Shopping for an Heir

by Julia Kent

  Kari’s face fell. Disappointment won.

  “Well, at least I don’t have to be the bearer of bad news for Shannon,” Kari muttered, staring at the carrot in Suzanne’s hand. “And yum! When did you start eating that combination?”

  “Desperation. This no-sugar, no-grains diet is making me try damn near anything.”

  “Combined with your lack of sex, your desperation meter is about as high as can be.”

  Suzanne pulled out her fiercest naval recruit stare.

  “That—that doesn’t work—on me. Oh, damn.” Kari shielded her eyes. “You could play Nurse Ratched if they ever do a remake of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

  Suzanne snorted. “She was an amateur.”

  “Or Dolores Umbridge.”

  Better.

  “He broke your heart all those years ago.” Kari gave her a sympathetic side-eye. “You finally stopped talking about him a few years ago.”

  “I know.” Suzanne shut herself up with a carrot.

  “And stopped going to therapy.”

  Smoochy made an adorable snoring sound from her little bed.

  “Right,” she sighed, the food turning tasteless.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No,” Suzanne answered honestly. “He kissed me. Twice. But no explanation. No offer to talk. Just kissing.”

  “That’s more action than you’ve gotten in a while.”

  Suzanne opened her mouth to protest, then shut it. Kari wasn’t wrong.

  Letting out a shaky sigh, she closed her eyes. “Seeing him was brutal.” Her throat tightened. Suzanne wasn’t a crier. When she got emotional, she became angry.

  Sadness washed over her, making her hungry.

  “Want to go on an ice cream run?” She asked Kari on impulse.

  Kari’s eyebrow arched. “Run? As in, running? Because the last time you broke your low carb diet, you ran three miles to justify the sugar. Last time I ran three miles was, um, never. Does never work?”

  Suzanne gave her a pitying pout. “C’mon! I’ll run, you Uber. Let’s go out for a big, fat sundae.”

  “Only if you promise to tell me exactly what happened tonight. And listen to how I got asked for my phone number by a hot proctologist.”

  “Kari, ‘hot’ and ‘proctologist’ don’t go together.”

  “Neither do running and ice cream.” Kari gave her a hard stare.

  Laughing, Suzanne went to her bedroom, quickly threw on running clothes, and began stretching at the front door. “Toscanini’s?” Suzanne lived in Charlestown. The Cambridge ice cream-slash-coffee shop was exactly 2.9 miles away. Yes, she’d clocked it.

  More than a few times.

  “Fine. I think you’re insane, but I’m not turning down ice cream and your story.”

  “If you won’t turn down a proctologist, why would you turn down anything?”

  “Hey. If you had seen this guy...” Kari began fanning herself.

  “He looks up people’s buttholes for a living.”

  Kari shrugged. “I don’t judge.” She got a dreamy look on her face. “Maybe he knows his way around that part of the body better than—”

  “STOP!” Suzanne gently led Smoochy to her little crate. The dog was so obedient. So passive. Suzanne had never heard her bark. Not once. She settled into her bed and resumed her nap, chin on paws.

  With an evil laugh, Kari tapped on her phone screen, clearly requesting an Uber as Suzanne ran out into the dark night, needing to pound away the racing thoughts about Gerald.

  Please, he’d begged at the arts center.

  Please what?

  The words became a chant inside her as she ran, please what please what please what taking over until she was nothing but feet, knees, hips, arms, lungs, a body in motion staying in motion, running to make the mind less important than tendon and bone. If she could just get her emotions to step back, step down, and let her body assume center stage, then the temporary relief of setting down the burden of the past might give her a break.

  Pushing herself, she found a comfortable six-minute-mile pace, and in under eighteen minutes was done, panting and covered in sweat, but ready to feast.

  Kari was inside, flirting with a bearded counter guy with a man bun, her spoon already deep into a sundae.

  This man bun fashion had to end soon, right?

  Right?

  “Hey! Here’s my crazy friend I was telling you about,” Kari said to Man Bun, who looked at her with a grin. Bright green eyes, thick brown beard. He was what—twenty?

