by Gina Azzi
“I’ll always support you, Harlow. This is the start of the career you always talked about.”
“I know. I just mean, I just moved here and…”
Eli puts two and two together. “Connor.”
I shrug, not wanting to voice that yes, Connor.
Eli unpacks the takeout and passes me a plate. As we pile our dishes with chana masala, butternut chicken, and rice, I watch Eli curiously, knowing he’s considering his words. Once we’re seated, I pop the tab on a Diet Coke and wait.
“If the position was located in Chicago, would you want to be considered for it?”
“Yes.”
“So, you want the job? The scope of work? The professional responsibilities and opportunities that come along with the position?”
“Yes.”
Eli takes a swig of his Coke. “If Connor wasn’t in the picture at all…”
“I’d be focused on securing the position.”
Eli looks at me, hard. “Harlow, you need to try for the position. Connor is my best friend. He’s a hell of a guy. Even for you, and I hate almost everyone you date.”
I smirk.
“But you can’t put your life on the backburner for anyone. Especially not now, when you’re just getting started.”
“I just… I don’t want him to feel like I’m abandoning him. Or jumping ship, the way so many of his fighters did after he lost that fight.”
“I know. It’s a tough spot to be in. But right now, Connor’s not thinking straight. If he was, he’d want you to interview for the position. Just….if you get it, make sure you’re here for the launch.”
“Soul Sanctuary,” I groan, smacking my palm against my forehead. “Do you think we should postpone?”
“No way. Connor’s going to need something to funnel his grief into. And for the next week, the launch is going to be the only thing he has to distract himself from Cameron’s loss.”
I nod. Eli’s right. Connor is going to need this event even more now than he did last week. “I’ll connect with Moe, make sure everything is still ready to go.”
“Yeah. And Low?”
“Hmm?”
“This next week, with Connor, don’t take a lot of what he says or does personally. He’s hurting. Real fucking bad. He has a habit of pushing people away when he’s hurt.”
Eli’s words cut through me. I don’t mention how Connor and I fought, how I pushed him away. Shame fills my stomach like a tree trunk, branches expanding into my chest, filled with leaves of guilt.
I twist my nose ring and clear my throat, lightening my tone. “Like someone else I know?” I force out, quirking an eyebrow at Eli.
He snickers. “We’ve known each other a long time.”
“We have.”
“That’s why I know you need to go after this position with everything you’ve got. Don’t back down from anything, Harlow. Especially not for a guy. Not even a guy as great as Connor.”
I’m already in bed when the shrill ring of my phone cuts through the air.
“Eli?” I answer. “Is everything okay?”
“Lowwwwww,” Connor slurs on the other end and even though I can hear the pain in his tone, his voice still makes me smile.
“What are you doing, Connor? It’s late.”
“Wanna come over. Now. Need you.”
Need. Not want.
The word choice isn’t lost on me and it causes some of the hurt from the weekend to evaporate as I embrace his need with both hands. “Tell Eli to drop you here.”
“Take me to Harlow,” Connor grumbles.
“Harlow?” Eli’s voice comes over the line. “Are you sure? He’s really sloshed.”
“It’s fine. Drop him off.”
Eli sighs, “Okay.”
I slide out of bed, tie on a robe, and go stand out front. When Eli’s SUV pulls in front of my apartment building, I hustle to the passenger side as Connor nearly falls out.
Eli swears, rounding the SUV, and pulls Connor’s arm over his shoulder to maneuver him to my building.
“Your elevator better be fucking working,” he grumbles.
“It is,” I assure him, using my key fob to swipe into the building.
Connor murmurs to himself the entire time, senseless things that must make sense to him because they hold his attention until Eli pushes him onto my couch.
Eli cuts me a stern look. “You sure about this?”
“We’ll be fine.” I walk him toward the door. “Thank you.”
“Yeah. Call me if you need me.”
“Goodnight, Eli.” I lock the door behind him and turn toward my living room.
My breath sticks in my chest as Connor’s bloodshot gaze pierces mine. Seated, leaning forward so his forearms rest on his knees, he stares at me.
“You okay? Want some water?” I ask, moving toward the kitchen. His eyes follow me. I feel the heaviness of his gaze as I pour him a glass of water. I really need to invest in a Brita. When I flip off the faucet, I frown, “Hey, it’s not leaking.”
“Fixed it,” Connor mumbles.
My head snaps up as I meet his gaze. “You did?”
He waves a hand dismissively, like he isn’t watching out for me, taking care of me. The realization that he did something for me without telling me, without looking for credit, slams into me. I watch him for a long moment, hating how sad he looks. Hating that I don’t know what to do for him right now. “Thank you.”
“Was nothing. I’d do anything for you, Low,” he murmurs, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Here, Connor.” I place the water glass down on the coffee table.
He stares at the glass for a long moment before his face crumples and he holds out his arms.
My chest constricts and I physically ache for him. At the loss etched into his features, at the vulnerability gleaming from his dark eyes.
“Oh, Connor,” I murmur, striding into his outstretched arms.
