by R. J. Lewis
I sucked in air and scrambled for words. Conor was too good at discerning a situation. The small moments that you thought would pass unnoticed had never escaped him. He was always watching, always evaluating, always thinking.
He knew Billy in a way I didn’t because he’d existed with the likes of him for years trapped in a cell. Trapped. Like I had been.
I was so close right then in telling him. I felt the words at the tip of my tongue, but no sound came out.
“I’m going to drive that worm out of town,” he pledged, carrying on. “I don’t want to see his fucking face around here. Now, you’re dead quiet because you’re so batshit scared of talking, and I won’t pry right now, Charlotte, because my brain is going a million miles an hour and I can’t get my body to calm the fuck down. But I’m gonna need an explanation at some point.”
I didn’t argue. I nodded once in his direction, relieved for a night’s respite.
He didn’t take me his apartment. He wanted me alone, undisturbed. He took me far out to the massive house I’d met him in. His street was quiet. The houses so far apart, you could scream and the neighbours wouldn’t hear. I was surprised when we pulled up in front of it. The yard was clean, and the grass was trimmed short.
“I’m going to check the mailbox, see if the key’s inside,” he told me.
Stepping out, he jogged up the front steps and flipped the lid of the mailbox next to the door. He shoved his hand in and pulled out a key, then he waved me out.
I took a moment to myself. A few deep breaths to calm my nerves and rid my mind of Billy.
“You’re not welcome in my thoughts,” I whispered to myself.
So what if he showed up? So what if he tried to scare me with that long, foreboding stare? There was nothing he could do to hurt me. I was out of that house, away from his grip. He couldn’t shove his way into my bedroom and trap me. He couldn’t verbally abuse me or touch me or force my back to him while he stroked himself.
So why was I so fucking scared? Why did my heart beat a million miles an hour? Why wasn’t I able to confront his actions and tell somebody that he had terrorized me for a year straight, worse than the fuckheads at school? How come my mind kept downplaying it, shrugging it off like others endured worse and I didn’t have a voice worth hearing?
I swallowed and pinned my eyes on Conor. He’d opened the door and been watching me the entire time I was shitting myself. I took a few solid deep breaths. Then I hurried out, and my legs felt like jello the whole way to him. I needed his warmth. I needed him like body armour. I ran up the porch steps and into his waiting arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my face against his chest. He held me tightly, seemingly aware I needed it more than I needed to breathe.
You’re right. I wanted to tell him, but I could only express myself by gripping him to me with all my might. I felt like I could breathe easier with him. The weight in my chest no longer hurt. I didn’t feel like I was constantly having to hold back tears.
With Conor, I felt at peace. And I’d clung onto the memory of that feeling for eight long months, desperately hoping I’d feel it again – desperately hoping it was real.
“You’re alright,” he muttered down at me. “You don’t ever need to be afraid when I’m around, Charlotte.”
I nodded, believing him. He had his arm around my shoulder when he led me into the house. I wrinkled my nose as we stopped by the long stairs. It smelled like cleaning detergents and lavender. It was a stark difference to the last time I’d set foot in here. The emptiness showcased how big the house truly was.
“It’s…clean,” I remarked.
He chuckled. “I took your advice. I got Ember to hire some mob to clean the place up.”
“Expensive bill.”
“Better than doing it myself. I’m not a cleaning goddess.”
I smiled at his amused face, noticing he’d calmed down. “You’re not shaking anymore.”
He looked down at his hands and fisted them several times. “Wish I could tell you I don’t feel it, but I do. It’s everywhere.”
I looked him over, noticing the tension in his broad shoulders. “What helps you when you’re like this, Conor?”
He pursed his lips and averted his gaze, looking toward the lounge room filled with old furniture. “Hurting,” he whispered.
“It stops the feeling?” I questioned delicately. I knew I was wading into private territory.
“I’ve been using my fists since I was ten. Every time I’ve felt angry, I’ve lashed out. It’s all I know.”
Before I could respond, he took me by the hand and led me to the stairs. “Let’s get cleaned up, dove. I need to sleep this adrenaline off.”
I wasn’t going to point out that we were supposed to stop by Jamie’s house for my stuff. There was no way Conor was in the right state to head back out again. I could tell he was exhausted, and I noticed the slight tremor in his hand every now and then. I couldn’t picture myself in his shoes to understand him feeling this way. It seemed cruel to think you could be trapped inside your body, wanting nothing more than to expel the tremors in the form of violence.
At the top of the stairs, he led me down the opposite hallway we had taken. There were only two doors this way, and the last one took up most of this side of the house.
“You’ll like this room,” he said, opening it and flipping on the light. “I hear it’s the nicest room in the house.”
The room in question was huge. Honestly, it was probably the size of the entire apartment I’d lived in back in the city. The floors were a mahogany coloured hardwood, different to the creaky deep brown the rest of the house had. There was a door open to my right, and while it was dark, I knew it was a walk-in closet. It looked spartan with clothes.
My footsteps paused mid-step when I spotted the bed. It was a four-poster king, its wooden columns thick and tall, with elegant spiral curves carved intricately into the wood. It had a beautiful distressed finish that made it look like it belonged in a castle. The satin bed linen had a designer’s touch, its colours a bold blue against grey.
