Swink

by Adriana Locke

  “I can’t believe that happened to you,” she breathes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine. There’s nothing fine about this,” she fires back, getting situated beside me. “How dare you have had to go through that. How dare he do that to you!”

  “He’s dead,” I point out.

  “And you have to live with it.”

  Her consideration for me, that her first thought is of me, sends a warmth shooting over my entire body. I don’t even feel the pain in my side, nor the headache I’ve battled all evening. It’s all numbed from this relief.

  “Babe, Ryder’s asleep down the hall,” I say, a smile gracing my lips. “Keep your voice down.”

  She blushes, taking my face in her hands. “This is why we should stay at my house. I need to talk to you and I need to be able to express myself.”

  “It’s one in the morning. We can talk tomorrow,” I yawn, pulling her down beside me.

  As she nuzzles under my chin, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

  “Dom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You were wrong when you said I don’t want you.”

  We lie in the quiet, the fan swirling above us.

  “Cam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You were wrong when you said we’re free to do whatever we want.”

  My cheeks break into a smile as I say the words because I’m mostly sure she’ll still be here in the morning. Maybe even next week. And when she curls her leg around mine and crushes her body against me, I close my eyes and fall into the best sleep of my life.

  Camilla

  “YOU CAN TELL NATE LIVES here,” I laugh, peering into the refrigerator. “You have eggs, ham, some vegetables. There’s even juice!”

  “I have food,” Dominic sighs, pouring a cup of coffee. “You act like there was nothing here before.”

  I look at him over the refrigerator door. “A pound of bacon and a bag of cheese fries doesn’t count as food, babe.”

  “I happen to really enjoy a good cheese fry.” He tips some creamer in his mug and settles at the table.

  “That’s a snack,” I say, pulling out the eggs and ham. “Not a meal.”

  I work around the kitchen, preparing breakfast. I thought for sure he was supposed to be at the gym this morning, but he hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t even seem rushed, which is odd for him when he has to train. It makes him antsy and irritable, but today he’s as calm as can be.

  Looking up, I catch him watching me. Sticking my tongue out, I shake my knife at him. He laughs easily, happily, and picks up a magazine and leafs through it.

  I cut the ham and beat the eggs, all the while keeping an eye on him. He seems different today. The lines on his face seem less carved and there’s a softness to his frame that is unusual for him straight out of bed when he’s still mentally going through his day.

  It’s a good look on him, one that tugs at my heartstrings. I imagine this is what he would be like if he was in college and just getting up in the morning for class and not the laborer-turned-fighter. Or is it the other way around? Did he take up fighting as a coping mechanism for his father’s death or did he learn to fight because of his dad?

  My knife clamors against the counter.

  “You okay?” he asks as I scurry to pick it up

  “Yeah. Sorry. I dazed off.”

  His brows furrow, but he doesn’t call me out on it. Instead, he looks towards the door as Nate walks in with Ryder on his shoulders.

  “Look who’s here, Ry!” Nate looks at me and grins.

  “Camilla!” He holds his arms out to me, his little blue eyes sparkling.

  “Hey, Ryder,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel. Lifting him off his father’s shoulders, he wraps his arms around my neck. “How are you, buddy?”

  “Hungry.”

  “I’m making breakfast. Want to help?”

  “Yes. I missed you,” he says, pulling his face away from mine. “You’re so pretty.”

  “Easy there, Ry,” Dominic says. “That’s my girl.”

  “My girl,” he says, burying his face in my neck again.

  “Looks like you have some competition,” I wink, carrying the boy to the kitchen counter. I sit him next to the cutting board, hand him a strip of ham, and go back to preparing breakfast.

  Nate walks behind me, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “I had a deposit pending in my account today, Priss. Seriously. Thank you.”

  “Shhh,” I say, keeping my head down. “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re welcome for what?” Dom asks, looking at us over the top of the magazine.

  “For not beating his door down last night,” I say. “Did you hear him snoring?”

  A small smile crosses Dominic’s face. “No. I slept. Strangely.”

  “Well, he snores. Prepare yourself.” I look at Ryder. “How do you sleep with him sounding like he’s sucking in the house like that?”

  Ryder giggles, holding the half-eaten ham in the air. “He is loud!”

  “You little snitch,” Nate laughs, picking up his son. “Let’s get you in the bath while we wait on breakfast.”

  They trample off down the hallway, Ryder’s laughter making the apartment seem so much brighter. I watch them until they’re out of sight. When I look back at Dominic, he’s watching me.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks, setting the magazine down.

  “I don’t know. Just what a little piece of sunshine that boy is.” I pick up the knife again. “I love how happy he is to see me. It makes my day.”

  “Everyone is happy to see you.”

  My cheeks flush. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah. I might not answer, but you can ask.”

  “Jerk,” I laugh. “Were you supposed to go to the gym this morning?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  He kicks back in his seat, the sunlight highlighting the ridges in his stomach and the lines on his arms as he grips the back of his seat. “I was gonna go. Yeah. But I changed my mind.”

