Caught Up In Raine

by L. G. O'Connor

“Jillian!” I unclench my groin and spasm, letting go of all coherent thought and drown in the combined waves of our orgasms.

  My strength drains from my body, and I collapse down next to her and pant. Still joined, I pull the covers over us, and roll onto my back, taking her with me. I turn boneless underneath her, enjoying the last of her warmth surrounding me before my inevitable retreat.

  After I catch my breath, I kiss her long and deep. Drowsiness overtakes me, and I want nothing more than to fall back asleep and enjoy my new blissful existence. My eyes creep shut.

  “Raine?” Jillian says, brushing my cheek with her lips.

  “Hmm?”

  “I have to get up . . .”

  That’s right, the wake is today.

  “Five minutes and then a shower?” I ask in my satisfied state of sex-coma.

  “’K. Five minutes,” she says, and snuggles down next to me.

  Big mistake.

  I wake up to a screaming wail, and Jillian bolting from the bed. “Crap!”

  The covers fall away. “What?” My heart jolts in my chest, and I sit up with my eyes still glued half-shut. “What’s the matter?”

  She races around the room collecting her clothes. “We’re going to be late! It’s twelve thirty!”

  The wake starts at one. After a quick calculation, I’m scrambling. Shit! Ten minutes to take a shower and get out the door if we plan to be on time and not get pulled over for speeding on the way.

  “Shower,” I bark. “Downstairs in ten. Go!”

  I see her luscious ass and tattoo practically fly out of the bedroom door as I haul my own naked ass straight into the guest bathroom.

  Despite the fact that it’s my fault we’re late, a smile spreads across my face as I wash off the morning and remainder of last night. It was one of the best nights of my life, and I draw the conclusion that I wouldn’t change a minute of it. Even oversleeping.

  Chapter 29

  Jillian

  I HOLD RAINE’S HAND as we walk into the funeral home, and run my free hand over the bun at the back of my head, checking for loose hairs. Dressed in heels and the black dress I’ve relegated to funerals, I look like the appropriate picture of mourning. For a ten minute sprint, it was the best I could do. At least I don’t smell like I just spent the night, and half of the morning, having sex.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers next to me, dressed in black jeans and a black button-down. He told me he’s saving his suit for the funeral. I’m still angry that I let him talk me into another five minutes of sleep which turned into an hour.

  “Where were you?” Kitty’s eyes flash at me. She looks matronly in her black suit.

  The best defense is a good offense. I don’t see my brother-in-law. “Where’s Bob?”

  She sputters in confusion, not sure whether to continue yelling at me or answer my question. “He took Vera at her word, and decided—and I quote—not to stare at her dead corpse.” Her eyes shift to Raine, and she freezes. Blinking rapidly, her hand flies up to cover her mouth.

  She obviously sees the resemblance. Even though he’s been dead a long time, how could she miss it? His pictures are in the old family album she keeps in the attic. I took one out with the diaries when I started Twisted Up in Drew to keep on my desk. I put it away the day Raine came for the photo shoot in fear that he would see it and freak out.

  “You must be Raine,” she says in a muffled tone from behind her hand, offering her other in a handshake.

  “Nice to meet you, Kitty,” he says politely although I can see his discomfort.

  “God, he looks just like Drew,” she blurts, unable to take her eyes off of him. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. It’s just . . .”

  “It’s okay. Jillian’s already told me about him. I guess I look more like Drew than I thought.”

  “Who’s Drew?”

  We all turn to look at Jenny.

  I smile kindly at her. “Long story, sweetheart. I’ll fill you in another time.”

  Guests start to arrive around us, and I stare up at Raine. “I need to go with Kitty and Jenny to stand up front.”

  He squeezes my hand and captures my gaze. “I’ll take you up there and pay my respects.” He tips his head toward the chairs. “I’ll sit in the back until it’s over.”

  My heart swells with gratitude. I’m glad he’s here. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  He kisses the side of my head and then ushers me after Kitty and Jenny toward Vera’s casket.