“My sister bought it,” Conor explained, smirking at my face. “Some hotshot made it from scratch. Cost a fucking fortune. Took him most of the eight months to get done.”
I whipped my head in his direction, confused. “You had it done when you were in prison?”
He nodded. “I left Ember a note to get the house in good shape, and to not go sparingly on the bedroom. I spent a lot of nights in my cell thinking of your long dark hair spread out on the pillows of a beautiful bed. Something about a beautiful woman spread out over satin sheets gets my dick hard. Makes me feel like she’s looked after.”
Was I close to my period? Was that the reason why I was swallowing back a thick wave of emotion suddenly?
“You didn’t know I’d wait,” I quietly said, looking into his eyes as he stared back at me with a proud grin.
“Sometimes all you need is a bit of hope and optimism. It helps you through the dark hours.”
I thought of Gatsby, of his hope that Daisy would come back to him.
Fucking Landry could have been right.
Maybe I hadn’t understood the message, after all.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, curious.
“English class.”
“What the fuck, Charlotte?”
I laughed and shook my head. “Not because it’s better, Conor. I just…” I hesitated, unable to look at him now as I stared down at my feet. “My teacher was Miss Landry.”
His answer came after a few short moments. “Elisabeth Landry?”
Oh, God. He actually remembered her, then? Was their time that memorable? I couldn’t stop those stupid thoughts from entering my brain.
“Did she give you a hard time?” he wondered, but I could hear the humour in him.
I glanced at him now. I knew my cheeks were red. “She didn’t like my essay, and I thought it was because she hated me. Maybe she had a point, though. I don’t know. Wh
at you just said reminded me of it.”
With a smirk that looked like it was loaded with secrets, he ambled to the door on the far corner. I had an inkling he was thinking about her. A strange knot of jealousy tore through me.
“You want to shower first, Charlotte?” he asked, swiftly changing the subject.
My eyes narrowed at him as he opened the door and switched on the light. When he saw my expression, he knew my thoughts exactly and let out a laugh.
“Honestly, dove, not a good time to ask it,” he warned.
“Ask what?” I played innocent.
“About your teacher and me.”
“You look uncomfortable, Conor, is it because you don’t want to tell me how much fun you had with her?” I couldn’t believe I’d said that. I almost snapped my hand over my mouth in shock.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall by the bathroom door. Still amused, he replied, “Is it wrong if I had a bit of fun with other women before you, Charlotte? I didn’t know you existed.”
Ugh. I ran a hand over my face. “I know.”
“It’s the same as you having good moments with other boys. Nothing wrong with that.”
“But I didn’t,” I stressed, annoyed at myself more than anything. “I felt nothing compared to how I feel when you touch me. Is that crazy?”
Now his smile was soft and thoughtful. “No, pup, not at all.”
Embarrassed, I let out a long sigh and walked to the bed. I took a seat, making sure my back was to him. I didn’t want him to see my face. Talking about feelings was hard for me. I wasn’t used to it. I didn’t know how to articulate what was going through my mind in ways anyone would understand. I didn’t know why I had a sudden sick curiosity to know what he and Landry did together. Stupid images popped in my head. Of her and him. Of him smiling at her. Of her kissing his lips and doing more things to him than I had done in one night eight months ago.
He approached me silently. I felt his fingers combing through the strands of my hair. I felt the random quakes in them too. Poor guy was still drenched in his adrenaline, and here I was, hashing up shit that wasn’t my business. We barely knew each other the way other couples did, and there’d I’d gone probably sending out stalker vibes.
“She had nice legs,” he murmured. “That’s all I remember of Elisabeth Landry. Everything else was a blur, just like it usually is when I pick up a drink. I have no urge for alcohol for that very reason. I don’t like who I am when I drink. I don’t even like who I am when I’m this pent-up with fury. I don’t think I like myself at all, actually.”
I looked up at him with wide eyes. He appeared distant; his blue eyes buried in thought.
“Every Thames man in my family was addicted to the drink,” he softly added. “Either I fight the urges now and end the chance of that happening, or maybe it’s an inevitable fate. They all knew they had a problem, but it didn’t stop them, did it?”
I wish I knew what to say to him.
His eyes flickered to me and he gave me a sad smile. “I’m really selling myself well to you, aren’t I? I bet you think I’m a fucking catch now.”
“What made you want to stop?”
“The night we met. Like I said to you then, I was going to drink myself to oblivion that night. I didn’t and then you happened. I spent a lot of time thinking about it while I was away. You get a lot of time to reflect when you’re in the slammer.”
I grabbed his hand as he let go of my hair. His skin burned against my cool hand. I felt delicious jolts run through me. I brought his palm to my mouth and softly kissed his callouses. His eyelid grew heavy as he watched me. I kissed him every time I felt a tremor, and I heard him suck in a breath every time.
“Do you feel that?” I whispered up to him, remembering his words in the car. “You feel this connection, Conor?”
