by Naima Simone
No, he’s not standing in my way. I’m the only one doing that. But not any longer.
“Thanks,” I say. Not that I needed his permission, but it’s nice to know that I have it. Really…nice.
He stuffs his hands in his pants pockets. “I’m going to rip up the check, Cypress.”
“Okay.” I smile, and this time, it’s real. “I need to head out, or I’m going to be late for work.”
“Yeah.” He nods and clears his throat. “I’ll talk to you later.”
It’s spoken like a question, and a hesitant one. “That’ll be fine,” I reassure him, and before I can second-guess it, I cross the space between us and hug him. His arms come up and fold around me, and this one, this embrace isn’t awkward at all.
It’s one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself, to forgive. Forgive everybody.
Maya Angelou was one wise woman, and she knew what she was talking about. As I leave Dan’s home and slide into my car, I pray for the first time in forever that Jude can offer me the same gift.
But before that, it’s past time I give another one to myself. One of freedom.
I’m going to be late to work, but Ben’s going to have to deal. Pulling up my contacts, I locate and dial the number of my real estate attorney. She answers after three rings, and I waste no time diving into what I need.
“Hi, Ms. Charles, this is Cypress Winters. I need a favor. Could you recommend one of the best employment law attorneys in Los Angeles to me?”
So, okay, this gift is both for myself and for all the women who’ve worked with my former boss and Universal Health Group. For the ones who would suffer the same degradation and pain in the future without my stepping up.
This is for all of us.
Chapter Seventeen
Jude
I cover my mouth, smothering a yawn as the security line in O’Hare Airport crawls forward at not even a snail’s pace. If a snail and a thousand-year-old tortoise on Ambien fucked, whatever animal that unnatural union created would be how slow this line is moving.
It’s seven a.m., and God knows I’m not a morning person. But damn, most of these people really hate mornings if the attitudes, grumblings, and complaints are anything to go by. Though hell, if the TSA guy repeatedly instructs us to remove our laptops and phones from their cases and place them in separate bins, what’s to be surprised and bitch about when you have to do it? God bless the TSA workers. They need haloes…and anti-depressants.
Finally, after rolling through the metal detector twice and being frisked by an electric wand, because yes, I hid a weapon of mass destruction in the dick area, I make it through and gun it to Terminal 3 and the gate where my nonstop flight for London is leaving. The plane doesn’t leave for another two hours, but I need an I’m-about-to-throat-punch-the-next-person-who-bumps-into-me size cup of coffee. It’s early, and I’m tired as hell. That’s what not sleeping for the past week will do to a person.
The bright beacon of hope that is a Dunkin’ Donuts beckons me, and I gladly—desperately—stand in another line. Five minutes later, large black coffee in hand, I trek across the terminal to my gate and drop into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that seems to be the norm for airports in general, setting my duffel bag between my feet.
I glance at the electronic sign behind the gate desk, and so far, my flight is on schedule to leave at 9:30. Which means I have an hour and a half to kill. Hopefully, the chairs on either side of me will remain empty, because I’m not in the mood for talking either. That has less to do with it being early in the morning and more to do with where my thoughts plod off to as soon as my mind isn’t preoccupied with travel shit. Or more accurately, who.
Cypress.
Jesus. I scrub my palm down my face, hard. Once. Then twice. If only it was that easy to brush her from my head. Believe me, I’ve tried these past twelve days. When I’m tattooing, it’s easier. Which explains why lately I’ve been the first one at the shop and the last to leave. Sunday night, I returned there after dinner at Mom’s—a dinner we all attended—and Knox ordered me to go home and not come back. True, I needed to pack and get everything squared away before leaving, but my apartment is too loud—the memories of Cypress’s screams echoing in the rooms, and I can’t escape them. Can’t escape her.
The less time spent there the better.