  I glance at Vera and my stomach clenches. The waxiness that I hate covers her, making her look like a facsimile of herself. With her spirit gone, all that remains is her empty shell.

  We station Jenny a little closer to the door, while Kitty and I stand next to the casket. I accept people’s condolences as they file by with kisses and hugs.

  During a lull, Kitty leans over. “Brigitte sent a beautiful arrangement,” she whispers and points to the biggest one in the room.

  “She was so sorry she couldn’t be here,” I say. She texted me two days ago from Asia with her regrets for missing both the wake and the memorial service. On the bright side, her travel schedule dampened her efforts to hound me on a daily basis to complete my first draft. But if I don’t get my muses back soon, I’m going to be in serious trouble with Brigitte and the publisher. I worry that my recent loss of inspiration may have something to do with my budding relationship with Raine and the promise of a life not restricted to paper.

  By the end of the hour, even though it feels like over a hundred people have filed by, a healthy line still remains. The funeral director pulls us aside. “How would you like me to proceed?”

  “How many people are left?” Kitty asks in a voice that’s worried but not panicked.

  “Maybe fifty more,” he says.

  “That’s fine. It’s not like we can turn them away,” I say. Had she been asked, I doubt Aunt Vera would’ve actually made us enforce her “one hour” rule. My feet ache from standing in heels for so long in one place. I glance at the back of the room, and Raine gives me a little smile as he sits patiently and waits.

  “I can’t believe how much he looks like Drew,” Kitty whispers.

  I greet the next guest, and after he passes, I say, “On first glance, and maybe even second. But he’s not him, Kitty. He’s older, more mature, and much more complex.” Even as the words pass through my lips, I realize how unbelievable they sound, but yet how true they are.

  We accept our next set of condolences. “Thank you so much for coming,” we say almost in unison. The elderly woman moves off toward the casket.

  “He’s so young,” Kitty says softly and then sighs. “Does he make you . . . you know . . . happy?”

  I glance at Kitty to make sure I understand her question. When I see the wicked spark in her eye, I know what she really means. I try to reconcile the fact that my prim and proper sister is actually asking about my sex life.

  “Very,” I say, trying to suppress a smile as I remember how I spent the morning.

  “Lucky you,” she says in a raspy whisper.

  “Kitty!” I growl softly.

  “What? Enjoy him if he makes you happy.” She grips my hand. “Life is too short for regrets, Jillian. Maybe this could be your second chance. The one you didn’t have with Drew.”

  I’m ashamed to say that in the beginning, I had wondered the same thing. Drew died the year Raine was born. As I'd assumed, there's an eighteen-year age difference between myself and Raine. If I believed in reincarnation, it would be easy to let myself get caught up in the metaphysical possibilities. But in the end, it would be unfair to Raine to think of him in those terms. Still . . .

  “I honestly hope it lasts,” she says sincerely.

  So do I, Kitty. So do I. My only question is: Could it cost me my career? If my muses abandon me for much longer, that might become a real possibility.

  After the last of the mourners file past, Kitty stares at Raine as he gets up and makes his way to the front of the room.r />
  “You have my blessing, in case you wanted it,” she whispers.

  I smile at Raine as he approaches. “Thanks, Kitty. That means a lot to me.”

  In truth, I think Kitty’s blessing will mean more to Raine.

  Chapter 30

  Raine

  MY HEART POUNDS AS I sweep past my father’s shabby rental in my truck. His car isn’t there. It’s not on the street or in the driveway. Just to be safe, I sandwich my pickup between some cars a few houses away to stay hidden from view. I turn off the ignition and wait for my pulse to return to normal.

  I can do this. I rummage through the toolbox next to me on the seat and grab a slim flashlight, a box knife, and a pair of bolt cutters. That should be enough to get me where I need to go and to retrieve what I want. I toss the flashlight and bolt cutters in an empty backpack, and slip the knife into the back pocket of my jeans.