  Why did all the guys in Cambridge look like fetuses?

  On second look, she realized what appeared to be a man bun from outside was actually a nest of snakes.

  The guy had long dreads curled up into a festering pile of hair.

  Give Suzanne a freshly shaved recruit any day of the week.

  “Hi. Salted caramel and pumpkin two scoops in a cup with hot fudge,” she ordered.

  The guy snapped back and saluted. “Yes, ma’am!”

  Kari snickered.

  Suzanne frowned.

  “What was that about?”

  “You pulled out your commanding tone, Suzanne. You sounded like a drill sergeant.”

  “No, I didn’t! I just asked for ice cream.”

  “You have no idea how you come across sometimes. Especially when you’re pissed.”

  “I am not pissed! I just want some damn ice cream!” The glare she shot Kari should have melted the store’s inventory.

  “Right. Totally not pissed,” Kari murmured, rolling her eyes. She flashed a sweet grin at Snake Head, who winked at her.

  “He’s too young for you,” Suzanne said in a judgy tone. She owned it.

  “Is not!”

  “He only wants to date you so you can smuggle him into R-rated movies.”

  “Suzanne!”

  “And buy him cigarettes.”

  “He’s twenty-four!”

  “Which is ten years younger than you.”

  “Rawr.” Kari pretended to be a cougar. “Young guys are impressionable. Experimental. Adventurous in bed.”

  “Is that all a euphemism for inexperienced? No, thanks. I don’t want to have to play the sexual version of Pokemon Go with my body as a gym and my clitoris a rare Pokemon.”

  Kari looked at her in horror. “Way to ruin Pokemon forever! Ew! Now your clit will be in my brain forever as a Charmander.” She paused, deep in thought. “But erotic Pokemon sounds like a great business idea.”

  The store went silent. Suzanne turned and looked around.

  Everyone was staring at them.

  “Uh, here’s your ice cream,” Snake Head said, trying to suppress a smile.

  Suzanne handed him a sweat-soaked bill. Kari took the change. They skedaddled, bursting into giggles on the sidewalk, wandering toward Central Square. Just as they composed themselves, a siren pierced the air, the fire station across the street opening up and a big fire truck making its way down Mass Ave. A police cruiser turned on its blue lights and left them flashing.

  Sudden sirens no longer triggered Suzanne, but the damn flashing lights drove her eyes crazy. Cutting down a side street, she hurried to get away from the flashes. Kari followed quietly, knowing exactly why Suzanne made the route change, not saying a word. They’d been through this before.

  “I,” Kari declared in an arch tone, “am totally calling that guy.”

  “The butt guy or Snake Head?”

  “What?”

  Suzanne laughed through a mouthful of ice cream. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “You invented nicknames for men I haven’t even dated yet?”

  “You don’t want to date them. You want to sleep with them.”

  “Same difference.”

  Suzanne shuddered. “I didn’t sleep with my date tonight. Can you believe I ended up on a date with Steve Raleigh?”

  Kari frowned. “That name sounds famil—wait! Oh, my God! He’s that super pompous guy who was all over Jessica Coffin’s Twitter stream
when he was dating her, right? Couple years ago? This is all ringing a bell. He was your date? I didn’t put it together when you called.”

  Suzanne shrugged. “I didn’t research him. Just knew his name was Steve and he worked in the financial sector. Met him in public, so....”

  “That’s bad?”

  “I need to bathe in plane wing degreaser after spending an hour with him.”

  “Sounds like a rough night.”

  “You got the phone numbers for two different guys tonight.”

  “You got kissed.”

  “Yeah,” Suzanne said through a sigh, restraining herself from touching her lips. Gerald. “What am I going to do?”

  “Let him make the next move. He certainly owes that to you. All these years, and not a word. He just dumped you?”

  Suzanne nodded, eating her sundae. Memory has a funny way of protecting the psyche at all costs. It pulls out every stop, like a mother sensing danger near her child. The will to survive trumps all, and in Suzanne’s case, memory protected her heart.

  But it wasn’t infallible.

  “He did. He got his discharge before I did. Sent me an email.”