He wraps me up and pulls me against his chest. I melt into him, clinging to him with as much ferocity as he shows me. He smells like a pub but with an edge of desperation that unsettles me.
“He’s gone,” he whispers.
“Shh,” I hush, my fingers massaging the back of his neck.
At my touch, Connor’s sob breaks free. I hear his pain as it bursts in his chest. I absorb his loss as he cries into my hair.
“Let it out, baby,” I murmur, rubbing circles up and down his back. “Let it all out.”
Connor holds me tighter as if his grip on me will allow him to check his tears. And he does. After a few moments, his ragged breathing travels over the column of my neck instead of his sobs.
“I got you, Connor. I’m here, baby,” I tell him over and over.
His lips connect with the base of my throat and I freeze.
He kisses me again, his hand gripping my waist.
“Connor…” I trail off, not sure what to say. I want to help him through this; I want to be here for him. Any way he needs me.
I’ve missed his touch. I’ve craved it since he disappeared from my bedroom in L.A. four days ago.
But is this what’s best for him? Is this really what he needs right now? Is he craving a connection or a distraction?
He leans back into the couch, pulling me over him as he nips at my shoulder.
My breath hitches. Connor does it again before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the spot, soothing the sting.
“Connor, are you sure?” I ask again, trying to decipher what he needs.
“Please, Low,” he says, sounding more sober than he has since he entered my apartment. His fingers untie the sash of my robe and it falls open.
Connor’s eyes widen as he glances up at me, as if asking permission. His eyes are so dark I can’t decipher his pupils from his irises, but God do they undo me. Brimming with vulnerability, swirling with desire, flickering with a need so strong, it’s poignant.
I nod. Taking his hand in mine, I bring it up to my breast and place his hand there, c
urling my fingers around his.
He sighs, closing his eyes. Kneading my breast, he brings his face closer and drags his tongue slowly up the center of my chest. My nipples harden, the one pressing into the center of his palm. He brushes his nose back and forth, softly, as I sink lower on his lap.
His eyes glance up, holding mine as he moves his mouth to my other breast, pulling my nipple in between his teeth and sucking.
“Oh,” I moan, my hand finding the back of his head and holding him against my chest.
He lavishes my breasts with attention, kissing and sucking and touching until my core is throbbing and I’m desperate for him.
Returning his mouth to mine, he turns us, laying me back onto the couch. He shifts and sheds his pants, losing his boxer briefs with them. His hand grips the base of his dick, running up his shaft, pumping slowly as he takes in my body.
I can’t blink. I can’t breathe. I can’t tear my eyes away from the desperation in his.
Growling, Connor snaps my panties at my hip until I’m completely naked. Then, he hovers over me, running the head of his cock through my folds.
“Jesus.” I clutch his shoulder blades, urging him closer.
Finally, he pushes inside and I drop my knees wider to accommodate him. When he bottoms out, he gathers me to his chest and kisses my temple. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Harlow.”
My eyes close, emotion I’m unprepared for welling up inside of me.
Then, Connor begins to move. Slowly, reverently, passionately.
We make love as everything falls apart around us. Loss, grief, hurt, uncertainty. It all fades away as I hold Connor’s eyes, drowning in their depths, and allow him to fully claim me.
To ruin me for anyone else. To mark me with the depth of his feelings.
And in return, I love him with all of mine.
26
Connor
I throw myself into my work.
All the work.
I hit the heavy bags when it’s still dark outside. I run my fighters through their trainings at dawn. I spend the long summer days sweating my ass off at various construction sites. At night, I sit with Harlow and Moe, or Harlow and Zoe, or sometimes, just Harlow, and prepare, organize, hammer out details for the launch of Soul Sanctuary.
“Are you sure you don’t want to postpone?” Harlow asks me for the third time.
“Are you serious? We’re two days away from the launch.” I look up at her, gesturing to the piles of papers and folders scattered across my kitchen table. It’s late, already nearing 11PM, and I’m bone tired. Too tired to waste time having a pointless conversation.
“I know. I’m just worried you’re pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’ll show you too hard.”
For the first time ever, she doesn’t snicker or even smile at my joke.
“What’s going on?” I ask, bumping her shoulder with mine. I note the dark circles under her eyes. We’re burning both ends of the candle and eventually, one of us is going to burn out.
She sighs again, placing down the schedule of events in her hand. “You haven’t said anything about your dad since the night of his funeral.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy avoiding.”
So what? It sits on the tip of my tongue, desperate to burst out of my mouth. But that type of reaction will draw more questions, questions I don’t want to answer on a good day and definitely not on a shit one when I’m ready to drop into my bed. I shrug instead.
“Distracting yourself,” she continues.
“Grieving,” I counter, giving her something. Grieving is supposed to be positive, isn’t it?
“You can’t push your grief away with work and sex.”
“Watch me.”
She huffs, exasperated. Her frustration is so potent, I can sense it. It fills my mouth like smoke. It perfumes the air like cheap cologne. She fixes me with a stare. “After the launch, promise me we’ll talk.”
“Sure.”
“Connor, I’m serious. We still haven’t even discussed everything that went down in L.A.”
