Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

  “Blake, let’s go,” Cole pleaded.

  “No,” I said, stomping my feet once, accidentally stepping on Bobby’s sneaker. “Sorry,” I said looking back and apologizing before turning back to Cole. “I will not go anywhere with you and that...” I shouted pointing at Sasha. “Skank.”

  I heard a couple of gasps, and a guy scream “cat fight” somewhere, but they all sounded far away. Sasha’s grin widened as she put her hand on Cole’s forearm and I saw him shrug her off angrily before I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep myself composed.

  I turned to Aubry once I opened my eyes again. “Aub, let’s go. We came, we saw,” I said, glaring at Cole. “We conquered,” I finished, lifting Bobby’s arm as if we’d won a race.

  Aubry hesitated but stood beside me—and thankfully, took my side. “Alright. Guys, it’s been real. Thanks for everything. Cole, can I talk to you?” Aubry asked quietly.

  Cole agreed with a nod, never taking his eyes off of me. He was looking at me the way he did when he left Maggie’s house a month and a half ago. Tears prickled my eyes at the memory, but I held them at bay. It’d been a month and a half since I felt his lips on mine. A month and a half of sleepless nights, wondering if he’d been thinking of me as much as I thought of him. A month and a half of wondering what could have been. A month and a half of kicking myself for being insecure about a long distance relationship.

  By the time Aubry and Cole walked back to us, Bobby had given me his number, and I apologized to the guys for the scene I had caused. They all laughed it off and told me it had been fun. I was much more sober though, and quite frankly, very embarrassed. Sasha didn’t say anything as she stood in the corner. She didn’t have to. She had accomplished what she wanted and would forever be known as “that skank”—to me at least...and to Becky, of course.

  “Blake, please talk to me,” Cole pleaded before I left the party.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” I replied quietly. “I’m sorry I came here.”

  He grabbed my elbow when I tried to walk away. “Please don’t. Please don’t be sorry you came here. I wish you would’ve told me you were coming,” he said sadly as he dropped my arm from his hold.

  I glared at him. “Why? So you wouldn’t have fucked Sasha tonight? You would’ve waited until tomorrow night instead?” I spat. I knew I had no right, he wasn’t mine anymore.

  He cringed. “Blake-” he said as he grabbed my arm again.

  I pulled my arm roughly away from him. “No. Just. Don’t. I’m glad you’re doing well. I really am. I won’t be back—ever.”

  He gaped at me. “Baby, please don’t say that. I don’t want you to not come back. I’m sorry,” he pleaded quickly.

  “Don’t call me that,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I don’t want you to be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  I walked away and got into the waiting cab to find Aubry already passed out inside. Cole was still standing in the street with his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. He was looking somberly at me, his broken eyes matching my heart. As we started to drive away, I lowered my window.

  “Have fun with your skank!” I said loudly. His eyes were glistening as he shook his head in defeat.

  The next morning Aubry and I headed back to the airport, and I was glad to leave the sad memories behind me. I knew they would haunt me for a while—if not, forever. Her hand on his ass. Her teeth on his neck. Him wrapping her in his arms as he kissed her neck. The sounds they were making as they had sex. I shuddered at the memory and brushed myself off disgustedly. The worst part was that out of all of the memories I wished I could erase, the most prominent one was the pain in his eyes as I left him. Fucking Cole...

  The night we got back home Aubry told me that Cole had given him a letter to give me. I told him to rip it up and throw it away. I didn’t want to read it now—or ever. Months later I wondered whatever happened to that letter, but I never asked Aubry.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Present

  It’s been a couple of months since our meeting with Mark, and Cole still hasn’t met his parents or even let them know that he’s alive. He and Aimee are taking time to get to know each other better, which has been great for them. If anybody were to see them in the street, they would never know that they hadn’t seen each other in so many years. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re siblings, or the fact that they’re twins that makes their bond so unique. It’s almost like they picked up where they left off twenty-one years ago, it’s an incredible thing to witness.

  Aimee moved in with us when the lease on her place was up, but she and Aubry are looking for another place. When she first moved in and realized just how paranoid I really was—between my locked doors, alarm system, and my three-knocks-on-the-door code—she thought I was a little crazy. Even after knowing what happened to me, she doesn’t completely grasp what happened to me. I don’t blame her. I don’t think many people can understand it or fully believe it; it sounds like an episode of NCIS or something.

  The recurring nightmare hasn’t come to me in a while and I know I should be happy about it, but it’s really bothering me. It’s not that I want to remember my mother lying in blood, but I want to remember the faces. The faces of the killers. Cole keeps asking me to see a therapist. He promises it’ll help to talk about what I remember. I went to a therapist for years, though. It only helped me because they gave me something to help me sleep. I just need to remember. When I remember, I’ll be fine. When I remember, I’ll move past it. I started keeping a box of memories. In it, I have the photos Shelley left me and her last letter. I also have a timeline that I’ve been working on and a diary that I’m using to write my memories in.

