Never Let You Go (Never #2)

by Monica Murphy

  “What will people say about us?” I’m voicing my biggest fear, needing him to realize that this is the thing I’m the most afraid of. I know he loves me. I know we can make this work. How can we not? We’re both in so deep, there’s no working our way out of it now.

  And I don’t want to. I’m in love with him.

  “Who cares what they say?” His mouth moves against my neck when he speaks, tickling my skin, and I try to shift away from him. He only holds me closer.

  “I do,” I admit, my voice small. “I’m scared all the attention will ruin it. Ruin us.”

  He lifts his head, shifting so his hands are braced on either side of my head, his intense gaze locked with mine. “Nothing will ruin us. I will never let you go, Katie. Ever. It’s like you’re embedded in my very soul.”

  His words touch something deep inside me. I want to believe that no one can ruin what we have. I know he’s strong, but am I? What if my mom and my sister turn away from me? Can I handle the speculation and the rumors and the horrible things complete strangers will say about Will?

  About me?

  “I won’t let anything happen to you or to us. No one can tear us apart. We belong together, Katie. You’re mine.” He leans down and presses his mouth to mine, a quick yet deep kiss that leaves me breathless. “Fuck what anyone else thinks. What do you think?”

  “I think I love you.” I smile up at him and he smiles in return. “I know I love you.”

  “I love you, too. It feels like I always have,” he admits, his voice, his expression, so heartbreakingly sincere I kiss him before I do something crazy.

  Like fall apart and cry like a little girl.

  The kissing turns into touching and then my panties are gone and his boxer briefs disappear. We’re wrapped around each other, skin on skin, no barriers, just us, and I can feel the head of his erection rubbing against me. Hard against soft, hot against wet.

  Until he’s slowly sinking inside of me, rocking back, withdrawing almost completely before he’s pushing back inside, farther this time, making me sigh with pleasure. He’s slow, patient, groaning low in his throat, the primal sound urging me to wrap my legs around his hips, sending him even deeper.

  We both moan and he gathers me to him with one arm, holding me close as he starts to move inside of me in earnest. The push and pull of our bodies, the friction they cause, I get caught up in it. Lost to the sensation of him moving within me until I’m crying out his name on every thrust, clinging to his sweaty body, positioning myself in a way that every time he pulls out, I see sparks.

  “Christ, Katie, you feel too damn good,” he murmurs against my hair, and I nod in agreement, too overcome to speak, too afraid I might say something incoherent since my brain feels like it’s about to short-circuit. “Are you close?”

  I want to be close. I don’t know if I’m close. It feels good. The head of his erection seems to bump something deep inside that sends a bolt of sensation straight through me, but otherwise I . . . am a complete failure when it comes to knowing my body’s cues sexually.

  Not that I ever really wanted to figure them out. I was too damn scared for too many years, too ashamed to allow myself to have any sort of romantic or sexual feelings.

  “I—I don’t . . .” I shake my head, embarrassed. Frustrated.

  He can sense my struggle. Lifting his torso from mine, he reaches in between us, touching the spot right above where we’re joined. I suck in a surprised breath at the wave of pleasure that washes over me and my body arches toward his, like I have no control over myself.

  “You like that,” he whispers, sounding pleased.

  I nod, not wanting to speak. Too busy concentrating on the way his fingers work their magic on my body.

  “Does it feel good?” He increases his pace, his finger moving in circles as he begins to thrust again. “Are you going to come, Katie?”

  Oh, his voice is so deep. I can feel his every word vibrate in his chest, every moan and ragged breath. I close my eyes and let my senses take over.

  My hair rustling against the pillowcase as Will thrusts into me over and over. The gentle slap of skin on skin when he pushes in extra deep, the wet sounds of my body as he strokes me with his skilled fingers—it’s too much. I’m on complete sensory overload and my muscles tense, my belly contracts just before I fall completely apart, my body shaking, my hands clutching him close. I breathe against his skin as I fall over that delicious edge and he lets out a strangled groan before he tips over that same edge right along with me.

