Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

  I shake my head and cross my arms protectively around my chest, hating the rush of relief at his words. “Why?”

  His thumb presses into the curve of my jaw, forcing my head and my gaze to meet his. When I finally look at him, his expression is deadly serious, holding not even a trace of lightness or amusement. “Because there’s something between us I can’t ignore and neither can you. And I’m not talking about lust, which is like a kick in the fucking gut every time I even think of you, I’m talking about something more. You sense it too and you’re terrified.”

  I want to protest everything he’s saying, but I can’t. I can only stare at him, unblinking.

  The hard line of his jaw relaxes, and his thumb moves to brush softly over my cheek, he leans in close. “The truth is, it scares me too.”

  “It does?” The question slips from my lips as I forget I’m supposed to be denying our involvement.

  “Hell, yes,” he says, the amusement creeping back into his voice. “But you and I, we’re fighters and a little fear isn’t going to stop us.”

  “I’m not a fighter.” Doesn’t he understand how I’ve given up?

  “You’re wrong. And someday, you’ll see that.” Before I can say anything, he grips my chin, holding my gaze steady. “I will pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

  I nod, giving up the pretense of walking away. At least for tonight.

  Ruby and I sit at a back table of The Whisky, sipping glasses of red wine and listening to the bluesy singer taking center stage. I have no idea what song the African-American woman is singing, but her voice is hauntingly soulful, and when she hits certain notes, chills race along my skin.

  The atmosphere is completely different from O’Malley’s frantic crush of people, pheromones and desperation. A welcome relief. The Whisky is our spot of choice when we just want to hang out and talk. It’s mellow, darkly lit, and intimate with great live music. I find myself relaxing for the first time all night, even though I know I have to talk to Ruby about what happened.

  After Michael and I walked back inside, he promptly delivered me to a narrow-eyed Ruby and astonished Ashley before he took his leave. I don’t know if he went back to his sister or left, but in the thirty minutes we waited for the dance between Ashley and Tyler to be complete, and for her to ditch us so we’re free to go, I couldn’t help scanning the bar. I never spotted him. I found myself missing his company. That sense of safety he gave me mixed, ironically, with the white-hot desire that sparked like something alive and tangible between us. He’d yet to really touch me since the first night we met, but I already craved his hands on me like a drug. Instinct told me the wait would be over tomorrow, and like any addict, the closer I get to my fix, the more anxious I become.

  But first, I have to talk to Ruby.

  I dart a quick glance in her direction. Her attention is focused on the singer. She hasn’t pressed, but she is waiting. If I don’t provide an explanation, this night will widen the distance between us, instead of closing the gap as I’d intended. I will not allow space to grow back into our friendship. She’s too important to me. I’d been searching for an explanation that would satisfy her, but all I can think of is the truth.

  I sit with this a while, as I let the music wash over me, and come to the conclusion that I can’t think of anything because I no longer want to lie to her.

  Sudden tears come to my eyes. I want my best friend back. I suppose I can thank Michael for this, he’s stirring renewed life inside me, making it impossible to go back to that dark place I came from.

  I’m scared as hell. My heart pounds fast as my palms turn clammy, but I don’t want to lose this desire and miss being close to her, so I take a deep breath and say, “John and I use to go to this club.”

  Ruby’s focus shifts immediately to me, eyes widening as though she’s surprised, but she doesn’t speak, just tilts her head to indicate she’s listening.

  There’s nothing to play with at the bar table where we’re sitting and I wish I had something to occupy my hands. I settle for the stem of my wineglass, running my fingers nervously up and down the smooth stem. “It’s this underground club we use to visit every once in a while when we wanted to spice things up.” A nice way of saying we wanted to add an element of exhibitionism and danger into our sex, but I don’t think Ruby’s ready to hear that.

  Besides, she’s a smart girl; she can read between the lines.

  “What’s it like?” She blinks, as though startled by her own question. “I mean, that is, if you are okay talking about it.”

