This Is Not the End

by Sidney Bell

  “It doesn’t sound like you did anything wrong. You couldn’t have known how he’d take it.”

  “I hurt him,” Cal says, in a tone of disagreement.

  “Sometimes people get hurt.” She shrugs, trying to get one last spoonful into PJ’s mouth. “You can’t prevent every bump and bruise. I don’t think it’s particularly helpful to try. How else can we learn to be resilient? He can’t help that those particular words remind him of something upsetting, and maybe it’s unfair to expect him to. But it’s also unfair to expect other people to dodge the hurts we can barely anticipate ourselves. You know now and you won’t do it again. That’s enough, Cal. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  When she’s given up on getting PJ to accept that last mouthful, she finds Cal staring at her. “What?”

  “You’re very wise.”

  “For a former model?” she asks lightly, hoping he’ll think she’s teasing. She knows it surprises people that she’s not a complete idiot. She has theories about that—relating to the way beautiful women are often turned into objects, and the way intelligence tends to undermine the convenience of that—but she doesn’t want to go into it here. Cal didn’t mean it that way. That he’s stumbled onto one of her own private tender spots isn’t his fault. She’d be a hypocrite of the first order to make him pay for it.

  Cal smiles. “For anyone. I think you’re probably smarter than me and Zac combined.”

  “Yes.” She smiles back, because Cal’s smile is a handsome smile, a warm one, and it’s hard not to smile back at him. And then, even when their smiles have faltered, she still looks back. Even with the stretch of the kitchen table between them, the air feels suddenly very close.

  Zac clears his throat, and she startles, glancing over to find him in the doorway, juggling his keys in one hand, watching them.

  “Hi,” she says, reminding herself that being irritated with him for being unavailable earlier—particularly when it all worked out—is silly. He had his own drama to deal with.

  “Hey.” He takes her hand, pulling her to her feet and hugging her. His grip is a bit tighter than it would normally be. If she knew him less well, she’d assume it was jealousy. Instead, she thinks it’s the last remnants of upset needing to be soothed from his fight with Cal earlier. She squeezes him hard, and feels him exhale, long and slow, his body unlocking against hers.

  After a moment, one hand drops to pat her on the bottom. It’s an affectionate touch, not more than a tap on the cheek, but she jumps anyway, something complicated and flustered swimming through her. She wouldn’t be embarrassed if he did it in front of her father, for crying out loud, but a part of her feels scandalized at the idea that Cal must’ve seen it. He must’ve—he might’ve been looking at her ass. Unexpected heat curls in her belly at the idea, and she drags herself from Zac’s arms. He gives her a questioning glance and she shakes her head.

  “Hi.” Cal’s vanished once more behind that hard-to-read expression. He watches as Zac kisses PJ hello too.

  “Hey,” Zac replies, equally careful as he slumps into one of the chairs, long legs sprawling.

  They all sit there in silence, until Anya sets the jar of baby food down on the table with a clunk, capturing the attention of both men. To her son, in a baby talk voice, she says, “Won’t it be nice when you’re older and you can use your words? Won’t it be nice? And then you can handle conflict like a grown man and not a baby. That’ll be so much better, huh?”

  She can see the men glance at each other ruefully in her peripheral vision, and then Zac pulls a face. “It’s fine. We’re fine. It went fine.”

  “I am sorry,” Cal says.

  “I know. Me too. I just...” Zac rubs a hand over his stubble. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. We’re good. I tried to do what you asked. We recorded a bunch of versions. You can pick any of them. If they’re not good enough, we’ll have to go with the best one, because I can’t do better. What you want might be outside of my capabilities.”

  “It’s not,” Cal says instantly. “I know what you can do.”

  “Do you know what I can do night in and night out on a forty-show tour across the world without losing my voice?” Zac’s tone is weird, torn between being mollified and feeling pressured, Anya guesses.

  “The only time you’re quiet is when you’re resting your voice,” Cal retorts. “So yes, I can tell when you need to rest. I know your limits. Maybe better than you do.”