  We cling to each other. Our breaths slowly even out, our hearts, our bodies coming down, until he’s rolling us to our sides so we face each other, his softening erection pulling out of me, accompanied by a gushing wetness. Shock renders me still when I realize what just happened.

  “We didn’t use a condom,” I whisper. I didn’t think of it because . . . well, I didn’t think of it. Oh my God. So what’s Will’s excuse?

  “Ah, shit.” He blows out a harsh breath and rolls over so he’s flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He’s got his hands linked together and resting on his chest, his dark hair is a riotous mess, and he looks . . . hot. Stressed out but hot. He turns to look at me, his mouth pulled into a frown. “I’m sorry, Katie. I just . . . I don’t know what happened. I forgot. Just giving you one more reason not to trust me, I guess.”

  “Hey.” I reach for him, resting my hand on his cheek, turning his head so he’s facing me. He’s frowning, his eyes clouded with worry. I could be flattered that he was so overcome with need that he didn’t think of using protection, but how stupid are we? The last thing we need is to bring a baby into this world. We’re messed up enough. “It’s okay. Nothing will come of it.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks pointedly. I know what he’s referring to. I’m a woman—I get the whole cycle, period thing.

  I drop my hand from his face. “I’m sure.” And I sound way more confident than I feel. I’ve always been irregular and I’ll skip a period here and there, which is normal for me. “And I trust you. I know you didn’t do this on purpose.”

  It’s a big deal, that I can trust him. I can only have faith in the fact that he won’t lie to me again. If he does . . .

  I have no one to blame but myself for allowing it to happen.

  “Yeah, but I should be more responsible.” He sounds irritated. “I don’t need to put any more burden on you.”

  I scoot closer to him, resting my folded arms on his chest, gazing up at his handsome face. The dark stubble on his cheeks and jaw, his mouth swollen from our kisses . . . he has a dangerous look to him. I like it. “Nothing you do is ever a burden.”

  He smiles down at me, a little closed-mouth curve of lips that doesn’t really reveal much. “You say that now. Wait until we go back home to our real lives.”

  “We get to go back to Molly,” I point out.

  His smile grows. “That’s a good thing. I miss her.” He’s checked on her twice that I know of, calling the local overnight kennel she’s staying at.

  “We have to watch the interview with us and your—father tomorrow night,” I remind him.

  His smile fades. Not the most pleasant subject to mention, but it needed to be said. “I don’t want to.” He sounds like a little kid. Next he’ll cross his arms and stomp his feet.

  Not that I can blame him.

  “We have to. I’m not going to face the potential firing squad unprepared. We have to know what he says. Besides, I’m curious to see how Lisa edits our interviews so we both look like total assholes,” I mutter.

  He shifts away from me, his expression full of feigned shock and horror. “Did I hear you just now? Did you just say the word asshole?”

  “Stop.” I reach out to hit his shoulder, but he dodges away from me at the last minute. “I’m serious! She’s going to make us look bad.”

  “But like assholes, Katie? Such language.” He’s teasing. Seeing the amused light in his eyes is almost worth all the other crap we’ve suff
ered through these last few days. Weeks. Months.

  Years.

  “Says the man who drops constant f-bombs.”

  He leans in and kisses me, effectively silencing me. And then proceeds to continue silencing me for the rest of the night.

  The Bible is lying open on my lap and I try my best to read the words, but my vision is blurred. My mind is unfocused, my heart full of rage, and I wait in my cell, the resentment building, building. Always building. To the point I feel like I’m going to explode.

  But I’m always ready to explode. I’m like a volcano, slowly boiling, on the verge of eruption.

  Total mass destruction.

  “Hey, Monroe.” The guard’s voice is loud, grating on my nerves, but I do my best to remain still, my back facing toward him. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him rattle me.

  Fuck that.

