Rolling in Clover

by Dawn, Penny

  ROLLING IN CLOVER

  By PENNY DAWN

  CHAPTER 1

  "Can you feel my cock?"

  The gruff words needled Kimberley Roderick's reverie like hail against a sun-bathed window. Through a fog of sleep, her husband emerged before her—glassy-eyed, disheveled, and climbing between her legs.

  The acrid combination of whiskey and sweat oozed from his pores. She turned her cheek to his mouth and fought her gag reflex with a slow exhalation. “Wait, Brennan."

  "Can you feel it, baby?” His clammy hands pinned her wrists into the pillows, imprisoning her against their king-sized mattress, and he nudged his way between her thighs, forcing her legs to part. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you love it."

  The sloppy, pickled kiss at the corner of her lips fueled her will to escape. “Get off me.” His grip burned a ring around her wrists when she twisted away.

  The scent of the ninth green sifted through the room on a cool spring breeze, as if promising tranquility. But when it swept over her flesh, moist with her husband's sweat, an uncomfortable chill settled on her.

  Amid the dim stream of porch light filtering through the sheers, his midnight blue eyes revealed no trace of the man she'd met at the altar eight years ago. “Can you feel my cock?"

  "Stop already.” Raw pain zinged her left wrist where the heel of his palm entrapped her. “You're hurting me."

  "Can you feel it? Do you want it?"

  "What can you do with it, in this condition?” With gritted teeth and force enough to tip his balance, she tore her left arm free from his weight and scrambled out from under him.

  "Whoa.” A hearty laugh accompanied his tumble to the yellow-and-white striped Waverly sheets, his half-flaccid penis drooping out the fly of his boxer shorts and his head coming to rest on a fluffy pillow. “Feisty tonight."

  "I'm pregnant, for God's sake.” She was only a few weeks along, but pregnant was pregnant. With a swift yank, she zipped the pillow out from under his head. “And you have a problem."

  "Grow up."

  Interesting advice from a thirty-two-year-old man acting like a frat boy. There were only two circumstances in which he'd return home in such a state. He didn't drink in excess unless he'd gambled and lost big, or gambled and won huge. Neither cause was any more attractive than the end result.

  She spied and retrieved a withdrawal receipt amid the pile of clothing her husband had abandoned on the floor. Three thousand dollars. And not more than sixty left in his pockets. An expensive buzz.

  "Love you, Kimmy Coco Bop."

  "I hate that nickname."

  "Kimmy, Kimmy Coco Bop,” he crooned, performing a horizontal version of the 1950s pony dance. “Kimmy, Kimmy Bop."

  Up against another woman, she'd fight tooth and nail for Brennan, but his addictive personality was one mistress with whom she could never compete. And she had scars on her heart to prove it.

  She fingered the crocheted lace on the pillow case—so intricate—and turned away.

  "Where you going?” His voice sounded gravelly and his words slurred. “Missed you this week, baby."

  "Apparently not enough.” His plane had touched down at O'Hare International Airport fourteen hours earlier, thirty minutes before the season opener at Wrigley Field. He'd probably charmed the hell out of his friends in that sky box, but at 3:24 in the morning, stinking drunk, no magic remained for Kimberley.

  Can you feel my cock? She'd cut the son-of-a-bitch off just as soon as she'd touch it tonight.

  "Kimmmmmmy."

  With the expanse of soft, white carpeting in their bedroom behind her, she pressed a hand to her still-flat abdomen and sauntered down the walnut herringbone path, goose-down pillow in tow. She paused outside their three-year-old daughter's bedroom.

  Allison Colleen's raven curls, soft and bouncy, spilled over a rosebud pillowcase, and she rubbed the worn satin ears of a stuffed, pink rabbit against her summer-peach cheek. Innocent. Gorgeous.

  Not twelve hours ago, the child had fingered the prominent diamond in Kimberley's wedding band, spinning it around her mother's finger as if she knew of its impermanence.

  "Love you, Allie,” Kimberley now whispered, blowing a kiss toward the princess canopy bed.

  Children. They were nothing short of treasures, gifts. And Kimberley had already given one back to God. Such an egotistical, foolish decision, but a sacrifice she'd chosen to make for the sake of a life of her own.

  And some life it was.

  She'd graduated summa cum laude and had a brief but stunning career in family law. And now, she served Cheerios. She was a smart woman trapped in a miniscule corner of a massive, flourishing world, about to bring another child into it.

  When two bright blue lines appeared on the pregnancy test last week, she should have pulled her application from the University of Illinois at Chicago. With two small children and a husband with addictions, she'd never have time to teach at UIC. The commute alone would consume every moment of her free time. Not that they'd call her for an interview anyway. She'd been out of the loop too long.

  She dragged her pillow down the rear staircase, seeking a tiny slice of Eden among her frustrations. Serenity resided on the highest shelf above twin Subzero refrigerators, which had been paneled to resemble an oversized, cherry armoire, complete with carved moldings and antique pulls. In her favorite cookbook, opposite a creamy hollandaise recipe, she kept memories of a less complicated era and the truest connection a man and a woman could possibly share.

