by A. D. Ryan
My shower takes longer than I originally intended, but I finish up and get dressed before heading downstairs to find Amelia sitting on the floor in front of the couch, hunched over the crossword puzzle.
“You ready?” I ask, running my fingers through my wet hair. She looks at me, her eyes roaming over my upper body, almost as though appreciating my appearance. I admit, my ego puffs slightly; it’s been a while since a woman has looked at me like that. Especially one as young and beautiful as Amelia.
“Mmmhmm,” she hums, one of her cheeks hollowing like she’s biting the inside of it lightly; it’s ridiculous just how attractive I find her.
The drive to the market starts off quiet. It must drive her a little mad, because she reaches out and turns the radio on, and she turns to me, looking like she’s going to ask me something when my cell phone rings. I pick it up from the console and scowl before dropping it back down.
“Gretchen?” Amy asks carefully, not wanting to upset him.
I sigh heavily and tighten my grip on the wheel. “She’s relentless.”
The silence that follows is awkward. I suspect she’s curious, but maybe unsure just how much I’m willing to share.
When we arrive at the store, I offer to push the cart while Amy piles everything we’ll need into it. Still hung up on what kinds of pie she should make, she eventually finds out that I’m a fan of apple pie. Even though I tell her pumpkin pie will be fine, she insists on making both before grabbing all of the ingredients she’ll need for the desserts. With the bottom of our cart almost completely full, we head over to the poultry section for the bird. It’s slim pickings, but that’s not surprising considering it’s the day before Thanksgiving.
“Is it just you, me, and Dad?” she inquires, looking through the six turkeys they have left.
“Actually, I think he was going to invite William and his boy, as well as Carla and her kids,” I explain. Hearing this, Amy grabs the biggest turkey and puts it in the cart before leading the way to the check out. After paying, we take the groceries to the car.
“Hey, do you mind if we stop for some wine?” she asks as we pull out of the parking lot. “I’d like a couple bottles for dinner tomorrow night, but I also enjoy a glass or two while I’m baking.”
“Sure. We’ll stop on the way back to the house.”
We stop at the liquor store on the corner, parting ways once inside so I can grab some beer for Alan and me for after dinner while Amy selects the wine. When we meet at the checkout counter, I notice she’s picked out a couple bottles of white and a couple bottles of red for variety. She sets the bottles down and starts reaching for her wallet when I place a hand over hers. “I’ve got this,” I tell her gently.
“Oh, no. I’ll pay for the wine,” she responds. “It’s fine.”
“Amy, don’t be ridiculous,” I order with a smile. “Just put the damn wine on the counter and let me take care of it. It’s the least I can do considering your dad’s letting me stay for the weekend and...well, after last night.”
The clerk looks between us, almost knowingly, and I notice her cheeks warm with color as she sets the four bottles on the counter so he can ring them through. Sensing her unease, I am quick to pay, and we gather our things and head back to the house.
It’s almost two in the afternoon when we arrive back at the house, and Amy places the turkey in the sink to thaw entirely before getting started on the pies. Grabbing a couple of wine glasses from the cupboard, she looks to me and smiles. “Owen, would you like a glass of wine?”
“I’d love one, thanks,” I accept, leaning on the island where she’s laid the ingredients for the piecrusts haphazardly. “You need a hand?”
She seems surprised by my offer, and honestly, I am a little too; I don’t know how to bake a pie. “Really?” I nod. “Okay. Yeah.” She pours us each a glass of red, and we each take a sip before starting on the piecrusts.
Conversation comes a little easier as we drink, measure, and mix together. We’re on our second glass of wine, and the alcohol has already started to warm my blood, making my limbs begin to tingle as it travels through me. Amy seems to be relaxing a little more after this morning, too. Trying to keep the conversation going, I ask her about school, truly interested, especially when she tells me she wants to pursue a career in journalism.
“Well, you always did have a knack for sticking your nose in other people’s business,” I tease. “This time, you’ll actually get paid for it.”
