Loose Ends

by Kristen Ashley

  “Oh my God, you guys are such dorks,” Rebel groaned.

  “Uh, Sixx, where did your man take off to?” Molly inquired.

  “He’s right there,” Sixx said, tipping her head to the side, a smile on her face that shocked the shit out of Maddox because it was downright goofy in its happiness and Sixx was about as goofy as a switchblade.

  Everyone looked back to the hall to see Stellan walking in carrying two bottles.

  And Maddox might be solid middle-middleclass. But even he knew the labels of that brand of champagne.

  Fucking hell.

  “We have a wine cellar in the basement,” Sixx shared, pushing back from the table.

  “Darling, if you’d get the glasses,” Stellan called to her.

  “My pleasure,” Sixx replied, hustling on her high heels toward a killer, built-in wet bar that was in the family room area.

  “Will you do the honors with this one?” Stellan asked, handing Diesel one of two bottles of Dom Perignon.

  “Sure,” Diesel said casually, moving to Stellan and taking the bottle.

  Sixx got the glasses.

  D and Stellan popped the corks and poured.

  Glasses were passed around.

  Everyone standing resumed their seats.

  But Stellan lifted his glass before anyone took a sip.

  “To freedom,” he toasted.

  They all hiked up their champagne, but he wasn’t finished.

  “To love,” he continued.

  Maddox probably wasn’t the only one about to open his mouth to lay a cheers on that.

  But Stellan wasn’t done.

  “And not least,” he raised his glass farther, “to family of the heart.”

  Molly sniffed again.

  “Hear, hear,” Rebel hooted.

  Sixx kept smiling goofily at her man.

  Maddox slid an arm around Molly’s shoulders, kissed the side of her head and looked to D.

  Diesel was watching them.

  He tipped his glass their way.

  Mol and Mad tipped theirs toward their man.

  And then they all drank.

  The Three Kisses

  Molly

  MOLLY SLID FROM between her two sleeping men in the big bed.

  “Baby?” Maddox mumbled in a rumble, making a drowsy grab at her that missed.

  “Mol?” D murmured, his hold on her hip slipping even if he tried to catch on.

  “Shh,” she shushed. “Gotta hit the loo,” she whispered.

  They made sleepy noises and adjusted their bodies without her being there as she climbed over Diesel to get out of bed.

  Then she stood at the side as D shifted Maddox so Mad’s back was to Diesel’s front. He curled into him, resting his nose in the back of Mad’s hair, his arm around him, cupping Mad’s junk like he would cup Molly’s breast in sleep.

  Mad had an arm flung out.

  The other hand he slid down Diesel’s forearm and curled it over D’s holding his package.

  They stopped moving and started breathing steady.

  Molly felt her lips tip up.

  This happened now and had been happening for months.

  She wasn’t always in the middle.

  Sometimes she was tucked at a back (that was tucked at another back, or wrapped around a front).

  Draped across a pair of bodies.

  Full on top one but with her other pressed down their sides.

  Whatever it was, it was always a tangle. It was always maximum contact. It was always like they wove themselves together to draw in as much of the beauty they shared as they could, even when unconscious, because it sustained them for whatever they’d face out there in the world that might not be so hot.

  As it should be.

  As she hoped it always would be.

  Molly let herself take her boys in.

  Then she hit the loo.

  When she came out, she didn’t go back to bed.

  She went to the wispy, short white nightie on the floor.

  She picked it up, tugged it on, tiptoed across the room and rescued her phone from the mess of charge cords attached to her and her husbands’ phones.

  She walked to the French doors and opened them, the breeze drifting in, blowing the delicate white curtain lazily back, the soft, steady, soothing crash of the waves hitting the beach beyond drifting into the room.

  Molly had no idea how her men had scored such an awesome, swank, exclusive vacation property for their honeymoon.

  And she didn’t ask.

  It wasn’t important to her. She could have a honeymoon in a motel in the dusty middle of nowhere.

  But it was important to them. They’d found a way to give it to her.

  And since it was important to them, there they were.

  Her feet felt the sandy grit that dusted the wooden deck boards as she walked to the wicker chair five feet away.

  She sat her ass on the pad, lifting her feet up to rest the soles against the chair opposite where, not but a few hours ago, she’d been in the same position, except her feet were in Mady’s lap and he was giving her a foot massage while shooting the shit with Diesel.

  She lifted her phone up to her face and had to blink a little when the light came on in the dark as she engaged it.

  Molly went right to the photos.

  There was a lot you could say about her sister, Holly. Some of it bad. Some of it good.

  But her big sister had done her right on Molly’s wedding day.

  That being, unbeknownst to Molly, Holly had confiscated her phone and took tons of pictures so Molly would have them on her honeymoon.

  Since they’d arrived two days ago at that remote beach house that Diesel had found and Maddox had booked, she’d lost track of how many times she’d flipped through them.

  It didn’t matter, that number would ever increase.

  Like the times she was adding now.

  She’d gotten her sunflowers and her arch and she’d gotten them in their backyard.

  Diesel and Maddox had built it permanently over the pool, D planting wisteria around it so next spring it would be amazing.