  In the first-floor guest suite, the plush, sage duvet on the Timberlake bed comforted her tired body. She opened The Fabulous Gourmet, grazing her fingers across worn stationery that read, “From the Desk of Jason Devon.” The understated joke still evoked a smile. Unless bleachers in a high school gymnasium counted, Jason had never had a desk. A down-to-earth, wholesome American athlete, through and through. And Kimberley had had no right to abort his child.

  She perused the letter Jason had delivered on the eve of her wedding, via courier. For the thousandth time, she read his words, or rather recited them while she stared at his handwriting. Sharp-ending strokes, nothing flowery about his script ... or his subject matter.

  Marrying a man who doesn't know thing one about you won't fill this void. Reconnect with your sisters, make peace with the only family you have. But don't take one step down that aisle. It'll be the biggest mistake of your life.

  She closed her eyes and imagined her ex-lover's naked body between her thighs. In her mind, she and Jason were still in that summer of love.

  * * * *

  Eleven years ago. Lehmann Beach, way past sundown. Sweat and Cedar Lake rained down on her, sprinkling from his golden hair. His stomach melted against hers in the intense summer heat, and her breasts tingled with the slightest brush against him. Her hands registered the flex of his lean buttocks when he thrust deep and slow and thorough, filling her completely, reaching depths unknown to any other man. She tensed beneath him, climbing to a glorious height. He sealed his mouth over hers, swallowing her pleasured cries in their public arena.

  Soft, determined tongue teasing hers. Skilled lips roving her neck, her shoulders, and capable hands exploring the drenched mop atop her head, tickling down her sand-covered spine.

  * * * *

  The days of Cedar Lake were long gone, sacrificed along with Jason's child. She was drowning in another life, while her husband swam at the bottom of a bottle, feeding one addiction after another.

  "I don't stay because I'm weak,” she whispered, trailing a finger along Jason's letter. “I stay because I'm strong. It's important you understand that."

  * * * *

  In the dim light of dawn, Lucas Jackson opened a door in his modest hallway and peered into a bedroom decorate
d with purple butterflies. Rachael's five-year-old fingers mindlessly twirled a shredded piece of white satin, the only remnant of a cherished baby blanket, in her sleep. He'd grown to love her. It wasn't her fault she wasn't his.

  He'd named her and cut her umbilical cord, for God's sake, and that's all that mattered. Well, that and forgiveness, his constant challenge. With the help of a snot-nosed therapist, whom Luke doubted knew much about women, and much less about marriage, he would work through the anger, let go of the hurt.

  As quietly as possible, he closed his would-be daughter's door and walked along a worn path in the carpeting to the next room, where Caleb, his eldest, still slept. Luke sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on his son's back. The dinosaur pajamas were far too small, but they were Caleb's favorites.

  Children became attached to things quickly and unpredictably. Luke had become attached to their mother in much the same way, when he fell head first in love at the age of sixteen. A long time ago, she'd loved him, and God overcame the birth control pill, giving them the greatest gift in the world—his son.

  Just outside Caleb's door, an ancient retriever awaited him, a golden tail wagging its own version of joy. Luke had adopted Derby in high school, and over the years, the dog had been a faithful companion. More faithful than his wife. And although every step likely challenged the dog, he accompanied his master down the stairs to the foyer.

  Luke yanked a sweatshirt off the halltree he'd built last spring. He'd assembled the piece with painstaking care, routing the edges with an ogee bit, carefully rubbing the maple grain with a henna stain. At an antique hardware store in downtown Chicago, he'd found four wrought iron coat hooks and a vintage cup-pull for the mitten drawer under the seat.

  When he'd completed the labor of love, Diane didn't thank him. “After years of dirt across my floor,” she'd said, “it's about time you gave the kids a place to take off their shoes."

  She now scuttled in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors, slapping a towel against the countertop. “Do you think just once you can find the fucking dishwasher?"

  Satan incarnate. The Discovery Channel had recently reported on the phenomenon early psychologists coined “hysteria.” Premenstrual Syndrome transformed an ordinarily level-headed woman into a crazy person. Diane's PMS was constant, unrelenting.

  "Look at this, will you?” She whipped a sponge into the sink, piled with his dinner dishes. “It isn't enough for me to clean up after the kids? I have to wipe your nose, too?"

  He neglected to respond, simply slipped his arms into his jacket.

  "If you can put some time aside,” she said, “I'll explain the concept to you once again: dishes on the racks, soap in this convenient little compartment, turn the knob to on."

  He'd like to turn a knob all right. Maybe he'd help out around the house if she'd sweeten the deal in the bedroom.

  "Are you listening to me?” Six months older than he, she'd recently turned thirty-two. But the scowl in her eyes was that of an old, crotchety woman.

  Over the years, her once-blonde hair had become dry and brassy, her complexion, sallow. She lost far too much weight after Rachael was born, making her bony and breastless. However, it was not her physical attributes—or lack thereof—that he'd found unattractive. When she rested in peaceful sleep, she was as beautiful as the day they'd met. In her continuous state of tirade, however, she might as well be adorned with green horns and a spiked tail.