I close my eyes, rubbing at the space between them at the mention of L.A.
Seems like ages ago, and it hasn’t even been two weeks. Worst fucking night of my life. Parading around with the fakest people on the planet, watching the woman I love morph into someone else while Pop took his last damn breath without me by his side.
“I’m doing my best, Harlow. I’ve got a million things going on right now,” I bite out. L.A. is the last fucking thing I want to talk about. The launch is two days away. It’s everything I’ve been working toward. It’s the last thing about my life I shared with Pop.
It’s something that sets my soul on fire.
For the most fleeting of moments, he understood. He knew. He was proud.
No way in hell I’m messing this up, or postponing, or doing anything that will detract from the success of Soul Sanctuary.
“I know. I just think we need to talk,” Harlow mutters the words no boyfriend ever wants to hear.
On a different night, I may have heard the warning in her tone. I may have cared enough to choose my response carefully. But tonight is not that night.
“Can’t we just chalk it up to a miscommunication? It was a bad night, okay? Do we need to rehash every little thing?”
“It’s not some little thing if you’re not going to at least try and understand my life, my world.”
“Oh?” I push a pile of papers away and watch, my anger mounting, as they flutter to the floor. Turning my glare on Harlow, I bite out, “L.A. is your world now? You live here, in Chicago.” I jab my index finger into the table.
“Not if I get this job in L.A.!” she snaps, smacking her hand against the edge of the table.
At her words, the tension between us explodes. The rubber band connecting us, constantly shifting with a little push, a little pull, snaps. An arctic blast whips through the kitchen, eating up all the heat.
“What?” I ask, feeling like I just got sucker punched. “What job?”
Her expression is frozen, panic edging out her irises. But she takes a deep breath and allows her shoulders to drop. “I’m being considered for a position at Helen’s firm.”
I laugh. Staring at her, my mouth open and laughter pouring out, I can’t believe how ridiculous she sounds. I asked her if Chicago was permanent or temporary. I asked her if we were doing this for real.
And now, what?
She’s going to jump ship on this, on us, before we even have a chance because something better came along? Something flashier? Something more L.A.-esque? “Oh, this is good,” I say to my freaking kitchen walls before fixing my focus on Harlow. “Are you kidding me right now, Low? When were you going to tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Right.” I nod. “Is that why you wanted me to love your damn city? Because you were planning on moving back?”
“No.” She shakes her head emphatically. “No, I didn’t even know the job was an option until…”
“Until?”
“The night of your dad’s funeral.”
“Ah. The night of Pop’s funeral. And then you couldn’t tell me because…what? I was too drunk to have a meaningful conversation? Or too selfish to understand that your life didn’t stop just because my pop died? Or too wrapped up in my own grief? Which one is it?” I push back hard from the table. The chair legs scrape against the floor, the sound jarring. I catapult from the seat, nearly tipping the chair, before striding to the other side of the kitchen.
Desperate to add distance between me and Harlow, I lament the fact that my kitchen is too damn small. Bracing my arms against the kitchen sink, I hunch forward, hanging my head. This is bullshit. Insane.
Usually, my fingers are itching to touch her. My mouth is hungry for hers. Normally, especially this past week as my loss bubbled into a hot air balloon, threatening to lift me off my feet and carry me away, I couldn’t get enough of her.
<
br /> But not now.
Now, I’m angry. I’m hurt. I feel… betrayed on a level I’ve never experienced before.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she whispers. “I didn’t want to say anything that would cause you more pain.”
I whirl toward her, hating the damn apology in her eyes.
“So you let me make love to you instead?” I shoot back. “Jesus, Harlow, that wasn’t just fucking.” I point to my bedroom as images, unbidden and torturing in their clarity, of all the positions I’ve taken her in over the past week fill my mind.
“I know. It wasn’t for me either.”
“Then how could you keep this from me? I thought we were past the distance and the pushing each other away. I thought we were for real.”
“We are.”
“No.” I shake my head.
Harlow sobs, her hand covering her mouth.
“No. If we were real, you would have talked to me about this.”
“Like the way you’ve talked to me about your dad?” she shoots back. I falter from the anger in her voice.
But I’m done. I’m too tired to fight and too emotionally drained to try. “That’s not the same thing and you know it.” I flip my chin to the table. “We’re done for the night. I’d appreciate it if you’d still come to the launch. But I understand if you don’t want to. After all, you have bigger clients needing your expertise.” I grip the back of my neck. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“Connor, stop. Don’t be like this.” She shuffles back half a step, her eyes wild. “Let’s talk about this.”
I pick up her bag and my car keys and start for the door.
She bristles behind me and I can feel her anger as she follows me out of my townhouse. The drive to her apartment is silent yet deafeningly loud. Tension builds between us as we both sit, seething with words we won’t say. When I pull up in front of her building, she slides from my truck without a word and slams the door.
I swear, watching as she makes her way into her building. I sit and wait until the light in her apartment flickers on. Then I drive home, my anger mounting. By the time I step back into my townhouse, I’m nearly vibrating with fury.