  “If you bring up my vowels again, I’m going to lose my shit. This is ridiculous. There’s only so much I can—”

  Cal interrupts, sharper than Anya’s ever heard him. “When did you forget that you’re a singer? Not a showman, not a front man. A singer. A talented singer. The first time I heard your voice, I thought you had one of the clearest, purest baritones I’ve ever heard. And that was before you worked so damn hard on it. I don’t know when you started to doubt what you’re capable of, when you started thinking I was the only talent here, but it didn’t come from me. Stop doubting yourself and give me everything you have, and it’s going to be brilliant. You’ll be brilliant.”

  Cal’s leaning forward, his gaze hard as diamonds. Zac’s face is tipped down toward the table, but she can see his confused brow and soft, unhappy mouth.

  When a full minute has gone by without Zac saying anything, Cal adds, “Did I make it worse?”

  “No.” It comes out hoarse. “It’s fine.”

  Anya should probably get up and leave them to it, but she’s not that polite. Instead, she watches avidly as Cal reaches across the table and puts a hand on Zac’s shoulder. Zac shudders under the touch, sucking in a deep breath. He still doesn’t look at Cal, but he leans into Cal’s hand.

  Quietly, Zac asks, “You really think I can do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a hard riff—”

  “You can do it. Even night in, night out, over forty cities. If you’re worried about it, we’ll call Alan, get him to help you figure out the easiest route with the vowels—hey, look, come on, you know you’re doing it the hard way—” Cal sounds impatient “—but even doing it the hard way, you can make it work.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.” Cal sits back. The air gets a bit easier.

  “You can listen to the stuff in the morning,” Zac says. “If you’re still unhappy with it, we’ll figure it out. Give me a couple of days, though. I’m starting to feel the strain a bit.”

  “No rush.” There’s a beat of quiet before Cal adds, “I should get out of your hair.”

  “Stay for dinner,” Anya offers. “I have roast in the fridge.”

  “Thanks, but I have some errands.” He skirts the table, pausing to kiss the top of PJ’s head and clapping another brief, tentative hand on Zac’s shoulder.

  “You sure?” The tension is gone from Zac’s voice. It’s an honest invitation. “We have plenty.”

  Cal hesitates for a second, then shakes his head. “Next time. Or one of these days I can host. No reason Anya should always have to cook.”

  “I cook,” Zac protests, and Anya snorts even as Cal’s deadpan “You sure do, buddy” drifts down the hall behind him as he goes. The front door shuts behind him, and Zac looks at Anya. “I cook.”

  She rolls her eyes, getting up. “Fine. You can make the roast while I give PJ a bath.”

  There’s a tiny hiccup of hesitation. “You know he likes it more when I bathe him.”

  “Terrible. Pathetic. I have a liar here in front of me, and he’s—”

  He captures her wrist and tugs her down for a kiss, interrupting her tirade. He sweeps his tongue into her mouth, making it dirty, and she’s out of breath when he pulls back. “Why was Cal in my house when I already decided to be mad at him?”

  “Your house?”

  A hint of chagrin flits across his face. “Our house.”

  “Because he bab
ysat our child for us when Marina had to leave early. After I couldn’t get ahold of you.”

  “Oh, shit. Sorry. I was—”

  “In session, I know. Cal explained. After you decided to be mad at him for wanting the two of you to be successful.”

  “He wouldn’t stop nitpicking.”

  “That’s his job, I think. You dumb boys, always getting your delicate feelings involved at the office. If only women ruled the world. We’d send you home with pacifiers when you have these little dick-measuring contests.”

  “Big dick.” Zac gives her a cranky face. “It’s a big dick measuring contest. On my part anyway.”

  The words come out before her brain can catch up. “Not on Cal’s?”

  “How the fuck would I know?”

  Surprised at herself, she manages to lighten her tone, make it into more of a tease than a sincere question. “You’ve never taken a peek? At the urinal, maybe?”

  “Men do not do that,” Zac says with great dignity, amusing her. “That’s a good way to get punched.”

  “Pacifiers, the lot of you.” She pulls away to go cook, since God knows Zac never will. But then, he is good at getting PJ cleaned up without outbursts of tears.

  “You’re wearing a lot of pea goop there, my friend,” Zac tells their son. PJ babbles back and she has to lean against the counter for a moment, her knees weakened by love for them both.