Popping the tab on the coffee lid, I sip the strong, hot brew, and even the punch of it isn’t enough to turn the tide of my mood or thoughts. I’m…empty. Since I walked out the door of my apartment, her bags in hand, and stored them in her car, a hole has taken up residence in my chest. Later, entering my home and finding her gone for good was worse. The loneliness, the deafening quiet, the room that seems to have captured her roses-and-apples scent in the freaking walls—I haven’t been able to handle it, and for more than a few nights, Knox’s couch and I have gotten up close and personal.
Anger rolls through me—I told her I loved her, and she still ran—but almost immediately, the image of her face as she stood in my living room that last day wavers in front of me, and that vision extinguishes my fury.
Cypress loves me; I don’t doubt that. She hadn’t been able to hide her pain and sadness from me. What I’d told her was true—I know her. And part of me also knew that I went into that battle with my fists tied behind my back. There was no way I could win against her fear, her past, her broken heart. But I’d tried—and come out bruised myself.
I’d do it again in the beat of that broken heart.
For her, I’d go to the wall, over it, and through it. But a wise person knew when to retreat and regroup. I didn’t need her quotes to figure that out. Space. She needs that to figure out what she wants, who she wants to be, and where her future is headed. I can give her that, because when I go after her again, I need her to believe that I’m not trying to trap her or steal her independence. And for her to accept that, she has to deal with her own demons. That I can’t do for her. Though if I could… Well, the Winchester brothers wouldn’t have shit on me.
But the waiting? It’s going to be a motherfucker.
Setting the cup of coffee by my feet, I unzip my bag and remove a couple of travel guide books about London that I picked up from the bookstore a few weeks ago.
Just as I lean back in my chair, somebody plops down right next to me. I clench my jaw, imprisoning my growl of annoyance. Because there aren’t at least twenty-five other empty seats in the area. Preferably one that doesn’t inhibit my damn elbow room.
“I just bought that book. The London Eye is definitely going to be one of my first stops.”
My muscles seize, locking up. Even my mind shuts down tight, nothing able to move or function. Except my heart. That runs like a souped-up Charger in an illegal street race.
That voice.
That fucking voice.
My mind is finally caving to the need, to the hunger to see her one more time, and now I’m hallucinating so random people sound like her.
I lift my head.
Cypress smiles at me.
Oh shit.
I stare at her, visually feasting on her, still not prepared to believe she’s sitting next to me. Still unable to grasp that those denim-and-moonlight eyes gazing back at me are real. Or the beautiful face, with its elegant, stunning angles and curves, is within touching distance. Mirage or not, I reach for that sensual dip in her delicate but stubborn chin and trace the shallow indentation. A shudder works its way through me, and I close my eyes. And breathe in the scent that’s haunted me for days.
That’s wrapping around me now.
“What are you doing here?” I rasp. Call me a pussy, but there’s a Knox-sized fist of shock, hope, joy, and yeah, fear, blocking my throat. And my heart, my fucking heart is in risk of breaking through my damn rib cage.
“Now that’s a long story,” she says, and though her tone is light, her gaze…is not. It’s dark, steady, searching. And filled with something that has my chest tightening. I drop my hand away from her face b
efore I surrender to the urge to rub my thumb over the faint shadows under those amazing eyes. “To make it short—”
“Don’t make it short,” I growl. “I don’t want the abridged version.”
She nods, inhales a deep breath, then blows it out, the air fluttering the blunt edges of her bob. I silently order my hands that, no, they cannot stroke or grip those thick strands.
“Okay, long story it is. When I left your place, I was running, just like you said. You scared me—no, that’s a cop-out. I scared myself. With you, I became less selfish, less focused on me, and more concerned about you. I know how crazy and arrogant that sounds, but it’s true. I wanted to please you, see you smile, be the one who comforted you, listened to you. You slowly, against everything life had taught me, became…necessary. That night we went to my mom’s apartment, I saw myself in her, and it terrified me. When I was younger, her being revolved around Dan. How she dressed, the hours she worked, what food he loved, his likes and dislikes, his moods. She tried to be everything he needed and could want. And after he left, she broke. She didn’t know who she was, didn’t know how to move on. From the day he walked out the door for good, she only existed. And I saw my future in her, sitting on that couch. Waiting for you to come home so my life could start. So my heart could beat. So my happiness could be fulfilled.”