  When I don’t respond, the guard lets out an exasperated breath. Motherfucker. “Spoke to the warden. He doesn’t want you watching your interview tonight. Afraid if we leave it on the TV the other prisoners might give you a bunch of shit and you’ll go nutso on them.” The guard cackles like an old woman and I grit my teeth together, wishing I could snap his fucking ear off with them. Or maybe his giant, always red nose.

  That would show him for making a mockery of me.

  “You gonna go nutso in your cell instead, since your ass just got turned down? Better let me know now so we can prepare.”

  I still don’t turn around and I know that makes him angry. I can practically feel his frustration radiate toward me.

  Yet I remain in my position, never once looking back.

  “If you’d ever give a little, you’d get a little in return, Monroe,” the guard says, sounding sullen, like a child.

  The sullenness reminds me of Will. My son. The boy who turned his back on me so easily and is now siding with the slut. I took the call from Lisa Swanson last evening. She told me all about their interview. How my boy walked out. How the girl stayed and defended him.

  There’s something odd there. I don’t like it. Why is she defending him? What does she care? That punk fucked everything up. To this day I still hate him for what he did, yet I can’t hate him too bad. He is my blood after all.

  And you never turn on blood.

  I flip through the pages of my Bible, to the spot I marked last with a photo of me and my boy. He might’ve been around eleven, maybe twelve. We’d gone to the amusement park that summer, lots of times. Was that the summer I worked there? I doubt it. I wouldn’t want to hang out at that shit hole on my day off.

  But the photo of me and Will makes that place look downright magical. Mythical, almost like a legend. Despite it being a shit hole, that was always one of my favorite places to go.

  One of my favorite places to hunt. So many girls. So many pretty, pretty girls . . .

  My memories of that day with Will are hazy, made supposedly clearer because of the photo. I’m grinning, my arm slung around Will’s shoulders. Will’s not smiling at all. He looks unhappy. During those last years together, he always looked unhappy.

  Those dark eyes stare at the camera, impenetrable. His mouth a tight line, his face expressionless, stony and full of hate.

  Boy always did hate me. Didn’t understand he needed those lessons from me to get along in life. It’s not easy. Hell, life is fucking hard. So hard, I couldn’t function within society and got sent here.

  I hate it here.

  Barely glancing over my shoulder, I’m relieved to find the guard long gone. Good. Asshole can take a flying leap for all I care. All these dicks who work here are mean as fuck and annoying. Obnoxious. I spend a lot of time alone with my thoughts, with my Bible, and my photos and my memories.

  All the memories . . .

  Flipping the weathered pages, I find the other photo, the one I cut from a recent gossip magazine. They let that shit come in sometimes and I devour them. I don’t know who three-quarters of those people are anymore but it doesn’t matter. They’re pretty. They’re popular.

  And there was my Katie Watts in a photo right smack dab in the middle of them, throwing me off. Sitting side by side with Lisa, the both of them smiling for the camera, though her smile isn’t as bright as Lisa’s, and her eyes are dim, not as sparkly. She doesn’t look that happy to be there. But just looking at that stupid picture right at this very moment, I get pissed.

  She’s getting all the glory, all the attention. Why, because I allowed her to live? Spared her pitiful life instead of ending it? I should’ve ended it when I had the chance. I had plenty of chances, too. Almost choked her to death that one time. The feel of her soft bones beneath my hands, the little gasps for breath as she struggled against me. Her struggles were pointless. I threw her down on that mattress after I rendered her unconscious and then used her.

  That’s all they’re good for. Useless, good-for-nothing little girl, gullible as all hell considering she fell for my bullshit. My oldest victim out of all of them, the most naïve, stupid little twelve-year-old I could’ve found. Did anyone realize that? Maybe.

  I can’t remember.

  I look at her some more, trying to find the little girl in her grown-up features, but it’s damn hard. She’s all woman. Unappealing. All dirtied up now that she’s most likely been fucked by some man and ruined forever.

  Funny how I’m the one who did all the work and she gets to reap all the credit. Girl needs to learn her lesson. Learn her place.