  But for their wedding, it had been laced with sunflowers and red roses and that’s where they’d been married.

  Diesel had worn a smart, khaki colored suit, white shirt, no tie, red rose in his lapel.

  Maddox had worn a sharp black suit, black shirt, and a red rose in his lapel.

  Molly had worn white. A simple gown made of delicate lace with gathers of fine tulle holding the bodice up, coasting over her shoulders and down to a V at the small of her back, off which lace hung cut like fairy wings at the sides.

  It was perfect.

  She could tell when she walked out on the patio and then to them that her boys had felt the same.

  But she didn’t have to try to recall.

  Holly had taken a picture of them standing together under the arch the instant their eyes caught sight of her.

  God, they were so handsome.

  She looked at the picture, grinning to herself, then slid back one.

  It was a photo from before she’d walked out. Diesel had his hands to Maddox’s rose, his head bent to it, and Molly knew he’d just said something smart because Maddox’s head was tipped back and he was laughing.

  “God, I love my boys,” she whispered.

  She scrolled through. Past the three of them standing together listening to the lady preacher, Molly between Maddox and Diesel. Mad and D putting the ring on Molly’s finger. Molly and Mad putting the ring on D’s finger. D and Molly putting the ring on Mad’s.

  The three kisses.

  Oh, those three kisses.

  Molly traced a finger on her phone.

  And there she was walking back into the house with a hand through each of their arms, her bouquet of sunflowers and red roses and green hypericum berries tucked in the crook of Mad’s elbow.

  Mad’s head was turned to the side. He was smiling at Rebel sitting next to her man, Rush, in their white
chairs festooned with sunflowers, roses, berries and red and yellow netting in the front row in their backyard.

  D’s head was turned the other way, his free arm out, touching Erin’s shoulder as he walked by her, tears still streaming down Erin’s cheeks.

  Molly was looking forward, absolutely beaming.

  She flipped through photos.

  Her hugging Rebel.

  Mad hugging Molly’s mom.

  Diesel shaking hands with Bob.

  Both her men laughing with Rush.

  Minnie, with her now purple-haired head resting on her brother’s chest, her arms around his middle, as they talked to Dylan.

  Stellan sitting in a white chair with a poof of netting at the back at one of the tables that was brought in after the ceremony so they could have their buffet. Sixx was on his lap. Her arm was wrapped loose around his shoulders, both his were loose around her waist, but their faces were so close, they were almost kissing, though they were smiling at each other so big, a kiss would be hard to achieve with all those white teeth.

  Sixx’s engagement ring could be seen on the hand she had at his jaw and Molly was stunned, moved, thrown, and freaking thrilled with the gorgeous ring D and Mad gave to her.

  But the rock Stellan laid on Sixx?

  Whoa.

  She flipped and saw Diesel with Tommy, their arms around each other’s backs, hands in front of them clasped, bodies slightly bent forward because they were supposed to be posing but Tommy had more of a smart mouth than Diesel did, so they were both lost in laughter.

  Another slide of the screen and there was Maddox and Harvey, Mad holding one of Tommy and Harvey’s daughters to his hip. Britta had a fascination with Mad’s beard and even if the three year old was stroking it like Mady was a puppy, Maddox expression was intent, listening to what Tommy’s husband had to say.

  Another slide, and there she was arching over Gavin’s arm, Maddox’s ex-boyfriend, their good friend. He was smiling wolfishly at her while his lover stood close and rolled his eyes because Gavin had just said something incredibly forward, but Molly’s face was awash with laughter because it was also hilarious.

  And she slid her finger on the screen and there she was again, sitting close to Rebel. Both of them were turned to each other, bent nearly double, heads nearly touching, knees definitely touching, holding each other’s hands, looking like they were plotting. But they weren’t. They were talking and trying not to cry.

  They were trying not to cry because it was a beautiful day and everyone was so happy.

  They were not thinking or talking about the fact that none of the rest of Diesel’s family was there.

  Apparently, Gene Stapleton had said unforgiveable things to Maddox and Diesel. Since that night at Stellan and Sixx’s, Diesel had refused to talk about it, or them. They were cut out of his life, their lives, and that was that.

  Rebel had, not surprisingly—her loyalty was stalwart with D and Molly fucking loved her for it—not long after, followed suit.

  Both Maddox and Molly (and Maddox with Molly, though, if she was honest, she didn’t try too hard and she felt absolutely no guilt about that, but Maddox was a big believer in family, forgiveness and being the better person, so he gave it his best shot) had tried to talk to him about it, get him to a place where he’d be open to an approach should they make one.

  D adamantly refused.

  It was, as Maddox said, his call.

  It didn’t matter.

  They didn’t approach.

  They were also not missed.

  And that was their loss.

  It had been a beautiful day of love, laughter, food, drink, good people, and happy tears, and they’d had no part in it.

  She refused to think of that, not ever, but definitely not on her honeymoon.

  She kept gliding through her wedding photos.

  Barclay with his girl. Josh stuffing his face. George and his wife sipping champagne and laughing with Molly’s parents. Some of Maddox’s landscape team messing around at the big tins filled with ice and bottles of beer, their wives and girlfriends looking on with expressions varying from indulgent to indignant.

