Rather, it feels like an entirely different place. It feels cold, distant, and unknown. This time, if only for a night, it feels like just another temporary home.
The car comes to a stop in the empty driveway. Noah turns the car off and throws his head against the headrest.
“We should probably go inside,” I say. “You’ll freeze to death if we stay out here much longer.”
He doesn’t look at me, but he speaks. “I’m not afraid of the cold.”
“You should be.”
He looks to me with pursed lips and nods in agreement.
* * *
In the dimly-lit den, I place another log into the burning fireplace. In the years since the house had been occupied, things have become broken—the furnace won’t turn on.
Noah’s upstairs in his old bedroom, searching through boxes of clothes he left behind. Upstairs, right beside his room, is my old room, but I’m not ready to go up there yet.
There are no windows in the den so it looks and feels like the sun has already gone down. The crackling of the burning logs breaks through the uncomfortable silence.
“Who was he?” Noah asks behind me.
Startled, I jump to my feet and face him. I throw my hand across my racing heart. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s a side-effect of a trigger-happy, ex-boyfriend being in town, I suppose.”
He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, his reflection painted across the windows of the parted French doors. He’s dressed now in tight jeans—he’s much bigger now than he used to be—and wearing Luke’s varsity jacket. It looks great on him, but it’s a harrowing reminder that Luke’s no longer with us.
With every step and every movement across these hallowed floors, it feels wrong to be here. The trifecta is broken and this was never our place to begin with. Not really. It was the Eastwoods, and we were visitors.
“Who was he?” he asks again.
I had meant to respond, but got lost within my own traveling mind. I told you—it’s the silence. “His name is Paul.” I force my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “He’s the lawyer that I was with in Florida.”
He nods, but not in agreement, but as a way of telling me to continue on.
I chew on my cheek and shake my head gently. “He was never abusive. I don’t know if he’s changed or if he was hiding it all along.”
“He tried to kill you. He tried to kill me. That’s beyond abusive,” he says pointedly, accusingly.
“I know.” I sink down onto the couch behind me. It creaks. “I’m so stupid.”
He chews on his lip and wipes his nose with his thumb, but the rest of his body remains planted against the doorframe. “Did you love him?”
“Does it matter?”
Noah tilts his head sideways as if he’s contemplating something. “Let’s pretend that it does.”
“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” I say and rise to my feet, but I’m still pretending. The last thing I want to talk about is Paul and my feelings for him, whatever they were. I don’t want to come to the realization of who he really is. I don’t want to think about the fact that he’s nothing more than a villain with seemingly no redeeming qualities left. “I just want to dance.”
He raises an eyebrow and clasps his hands together. “That came out of nowhere.”
“Not really,” I toss my shoulders. “Not if you really think about it.”
“Fine,” he says and approaches me, taking both of my hands into his grasp. “I’ll oblige. Let’s dance.”
“Not that kind of dance.” Slow dancing is fine on certain occasions—proms and weddings the only two that come to mind. I pull away from him and lead him by the palm to the couch. “You should probably sit down.”
“Oh.” He exhales loudly. “That kind of dance.”
“I know you understand it.” I lower myself so that I straddle his legs. “When the world’s a blur, the only way to make sense of it all is through skin-on-skin. You and me. We do our best thinking when we truly feel alive. And this is the only way we feel alive.”
“I’m prone to agree with you.” He grins. “But that might be my hardening cock.”
Maybe this is a joke to him. Maybe it’s not, but as profane as our actions have been of late, there’s one line he hasn’t crossed—cursing. I’m unsure what that says about me, the fact that I noticed it.
“You just said cock,” I say with a furrow of my brow.
He grabs my hips with his palms. “Come on,” he growls. “I’m waiting for my dance.”
I rub my ass against his jeans then pop to my feet. Reaching for my cellphone that sits on the floor beside the fireplace, I tease him. Prepare him. With a few flicks of my finger, music begins to play—Titanium by David Guetta and Sia. For years, it’s been my go-to song, and it’s about time Noah gets to see me in top-form.
Top-form, of course, is found in the sadness. On the days when I need the extra dose of freedom that stripping allows me. The same days where I’m left with nothing and my identity is covered in layers of sweat. One thing is certain—I love my job. And I hate it. And there’s a thin line between the two that I cross daily.
I begin by backing toward him and lowering my ass so that I’m close enough that he can feel my heat, but not close enough that our jeans brush. I steady myself with a hand on either side of his legs and lift my ass up the course of his stomach and chest. I scoot deeper between his knees, moving my hands to part them as I retreat toward him.
There’s a break in the music. The phone begins to ring. I grunt as I jump up and grab the phone off the nightstand. It’s Paul. I slide my finger to the right and ignoring his call.
“Who’s that?” Noah asks.
“Nobody,” I say through a forced smile as the music begins to play again. I’m not about to let the psychopath of the day ruin my dance, and there’s nothing we need to talk about right now.
It takes a beat, but I get back into the groove of the music almost instantly. I slide my shirt over my head and throw it behind me. Noah shifts into his seat and rubs his hand across his crotch.