He dipped his chin, drowning in my eyes. Holding my gaze intently, I saw the urge in him. I saw his need, the way his shoulders tensed, the pants falling from out of his parted lips. He withdrew his hand from mine and pushed me back. He grabbed me around my hips and dragged me up the bed, still staring at me, into me.
“Charlotte?” He pinned me with a plea falling from his lips.
“Yeah?” I whispered, sucking in a breath of air as he settled his weight over me. I felt all his tremors now. They vibrated through me. I felt the intensity of his need. Felt it so bad, it made my own bones ache.
“I need this,” he told me, running his hand up my thigh, under my skirt.
I shivered when he stopped at my underwear. His fingers lightly brushed over my slit, and my eyes fell shut.
“No,” he protested, quietly. “Open your eyes. I want to see you.”
They fluttered back open, and this moment – him rubbing me, him looking into me – was seconds away from savagery. Conor was untamed when he snapped. Billy had snapped him, and I was scrambling to ease him, searching for a way to bring him back down to earth and sanity.
When I looked into his blues, it wasn’t the Conor that picked me up from school and made out with me in the car. It wasn’t even the Conor after he’d beaten his sister’s ex to the ground with a seething glare.
It was Conor when he needed to hurt, when he needed to fuck, when he needed to harm or take what he could out of someone. He was poison and then sorrow, and it was a maddening cycle because I could see when he wanted to stop, and I could see when he couldn’t.
He kissed me lightly at first, testing the waters, warming me up. He stared into my eyes, searching, questioning. I silenced him with another kiss, a more desperate one, running my hands up his large arms, gripping his triceps, urging him to let go.
And then he did.
He kissed harder, and his hands were already tearing away at my clothes, stripping it off one article at a time until I was naked beneath him. He explored my body, licking a path down between my breasts and past my bellybutton. He sucked my centre, his tongue expertly drawing desperate sounds out of me, until I was clenching his hair and begging him not to stop.
His hands gripped my hips hard and he pulled me down the bed to the edge. Then he was turning me around and on my knees. I heard his pants drop, felt his fingers digging into my ass. I felt his length between my legs, felt him there at my entrance, and then he plunged deep, sending me gasping. My face collapsed into the mattress. I felt my skin burning, felt my insides clenching as he drove himself into me in a punishing rhythm.
“Oh, I love this, dove,” he panted over me. “I can’t get enough of this. Fuck.”
His words drove me wild. His curses sounded hot. I was lost in the rhythm, feeling the pressure build. I came hard and he didn’t stop. He didn’t let up. I felt his tremors as he gripped me by the hips and drove into me. I felt them up until he came hard, grunting his release, moaning my name like a curse.
After that, he stopped shaking.
The calmness returned in his eyes. He let out a long breath, and I knew he was finally himself again.
*
Since the night had been a bust at his mother’s, we ordered Chinese take-out and watched videos on my phone. He fucked me again, tenderly this time as I lay on my side. He kissed my shoulders, a soft apology behind his lips, asking my forgiveness for his rough onslaught.
What he didn’t realize was I needed it just as much as he did.
Conor helped me forget the bad, even though the bad still clung around the edges, haunting me.
I fell asleep to him coming against my ass after he rubbed my release out of me.
Thoroughly exhausted, I fell into a content slumber.
Thames
He woke up in the middle of the night for a quick piss. In his sleepy haze, he looked out the window over the toilet and at the still street. His entire body felt sore from the passing adrenaline. It was like being put through a vigorous work out; he felt limp and fatigued and all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and bury himself under the pillows.
The problem with the bed was it was too fucking
comfortable. Thames was used to a hard mattress, to cool air, to the sounds of prison life all around him. Rubbing his eyes, he flushed the toilet and went to leave when he saw headlights flashing.
He paused, and through his foggy vision, he watched a car slow to a stop in front of the house. Now that he thought about it, he’d been woken up by the sound of an engine puttering nearby. Sniffing sharply, he leaned forward and waited for the car to turn back around. His house was on a cul-de-sac. Beyond it was some sad looking bush that wasn’t big enough to be named anything.
The car sat on the edge of the road for a few minutes. Thames wasn’t a paranoid fucker, but he was wary just the same. It was better a little caution than a big regret. He turned the light of the bathroom off and stood in the darkness, feeling invisible now. Would have been really fucking awkward if the innocent driver had looked up to find a head looking out of a window at him.
The car wasn’t facing the house. There was no indication the driver was there for him, but something pulled at Thames’ gut. He felt…watched. Peering closer now, he faintly saw the colour of the car in the stark darkness. Greyish? It was an old model. A Toyota. And it just fucking sat there.
Thames dipped his head in thought. He had a blade in his office. A knuckle duster too. He didn’t carry a gun, and there was no way he was going to have one in the house. If the police sniffed around, he would have been extra fucked. Yeah, guns were a strict no-no. Knuckle duster wasn’t particularly legal either, but eh, there was a lot a lawyer could work with if Thames said nothing about it. That was the thing with the law. You let the lawyers take care of you and you never speak to the police.
The engine purred again. He shot his head up and watched the car rounding the dead-end and taking off down the street. Thames didn’t know what to make of it. He was convinced he was fucking losing it – tiredness fucked with his head. But…