  “I know. You told me. A single fucking email, and then he disappeared.” Hearing it from Kari’s mouth always made it seem as stark as it felt. Confirmation from another person that pain was real made bearing it slightly easier.

  “Not his style at all,” Suzanne mused. “Never was. Gerald was direct and forthright, completely blunt.” She smiled, her mouth twisting with bitter reverie. “It made him perfect for me.”

  “Because you’re the epitome of passive-aggressive,” Kari joked.

  “We were a pair.”

  “A powerful pair, I’ll bet,” Kari said, smiling, giving Suzanne a look only a good friend could give. “You must be reeling.”

  Suzanne held a full spoon of carbs aloft. “Exhibit #1, your honor.”

  “And he’s a client.”

  “Not quite.” Suzanne paused. “Okay, he is. Sort of. The billionaire’s estate handed this portion of his will to our firm. I’m just passing on the information to Gerald.”

  “He’s a client, Suzanne. Don’t mince words.”

  “I’m asking to be reassigned tomorrow. I can’t take this.”

  “And you generally can take a lot.”

  “I can. But not this. Especially if it drags out. There is no way I can let Gerald Wright back into my life.”

  “He already is,” Kari pointed out, gently.

  He already is.

  Chapter 7

  It was hot, the kind of heat that permeates every cell, flowing through you like your bones conduct it. He was a conduit and she was a live wire, the rough press of skin against lips a ritual they’d performed so many times before, a ceremony that should have been routine but that inspired new revelations. Her breast was heavy in his hand, ripe and full, the perfect size for his mouth. Her gasp made him smile against the hollow of her throat as he kissed her, inhaling deeply.

  Days.

  It had been days since they’d been together, and the desperation clung to their skin like a unique scent. He smelled her need. She tasted him, licking the fine groove between his ribs, her mouth making his abs quiver, his sharp intake of air curling his belly inward. Away.

  Sweat rolled off them like water, pure and evoked by the desert heat but vanquished by their mutual need. Her face was flushed by this connection, the way his hand found her between her legs, how his tongue played with her nipple, how she moved to wrap her palm around his shaft and stroked once, twice—just enough before he stopped her, needing more heat.

  Wet, wild heat.

  Her breath on his hip chilled him, cooler than the ambient temperature, the rise and fall of her chest as the air tickled his slick skin making his body tingle.

  As she sank lower, her mouth a fortress, a temple, an asylum, he groaned and pulled her up. Straddling him, she sank home, her hands sliding up from his navel to his shoulders, her long, blonde hair free and spilling behind her back as she arched.

  The tent felt like nirvana, her body heaven, their union complete as they both—

  Gerald awoke with a start, gasping into the strange box of reality, the room dark with shadows and filled with the scent of deeply anticipated horror.

  “Oh, God,” he grunted, breathing erratic, heart in flames in the center of his chest.

  That dream.

  That fucking dream.

  He hadn’t had that dream about Suzanne in eight years.

  Drawing on every tool in his psychological coping toolbox, Gerald started with deep breaths. Inhale for eight, exhale for four. Something like that. His hands fisted the sheets, which were damp in sections. Sweating profusely, Gerald stood, throwing the sheet off him, stomping through his bedroom naked, headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  Instead, he found himself five minutes later, standing in front of the open freezer door.

  Just...standing there.

  A glance at the stovetop clock told him it was 4:56 a.m. Sunrise soon. The day would begin.

  Hell, the day had clearly begun already. No way was he going back to bed.

  His nose was cold. His back was covered with sweat. One drop trickled down his spine and into his ass crack. And yet, still he stood there, stupidly staring at a half-empty freezer.

  Enlightenment would not come from a frozen pad Thai dinner.

  Today was his day off. He had a wide-open schedule. Nothing planned.

  Which made today dangerous.

  Think, man. Think, he urged himself, recalling what his psychologist at the Veterans Affairs center had told him, all those years ago. Use the tools. Don’t define yourself by the intrusive thoughts.

  He froze.

  And realized that the dream had been different this time.

  Blinking, he felt his corneas stick against the backs of his eyelids, the rapid eye movement necessary to return his body to the well-oiled machine it needed to be.