  I shrug. I don’t know if I’m okay talking about it, but I’m going to anyway. Not only for Ruby, but for me. “It’s kind of a mishmash of kink. It’s not a leather club, or a straight-out BDSM club, but basically, anything goes. They have a main room and then they have theme rooms. I’ve seen people there that don’t look any different than you and me, and I’ve seen people there covered in head-to-toe latex. John always liked it better than BDSM clubs.”

  “Why?” Her attention seems absolute and I think she’s legitimately curious.

  I take a sip of my wine to compose myself before continuing. “That wasn’t his thing. While he was dominant, he didn’t like all the ritualistic stuff, and didn’t care for a lot of props.”

  Ruby leans forward, placing her elbows on the table. “Props?”

  I study her. She’s interested, and not in that mildly curious way, but in that way John would have called telling. I stifle a smile and say, “Oh you know, whips and heavy restraints, Saint Andrew’s crosses and things like that. He didn’t like”—I make air quotes—“scenes. He didn’t want me to call him master or sir, he just wanted, what he wanted, when he wanted it and didn’t expect to hear no from me.”

  She leans in even closer and if the table wasn’t there she’d have tipped over. “And if you said no?”

  A smile tugs at my lips and it occurs to me I’m talking about him and it doesn’t feel like a big, gaping wound. It’s still a deep ache in my heart but it doesn’t feel fresh. For the first time since he died I let some of my good memories in. “Well, then he would have changed my mind.”

  She opens her mouth but then snaps it shut and shakes her head. “It’s so hard to believe, even when I kind of knew what was going on, John was so mild mannered.”

  “Yeah, he was.” I grin at her. “Except when he wasn’t.”

  I shiver as I think of it. God, it was a beautiful sight to behold. He’d give me a hard-eyed, stern look. That certain expression—I can still picture like it was yesterday—would slide over his face, turning him from boyishly handsome into something dangerous.

  Ruby’s gaze darts away and a faint splash of color fills her cheeks. “Can I ask you something I’ve always been curious about, but isn’t really any of my business?”

  I take another healthy gulp of my wine and nod. “Of course.”

  “If you don’t want to answer you don’t have to.”

  “Ask,” I insist, curious in spite of myself.

  “Okay, what was going on between you at Carlo and Angela’s party that one time?”

  I’m so surprised I burst out laughing, shocking myself. It’s been so long I’m rusty. Of course, I know exactly what party she’s talking about. John had been in a real mood that night. I point to my glass. “We might need a lot more drinks before I can talk about the details and you probably would too, and we both have to work tomorrow.”

  “But I’m right, aren’t I? There was definitely something going on.”

  “Oh yes. What I will say is by the time I left that party I’d been violated in many different ways, I couldn’t sit down, and I’d had about four orgasms.”

  “Wow,” she says the word and sounds almost wistful, before she shakes her head. “It’s always the quiet ones, huh?”

  “Yeah.” John hadn’t been quiet but I knew what she meant, he’d had an innocent look to him that made him very affable and charming. Most people wouldn’t have guessed that he fucked like the devil and w
as twice as mean.

  Not like Michael. I can’t imagine a woman alive would think he took his sex nice.

  I wait for the hard slap of betrayal I experience every time I think of John and Michael so close together, but it doesn’t come. In fact, I’m more relaxed and mellow than I can ever remember being since before John died.

  Dr. Sorenson may have had a point when she’d said that talking was good, and part of the healing process. The wine is starting to go to my head, making me nostalgic and fuzzy. I smile at Ruby. “Thank you, I miss talking about him.”

  Her brow furrows and she covers my hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I don’t bring him up because I don’t want to upset you.”

  My eyes well with tears, but it’s different this time, it doesn’t have the same sharp edge of grief. I wipe under my lashes. “I know, but no one even says his name anymore, it’s like he’s disappeared from everyone’s mind but my own.”