  Molly with her dad. Maddox with her dad. Diesel with her dad.

  And Molly with all of them.

  Then there was Molly with Maddox. Molly with Diesel. D with Mad.

  The three of them together.

  They all now had the last name Vega. Even D. He had no hold on Stapleton, he said, outside Rebel, who was engaged to Rush anyway (and she wasn’t a big fan of the name by that time either) and he wanted their children not to be confused.

  So, weeks before the wedding, Maddox had gone with them as they appeared before the judge, Molly first, then Diesel, to have their names legally changed.

  That had just been the three of them.

  Maddox had been . . . well, there was no other way to put it.

  He’d been beside himself with happiness that day.

  Utterly beside himself.

  She’d never seen him smile so big or so much, not in her life.

  And he was a relatively happy guy.

  They’d gone for a fancy steak dinner after.

  And the celebration after that at home was one she’d never forget.

  She sighed and slid a finger on the screen.

  It went on.

  And on.

  Another finger glide.

  And on.

  The best day of her life.

  Bar none.

  On that thought, the phone was gently taken from her fingers by a hand that had come over her shoulder.

  She looked up and saw Mady.

  He smiled down at her in the moonlight reflected on the sea and sand, turned and walked back to the doors only to expose Diesel who moved in and plucked her out of the chair, carrying her like a groom carried his bride.

  Which they were.

  “Baby—” she started.

  “Enough with the trip down memory lane,” he said, walking her to the bed.

  He put a knee in, put her in, covered her but rolled to her side as Maddox moved in at the other.

  “Time to make more memories,” Maddox murmured before his mouth hit her neck.

  That neck arched, her hand sliding into his hair.

  Diesel’s mouth hit her belly.

  She slid her hand in his hair too.

  Both of them moved down with two different destinations.

  Molly’s eyes drifted closed and another smile curved her lips.

  She didn’t have to be in a quaint, remote cottage on the beach on her honeymoon.

  Anytime she was with her boys, it was everything.

  More than everything.

  Heaven.

  The End

  This short is a little bonus for this Loose Ends anthology

  and was originally written for The Ripped Bodice’s Patreon program,

  with the gals from that lovely bookstore giving me the prompt . . .

  At a Spice Girls concert, a teenage fairy makes a life altering decision . . .

  “TELL ME WHAT you want, what you really, really want . . .”

  Maurelle was floating at the rafters. Floating and dancing.

  It wasn’t the best seat in the house for the Spice Girls concert, but it was a good view and luckily, being a fairy, she had really good eyesight.

  She didn’t have to have really good hearing (even though she did). The sound system was rad.

  But rafters it had to be. She couldn’t be seen.

  Though it wasn’t like it was easy to see her. She was two inches tall, had dark coloring—hair and skin—so she could blend into the shadows.

  If it wasn’t for her glimmer.

  Maurelle had a lot of glimmer (more than most fairies, and she liked it like that). It drifted from her translucent wings with their soft purple and pink highlights, it sparkled from her eyes and it glittered from her clothes (jazzy, hipster purple disco pants with an adorable white cropped babydoll tee, both adorned with copious stars).


  She wasn’t supposed to be there. She hadn’t hit her quota of matches this month, and she wasn’t going to help make that number at a Spice Girls concert. No one was looking for love at a Spice Girls concert.

  But that was what Maurelle wanted to make her specialty.

  Helping people find love when they least expected it.

  (Not to mention, Maurelle loved the Spice Girls, and was slamming it to the left and shaking it to the right, spicing up her life right that very moment as proof.)

  She was still in match training. Though recently she’d been let off on her own. But she still had to give a full report on her activities after each match she made, unlike the fairies who had hit age eighteen, graduated from Match Academy, and were really off on their own, given Free Wing, making matches willy-nilly.

  At sixteen (in fairy years, which was eighty in human years), she had ambitions.

  Maurelle was going to be the best there was at helping folks find love in the unlikeliest of places.

  Like at a Spice Girl concert.

  The Elder Fairies were fans of this.

  What they weren’t fans of were some of Maurelle’s tactics. She’d had to go in front of a Gathering to explain herself on more than one occasion (like . . . nineteen of them, okay, maybe twenty, or . . . ahem, twenty-four).

  But it was easy to do the meet-cute. Cause the girl to trip and fall into the guy. Send the guy’s new puppy running off in the girl’s direction. A wayward Frisbee. The perfect placement of the splat of a scoop of ice cream from a cone. Sending a gust of wind to hit just right on a floppy hat.

  Maurelle liked a challenge.

  Maurelle liked to spark love in unlikely places . . .

  To unlikely people.

  So she was floating and dancing (and singing).

  She was also keeping an eye out.

  And because she was, she saw him.

  No, she saw her first.

  But that her was staring straight at him.

  And really, Maurelle thought, she couldn’t blame her.

  There was a lot of him to look at and all of it was good.

  He was close to the front, his arm slung around a pretty girl who he barely could keep hold on, she was bouncing and dancing so much.

  He was tall.

  He was broad.

  He was handsome.

  And the woman watching . . .