  I step outside into the hot midday sunshine. It’s Monday. If he didn’t fuck it up, my father is still employed and should be at work for the next few hours. The fact that his car’s not here is a good sign. It’s now or never. Tomorrow, I’ll be back at work, limiting any future chances of doing a little breaking and entering. But that’s not the reason. It’s only been a few days since my date with Jillian, but I feel hopeful for the first time in a long time. I’m ready to move on and leave my father behind me, but not without my mom’s portrait.

  My eyes dart around as I walk back toward my father’s house. Just as my fear wells up, I think about the life I want a chance to have with Jillian and it turns to resolve. I pass the house and walk down the driveway to the detached carriage house garage. Glancing around as I go, I’m relieved not to see anyone.

  The backpack zipper slides open noiselessly, and I remove the bolt cutters. With one hard snip, the lock falls away and hits the asphalt. I kick it away with my foot and enter the hot, musty garage. Shutting the heavy door behind me, I enclose myself in the oppressive heat and flick on the flashlight. I look around to get my bearings. There’s definitely less in here now than the last time I was here. Still somewhat organized in rows, the piles are lower. I weave my way among the boxes and around the stacked up furniture. Luckily, I know which box I’m looking for. The day we moved, I took a Sharpie and marked a red star on it in permanent ink. Rectangular and skinny, the box is shaped to hold a painting. But there are at least a hundred of them in that shape, all containing work from my mom’s studio.

  Sweat trickles down my back, and I sneeze, motivating me to find what I need fast and get out. I flip through the dusty boxes. My heart sinks lower as my flashlight passes over each one, seeking the red star and not finding it. When I get to the last box, I want to scream in frustration.

  My T-shirt is soaked, and I have trouble breathing in the heated air. But I refuse to give up and make another pass through. When I get to the far corner of the garage, I spot something behind an old desk. Holding the flashlight between my teeth, I slide the desk forward.

  My pulse races when I see the star. I pull the box over the desk and slit the tape holding the flaps together with the box cutter. Carefully, I slide out the bubble-wrapped painting. My face peers out from next to my mom’s through the tiny plastic cushions. I punch the air in triumph and slip the painting back into the box.

  As I get to the door, voices outside freeze me in place. I listen over my pounding heart, and hold my labored breath. If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to pass out.

  I blow out the remaining air in my lungs when I realize they’re speaking Spanish and it’s not my father. Peering through the dirt-caked glass windows at the top of the garage door, I catch a glimpse of the next-door neighbors over the high wooden fence and slump with relief. My hair is plastered to the sides of my head. I feel faint. It’s time to bust a move; I crack the door open as quietly as I can.

  They yammer on in Spanish without noticing me. The door shuts with a faint squeak. Hunkering down low, I head up the driveway with the boxed painting and my tools.

  I give the street a hasty look before hightailing it to my truck. Once the painting and backpack are loaded into the flatbed, I get out of Dodge as fast as I can. It’s only when I reach the main road that I slow down and my muscles relax. The air-conditioning blows on my wet shirt and sends a shiver over my skin. I catch a whiff of myself.

  “Whew!”

  I need to shower . . . bad.

  But I can’t wait to show Jillian the painting. I’m not sure I can explain, even to her, how much it means to me. I carry some photographs of my mom—some with me in them, and some without—but they’ll never be as special as this portrait.

  When I pull into the driveway, I don’t even bother to park in the garage. Instead, I pull up and park in front of the door next to where Jillian’s SUV is parked inside. Like a kid on Christmas, I swell with excitement and retrieve the painting out from under the flatbed cover and carry it through the front door.

  “Jillian! I’m back,” I yell.

  “I’m in my office,” she replies.

  I kick my shoes off inside the door and trek the awkward-sized box to her office. She peeks up over her laptop.

  I light up, unable to contain my excitement. “I got the portrait.”

  She rises and claps her hands together. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “I’ll show it to you, and then I need to jump in the shower.” I lean the box against her desk, and wrinkle my nose. “I reek.”

  She giggles. “I know. I can smell you from here.”

