by Megan Hart
“And if I say no, I want you home tonight at a reasonable hour so you can pick up your own daughter and take her home so she can sleep in her own bed, where she belongs? If I tell you that, what would you say?”
Effie gave her mom a steady, unflinching look. “I would say that your granddaughter loves spending time with you and sleeping over here is a treat for her, and you know it, and you taking her to school in the morning is an even bigger treat, because we both know you always take her to the doughnut shop on the way. She loves that. She loves being here. She loves you. And so do I, Mom.”
Her mother picked up and put down the container of cookies on the counter hard enough to rattle them inside. “Who is he tonight?”
“Someone I met online. Dating service. It’s just a date, okay?”
“Have you seen him before?”
“No.” Effie shook her head. “This is the first date. We’re going to dinner and possibly a movie. Totally bland and lame. He works with computers, wears glasses and doesn’t have any pets.”
Mom sighed and rubbed at the spot between her eyes with her middle and third fingers, a habit she’d had for as long as Effie could recall. “What else do you know about him? Have you left his name and information somewhere, in case something...happens?”
Mitchell’s dating profile had been witty, charming, detailed. He was seven years older than Effie. Divorced with no children, though he spoke warmly of nieces and nephews. He didn’t smoke or do drugs or even drink to excess, or if he did, he was both lying about it and very good at hiding any evidence of it.
“He’s probably not a serial killer,” Effie said. Her mother didn’t laugh. “I get it, Mom. Okay? I get it. You worry.”
When her mother didn’t reply, Effie took a step forward to hug her. Her mom didn’t yield at first but softened after a few seconds and rubbed Effie’s back. Her mother sighed.
“I worry about you, Effie. I’m your mother. It’s what I do.”
And had always done. Effie understood it, perhaps more so now that she had a daughter of her own. She squeezed harder, breathing in the familiar scent of laundry detergent and, fainter beneath, a hint of Wind Song. Her mom had grown thin herself, the ridges of her shoulder blades hard under Effie’s palms.
For a moment, Effie thought about canceling her date with Mitchell. She could stay here, hang out with Mom and Polly. They could watch a movie together, something funny. Her mother had kept Effie’s old room pristine, exactly as it had been the day Effie left this house for good. A shrine to her mother’s inability to let things go.
Effie could let go, though, and she did, putting some distance between them. “I’ll pick her up after school tomorrow. I already sent a note to the school that she’ll take the bus here.”
Mom nodded stiffly. “Fine.”
There was more to be said, but Effie didn’t say it. It wouldn’t change anything that had happened, and it wouldn’t make a difference in anything going forward. Nothing would.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said and left her mom behind.
chapter five
“When do you think she’ll get up?” Heath paces beside Effie’s bed.
With a sigh, she tosses back the covers so he can get in beside her. It’s cold in their apartment and too early to turn up the heat. “She’s three. She’ll be up when it’s light out, and then it’ll be nonstop for the rest of the day, so I’d get another hour of sleep, if I were you.”
Christmas. As a kid, Effie had woken before dawn to creep downstairs and peek at what Santa had left beneath the tree, but although Polly’s excited about presents, she hasn’t quite grasped the concept of getting up before the sun rises to open them. There isn’t much under the tree for her anyway—going to school means only part-time work for Effie, and there are a lot of bills to pay before she can afford to spend too much on junky toys that will be broken within a day or two. There will be more gifts at Effie’s mother’s house later in the day, probably too many, and Polly will be overwhelmed with it all, but there’s no telling Mom not to spoil her only grandchild.
“I can’t sleep.” Heath sighs and flops onto his back, taking up too much room in Effie’s double bed.
She shoves him onto his side with another sigh and curls against his back to make it easier for them to share the space. It’s warmer, too. Her feet are icy, so she tucks them between his calves. His yelp of protest makes her giggle. In seconds, he’s turning to face her, tickling until they’re both breathing too hard.
That isn’t all that’s too hard. The press of his erection on her thigh is too familiar to deny. And it’s Christmas, Effie thinks when they move together, when he kisses her, when he slides inside her. How could she say no to him at Christmas?
Because the “no” is on its way, and she feels it every time he tries to hold her hand. A few days ago, Effie got some mail addressed to “Mrs. Heath Shaw” despite never having signed up for anything, ever, using anything close to his last name. They’ve been living together in this apartment for nearly four years, and what had been meant as a temporary solution has started to feel far too permanent. Still, it’s Christmas Day, and she lets the pleasure overtake her because it’s too hard to resist him even without the shiny lights and promise of something special under the tree.
Heath slides a hand between them to stroke her in time to his thrusts. He’s close, she can tell, but he’s holding back to make sure she gets off first. It’s perfect. She can’t stop it. Heath’s touch is magic, it’s fire, it’s fireworks and jingle bells. She comes with a low cry into his kiss, and Heath laughs, so pleased to have done that for her that he joins her in the moment after.
They sprawl in silence for a few minutes. She times the spacing of her breathing to his. Their hands are linked. He’s falling asleep, but Effie is wide-awake.