  * * *

  Later, when she’s in the bathroom going through her nightly skin care routine, Zac comes to stand in the doorway. He’s wearing only his boxer-briefs, and he eyes her in her long white nightgown.

  “You want to fool around, I guess,” he says, scratching his belly.

  “You make it sound so appetizing.” She opens her moisturizer and gestures with the lid to his long, lanky body and disordered hair. “I don’t know what part of this is supposed to make you think I’ll want to fool around.”

  He grins. “You’re wearing the sex nightgown.”

  She frowns, considering the nightgown in the mirror. It’s the sort of thing religious virgins wear to bed. It’s the most demure thing she owns, the nightgown equivalent of period panties, in her opinion. She has no idea what he’s talking about.

  “It’s a married-lady nightgown, Zac.”

  “It’s the one you wear when you want me to fuck you hard.”

  She smirks at the amount of thought—incorrect thought—that he’s put into this. “Are you insane?”

  “You know how many times I’ve tugged that thing up past your waist to get to your pussy?” he asks, and she immediately goes liquid and soft between her legs. “I’m onto your tricks, woman.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Some trick. I learned your weakness without even trying.”

  “You’re telling me this doesn’t mean you want me to fuck you?” He wanders closer, leans in to press a kiss to the side of her neck. She obligingly tips her head to give him more room. His stubble on her skin gives her shivers. How does he always do this so easily? How can her body crave him so much that she’s always this easy for him?

  “I always want you to fuck me.” She has weapons of her own and isn’t afraid to use them. Predictably, his gaze darkens.

  “Good girl,” he murmurs, and she shudders, pressing her ass back to where he’s already half-hard in his underwear. He bites down in that same spot on her neck, hard enough to make her cry out, not quite hard enough to bruise. His hands stroke over her shoulders, digging into the muscle, making her relax, and then one palm nudges between her shoulder blades. She bends at the waist, facing the mirror, low over the counter, pushing bottles of toner and her makeup case to one side in the process, maybe knocking something over, although she doesn’t care enough to check.

  He tugs at her nightgown.

  “Your legs,” he says, appreciative, and she spreads them wider, teased by the fabric skating up over her thighs and over her buttocks until it’s bunched up at her waist. “And then there’s that,” he says, even more appreciative, and she laughs.

  “Are you going to look at it or fuck it?”

  He gives her a gentle swat on one cheek. “Don’t rush a master.”

  She laughs again, the sound going throaty as his hands rub over her back and hips.

  “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says, hoarse enough that she has to look at him in the mirror. He’s staring at her pussy, his expression enraptured, his eyes hot, and she can’t wait anymore.

  “Give me your cock.”

  He exhales hard, liking the dirty talk, tugging at his boxers until he can pull himself out. He’s ramrod straight in his palm, but he doesn’t give it to her. Instead, his other hand strokes the lips of her pussy, dipping inside. He teases her, flicking lightly at her clit, sliding fingers through the beginnings of slippery wetness, and she tries to muffle her harsh breathing.

  “I saw how you were looking at him tonight.” His words emerge gritty and taut.

  For a long moment, she doesn’t know how to take that. Part of it is that she’s already foggy with arousal, and she can’t get her brain engaged. The topic of his dirty talk isn’t new. Zac often likes to talk about her with other men because it gets him hot to watch, and it gets her hot to see him so ramped up. But the subject of this particular reference takes her by surprise. She wonders if they’ve finally stumbled across a situation where thinking of her with another man makes him jealous instead of aroused.

  But he’s also not wrong. She has been looking. There’s a surprising amount of pleasure in looking at Cal. If Zac weren’t friends with him, she suspects that the relationship between her and Cal would fade to nothing, but he is, in a way, hers. Because he’s Zac’s, and Zac is hers, and that ownership is something she likes quite a lot.

  “I was looking,” she admits, wondering if they’re going to fuck or fight.

  For a heartbeat, Zac doesn’t seem to know either. Then he groans and pushes inside her, all the way to the hilt in one stroke. He’s big enough that it always takes a second for her to adjust, especially from this angle, and she digs her fingertips into the countertop.