  Looking down, I pour the beaten eggs in a skillet and arrange the ham in another. I don’t want him to see the smile drawn deeply across my lips.

  “Does that surprise you?” he asks.

  “Kind of. You usually go on Saturdays.”

  “Maybe I needed a break.”

  “Maybe I’m glad you took one.”

  The air between us changes. The levity from Nate and Ryder are gone, as is the easiness of the morning before their arrival. Now we’re sitting a few feet from one another, albeit on opposite ends of the smallish kitchen, waiting out the other’s next move.

  The story he told me has been on my mind since the moment he delved into the tragic events of that night. Even after he fell asleep, which was odd in and of itself, it was me that laid awake. I rolled away from him and cried. Then I moved towards him and held him tight, hoping some of my energy would pass into him as he slept.

  I couldn’t tell him that it was him, not Nate, that snored. I’ve barely seen Dominic sleep, much less that deeply. But last night, he did. And I held him, prayed for him, wondered how much that devastating night impacted the man that has turned from an easy date to something that might be so special it scares me.

  “You know, sometimes when I’m sleepy, I say shit I don’t mean.” His voice cuts through the air like a sharpened knife.

  “Okay.” Forcing a swallow, I keep my back to him. Running a spatula along the bottom of the egg pan, I watch them puff up into golden pillows. “You didn’t talk in your sleep, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  Flipping off the burners, I turn to face him. His features are pressed together as he surveys my reaction.

  “Then what are you saying, Dom?”

  “Last night, I told you a story.”

  “I remember.”

  “And afterwards, you said
in a roundabout way that you meant it when you said you wanted me.”

  “Yes,” I say, pulling in a lungful of air. “I did.”

  He drops his arms to his sides and lets them hang towards the floor. “How did you mean that?”

  There’s a hope infused in his voice that turns me to mush. It’s not that much different than listening to Huxley ask Lincoln if he’s really going to play catch or Ryder asking me if he can really have another popsicle. It both warms and breaks my heart.

  Coming around the counter, I stand in front of him. He looks up at me all delicious with his tousled bed hair and morning stubble scruffing his face.

  “When I said I wanted you, I meant . . . I meant I don’t want to stop seeing you,” I admit. “I sort of wait every day for you to move on, and if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want you to.”

  Not a muscle moves, but his eyes sparkle. “You mean that?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Even after knowing . . .”

  I take his hand and press it against my cheek. “Dom, what happened to you was horrible, but if you think I’m going to look at you differently because of what you had to do to survive, to save your mother, your brother, you’re crazy. If anything, I think more of you.”

  He stands, towering over me. Twisting his hand, he laces our fingers together. “I don’t want to taint your life with mine.”

  “How could you think that?”

  He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Your family would cut you off if they knew you were fucking the help.”

  I jerk my hand away. “For one, you are not ‘the help.’ And for two, fuck you for even saying that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “For three, if you think all we’re doing is fucking, then we should stop,” I say, biting back tears. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like just fucking to me.”

  I barely get the words out of my mouth before his arms are wrapped around me. I don’t cry, but my heart squeezes so hard that I can’t breathe.

  Those are words I’ve wanted to say for months now but never could find the spot to say them. If I would’ve thought about it a few moments ago, I would’ve held back. But I didn’t, and while I’m partially terrified of what he might say, I’m also relieved.

  “At least I got you pissed off,” he jokes, stroking my back.

  “Not funny,” I sniffle.

  “No, it’s not. You’re right.” He rests his head on top of mine. “It’s a huge fear that my life will poison yours. You have everything going for you, lady. I feel like I’ll hold you back, even if I’m pushing you along.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  “Because I can’t let that happen.”

  He finally lets me go. We stand inches from one another, both of us clawing at the proverbial cliff we’re about to go over, not sure if we want to fall together or just cling to where we are.

  Clinging is safer. Falling could be amazing or could destroy everything.

  “Will you do me a favor?” I ask, working to keep my hands from shaking. I’ve gone this far—I might as well push.

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “Will you go to lunch with me and one of my brothers?”

  “Hell, no,” he laughs, sitting again. “Why would I do that?”

  Sighing, I put a hand on my hip. “You know how you feel about not letting me ruin my life?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They feel the same way.”

  “Exactly,” he breathes. “They think I’m going to ruin your life and you want me to sit there and take it?”

  “It won’t be like that.”

  “Yes, it will.” He shakes his head. “Besides, what am I going to do? Pretend to have something to talk about with them? Play make-believe that we have anything in common? For what, Cam?”

  “Because it would mean a lot to me,” I whisper. “It would take so much pressure off my plate. If we are going to keep just fucking or whatever this is for much longer,” I gulp, “I’m going to tell them about you.”

  “Even knowing what you know, even having Nolan be my uncle, you’d still tell them?”

  “Yes.”

  He considers this, to my surprise.

  “They don’t think anything about you because they don’t know you. I’m not asking you to meet my entire family—”

  “Good.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m just asking to meet . . . an emissary, of sorts,” I offer, thinking immediately of Ford. “Just meet one of them so they can tell the rest of my family I’m not fucking some serial killer or bank robber. Okay?”