It would be so easy to stay here with him and Polly in this tiny, bordering-on-decrepit apartment. Easy to keep struggling through school and work and raise this child with him. But what would not be easy is this, the linking of their fingers and the sound of his breathing next to her in bed. Love is not easy, Effie thinks as she pushes up on her elbow to look at Heath’s face in the faintly brightening light coming in through the window. She keeps herself from tracing the lines of his face with her fingertip, because she doesn’t want him to wake.
She loves him. She will probably never love anyone else, not like this. But how would she ever know if she could, if she doesn’t try? If this is all they have because it’s all they believe they can ever have, how is that good for either one of them? To never have even the illusion of a choice?
Down the hall comes the pitter-patter of little feet. Polly is awake. Effie shakes Heath and slips out of bed to pull on her robe as the faint squeals of joy come from the living room. Together, Effie and Heath follow the delighted laughter. Polly dances in the multicolored glow from the tree they left lit all night for just this reason.
“Santa!” Polly cries, clapping tiny hands. “Santa was here!”
“I’ll make coffee.” Heath kisses Effie on the cheek and squeezes her for a second.
“Wait. Hold me close,” she murmurs when he moves away. She pulls him back for a longer embrace as they watch Polly shaking each package. She hasn’t yet figured out she’s allowed to tear into them. Effie squeezes Heath, her cheek pressed to his chest.
This could all be so easy, if only it weren’t always so hard.
The phone rings. Her mother, frantic and desperate, incoherent. Heath holds out the phone and Effie takes it, alarmed, until she can get her mother to slow down long enough to speak.
“Your father is dead,” her mother says. “I need you to come to the hospital.”
Dead? That cannot be. Her father is always there, has always been. Her father can’t be gone. What will Effie do, if this is true?
What she doe
s is go to the hospital, leaving Heath to stay with Polly so Effie can help her mother take care of everything that needs to be taken care of. Phone calls. Arrangements. She stays for two days at her mother’s house in the bed that had been hers for as long as she can remember, listening to the low, keening sounds of grief filtering to her from down the hall and finding herself incapable of going into her mother’s room to offer her any comfort.
On the third day, Effie finds her mother sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of cold coffee in front of her and a grim look. She has a sheaf of papers. She pushes them toward Effie.
“There’s money. Your dad’s insurance policy. There’s enough here for you to move out of that apartment. Get yourself a place. Unless you want to move back with me...” At the look on Effie’s face, her mother laughs harshly. “Of course not. Of course you don’t.”
Effie looks at the numbers on the papers. It’s like swallowing an icicle, this sudden realization that she does have a choice. With this amount of money, she’ll be able to buy a house. Support herself and Polly while she tries to make a go of her artwork. This money is freedom, and Effie knows she’s going to take it. She has to.
“I won’t beg you to stay,” Heath tells her. “I won’t fucking do it, Effie.”
“I don’t want you to beg me. I want you to be happy for me.”
He won’t look at her. She can’t blame him. Effie is upsetting this easy familiarity they’ve built together. She is breaking them apart. She can’t explain to him why it has to happen, for both of them. She’s not quite sure of it herself, except that before now she felt she didn’t have a choice, and the money has made it possible for her to make one. Before, Effie thought Heath was the only man she would ever be able to love, but she’s never tried to find out otherwise, never fallen in love with someone new.
All they’ve ever known, really, is each other, but that was not a choice either of them made. It was forced upon them. How can either of them know if there isn’t something better, if she doesn’t do this now? If she doesn’t try, for both their sakes?
She lets him believe she’s selfish. She takes his anger. Then she steps back to let him go.
She is going to have to let him go.
chapter six
Effie loved the curve of a man’s thighs. Muscles, crisp and curling hair. She let her mouth follow the bulge to Bill’s knee, which she nipped lightly before letting her tongue trail slowly over his calf to the blunt knob of his ankle. This time when she pressed her teeth to his skin, he groaned.
Effie looked up at him for a second before moving up his body to straddle him. She let her fingers dig into his chest, not hard enough to break the skin. He wouldn’t like that. When Bill grabbed her hips, she let her head fall back. The brush of her hair along her shoulders, almost to her waist, sent shivers all through her. Her nipples tightened, craving his mouth.
“Touch me,” she said.
Obediently, Bill’s hand slid between them until his knuckles pressed her clit. He rocked his hand against her. The pressure was good—not enough to get her off, but still nice. Bill had big, strong hands. He could circle both her wrists with one of them, though he never had and Effie doubted he ever would. He was too afraid of hurting her.
“Do you want to taste me?” she asked.
Bill groaned again. “You know I do.”
She wanted that, too. Mitchell’s dating profile had been witty and charming, but their date had been bland and unremarkable. He’d been nice enough. Polite. He’d insisted on holding the door open for her and pulling out her chair, which was a pleasant surprise.
He hadn’t kissed her good-night.
It might be that he was too much of a gentleman or maybe he didn’t like her enough. Effie didn’t really care. He’d asked her if she might consider going out with him again, and she’d said sure, but she wasn’t convinced he’d actually call her. She didn’t really care about that, either.