  The dream was different.

  Ten years ago, when the invasive dreams had started, they’d ended with him reaching up to her beautiful neck, trying to choke Suzanne. Trying to hurt her. He’d always woken up in the middle of the violence. He’d never actually killed her in the dream.

  He’d also never told her about the dreams.

  Not a single damn one.

  And that’s why he broke it off.

  Because he never, ever wanted to take the chance that the violence might move from his subconscious to reality.

  Four psychologists and two psychiatrists had tried to convince him he never would—in real life—but he knew PTSD could play tricks with your mind. It was a nasty bugger, a second self that took up real estate in the body, a lurker in the shadows that waited to torment you when least expected.

  No, he didn’t think he’d ever actually hurt Suzanne.

  Leaving her made it ironclad. A guarantee.

  Until last night, he’d been certain that his decision was the only choice.

  Until last night, he hadn’t allowed himself to play the regret game.

  Until last night, he hadn’t let himself hope.

  And until last night, he hadn’t had that damn dream for eight years.

  Bzzz.

  He checked his phone. A text from his friend, Vince.

  Hey, sleepyhead. Slacker. Get up and come lift with me. I could use a wimp to wipe my brow and fetch towels.

  Gerald snorted, running a hand over his shaved head. He’d met Vince years ago. Helped him get an in at Anterdec, where Gerald worked. The guy was hard core.

  And a bit of a jerk.

  I’m up, asshole. You need a real man to show you how it’s done? he typed back. Something in his chest loosened. His shoulders dropped. His stomach growled. The parasympathetic nervous system slowly resumed functioning.

  He would be okay today.

  He had to be.

  If you’re the real man, then I fear for humanity’s future, Vince typed back. Bring c
oconut oil. I ran out.

  What’s the coconut oil for? Your blow-up doll? Gerald replied.

  Your sister, was Vince’s reply.

  Gerald barked out an outraged guffaw.

  My sister would kick your ass if she read that, Gerald tapped out.

  She single? Got pics?

  Give me twenty minutes, and don’t you ever touch my sister.

  But your mother’s fair game, Vince typed back.

  If you’re into necrophilia, pervert. My mom’s been dead for five years, Gerald answered.

  She single? Got pics?

  You’re a sick motherfucker, Vince.

  Not yet...get your ass here. We got a preener. Need to put him in his place.

  Twenty, Gerald typed one-handed as he walked into the bedroom, fishing around in a laundry basket of clean clothes he hadn’t put away, finding workout clothes.

  Five minutes later, he was on his motorcycle, zooming toward the gym, relieved to have something to do.

  Even if it meant hearing Vince talk about dating his lesbian sister.

  Especially if it meant hearing Vince talk about dating his sister, not knowing she was gay.

  Early morning in Watertown meant uncrowded streets and the near-daylight glow of bluish skies that gave the town the feel of a straight-to-video movie set. He lived three blocks down from where the Boston Marathon bomber had been caught in a boat, bleeding under the cover, ensconced during a fugitive search that Gerald had spent in Boston, shuttling James McCormick everywhere that day.

  Like everyone else in the neighborhood, he simultaneously felt deep reverence for the event and an underlying horror at how it had touched his life so closely.

  The gym where he and Vince worked out didn’t even have a sign. It barely had a ceiling, but the brick warehouse had space. Lots of space, two bathrooms, two locker rooms, and plenty of muscle.

  Who needed more than that?

  Vince was already in the open gym area, lifting two-hundred-pound sandbags. Three old semi truck tires littered the ground around him. Add in two long, thick ropes and a few kettlebells, and the guy was in his element.

  Give him a twelve-foot wall to scale and he would have been giddy.

  If Vince did giddy.

  “Wimp!” he shouted, drawing a few curious sets of eyes. Vince stood at about six foot four and weighed three hundred pounds, all muscle, bone and sinew. His body was an inverted triangle on top of two thick tree-trunk legs. Covered in tattoos with a long, thick, black braid that hung down the middle of his back like a rope you climbed to get to him, Vince was a mountain.