With a quick flip, I brush my hair behind my head and out of my face. My hand lowers to my jeans and I pop a button while swaying my hips. Slowly, deliberately, I slide my jeans down my thighs until they pool at my feet. I step out of them and step toward Noah. This is it. This is freedom.
“Forgive me, father.”
“I’m not Catholic,” he says through a chuckle.
I place my pointer finger against his dry lips. “Forgive me, father. I have sinned.” I glide into his lap and bend my knees against the couch. Through the thin fabric of my panties, I can feel his wanting hardness. He needs release as much as I do.
I reach under and pop the button of his jeans. The zipper comes next and he’s not wearing any underwear. I wrap my palm around his warm flesh and squeeze, causing him to throw his head back in pleasure. “Faith…” he moans.
He reaches to his jeans and pushes them down a few inches so that they rest on his thighs. His cock springs free and I’m not in the position to wait. I take hold of his slick cock and push my panties out of the way for easy access.
I don’t wait to become adjusted to his width before I begin sinking around him. With one hand, I steady myself against his chest. With the other, I push my hair back and out of my face.
Once I reach the hilt, and he couldn’t possibly fill me anymore, I let out a soft cry. Wasting no time, I raise myself up before sinking back down. It’s slow and torturous and it’s just what I need.
Noah shifts his hands back to my hips and attempts to stand, but I resist and push my weight against him, holding him down. “I’m in control,” I say through shallow breaths. “Let me handle this.”
“At least…” he groans, “let me take these off.” He rips at my panties and tears them off one side and then the other. “Fuck…” he moans and grabs onto my hips, pulling me tight against
his groin.
I shift backward, push his hands off me, and pull his jacket off. He throws it to the floor. My hands rise under his shirt and lift it. He assists, raising his hands in the air as I pull the shirt off.
The steel cross dangling from a thick chain steals my attention. My eyes focus on the chain as it smacks against his chest with every thrust. I rock into him, but he craves more. Once again, his fingers find my hips. He becomes more forceful with every motion and scoots closer to the edge of the couch.
I fall into him so that my bra-covered breasts thump against his face. He moves a palm to my back, holding me as he begins to rock into me. Harder. Faster.
He’s my poison, but his cock is the key to my release. Every shift of his hardness, every caress of the small of my back, every fucking inch of him frees me. He looks up to me, stealing every particle of my attention. In this dark room, his eyes burn deep into my soul.
His eyes scream. They beg. They speak words that don’t yet exist.
Eye to eye, there’s an understanding between us—we’re both on the verge of release. I ride him faster until he begins to shudder. His mouth quivers, and his moans are soon outpaced with rasped breaths.
Staying afloat isn’t easy as my body begins to quake. My pussy clenches tight around him as his fingers dig into my back. He pumps once more and comes inside of me. I settle in position as I watch him die only to be brought back to life with a flicker of his eyes.
His face falls against my breasts as the rest of his body heaves and shakes. The tension in his arms is apparent even as he holds me still.
I fall forward and push him back against the couch. My arms are thrown around his back, holding onto him as the world begins to make sense again. My fingers trail to the scars on his back. After the quake has passed, I lean back and ask, “Where did you get these scars?”
6
He’s unresponsive, preferring the silence after release. “How?” I question and run my fingers through his short hair.
Still being evasive, he caresses his lip with his tongue. I start to speak again, but he lifts me to the floor and stands up beside me. He pulls his jeans up over the curves of his ass and tucks his dick away. “It’s a long story.”
I reach for my jeans on the floor and step into them. “Then make it short.” I pull the jeans up over my hips and fasten them. “Skip all the boring parts.”
“There are now boring parts,” he says and grabs my pack of cigarettes off the mantle. He slips one between his lips.
“Since when do you smoke?” I pull my shirt over my head and take a seat on the couch.
“Since now.” He kneels on foot and places the cigarette into the fireplace. “Why not, you know?”
“It’ll kill you, for starters,” I point out, recognizing the hypocrisy but not caring.
“I’m not afraid of dying,” he says and exhales a cloud of smoke. “I’m not afraid of many things, but I’m afraid of losing you.” He takes a puff and ashes into the fireplace. “So, why don’t we talk about what we’re going to do about that?”
I’d really hate to devolve into a childish game of musical chairs, but I’m not above it, either. “You first.”
“Do you really want to know?”
With that tone, I’m a little hesitant, but still intensely curious. I answer with a nod.
“I had just returned to Old Town three weeks ago after a five-month leave of absence.” He takes a seat on the arm of a chair. “After Luke’s death, I left town to meet some guy who will remain a complete mystery to you. I wanted revenge, and he showed me how to get it. He taught me how to fight and how to control my emotions, but that last part didn’t exactly take hold.”
What? Who? When? How? Why?
“Those scars on my back are from the blade of a sword.” He takes a hit off the cigarette. “And that’s the story of how I got the scars on my back.”
I’m shocked, unable how to process this information. It’s illogical and makes no sense. He seems content, however, to leave it at that. “Are you being serious?”
He pushes his tongue against his cheek. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
“Well,” I huff, “you can’t just end the story there.”
