chase it all away. I start to shift away until a slender thigh pins me to the bed.

  Trapping me.

  Holding me back.

  Imprisoning me simultaneously in heaven and hell, unable to move, unable to breathe.

  Unable to escape.

  It doesn’t matter to me how she makes me feel; it’s how I can’t be without the burn.

  Unburdened.

  Forty-Eight

  Evangeline

  “I grew up in a world where vows of fidelity wilted due to pressure to perform. There was a race to stay ahead because of age and ego required for both. The constant temptations of drugs and booze to enhance the highs and bounce from the lows.”

  “How did you handle it?”

  I shrug, dislodging the blanket Monty pulled over me to keep me warm after our last round. “It wasn’t hard in my case. The cost was too high to pay.”

  He frowns up at me. “What do you mean?”

  I disengage our bodies and stand. Tugging the blanket, I use it as a cloak as I wander over to the window to find the night sky. I’ve become accustomed to seeing the stars while finding my peace of mind—dangerous considering my life is back in New York.

  But I don’t regret what happened yesterday—not one moment.

  I needed Monty— hell, I still do. And I need him to know more about me than the glamour and the body he spent hours exploring dedicated to my pleasure. I need him to understand why I’m the way I am—a dedicated professional, pathologically organized, and perpetually damaged.

  “You learn the only person you can truly control is yourself. Need is a different motivator than influence and love. I need things in my life because I have to function in a certain way. It doesn’t always make sense to others, but they respect me enough to let me figure out what’s best.” I turn away. “Until it’s not.”

  I hear the rustle of the soft sheets. The swoosh of a sheet approaching behind me is my warning he’s left the bed. Therefore I’m not wholly unsurprised when his hands land on my shoulders as I stare out into the ink giving way to blush in the sky. “Tell me,” he commands lightly.

  In the flimsy shadows of Monty’s room, the words come from the depth of me, bursting forth as if they’ve been waiting for this moment, this man. “I don’t take lovers lightly.” His fingers tighten. “It always seemed to expose a part of myself I had to protect, but I can’t seem to do that with you.”

  “Don’t distract me, Linnie.” His tone is light, but when I turn to face him, his expression isn’t. It’s filled with the kind of turbulent chaos I recognized right before he pulled me beneath him to love me senseless. My lips part of their own accord; my body’s already accustomed to the need he generates in it. He lets out a rough laugh. “Talk to me.”

  Pulling the blanket tighter, I think about how to explain the fact I’m essentially a fraud. I decide to start from the beginning.

  “When I was maybe seven, there was a school play. It was The Wizard of Oz. I didn’t get cast as Dorothy.” Even though my heart races when I imagine his reaction as to why, there’s still a sneer in my voice twenty-six years later. His light laughter makes me feel better though.

  “What did you do? Chop off the lead’s braids or something?”

  Thoughtfully, I mutter, “I wish I knew you back then.”

  “Competitive little thing, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea.” Regulating my breathing, I continue. “I was cast as Auntie Em. There were fewer appearances on stage and fewer lines to memorize. But the songs she sang are some of the most haunting in that show.”

  Monty drops one arm to wrap around my waist. “It sounds like you got a better role.”

  I neither agree nor disagree with his conclusion. I go on. “I owned that stage during my solos. Suddenly, the focus shifted to the director for his poor casting.” Lowering my head, I was ashamed when I admitted, “But he was right. Back then, I should never have been lead.”

  Monty turns me in his arms. “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t remember things worth a damn.”

  Monty laughs. Here it is, I think painfully. “How is that possible, Linnie? You remember scripts much more difficult than that today. You sing more songs…”

  “I have a problem learning,” I blurt out. Pulling away from his arms, I lean back against the cold glass.

  “How?” The sheet he pulled from the bed is knotted at his waist, allowing him to cross his arms comfortably across his chest.

  With the ends of the blanket still in my hands, I must look like a bat trying to sleep as I pull the ends toward my face to scrub at my eyes. “I have to put things into my long-term memory to memorize them. I went to doctor after doctor when I was a kid, but no one was willing to diagnose it as anything specific. Mom always suspected…” I trail off.

  “So you don’t drink?” It’s a statement and a question. I lower the blanket to meet his confusion head-on.