  “Sorry. It was like a steam bath in that garage,” I say apologetically as I slice carefully through the bubble wrap to unveil the portrait.

  Pulling it out, I hold it up for her. It’s done in an Impressionist style using pastel-colored paints.

  She comes around to get a better look. Her fingertips pass over the canvas, and she glances between me and the portrait and smiles. “It’s so special. I understand why you had to have it. It captures the bond between you perfectly. I love it.”

  Warmth floods my chest. I love that she loves it.

  She beams at me. “Where do you want to hang it?”

  I stare at her dumbfounded. It takes me a minute to process her question. “You want me to stay?” I swallow past the lump rising in my throat.

  Her smile grows and she nods. “I do,” she says softly.

  I rest the painting against her desk, and take her in my arms. “I’m sorry to hug you when I smell so bad, but you just made me really happy.”

  “You can hug me any time, even when you smell.” She squeezes me back. God, I want to tell her I love her so badly . . . but I’m afraid.

  She leans back in my arms and gazes up at me. “Why don’t you shower, and then, if you’re up for it, I have some revised pages for you to read. I’m desperate for some help.”

  I loosen my embrace. “Sure.” I dip my lips to meet hers for a quick kiss and growl. “Then maybe I can convince you to take a little ‘research’ break for your love scenes.”

  “You’re going to wear me out if this keeps up,” she says and cups my ass through my jeans before she lets me go.

  “Ha. I’ll believe it when I see it.” I head for the door but lean on the doorjamb and glance back at her. “I’ll think about where to hang the painting while I shower.”

  She nods and smiles broadly. “Take your time, there’s no rush.”

  I smile back. As I round the corner to get to the stairs, a fist lands solidly in my face, and I cry out. I reach for my nose, and an arm locks around my neck from behind. Panic fills me as I claw at his arm.

  “You little fuck,” he says. Whiskey-filled spittle sprays the side of my face. “Did you think you could steal from me?”

  “How did you find me?” I grit out as my windpipe starts to close.

  “You think you’re so smart? I saw your truck drive away, and I followed you here, you dumb shit. Now where’s that fucking ring!”

  Stars dance in my vision, and I struggle for air. “I . .
. don’t . . . have . . . it!”

  “Did you give it to your girlfriend? Do I have to cut her finger off to get it back?”

  The thought of him harming Jillian sets me on fire. I jam my elbow back with such force I hear a crack when it sinks into his ribs. Maybe I returned the favor. He grunts and loosens his grip on my throat. I twist away and fall out of his grasp, gasping for air. He hurls his body at me and drives me onto the marble floor, hard. The force jars my healing ribs, but I’m able to protect the back of my head. That doesn’t stop the pain from radiating up my spine.

  “Give it back!” he screams into my face.

  Click!

  “Don’t move or I’ll blow a hole in your worthless head,” Jillian says through gritted teeth.

  I look into her cold, serious eyes. Over his shoulder, she grips the gun in both hands with confidence and skill. I don’t doubt for a moment she would kill him to save me.

  My father’s eyes grow wide, and he freezes. “If Raine gives me what I want, I’ll never bother you again.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you want. If you ever step foot in this house or touch Raine again, I’ll make sure you end up dead. Do you understand me?”

  This is the first I’ve seen of badass Jillian, and I love it. I love her even more. Sirens blare in the distance and grow louder.

  “Right on time. Now, get up and keep your hands where I can see them,” she says.

  He rolls off me and gets up with his hands in view. I spring to my feet, ignoring my pain.

  “Hey, Dad?”

  When he looks at me, I wind my arm back and punch him squarely in the face with all my might. His head snaps back and he goes flying, landing in a broken heap on the marble.

  My knuckles hurt like hell, but it was worth it.

  “Well deserved,” Jillian grins, and keeps the gun pointed at him until the police arrive a few minutes later. Then she flips the safety back on and sticks it in her waistband.

  I look at her in awe with my mouth agape.

  She shrugs. “Don’t look so impressed. I have a license to carry,” she says, and walks past me to answer the door.