He stands up, shrugs, and tosses the half-smoked cigarette into the fire. “You said you wanted the short version.”
“That was before you told me you’re fucking Batman!”
“I’m no Batman. I’m just a preacher who lost his way.”
He sits back down and taps his feet against the hardwood. “Now, tell me more about this Paul guy.”
“I’m not sure there’s anything left to say.”
“You could start by telling me why he’s trying to kill you.”
I throw myself back against the couch and sigh. “I caught him fucking some blonde bitch and confronted him. He told me I couldn’t go anywhere because I was his property.” I sit up and grin slyly. “Then, I threw his ass through a window.”
“You did what?” Noah jumps to his feet. “When?”
“Right before I left.” I tap a finger against my cheek. “Apparently, I left a nasty scar.”
Noah laughs, but I’m not sure which part he thinks is funny. “That’s why he’s so pissed?” he questions. “Because you busted his pretty face?” He laughs again. “I need a drink.”
“He’s crazy. While I’m sure his busted face plays a big part in whatever his goals are, he’s crazy. You can’t reason with crazy.”
“And how long were you with him?”
“Too long, apparently.”
Noah laughs again, this time while stomping his foot against the floor.
“I’m glad my misfortunes are amusing you.”
“I’m sorry.” He clears his throat and pats his palm against his jeans. “I’m going to go find some liquor. Want some?”
* * *
EIGHT YEARS AGO
The parents are out of town, on a wedding anniversary trip to the Bahamas. Bummer we weren’t invited, but we have the house to ourselves. It’s a little past midnight and we’ve had a few drinks while lounging beside the pool.
Honest to God, it was Luke’s idea. The last thing Noah or I would want to do is test boundaries, especially not within three months of moving into the Eastwood’s home.
And it’s exactly that—home. In the span of such a short time, I’ve learned two things—sometimes I’m wrong and home doesn’t always have to be a person, but instead, it can actually be a place.
I sit on the deck of the pool, kicking my feet in the water while sipping a light beer. Noah is lying beside me with his legs folded into the water. He’s lost in the mapping of the stars, seemingly counting each one with his finger. “One-hundred fifty-two… One-hundred fifty-three…”
“You’re going to be out here for an eternity.” I roll over onto my side and stroke his bare chest.
“I’m getting bored already, to be honest.” He rolls onto his side, facing me. Our bodies are a mere inch apart. With his soft, wet hand, he caresses my face. “I’d much rather stare at you, but there’s nothing to count.”
A wave of water flies onto the deck, splashing our faces. “No touching!” Luke yells jokingly from the pool. “House rules.”
I sit up and cup my hand in the water, returning the favor of a splash in the face. Luke rubs his eyes with his fists and pushes his slick hair back. “Sexy,” I purr.
“Oh, yeah?” Luke swims through the water, approaching me. “How about a kiss?”
“Just a peck,” I say and lean forward to give him a quick kiss on the lips. He reaches for my cheeks, and I imagine he’s about to escalate the kiss into a full-blown make-out session. I’m wrong. He hooks his arm behind my head and pulls me head first into the pool.
Before I’m able to surface, I hear him cackling with drunken glee. I gasp for air when I reach the top of the water. He moves toward me and I reflex back, afraid he’s going to push my head under water. He’s quicker than I am though, and he plants anot
her short—but longer than before—kiss on my lips.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Noah muses from the deck before sliding into the water. He swims to us and throws his arm around Luke’s neck. “This is how you kiss someone.” He grabs Luke’s cheek with the other hand and pulls him into a kiss.
Luke resists and pulls back. There’s a look of confusion etched across his face, but it soon fades into an ornery smile. He jumps to Noah and kisses him back. This time, Noah pulls him in closer and proceeds to bite into Luke’s lip softly.
It’s kind of hot, but also, kind of Luke-two-seconds-ago confusing.
Soon, the full-blown make-out session I had predicted earlier becomes a reality. But instead of me being on the receiving end of Luke’s tongue, it’s Luke on the receiving end of Noah.
Staring isn’t polite, but I’m content to forget everything I know about etiquette in this moment. Noah’s attention—and his eyes—avert to me and soon, he’s pulling back from Luke. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me to him, kissing me as soon as he can.
And then I kiss Luke.
7
PRESENT
Slowly, I begin to drift away. My head drops to the arm of the chair, but I catch myself before my eyes are able to close. Noah has been gone for a good ten minutes, and my mind begins writing stories—Paul is in the house.
That’s pure fiction, though. How would he even know where we are? How would he know to find me at the loft? I rise to my feet and exit the den, placing my palm against the doorframe as I peer around the corner into the dining room. “Noah?”
It’s too quiet. Burning logs crackle from behind me and fade into whistles of the wind as I pass the patio doors. The sun is finally going down, setting in the horizon over the fields in the distance.
This means I definitely fell asleep. Isn’t it funny how that works? It’s like giving an inch and taking a mile. You think you’re awake when you’re really dreaming. I dreamed that I was sitting on a couch in our old home—what an escape.
Faithless #3: A Tainted Love Serial Page 3