  Recently, Cole and I have been discussing buying a house together. I know it’s a big step, but I also know that it’s not something we’ll regret. He thought it was hilarious when Aimee told him that their parents live across the street from the house from Home Alone. He keeps telling me that it’s a sign. I don’t think I should remind him what the plot was in that movie. Every Sunday we go house hunting, which can be pretty fun sometimes. We’ve driven by a couple of adorable-looking town homes in the city, but he says the yards are too small, and they all have stairs. It’s a big issue for me—the stairs.

  “Remind me again why it is that you hate stairs?” Cole asks one afternoon as we’re driving by some big two-story homes.

  “I hate the build-up of emotions related to them,” I say before I bite the inside of my cheek, waiting for him to start laughing at how stupid that sounds.

  He chuckles and grabs my hand as we stop at a red light. “Baby, they’re just stairs. They don’t have emotions!” he says as his eyes twinkle at me.

  I take a deep breath and shift my body to face him. “They’re not just stairs. Have you ever seen a movie with a one-story house? Stairs are a big deal. They’re such a big deal that you never have a scene of a girl walking toward her prom date without her walking down the stairs first. You never see a bride stroll through the hallway in her wedding dress. You always see her walk down the stairs. You never watch a scary movie where the main character doesn’t run up the stairs to get away from her attacker. In my case—in real life—I walked straight into my attacker. After I walked down.the.stairs. There is no way I want to own a house with stairs. No way.” The amused look in his eyes vanishes as he looks at me for a long moment before nodding his head once and continuing to drive. I let out a sigh of relief and turn to look out the window as one house catches my attention. It’s a white colonial style house with a pink front door and it’s beautiful. Too bad it’s two stories.

  ***

  It’s dead winter and I swear, I’ll never get used to this weather, even though I’ve lived here my entire life. I think it’s a little strange, until I look around and see herds of people bundled up like pigs in a blanket. I am on my way to meet Cole for lunch at a little Irish restaurant in Michigan Avenue. As I’m walking—and trying not
to slip in the icy street as I curse myself for wearing heeled boots—I spot a man among the pack of hungry vultures that work in corporate America. He’s looking right at me and it makes me cross my arms over my chest. He has short blond hair, almost shaved bald, and is very big. Something about the way he’s sneering at me makes the hairs on my arms stand up. As I’m approaching where he’s standing, I notice that he has two different color eyes. One is dark—black almost—the other is blue, I think.

  I want to look away from this man—so bad because my stomach is in knots, but I cannot look away from his stare. As I get closer, I squint my eyes to get a better look at his face, and feel the air swish out of my body when I notice his dark eye is a glass eye. My step falters and I have to grab on to the wall beside me to keep my knees from giving out on me. I’m still looking at him when he leans away from the wall, still watching me intently. When I start to move again, I look down—breaking eye contact—to check if my bootie is stuck on something, and when I look back up he’s gone.

  I look around in a hurry, trying to spot the glass eyed man. There are too many people walking to and fro, and I can’t find him. My eyes can’t focus on one specific person but I know I didn’t imagine him. I know he was right there. How can somebody walk so quickly? It’s impossible...right? But in a place that can make anybody disappear—whether they want to or not—it is impossible to catch those who are looking to blend in.

  When I walk into the restaurant, I find Cole talking to a group of young men that he quickly dismisses when he spots me. I look at the table and see that he already ordered wine and an appetizer.

  “Am I late?” I ask as I bend over to kiss him. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me down to his lap to give me a kiss that leaves me light headed.

  “No, baby, you’re right on time. I got here a little early.”

  While we’re eating, he shows me new house listings he found in Glenn Ellyn, Glenview, Wilmette, and other expensive areas.

  “Cole, don’t you think it’s better if we get a smaller, less-expensive home for now?”

  “Why?” he asks, genuinely confused.

  I laugh. “Because there’s only two of us, and we don’t need the space.”

  “There’s only two of us for now,” he replies, picking up my hands and kissing each finger lightly before nipping on the pads, making me squirm in my seat.

  “You’re giving me that look,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

  “What look?” I ask.

  He tilts his head and shoots me a crooked grin. “Blake, I happen to know the owner of this restaurant, and trust me when I say that he won’t mind me borrowing the back room for a little while,” he replies in a low voice.

  I bite my lip and shake my head. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  He shows me that dimple that I love and leans in to kiss my lips before going back to a specific listing that he’s interested in. It’s hard to resist going to see some of these homes, when Cole is talking about playing football with future babies and grilling on our deck. I know that as much as he wants that, we’re not ready for kids yet, though.

  Later that night, as we’re laying in bed, he’s watching the news and idly stroking my hair as I sort through Real Estate Law notes. The news reporter is talking about a familiar case, about some men with ties to organized crime. I sit up straighter when I see Mark addressing the media, and ask Cole to turn up the volume. One of the men they’re talking about is young; he can’t be older than thirty. He’s good looking, he has dirty-blond hair and gray—maybe blue—eyes.

  Connor Benson, is said to be Reggie Isaac’s accomplice in assaulting an employee outside city hall last fall. They are both linked to organized crime kingpin, Brian Benson. If charged, they could face up to three years in prison for assault of a city employee.