  “You think he’s hot.”

  “I think he’s beautiful,” she corrects. It’s a small distinction, but an important one. The things she finds sexually irresistible in a man—unpredictability and passion and wildness—are traits Cal doesn’t have. But he is incredibly attractive, in both face and body, and she finds herself softening at the thought of him, of his sweetness and willingness to care. And thinking of Cal being here with the two of them...

  That’s definitely hot.

  Zac slides out and then back in, holding on to her hips now, tugging her back against him. He’s moving so slow, exactly the way she likes to be fucked, but when she reaches down to stroke her clit, he nudges her arm away. “Like this,” he growls. “Just like this.”

  “Tease,” she gasps. The only position she can come in without a hand on her is on top, and he knows that.

  “Maybe not. Maybe he’s the tease.”

  She doesn’t follow that exactly. Zac’s sliding into her as he says it, stretching her open, and that’s enough to make her cloudy under any circumstances, and the words maybe don’t make sense anyway. “What?”

  “Maybe he’s the one teasing you. Maybe he’s kneeling down there, about to lick you.”

  She pictures it, Cal in front of her on his knees. He has big hands with long fingers and heavy calluses—the strong, rough hands of a bass player—and she pictures them lifting her nightgown out of the way. His thumbs stroking the crease at her thigh, then moving over, parting her pussy lips, spreading them wide, making room for his mouth.

  Her breath strangles in her chest.

  “There it is.” There’s something in his voice she can’t parse. He sounds almost angry, almost jealous, but when her eyes fly to his, there’s only heat in his eyes.

  “Don
’t act like you don’t want it too,” she bites out, as he fucks into her again, a little harder, a little faster. She imagines Cal’s hands tightening on her thighs, bracing her against Zac’s thrusts, his mouth teasing her, and she starts to slide a hand back down.

  “No,” Zac snarls, and tugs her hand away. He slides into her with impressive force then, hard enough to shove her hips into the edge of the counter. “Like this. With his mouth on you.”

  “You complete and utter asshole,” she moans, because now she can almost feel it, the way Cal’s mouth would hover, that full, pretty mouth, the tip of his tongue teasing her clit, and she arches, needing it, craving it, but it’s not enough to get her over the edge.

  Zac puts a hand in her hair and pulls, guiding her upright, his cock still inside her. Her nightgown flutters down, blocking the view, at least until he wrenches it up and over her head. She’s naked now, and she can feel his eyes on her like tangible things—on her tits, heavier and rounder since the pregnancy, on her hips, and then lower still. She wonders if he’s imagining Cal kneeling in front of her, licking her while Zac’s inside her. She braces herself on the counter with one hand, and her fingers skitter across the surface. Her arms and legs feel weak.

  “Like you’d say no to that mouth,” he whispers in her ear, grinding up into her. He can’t pull out enough to thrust really, not in this position, but he’s making good use of the space he has.

  Fuck. Fuck, he feels good. He slides a hand down her belly, barely grazing her slit, and she moans again.

  “Are you going to fuck me or not?” She sounds out of breath, throaty, hoarse. She sounds filthy.

  “I want you to come thinking about his mouth on you.” His blue eyes are almost all pupil in the mirror.

  “Am I really the one you want his mouth on?” she asks, and he closes his eyes, a groan wrenched from his lips as he pushes her back over, giving her fast, hard, short thrusts until he comes. Virtually before he’s done, his hand is snaking down between her legs, stroking her clit in barely-there circles, and she wriggles, trying to get more. Zac slips out of her as he softens, but two fingers of his other hand slide into her immediately, not big enough to replicate the fullness of his cock, but more dexterous, finding the sensitive spots inside her, and she can feel how wet she is, wet from her own arousal, wet from his come, and maybe, in her imagination anyway, wet from Cal’s tongue. She pictures Cal tasting Zac’s come on her flesh, and that’s it, that’s what tips her over. She rides out her orgasm on Zac’s fingers, burying her mouth against her forearm so her cries won’t wake the baby, and then she pants out the afterglow, slowly becoming aware of the coldness of the countertop and the way it’s digging into her belly.