Right now, Effie only cared about Bill’s hot, wet tongue on her cunt. Making her come. All she wanted or needed was a thick, hard cock inside her.
“Eat my pussy,” she breathed and moved up over Bill’s face, her knees on either side of his head. She let her body hover over his lips, not close enough for him to touch her unless he made the effort. When he did, laughing, she pulled away, just out of reach.
With a small growl, Bill grabbed her hips again, his fingers digging in. He pulled her close. Got his mouth on her. His tongue swiped her expertly, delving into her folds and probing her entrance before moving up to start a steady pace against her clit.
“Fffffucccck,” Effie breathed. She gripped the headboard, already rocking against him. No more teasing. No games. Pure pleasure.
Bill slid a finger, then another, inside her, fucking as he licked. The dual sensations sent her tumbling closer and closer, but her orgasm danced just out of reach. She needed something...more.
“Harder.” She twisted to look at his cock. He had a hand on it, stroking. The man was nothing if not coordinated. He was going to come before she would; this had become a race. She didn’t want to lose.
Gripping Bill’s headboard until it creaked, Effie fucked herself against his mouth and fingers. He stretched her, too much. It hurt and not in the good way. It was a distraction that was keeping her from going over. She would be sore for days.
So close, so close and yet not close enough. Bill stepped up the pace, one hand jerking his cock while the other slipped away to grab her thigh. His tongue worked, swiping less steadily, the pace switching up at random.
She was going to lose it. Effie cupped her breasts, thumbing her nipples and then pinching them. Hard. The pain sparked a small surge of pleasure, but not enough.
Bill let out a low groan and rolled them both so he was on top. He fumbled in the nightstand for a condom and put it on before sliding inside her. He pumped a few times, then shuddered.
That was it for her. All done. Her cunt ached from the pounding of his fingers, but everything else felt swollen, throbbing, dissatisfied. Like menstrual cramps but worse. Women could get blue balls, too, she thought and shoved him until he rolled off her. Effie moved onto her back, head on the pillow beside his. They lay shoulder to shoulder until the slickness of his sweat repulsed her, and she shifted half an inch. He noticed, though. Bill always did.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,” he said as he sat up to dispose of the condom in the trash pail by the bed.
Effie twisted to look at him. “Don’t be like that. Jesus, Bill. Have a little more class.”
“That’s a good one.” He snorted softly and lay back with an arm beneath his head. Somewhere in his house a clock chimed, though she knew him well enough not to believe the hour it was crying. He’d have forgotten to set it back for the time change, let the batteries run down, something. “You come over here after being out with some other guy, half-drunk, and all you want to do is fuck.”
She hadn’t been half-drunk or even drunk at all. She’d sipped from a glass of wine, just enough to let it linger on her breath. She just let Bill think that because it gave him an excuse to demand she stay until she’d sobered up. He was a cop. He didn’t condone drunk driving, though he didn’t seem to have a problem fucking her and letting her leave without so much as a cuddle after. Of course, that was why she came to Bill’s apartment late at night after bland and dissatisfying dates in the first place.
Effie sat up, cross-legged, and poked him in the side. “Oh, don’t act like it’s your dream to have me here in the morning, making me eggs.”
“You could make me eggs,” Bill pointed out.
“I can’t cook,” she lied with a hint of a grin and poked him again. This time, he snagged her hand and held it for a moment as they looked into each other’s eyes.
He settled her hand on his hip. She gave him a second
or so before withdrawing it. He noticed that, too.
“You could stay,” Bill said in a low voice. “The bed’s big enough. You could have all your own space.”
“I have to get home to my kid.”
Bill frowned and pushed up on his elbow. “Bullshit. Your kid’s with your mother tonight.”
“How would you—” Effie scooted backward and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then said over her shoulder, “What did you do, drive past her house? Check it out? Creeper.”
“If you’re with me, your kid’s with your mom. Or with someone. You wouldn’t leave her by herself. I know you better than that.”
She did not like that, not one bit, this idea that he believed he could ever know her. That he was right only soured her further. Effie stood, searching for her panties and settling for her dress. That, at least, she’d hung neatly over the back of a chair. The underwear had come off at a rather more heated pace. She’d probably kicked her panties under the bed or something, but she’d be damned if she was going to get on her hands and knees to look for them.
“Ah, shit, Effie. Don’t be like that.” Bill got up, too, and came around the bed to grip her by the upper arms, though loosely enough she’d have no trouble getting free if she wanted to.
“It’s late,” she said. “I’m sure you have to work in the morning. And I have things I need to do, too.”
She had a commission to work on. Laundry. Her tires needed to be rotated, she’d almost forgotten about that appointment, and then she had to get over to her mom’s house to pick up Polly.
“Sure. Fine.” Bill let her go. Stepped back. Naked, his belly and chest still glistening with sweat, he bent to grab his T-shirt and cleaned himself off before tossing the shirt in the direction of a pile of laundry on the floor.
“God forbid you should put it in a basket,” she murmured.