  “You do realize I’ve killed someone. This may not work out in your favor.”

  “You didn’t kill someone,” I say softly. “You protected your family. The same thing my family is trying to do for me, just in a different way.”

  A flash of understanding flickers across his face as his brother’s voice comes down the hallway. He looks at me, his big, blue eyes wide and worrisome. “This matters to you?”

  “Yes. So much.”

  “It’s just to make things easier on the home front?”

  “Yes, Dom,” I sigh again. “I won’t take this meeting as meaning that you—”

  “Fine.” He cuts me off, his chest rising fast and hard. “Fine. I’ll meet one of them to make things easier for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, not entirely sure if this is a win or a loss.

  Dominic

  A BAG OF GROCERIES IN each hand, I kick the door closed behind me. There’s water running in the bathroom but the apartment is quiet otherwise.

  Walking into the kitchen, I grin around the keys I stuck in my mouth. Camilla’s mark is on everything. The salt and pepper are sitting on the middle of the stove, not jammed in a cabinet like I leave them. There’s a towel folded next to the sink that’s empty.

  The bags hit the counter with a thud.

  The scent of Cam’s perfume lingers in the air, despite the fact that she left hours ago. I’ve worked out, showered, and grabbed a list of things Nate asked me to pick up from the market since she went home early this afternoon. Still, I can feel her here. And I miss her.

  Taking out the items one by one, I ignore the growing sensation in my chest. It’s a nagging feeling, one that digs at you until you’re spurred to action. I’ve trained my brain to think of anything else in times like this. Like it’s supposed to, my mind flickers through punching combinations, mixed drinks, random television trivia, but none of it works. None of it can distract me from her.

  Not that this is an unusual development. I think of her all damn day. Today was different, though. More specific.

  Instead of imagining her tight pussy or hearing her laugh at some stupid joke, today I’ve thought of the look she had in her eyes last night. It was devoid of judgement. There was no fear, which was my fear. It was just the look of a woman caring about . . . me. The real me. The me that has all this dirt and garbage and not-so-nice things. Me. Dominic Hughes, born April 8, 1989.

  It’s like she sees me as someone worth seeing.

  “Shit,” I say, blowing out a breath.

  Taking out the last item, a jar of smooth peanut butter, I walk to the pantry and place it inside. I turn towards the kitchen table when I see a piece of white paper on the floor next to Nate’s shoes.

  Lifting the folded piece of paper that looked like it had fallen to the spot where it was lying, I open it. The top has the logo of the bank Nate and I use. Beneath that is his name and a figure much larger than it should be.

  “What the fuck?”

  Bringing it closer to my face and ignoring the vomit that swirls at the base of my throat, I see that it’s a notice of a money transfer. My body slumps, realizing he must’ve gotten the loan fast-tracked. I make a note to give him hell about moving out and start to drop it onto the counter. Before it falls from my fingers, I snatch it up again.

  Camilla Jane Landry is listed at the bottom as the sender.

  “Wha
t?” I hiss. The paper rasps as I shake it straight again. “What the absolute fuck is this?”

  The lines blur as a heavy dose of adrenaline kicks in. The numbers don’t make sense and it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to see Cam’s name on a bank receipt with Nate’s name attached.

  The rush of blood to my head causes me to wince, my jaw clenching so hard it throbs. A million thoughts roar through my mind, searching for a logical explanation to a situation I can’t make sense of. Because there is no sense to make of it.

  “Did you get the . . .” Nate’s voice drops off as he rounds the corner and stops in his tracks. He takes a quick look at my face, then to the paper, then to my face again. His eyes widen. The hand that’s holding the towel he was using to dry his hair falls limp at his side. “Dom . . .”

  “First question, where’s Ryder?”

  “With Chrissy. Why?”

  “I don’t want him to hear this conversation,” I state, the paper quivering in my hand.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m torn here, Nate,” I bark, twisting the paper around in my hand so he can see it. He blanches. “You’re my brother, so I’m like, ‘Yeah, there’s a logical explanation to this.’ Then I look again and, you know what? There’s no logical explanation to this.”

  His head shakes, his chin dropping to the floor. “Look, Dom, I can explain.”

  “Oh, I hope you can,” I growl. “And you better fucking start right now.”

  “Camilla offered to lend me the money—”

  “And you fucking let her?” I shout, the muscles in my face straining as the words eject from my mouth. “You fucking let my girlfriend loan you ten. Thousand. Dollars?”

  “I’m going to pay her back.”

  My laugh isn’t from amusement. It shakes with a fury I haven’t felt in years. Nate picks up on it because he takes a half-step backwards. “This isn’t about you paying her back, cocksucker. This is about you taking the motherfucking money!”

  Each word amps up my anger, each syllable getting a little louder until I’m almost screaming. My temples throb. The veins in my throat threaten to burst as I rip into him. Still, there’s so much fury fighting to get out that it doesn’t help.