“That could never be you, Cypress,” I interrupt. Hell, there was too much fire in her, too much life. “A woman who would leave everything familiar to travel to and live on the other side of the country and make a damn good success of herself isn’t the kind of person to let another define her. You aren’t your mother.”
Her expression softens, and a small smile quirks a corner of her mouth. “You’re telling my story. And…thank you,” she whispers. “But that’s why I ran. The thing about that is, you can outrun things but not yourself. And I might’ve moved to my mom’s house, but the problem is, I had to take me with me. I’d convinced myself once I received the check from the sale of my condo, everything would be set right. I’d be back on solid financial ground, be able to find a much better job while I went to school—”
“Wait, wait.” I hold up a hand, breaking into her narrative again. All this info is coming at me one hundred miles per hour, and I’m finding it hard to keep up. Hell, half of my brain is still trying to process that she’s here. With me. “Check from condo sale? School? I’m missing something. A lot of somethings.”
Her smile widens, joy lighting up her eyes, the stars in them glittering. “Yes, I applied to Chicago State’s master’s program. I’m just waiting to hear if I’ve been accepted.”
“That’s a given, sweetheart.” The urge to touch her roars so strong, I lean farther back against my seat. She’s here, but I still don’t know why. Until then, she’s not mine to touch.
“God, you’re so good for my ego.” She gives a low chuckle, shaking her head. “So yes, there’s that and the sale of my condo in California went through. But here’s the thing, I found myself in a better position than I’d been in a long while, and I still wasn’t happy. I still felt empty,” she murmurs, echoing my thoughts from earlier. “I’d never realized how lonely and alone I was before you. And I was willing to stay there—in a prison of fear, insecurity, and loneliness—because I didn’t want to be hurt again. I wanted the legacy of ‘love’ in my family to end with me. But I wasn’t ending it, I was continuing it. By walking away from the person who makes me better, who has helped me heal, who has taught me that I’m worthy of being loved. You…”
“If you say I complete you, we’re going to have problems.” How I tease her when my head is pounding with the echo of her words, I don’t know.
She laughs, a loud, genuinely free sound, and it’s the first time I’ve heard it from her. It grabs my heart, squeezes it tight, and won’t ease up.
“No.” She shifts forward and, reaching for me, cups my face in her hands. “You don’t complete me. I do that for myself. But you,” she breathes, brushing her thumb over my mouth, smoothing it over my cheekbone. “You add to me. I’d resigned myself to go through this world alone and was okay with it. I didn’t know I wanted love before you walked into that bar. There was a part of me that was dead, but meeting you, knowing you, being with you…loving you, I realize that part wasn’t dead; it was just sleeping. And you woke me up. Because of you, I don’t ever want to sleep again. Thank you.”
The need, the utter adoration for this woman thunders and crashes so loud, so strong and primal inside me, I can’t not put my hands on her. Thrusting my fingers through her hair, I drag her closer, erasing the few inches between us, and capture her mouth. She opens for me, automatically, without hesitation, welcoming me, taking me. It’s as if it’s been weeks, months, since the last time I tasted her, not days. And I can’t get enough. There was a part of me that was dead, but meeting you, knowing you, being with you…loving you, I realize that part wasn’t dead, it was just sleeping. With a desperate growl, I dive deeper. No, I can’t ever get enough.
A discreet cough from behind us finally penetrates the love and lust fog that cocoons us. With Herculean effort, I lift my head, but not before sweeping one last kiss over her lips. I don’t bother glancing around to see who we’re offending; I don’t care. Not when I can still taste her. Can breathe her in. Can have her.
“Say it, sweetheart,” I say—demand, hell, plead—against her mouth. “Give it to me.”