Mouth agape, she stares at me wide-eyed as she scoops up some of the flour from the counter and tosses it at me playfully. “Was that really called for?” she demands with a laugh as I bring my arms up to shield myself from her second attack.
Our laughter fills the kitchen as I retaliate, picking up a pinch of flour and tossing it at her. The dough and wine are forgotten as we begin flinging bits of flour at each other. Her hair and shirt are covered in flour dust, so I can only imagine the state I’m in.
Seeing her with flour scattered in her hair and specks of it on her cheeks causes the air to shift. We chase each other around the kitchen, and I want nothing more than to kiss her…but know I can’t. It would be wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, is what I keep telling myself as I advance on her like a lion on an unsuspecting gazelle.
The minute I side-step the island to approach her, she backs away, holding her hands in front of her in surrender. “Wait,” she pleads through a fit of giggles as I gather more flour in my hand. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t I?” I demand, my voice low, eyes locked on hers. As I close the distance between us, I not only see that she’s having as much fun as I am, but there’s something else in her expressive eyes that reminds me of earlier. It’s a combination of a few things, but the most dominant emotion I can see is desire.
When the doorbell rings, she moves to duck around me. “I’ll get it!” she exclaims, sliding around my body. Because I purposefully didn’t leave much room between the end of the island and the wall, her body winds up brushing up against mine, and her hands instinctively reach out to graze my waist as she slips by, leaving two floury handprints that I don’t think twice about as she dashes to the front door, laughing.
“When I get back in there, I expect that kitchen to be clean and my wine glass to be full!” I don’t think she’s at all serious, but I fill her wine glass anyway, and start to sweep the flour from the floor with a laugh.
However, when I hear the front door open and Amy’s laughter cease, I stop sweeping and focus on who is at the door. There’s a sharp inhale that I assume comes from Amy before she says, “Gr-Gretchen.”
5. 1, 2, 3 Red Light
I stand there, eyes wide and mouth agape while Gretchen simply smiles. But it’s not warm and friendly. Her light, expertly highlighted hair is pulled back, and her makeup is immaculate, as usual.
“Amy, how nice to see you again.” Her eyes move up and down, eyebrows pulling together with displeasure, and I suddenly feel self-conscious. I look over at the mirror by the front door to see that I’ve got flour all in my dark hair, and my face and shirt are covered also.
“Amy?” Owen calls from the kitchen, and I can hear the anger in his voice as he joins us, stopping in his tracks when he sees who is at the door. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Gretchen looks between the two of us, all covered in flour, and I know what she must be thinking—especially when her gaze falls to Owen’s waist and sees my very obvious handprints there. Her eyes widen, and she looks at me with a very pointed and piercing stare. “What exactly have I walked in on?” She looks back to Owen. “Little young, don’t you think?”
“Amy, go back to the kitchen. You don’t need to take this.”
“Oh,” Gretchen interjects, taking an uninvited step into the house toward me. “Actually, I think she does. You think you can screw my husband?” Her voice rises in both tone and pitch.
“I-I...” I stammer nervously.
“Amy, go,” Owen hisses, grabbi
ng me by the elbow and gently pulling me back. “Gretchen, go back to Seattle and finish getting your shit out of my condo.”
Not wanting to intrude, I rush back to the kitchen and flop down in one of the dining room chairs. While Owen is trying to keep his voice low, Gretchen does anything but; she wants to make as big a production as possible; it’s not in her nature to do otherwise.
“So this is why you left? So you could play house with a girl half your damn age?”
“Go home, Gretchen—wherever that is now.” I can tell Owen is trying to remain calm, but I can hear the anger in his voice slowly beginning to escalate; I’ve known him long enough and heard enough of their fights to know when he’s close to his breaking point.
Gretchen scoffs. “You can’t really be willing to throw away thirteen years for her.”
“Not for her,” Owen assures her. “But because you couldn’t stop sleeping around!”
I slap my hands over my mouth to contain a gasp; she cheated on him? Why the hell would anyone cheat on him?