  The camera cuts to a video of Connor Benson leaving the courthouse and then to Mark addressing reporters.

  Cole and I shoot each other wide eyed looks.

  “Is it me or do they-” he says.

  “Yeah. I thought the same thing,” I reply nodding slowly.

  I tune out when they start the sports segment and switch on my computer. I run my hands over my face before I type in my fourth birthday on Google. I’ve done this before, of course, but now I have more information—I think. As usual, my friend Google has a billion links. “Today in history: In California, a forty-one-year-old man, named James, opens fire in a McDonald’s and kills twenty-one people.” Interesting. “Beverly Burns becomes the first woman Boeing 747 captain in the world.” That’s positive. However, there is absolutely nothing on what happened in my home that morning. Nothing.

  How could a shooting and two kidnappings not be reported? Then I find: “Camden and Colleen Wolf’s four-year-old son, Nathan Cole Wolf, was taken from his bedroom in the middle of the night. Both parents say that their bedroom was barricaded by their intruders. Their daughter, Aimee, was sleeping in their bedroom at the time of the kidnapping. If you have any information, we urge you to contact this number.” As I scroll down, I see the search engine overflow with articles about Nathan’s disappearance.

  I cover my mouth with both hands to keep my sobs in before I feel my protective blanket shield me with his warmth.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” he coos in my ear.

  With one shaky hand, I point to my screen. He turns my computer to get a better look, and I feel his body still as he reads. There are pictures of his parents in all of the articles. They look tired and distraught, both of them with dark circles under their eyes. My heart breaks for them. I can only imagine what they must have been feeling. They put a roof over their children’s heads, taught them right from wrong, fed them and bathed them every night. They held their hands to cross the street, shielded them from the outside rain, so they wouldn’t get sick, tucked them in every night at bedtime. I just can’t imagine what they must have gone through when their child was taken from the safe haven they had created for him.

  Cole snaps my laptop closed and puts it on his nightstand before he pulls me into his arms and cradles me tightly. I hide my head in the crook of his neck and breathe him. I wish I could say something, but no words would take the pain away. I lift my face to his and kiss him softly before he deepens the kiss and devours my mouth in his. He begins to stroke small circles with his thumbs over my hips before making his way up to cup my bare breasts. His lips only leave mine when he shifts his body and pushes mine down, covering it with his. Urgent wet kisses down my neck make me throw my head back with a moan. I feel him groan against my chest as he continues to caress me, covering every inch of my entire body at once. The heat of his gaze when he looks into my eyes lets me know that every ounce of anguish has been forgotten—even if it’s just for now.

  He trails kisses up my calves, making me squirm from the five o’clock shadow that traces his face. He pins my thighs with his arms so I don’t move away as he buries his face in between my legs, while he continues to tease my breasts and brings me to ecstasy. I’m still shivering when he kneels above me and thrusts into me, stretching every inch of me to welcome him as he growls out my name and he circles his hips, making me raise my hips in response. I wrap my arms around his neck as he lifts me up by the waist and sits me up on top of him as he continues his sweet torture. He moves me until I convulse around him and fall limp against his chest.

  “Thank you, baby,” he says as he kisses my face gently before placing me back down on the bed and pulling my back against his chest. “I love you so so much.”

  We hold each other tightly for a long time, neither of us saying a word. Despite the ways we’ve been wronged, we’re thankful that we have one another.

  “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Blake. I’m never letting you go,” he whispers hoarsely.

  I smile and reply by kissing the hand he has resting on my arm. My smile is sad, yet hopeful when I go to sleep.Chapter Eighteen

  Past

  I didn’t know how I was goin
g to survive law school—if I ever got in. I hated reading and writing long papers. I looked at the time; it was only 8:00. I didn’t know why I thought procrastinating homework was a good idea. My bed looked so warm and cozy. I glared at Zack, who looked too comfortable sleeping on my pillow. If he wasn’t Aubry’s swimming mate and my boyfriend, I’d totally kick him out right now. I thought I heard someone knocking on my front door, so I got up and unlocked my bedroom door. I looked around at our tiny living room and across to Aubry’s bedroom. His door was closed and the light was on, so he must have been there. Maybe he was expecting Megan. I rolled my eyes at the thought of his annoying girlfriend. I felt the blood drain from my face when I looked through the peephole. The last person on earth that I expected or wanted to see was looking back at me.

  I opened the door slowly.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked as I played with the hem of my shirt.

  “Visiting,” he said abruptly. “Aubry home?”

  “Yes,” I replied as I moved out of the way to let him in.

  He stepped in and looked around. I wondered how his place looked. I’d never been, I’d stayed away like I said I would. The amount of times I’d seen him could be counted on one hand. I saw him for Christmas every year at Maggie’s, and that was about it. He still looked weird to me with his short hair. He strode over to Aubry’s room and knocked on the door, making it obvious that he’d been here before. That was news to me. I turned on my heels to go back to my own room.

  “You look different,” he said, making me halt mid step.

  I turned back around and found him examining me—or undressing me. The look he was giving me made me run my hands up and down my crossed arms, even though the heater was on.