  “No. Mom did heavily while she was pregnant with me. The problem is, she was also given drugs to help with her labor and delivery. Either, both, could have caused problems with my learning issues.” And there it is: the dawning horror I’ve seen on the faces of doctors, teachers, and the occasional person we’ve let close enough into our family fold to be told the truth.

  Ignoring the beginning of anger that’s just forming inside, I plow on. “The only reason I can memorize scripts is that I have someone read the lines into an audio recording—you know, like an audiobook. It was a fluke I ever learned that trick. I was studying for a class where the professor happened to mention he was friends with the audio narrator, and this was another professional path we could go down. The idea of being a narrator intrigued me; I could use my talent without having to memorize anything. So, I downloaded the book we were reading. Imagine my surprise when I could answer questions in class later that week.” Even I can hear the bitterness in my voice. “I made an appointment with the professor, had him sign an NDA, and explained everything I’m telling you.”

  “What did he say?” It’s the first thing Monty’s said.

  “He got me in touch with his friend, who happens to own the small company. We had a long discussion about what I was looking for. I didn’t even know if it would work. But I agreed to pay him thousands of dollars from my savings—I like to call it my mother’s old guilt fund—to see if having one of his lesser-known narrators read me my textbooks would help put the materials into my long-term memory. I could listen to it while I was working out, while I was on the subway, anywhere.”

  Monty brushes a lock of hair off my shoulder. “How quickly did you see results?”

  “Oh, about six weeks. So much of literature is already on audiobook format. It was just a matter of getting the right recordings. All I was paying for was my regular textbooks like science.” Rubbing my fingers against my temples, I try to soothe the headache beginning to form. “As we started to get into my theater classes, it became more complicated.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because even though it was for personal use, we were still making an unofficial audiobook of a rented production. We were essentially licensing our copy of the production. I had to bring Mom’s attorneys in at that point.” Bemused, I tack on, “She never once protested.”

  “I should hope not.” He’s angry. “How…”

  “She was my mother,” I answer. “Do I continue to punish her? No. Do I love her less because she was ill? No. Instead of being an adult, when I had to deal with thinking about a parent being ill, I just had to do it before I hit school.” His sharp inhalation of breath soothes me. “It’s just what my life was, Monty. So many have so much worse.”

  “They’re not you.” The simplicity of his words do more than any more flattery ever will. They undo me. Stepping closer, I’m both gratified and terrified when he sweeps me into his arms and carries me back to his bed. Quickly pulling the blanket away, I shiver under his concerned perusal. But he unties the sheet at his waist, draping first that, then the
blanket over me before sliding in next to me.

  “Hold me while we sleep,” I murmur, so drained after telling him my truths I don’t realize he’s nowhere near the lethargy I am.

  “As long as you’ll let me,” he promises. Trusting that, trusting him, I roll to my side within the cradle of his arms as the pink makes a more valiant effort to push away the black of the night.

  I never realize Monty doesn’t sleep a wink.

  Forty-Nine

  Montague

  December

  “Dr. Spellman, I would like for you to meet Evangeline Brogan.” Mom and I sit back as Ev introduces Linnie to the doctor who’s kept him healthy the last few years. It’s been just a few weeks since Dad and Linnie talked about his illness. Thanksgiving Day has come and past. We had a hysterical time watching Mom drool over Linnie’s brother-in-law on FaceTime while Linnie, Bristol, Ev, and I laughed in the background. Ev invited Bristol and Simon down for Christmas. And barring any complications with the baby, they accepted.

  Linnie demanded to come with us to Ev’s monthly checkup with Dr. Spellman. “Listen to me right now, Everett Parrish,” she demanded with her hands on her hips. “Like it or not, I am at least as half as stubborn as you are.”

  His lips thinned.

  “Your doctor wanted you to find a donor for a reason.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Likely to increase your chances at living, gee, I don’t know, beyond the next few years?” she yelled at him.

  Ev had the good grace to blush. “So, we go in. I get tested. What’s the worst he says—no? We’re no worse off than where we are now. But Ev.” Linnie dropped to her knees in front of him. “What if your doctor says yes? What if we’re close enough of a match for me to help you?”