“And you’d throw away everything for one minor indiscretion?”
“Minor?” Owen barks out a laugh. “One? Four different men, Gretchen. Four. I’d say that classifies as a little more than a ‘minor’ indiscretion.”
“But, Owen—”
“No!” he shouts, startling even me. “Go back to Seattle and pack your shit. I want you gone before I get back on Tuesday.”
“But, I love you,” she tries to bargain sweetly, but even I can see through it; she’s so damn transparent.
“No, you love my money. Now go!”
The door slams, and I stand up and turn around just as Owen returns. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. I didn’t think she’d show up here.”
I shake my head and take a few slow steps toward him, almost like I’m afraid of spooking him. “Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sure this couldn’t have looked good.”
“Like I give a shit how it looked to her,” he said, his eyes showing his pain. “She sure as fuck didn’t care how I would feel, so if she thinks something is going on between us, so be it.”
I can see that he’s hurting, and when the rims of his eyes begin to turn red, I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around his neck without another thought. He welcomes my embrace, wrapping his strong arms around my waist and holding me close.
“I’m sorry your wife is such a bitch,” I mumble over his shoulder, my fingers mindlessly moving through the hair at the nape of his neck. This makes Owen laugh, his chest rising and falling against mine. “I mean, I’m not sorry like I think it’s my fault—she was a bitch long before this.”
“That she was,” Owen concurs with a chuckle, releasing his hold on me a little. His hands remain on my waist, and mine slide down to his chest as we begin to pull apart. “I’m just sorry I didn’t see it until now.”
“Love is blind,” I tell him softly, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without my brain’s permission. The mood in the room shifts the second our eyes lock. He’s so close that I can feel his heart begin to race, and the warmth of his body against mine makes me tremble slightly.
“I’m beginning to get that.” The low rasp in his voice excites me, the gravelly sound of it vibrating deep to my bones, and his fingers curl against my back, holding me closer. “Amelia...” The way he says my name affects me in an unexpected way. I’ve always just been “Amy” to him and everyone else, so this makes me feel special in some way—worthy of his affection, even.
“Yes?” I ask breathlessly as he lowers his face to mine slowly. We’re mere inches apart, and I mentally will him to come closer. I beg. I plead. I shouldn’t, but I do.
“We shouldn’t...” The conflict is back in his eyes, but the fact that he refuses to let go of me bodes well for me experiencing what it would be like to kiss Owen Cavanaugh—correction: consciously kiss Owen Cavanaugh.
“Maybe not,” I whisper, bringing one of my hands up and stroking his jaw in an effort to coax him closer. It’s shameless, but I can’t find it in myself to care. “But why fight it?”
My entire body hums and vibrates with anticipation as he draws near, and when his nose brushes mine, I inhale a shuddering breath.
“Tell me to stop,” he pleads, his lips ghosting mine with every word.
“I can’t,” I confess, locking eyes with him again. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Owen.”
This seems to shock him, but not in a bad way. Instead, he smirks and shrugs one shoulder. “Well then, I guess that makes two of us.”
Before I can declare my own surprise, his lips are on mine, working fervently as his tongue sweeps over my bottom lip. Kissing Owen is better than I ever could have imagined, and he tastes like a heavenly combination of salty and sweet as we deepen our kiss, our tongues mingling and sliding with one another. He tastes sweet, and his strong arms tighten around me as I thrust my fingers into his hair to hold him close. With a deep groan, he bites my bottom lip and walks us toward the island until the edge bites into my back.
I arch my body toward him when he brings his hands around and grabs my breasts, and I whimper when he lets them creep down and over my ass. Gripping firmly, he prepares to lift me up onto the kitchen counter…and then the front door opens.
“Amy?” Dad calls out, forcing Owen and me to part like the Red Sea. We’re both wild-eyed and panicked. This is far worse than this morning. “Owen?”
“I’m so sorry,” Owen rushes to apologize, and I shake my head, silently telling him he has no reason to.