  "I said, are you listening to me?"

  "Yes, Diane, I'm listening to you."

  "Are you taking the dog out?"

  "I'm going to work out,” Luke said. “And then I have my session with Dr. Schaeffer."

  "He's your damn dog."

  Yeah, well, half of Rachael is some idiot's sperm, but I love her anyway. He turned toward the staircase, where Derby rested, filling the entire landing. He whistled a low tone. “Come on, boy."

  The old pup lifted his head and meandered toward him. Diane had once loved Derby, too, had walked him up to Luke's football games, proudly displaying number eleven on her back. For six years after graduation, only the field and the game changed. Furlan's Field at the Fort Sheridan Reserve Base, where he played working man's softball. A peaceful, if not predictable life ... until Uncle Sam had beckoned Luke to exotic Saudi Arabia.

  And shortly after he'd returned, he and Diane learned that ninety-nine percent effective meant exactly what it sounded like. No time for games of any sort with his boy on the way.

  "All right,” Luke said, massaging Derby's ears when the dog perched at his feet. “You can wait in the truck. I'll leave it running with the heat on."

  "That's all we need.” Diane slammed the dishwasher shut. “Another through-the-roof bill on the gas card. It's not that cold out there, you know."

  With a deep, tired sigh, Luke shoved his hands through his hair. He had to get out. Out of the house, out of this marriage, out of this life. But unlike a previous, monumental exit, in which he'd carried everything he owned out the door, this absence would encompass only an hour or two. He'd have to make the most of it. He couldn't live without his children.

  Once Derby settled into the cab, taking up much of the bench seat, Luke twisted his wedding ring, and, for a fleeting second, he considered hiding it among the coins in the ashtray. He'd put it back on after his workout, in time for Dr. Know-It-All to pick his brain and place every blame in the world on his shoulders.

  Halfway over his knuckle, he shoved the ring back on. Damn it, she was his wife. And as much as he wished he didn't, he loved her.

  * * * *

  The gorgeous ornament on Kimberley's left hand, a symbol of the institution she'd once believed in, sparkled beneath the fluorescent lights in Gallant's Gym. Her stomach grumbled a reminder of its own—she hadn't eaten in a while—and the more she scrutinized her diamond, the more it became a blurred prism, racing around her head.

  A yoga girl, she had no business waiting in line for a stair-stepper. Unfortunately, by the time Brennan had opened his hung-over eyes to watch Allison this morning, it was time for his weekly basketball league downtown, and, come whiskey or water, he never missed a chance to wager bucks for baskets. If she expected to make her class today, she should have anticipated the hangover and made other arrangements for their daughter earlier.

  By the time she'd dropped Allison at her in-laws'—Brennan had promised to pick her up as soon as his game was over—the last yoga class was full, and she had no choice but to await a cardio-nightmare.

  If not for the dreaded weight gain ahead of her, she might have forgone her exercise regimen for a bagel and decaffeinated raspberry tea at The Jasmine Vine, with UIC's fall class schedule open across the café table and her imagination running wild. Maybe if she taught at UIC, she'd bring more value to her family and more leverage to her marriage. And if she'd eaten this morning, she wouldn't be feeling so—

  "Are you all right?” A crisp, baritone voice sounded over her right shoulder.

  When she turned to acknowledge him, a wave of dizziness washed over her. She looked back to her hands. “Yes.” She fixated on her ring, depending on the promises it held. If she looked away, even for a moment, she'd lose her balance amid the spinning, and if that man were half as tasty as he sounded, she might lose her senses.

  Her heartbeat, a raging pulse at her temples, rattled her brain, and sweat broke on the back of her neck, accompanying a wave of nausea.

  "You should sit down."

  The world faded to black, and every body part numbed, save the crux of her arm, where a remarkable hand held her, a callused thumb tracing a circle on the inside of her elbow, four sand-paper fingers kneading into her flesh, coaxing blood flow. God, to feel hands like that in places she shouldn't...

  The gym gradually came back into focus, and she blinked into the stranger's gaze. Oh, my. He stood about six-foot-two. Chocolate brown eyes, sandy brown hair, ultra white teeth. Why the hell is he paying attention to me? “I'm fine."

  He shrugged a
broad shoulder. “You don't seem to be.” His mouth parted into a smile, and an electric surge shimmied through her veins, settling between her thighs, dancing on her clit. She knew it was purely physical attraction, but what a feeling. What would happen if those ambitious hands roved over the private terrain his smile had just unknowingly invaded?

  "Want some water?"

  Before she had a chance to reply, he lifted a bottle of Evian to her lips, pressing a hand to the back of her neck as she sipped. The heat of a wedding ring branded against her skin. Married. Safe.

  She swallowed and forced herself to face him. “Thanks, I'm fine—"

  "You nearly fell over."

  "—just pregnant."

  "Really?"

  A crescent-shaped scar at the corner of his left eye crinkled with his illuminating smile. Very distinguished.