  She squeezes my fingers. “No, never. I—” she shakes her head and her own eyes grow bright, “—I never thought of it like that. You’ve been so cut off, so remote, I didn’t want to do anything that would push you farther away.”

  I squeeze back, and it’s like a dam breaking between us, and all our emotions gush out. “I’ve been so horrible. I didn’t mean to, it’s just everyone wants me to be like I was before, and I can’t be. I constantly feel like a disappointment.”

  We both start crying in earnest and she looks at me all watery eyed. “I don’t expect that, Layla, I know this past year and a half have been harder and more painful than most of us will experience in our lifetimes, but don’t shut me out. You scare me when you do.”

  I brush away my tears and nod. “I won’t, I promise.” Never again.

  Our waitress, Milly, comes over with a pile of napkins, slides them onto the table and pats Ruby on the shoulder before wandering away.

  I grab a napkin and wipe my cheeks while Ruby does the same. When we’re under control, she covers my hand with hers. “I miss him too and I’ll talk about him whenever you want.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice a little shaky.

  Her hand slips away and she grabs her wineglass. We spend several minutes watching and listening to the singer’s rendition of Etta James’s, At Last. When she sings the last lines of the song in that haunting voice of hers, a powerful chill sweeps over me, and for a fraction of a second I can feel John in the shift of the air and breath of my body.

  I freeze, wanting to soak up the warmth that’s so distinctly him, but then it’s gone and I’m back in The Whisky. A peace settles deep within, and I’m so grateful for that one moment, I could weep.

  The last notes of the song fade away and Ruby turns back to me. “So? Are you going to tell me or not?”

  And, at last, we’re at Michael and the strange whisper against my skin dissipates into the ether. I’m at a loss for what to say—not because I don’t want to tell her—but because I don’t know how to explain. So I decide on the simplest form of the truth. “The club I told you about, sometimes I still go there. I met Michael there about a week ago.”

  Had it only been a week? It feels like a lifetime.

  “And?” she prompts.

  I shake my head. “And I don’t know. I want to stay away, that’s my intention, but I haven’t been able to. Tonight, well, tonight was a strange coincidence.”

  Her brow furrows. “He doesn’t seem like your type.”

  A smile flirts at my lips then falls away. “I suppose that depends on your definition of type.”

  Comprehension dawns across her face. “Ah, so he’s…um…that way.”

  I nod. I might not know the particulars yet, but Michael is most certainly “that way”. I take a deep breath and confess, “I’m going out with him tomorrow night.”

  She straightens in her chair. “Like on a date?”

  “Yes.” Then it’s my turn to blush. “I’m not sure how I ended up agreeing.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  It occurs to me that it never crossed my mind not too. How strange. Curious as to why she seems worried, I ask, “Why do you think I shouldn’t?”

  She shrugs. “Well, I don’t know, he’s so big…and scary.”

  “Yeah, he is.” And yet, I’ve never felt safer. I give her a reassuring smile. “He’s trustworthy. I promise.”

  Brackets of doubt form on either side of her mouth. “Just because he’s a cop doesn’t make him trustworthy.”

  “Yeah, I know. And that’s not why.”

  “Then why?” She leans forward.

  “Experience, mainly, but it’s more than that, he’s responsible. Safe and level headed.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” Her tone is filled with incredulity.

  I laugh, and the edges are a bit bitter. I pat her hand and assure her. “He’s has to be to deal with me.”

  I am so nervous I’m practically motion sick from all the jumping my stomach is doing. After an endless day at work, where the clock seemed to tick by, second by excruciating second, I made it home, took a shower and have been stressing about my wardrobe ever since. I’m on my fifth outfit change and sixteenth phone call to Ruby, who at this point, must wish I’d go back to being a reclusive mute.

  Somehow, in my mind, I’d imagined being calmer. Cool and nonchalant about the whole thing. After all, it’s not like I haven’t had any contact with men since John died. Only, as I stare at my flushed cheeks in the mirror, I’d forgotten they didn’t mean anything.

  With Michael, I care way too much.