When I see that my handprints are still clearly all over Owen’s shirt, I look down at my own shirt and begin to swat at it frantically in an effort to get rid of any incriminating evidence. Owen does the same, and we’re successful in hiding most of it when Dad enters the kitchen.
He looks between Owen and me, one of his eyebrows arched suspiciously, and his eyes widen. “What the hell happened here?”
6. My Sacrifice
My heart races, and I can’t seem to get enough oxygen as panic takes a firm hold of me and squeezes. Alan is going to kill me. He’s going to beat me to death and then force his daughter to help him hide the body as her punishment.
Okay, so this is probably pretty far-fetched, but the room does seem to be getting darker around the outer corners of my vision, and my chest feels tight with every breath I take. How are we going to get ourselves out of this? I look to Amy for help, but she seems just as stunned as me—fearful for her life, even.
“It looks like a bag of flour exploded in here.”
“Oh,” Amy breathes with relief, and my heart slowly returns to a normal pace. “Owen was being a smartass, and I felt the strong urge to throw flour at him. Little did I know he would retaliate.”
“Like I would just sit there and take it,” I rib playfully.
Alan eyes us suspiciously again, but before he can figure everything out with his incredibly in tune powers of observation, Amy smiles and gets back to the forgotten dough. “So, Daddy, what are you doing home so early?”
“Turns out one of the guys isn’t feeling well, so my partner and I have agreed to take the graveyard shift,” he explains. Through my periphery, I can tell Amelia is looking at me, but I can’t bring myself to look her in the eyes. “I just stopped by to grab something to eat for dinner tonight and to let you guys know I won’t be home until late.”
“Okay,” Amelia replies, pressing the last crust into the pan and brushing her hands on the dishtowel to get rid of the flour. “Well, let me make you something for dinner then.”
Amelia rifles through the fridge looking for something to make him while he and I discuss our days so far. Alan seems irritated that Gretchen would show up here after what she did to me.
“I think you need to go out and find some hot, young thing to help you forget all about Gretchen.” Hearing Alan say something so crass isn’t unusual to me, but behind me, Amy starts coughing. We turn to look at her, and she’s setting her knife down with a trembli
ng hand and shaking her head.
“Amy?” Dad inquires, preparing to stand from the table.
Holding up one hand, she clears her throat. Her face is a little red, and I worry that our secret is about to be revealed. She’s never really had a great poker face when it comes to her father. I hold my breath and prepare for the worst. “I’m fine. I just never would have figured you as the type to suggest something like that.”
Alan grumbles gruffly. “The situation more than calls for it.”
I notice a small smile form on her lips as she looks back down at the countertop. “I, um, actually don’t think it’s such a bad idea.” This time, it’s my turn to choke and sputter on the sip of wine I’ve just taken. Finding some kind of sick pleasure in it, she looks at me and shrugs. “I’m just saying, if you’re lucky enough to find someone who’d be willing to help you out with something like that, then why the hell not?”
Alan seems thrilled that Amy’s taken his side—though, I suppose if he knew she was really suggesting that I forget about my cheating wife with her, he might kick me out of the house and lock her in a tower for all eternity.
I guess I’ll just have to keep that to myself.
“Okay, Dad, here’s your dinner. You sticking around for a bit longer?”
Alan looks at his watch and sighs. “Can’t. You two have a good night, and I’ll be home late, so I’ll see you in the morning.” He takes his lunch bag from Amy and kisses the top of her head. “Sleep well, Amy.” Then he turns to me. “Sorry, but now that Amy’s here, you’ll have to take the couch.”
I smile, but it feels a little forced. “Figured as much. Thanks again for letting me stay until everything gets sorted out back home.”
“Of course.” Alan says one more goodbye to us both, and then heads for the door. Amy and I remain silent until we hear the front door close and Alan’s Tahoe back out of the driveway.
“More wine?” Amy offers softly. It’s almost like she’s not sure what else she should say. Neither am I.