  I turn the pages to the back, to the spot where I cut into the pages, making a perfect skinny rectangle. It’s where I keep the little shank I made out of a pen. Fuckers were stupid enough to leave it with me, so I was smart enough to turn it into a weapon. Might come in handy someday.

  Might come in handy someday real soon.

  Turning it this way and that, I admire my weapon, run my finger along the edge that I sharpened myself, wincing a little. It fucking stings, so it ought to hurt someone real good when I stick ’em with it.

  I smile and slip the shank back into its hiding place. I’ve used that same little hiding spot within my Bible for a couple of years now. Most guards don’t think to search so thoroughly in the book of the Lord. They flip through it quick and move on.

  Dumbasses. That’s all I deal with in this life. A big pile of dumbasses. If I had my way and got out of this hellhole, first thing I’d do is go find Will. He’s not a dumbass. Boy is too smart for his own good, just like his daddy. Maybe I could enlist his help to find that stupid bitch Katie Watts. Would Will help me? Would he kill someone for me if I told him to? I doubt it.

  But that don’t mean I can’t force him to do something . . . just to help out good old Pops.

  Dreams were hopeless. Goals a total crock of shit. Life did nothing but show me again and again that I was wasting my time believing something good could happen to me in my life.

  Nothing good ever happened to the boy whose mama had left him the first chance she got. Whose dad was a sick motherfucker who forced him to watch things no little boy should have to witness. Who grew up pissed off and hurt and defensive. Who knew there was no way he stood a chance at having something normal.

  I was sitting on the couch in the dimly lit living room, zoning out as I watched TV. Full House was running on Nickelodeon and yeah, I was watching a channel made for a bunch of preteen girls, but there was nothing else on.

  Besides, Full House tapped into all my favorite secret fantasies. The big, happy family who took care of one another no matter what, and even better, this particular family was unique, closer to my story.

  Well. Not quite. The show might have had the single dad like mine, but that was where the similarities ended compared to my dear old dad. They had Uncle Jesse and the girls and Joey, and then Jesse married the hot Becky and everything was really coming together then. Pure fantasy stuff at that point, all those people seemingly living together in that giant house. One big, happy family.

  Something I had no experience with whatso
ever.

  The door leading to the garage creaked open and there was my dad, standing in the middle of the kitchen and glancing around the room in disgust. “What the fuck happened in here, boy?”

  I winced at the sound of his voice. He sounded drunk. I glanced over the couch and caught a glimpse of him. Red-faced and sneering, hands resting on hips as he surveyed all that he saw. Like the mighty king had come home to lord over his piece-of-shit castle.

  “You didn’t clean the kitchen like I told you to,” he bellowed. He was always yelling. I don’t think he realized that after a while, I just tuned him out. It was a lot more effective if he didn’t yell as much, so when he finally did, I knew he was fucking pissed.

  But my old man wasn’t that smart.

  “I’ll clean it in a minute,” I called, my focus still on the show on the TV. I needed to finish the fantasy, and then I’d wash his damn dirty dishes. Maybe pretending I shared the duty with someone else would help soften the blow. I wished like hell I had siblings. A little brother or sister or even better, an understanding older brother. One who would take me to the park along with his friends so we could all hang out. That would’ve been real nice. Anything would be nicer than what I had.

  “Damn it, Will. You need to pay fucking attention for once!” He appeared in front of me like magic, since he was always good at sneaking around. He snapped off the TV with a vicious flick of his wrist and a snarl on his face. I gazed up at him, pissed he ended my show before it was done, but I knew my cue. Rising to my feet, I went to the kitchen without saying a word, grimacing at the piles of dirty dishes in the sink. There were flies buzzing around and everything stunk.

  How the fuck long did this shit sit here before he finally asked me to help him clean it?

  The door from the garage opened again, and this time a woman entered the kitchen. She looked young, early twenties, I don’t know. I’m not good at judging ages. She was wearing a pair of dirty cutoff denim shorts and a raggedy old pale red T-shirt. No shoes. Dark-haired. Her eyes were big and brown and full of fear.