  I blow out a hard breath, sending my long side-swept bangs into flight before they settle back into place. I wore my hair in loose curls, the flow haphazard and tousled over my shoulders. Bedroom hair. A look effected by a two-inch curling iron and Bumble and Bumble’s shine serum. I kept my makeup neutral, but my blue eyes look bright and excited. I need to find a way to calm down, or I’m going to hyperventilate and pass out.

  I glance at my clock and let out a shriek. It’s six forty-five, and I’m standing here in my underwear. Thank god I’ve at least decided on the set. I went with silk, edged with lace, but in a neutral boring color. Pretty, but not suggestive, it seems safe enough.

  I take a deep breath and, this time, instead of starting with the outfit, I begin with the shoes. Shoes should be easy to pick out. He said we were going somewhere casual, so fancy high heels are out. The nights are cold, so anything open toed is abandoned as well. I search through the contents littering my closet floor and finally settle on a pair of distressed, brown knee-high boots in soft, buttery leather. They have a three-inch wedged heel, with hooks and eyes that lace up the front.

  They’re perfect.

  I sigh in relief as it narrows down my outfit choices considerably. I flip through several dresses before settling on a cream sweater number with a low scoop neck. As soon as I slip it over my head, I know it’s right. It drapes my body and manages to hug my curves without clinging. I look good, but not like I’m trying too hard.

  The longer it’s taken me to get ready the more concerned I’ve become about trying too hard. The irony isn’t lost on me.

  But now I have another problem. The Chicago weather and weight of the fabric demands tights. An item of clothing I can’t wear. The sound of tearing nylon rips through my head, and my muscles contract, like the elastic is still rolled up and tight against my waist. I close my eyes and feel a wash of panic that has nothing to do with Michael.

  No! No! No!

  I won’t let the horrid images invade my thoughts. I take a deep breath and steady myself, counting slowly in my head until I settle. Once the image subsides, I refocus. I’m making too big a deal out of this. I can wear my normal thigh highs and Michael won’t think anything of it.

  Another minute ticks by.

  I could change into pants. But then I would have to change my shoes.

  Maybe I should call Ruby again.

  The intercom buzzer rings.

  My heart leaps in
to my throat, as my stomach gives another lurch. I pick up my phone, and let the doorman buzz him in.

  It’s too late to change again.

  I quickly pull on a pair of cream, thigh-high tights, zip up my boots and stand back to survey the results. Besides my cheeks, which are marred by two splotches of bright pink, I look pretty good.

  I fan my face but it has no effect.

  The doorbell rings.

  My breath quickens as the nerves stomp through me, but I manage to walk out of my bedroom, and to my front door.

  Heart racing nearly out of my chest, I open the door.

  Michael fills the space and I can only stare. All other frantic thoughts still in the face of him. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. How was it possible I didn’t think he was handsome? He might not be a traditional pretty boy, but the man is downright gorgeous.

  He stands there with his wicked smile, delectable in a black V-necked sweater that’s pulled tight across the broad expanse of his chest, his hands tucked into a pair of gray, casual flat-front pants. There isn’t even an ounce of stress visible as he props against my doorframe. “How’s my girl tonight?”

  Oh god. I think I might swoon.

  The way the “my girl” rolls off his tongue is enough for the desire to surge through me. I want him. Just looking at him is making me weak in the knees.

  This is going to be a disaster.

  He straightens and takes a step toward me.

  Involuntarily, I retreat.

  Hazel eyes darken and he comes toward me again.

  I move back.

  He shakes his head. “You’re not going to bolt, Layla.”

  I stop in my tracks, and take a deep breath. “Okay.”

  He comes to stand in front of me and reaches out to stroke one finger over my cheek. His hand is cold from the outside on my overheated skin. “Nervous?”

  I nod, not able to pretend otherwise.

  “Is this the first time since your fiancé died?”

  The question trips me up. I frown, not knowing how to answer. Surely he must know I haven’t been a saint.