Her fingertips caress my eyebrows, my cheeks, jaw, neck. “I love you. Your angel face and warrior eyes. Your body that blocked the wind for me when I was cold and held me when I was lost. Your heart that was mine even when I was too afraid to take it. I love you, Jude Gordon. And thanks to a romantic ticket agent with a soft spot for misguided, stubborn women who need to make grand gestures to the men they love to win them back, she booked me on your flight to England.”
Shock barrels through me, and my grip on her hair tightens. “What?” For the first time, I glance down and notice the carry-on suitcase at her feet. I jerk my gaze back to her. “Sweetheart, what about school? I can’t let you—”
She shakes her head. “My decision. I’m not giving up anything. The exact opposite. And if, no, when, I’m accepted, I’ll start in the fall. If you decide you want to stay in London longer, I can take online classes for the first semester. And I’ve never been to England before. Not to mention, I called in a favor with my attorney in California to overnight my passport out of a safe deposit box. By the way, when you get back to the States, you’re flying to L.A. to tattoo my lawyer.”
I grin and swing her out of her chair and onto my lap. My arms are bands around her, holding her tight to me as I nuzzle her neck. “For you, I’ll give her the family discount.” Pinching her chin between my thumb and finger, I tilt her head down so those amazing eyes are right on me. Where I want them to always be. “Cypress, I love you. Thank you for coming after me.”
She lowers her head, brushes her lips over mine.
“Always.”
Epilogue
Cypress
Three months later
I snuggle against Jude, sitting between his legs, his chest and drawn-up knees better than any chair. It’s Sunday morning, and as has become our custom since arriving in London three months ago, we’re lazing in bed and drinking coffee—because although I am in absolute love with this city, I will never become a tea drinker—after still mind-numbing, bone-melting sex.
No, lovemaking.
I haven’t had sex or fucked since I admitted my love to him in an O’Hare gate’s boarding area. Actually, he taught me the difference before I ever said those three words to him, but my head was just too far up my ass to see it. Thank God this beautiful man with the heart of a lion and the soul of an artist gave me a chance to figure it out.
I’m not going to lie. Stepping onto that London-bound plane and heading to a different country with him as my only support and family had been terrifying. I waited during the eight-hour flight, during the arrival in Heathr
ow Airport, and the ride on the Tube to our new Camden Town one-bedroom apartment—no, flat—for doubts to besiege me. To assault me with about eleven different variations of what the hell? Among them, What the hell are you thinking giving up everything for a man? And, What the hell are you doing depending on a man to provide for you? And my personal favorite, What the hell? No dick is worth becoming some man’s plaything.
And yes, they did attack. With a fierceness usually reserved for kicking super villain ass.
But for the first time, I didn’t give in to them. Because all I had to do was look at the man beside me. Jude. With him, I could never be less than who I am and want to be. And that isn’t my mother or the lonely, scared woman I’d been fast becoming. Before him.
Before loving him.
And loving him has brought me across the Pond, to a city packed with color and history that I fall in love with more and more each day. It’s given me an apartment in the heart of Camden Town, a vibrant, alive, teeming neighborhood that I could explore for months and never discover all its delights and surprises. It’s given me a temporary job as a receptionist in the same tattoo shop my man works at while I wait for the semester to begin.
It’s given me joy.
I don’t know what awaits us when we eventually return home to Chicago. I’m hoping a true family. Dan and I talk at least once a week, and though initially, the conversations were more stilted, they’re becoming easier and more relaxed. Knox and Eden have reconciled with Katherine, and there’s true healing taking place in that relationship. Thank God. Mom is still…Mom. Though she had the cutting-edge surgery, and doctors are very optimistic about her recovery and health, emotionally, she’s still in the same. I’ve just had to accept that and her.
And I’m learning to.
“What are you waiting on?” he asks, reaching around me to tap on the keyboard of the laptop perched on my thighs. I slap his hand away before he makes contact. “Cypress, damn.” He groans, then presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I’m dying over here. Bring it up already.”