by Brock, V. L.
“Enjoy your meal.” And the waiter disappears back to where he came from.
“I love you so much, Samantha. I know you are not like that. I want to please you, and treat you the way you should be. Please, don’t think that way whenever I want to buy you something.” He shakes his head melancholic and his pained, wounded stare cinches at my heart. “I promise, I am not even thinking about that.”
I nod delicately. “Okay. I will try.”
Framing my face with his hands, he pushes himself up from his squatted position, and tips my head back minutely. His lips met mine in a fluid movement and just like the effect they always have on me, all negativity is cast aside, and I’m filled with clarity and assurance.
HAYDEN
Setting the silverware on the empty plate, Samantha sips the remaining Sauvignon Blanc that swims at the bottom of her wineglass. She swallows the golden liquid and a sound of approval travels from her throat, filling the space between us.
“That hit the right spot,” she mutters from across the brim of her glass.
“I agree,” I press myself back in the satin-padded seat and pat the side of my mouth with the napkin. “That was better than sex.”
I’m immediately pinned by her stare as she darts her eyes and rests them upon me with a feigned, wide-eyed, and scandalized expression. “Mr. Wentworth,” she screeches.
I snicker at her overstated air.
“What? You started it, I merely followed suit.”
She glares at me, and it takes a moment for me to realize that I may have actually offended her. I sit forward and cover her hand with mine. Humbling and rueful, I gaze deep into her guileless eyes. “I was joking, I’m sorry, beautiful. I didn’t mean to offend you, it was unintentional. Forgive me?”
Depositing her glass back on the polished surface, she rests her left hand over mine. She gives way to an acquiescing grin and nods her head. “It’s okay; you can make it up to me with dessert.”
“Of, course.” With my free hand, I reach for the menu and begin to browse through the assortment of sweet courses. “What do you fancy?”
“You,” she answers simply. I whip my head up to be hailed with an expression so solemn, so… definitive, that all I can do is rise from my seat, take her hand and lead her from the Hall.
Samantha lays her hand upon my shoulder, using me to steady her balance as we ascend the empty elevator back to our suite. I overhear the loud intake of breath hit between her teeth as she gasps and readjust her weight.
I glance down at her, and see her face contorting.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” I can’t overlook the concern puncturing through my voice, and begin visually examine her for injury.
She rolls her eyes. “My feet are, killing me.”
As the elevator doors part on our floor, I sweep her up into my arms. She offers a delighted squeal, and encircles her arms around my neck.
“I think a nice, long soak is in order, Miss Kennedy.”
“Well, only if you join me. You did after all promise that I could do whatever I wanted to you, when we came back.”
My mouth curls into a conceding grin. Thoughts of bathing with a beautiful woman…my beautiful woman, instantly fuels my interest; we’ve showered before, but never bathed.
“And in that case, you bring me another first, Miss Kennedy.” She wrinkles the bridge of her nose in that adorable way, and sinks her teeth into her lower lip as we stand, paused at the door of the Grand Suite. “Can you get the key-card, Sam? It’s in my pocket.”
“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Wentworth.”
Dropping her left arm from around my neck, she reaches down and fumbles with the pocket of my pants. I gasp and close my eyes, relishing her touch as she deliberately wanders around the concealed area. My breathing is fueled as her fingertips graze along the side of my scrotum, sending a delicious, appealing shock through my body, and causes my cock to waken. Dashing my tongue over my parching lips, I muster the energy to block out the arousal she is inciting, as she continues to fondle with the contents she has fall upon.
I hold my breath, and with overriding reluctance, I husk, “It’s in my breast pocket.”
“OH.”
After her treasure hunt, she fishes out the key-card and waves in slowly in front of my face. “Found it.”
“Put it in,” I rasp, and she answers me with a brief chuckle then sounds a low, dreamy, moan at my unintended innuendo before slipping it in the lock.
“You can put my down now if you want, Hayden.”
Shaking my head, I ignore her offer and carry her over the threshold, and into the privacy of our suite to indulge in my dessert.
I am deafened by the reverberation of cascading water throughout the cream and gold tiled bathroom. There’s something about watching running water…it’s hypnotic, and the sounds of it pooling and deepening with every passing second sends me into a trance-like state.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub, utterly engrossed and inhale the sweet aroma of vanilla oil as it foams in the deep, oval tub. I’m momentarily startled by Samantha’s robe-clad arms encircling my waist, before her lips caress the bare flesh of my back.
“Did I ever tell you, how much I love you?” she whispers as I twist off the faucet.
I stand straight. Turning to face her, I begin disrobing her of the fluffy material. “Oh, you may have mentioned it once or twice,” I smirk.
“Once or twice isn’t merely enough. You’re going to get bored of me saying it sooner or later.”
Letting the robe drop from her body and gather at her ankles, I place my hands on either side of her pale, oval face; her eyes bright, and expressive with her post-orgasmic glow.
“Words can only express so much beautiful; you have shown me that you love me more times than I can count.” She takes a breath and I seal my mouth over hers, placing all of my love, my affection, and desire for her into one single connection.
Samantha exhales as we allow our lips to linger for a second or two and a tiny, high-pitched whistle escapes her nostril. The unexpected noise transforms our kiss into small, regaled smiles and we begin to pull away.
“Yes, I love you, too,” I pout and plant a kiss on the tip of her nose.
If it wasn’t for the fact that Samantha has just drained me of all my energy, I wouldn’t have stopped there.
We sit at opposite ends of the bath. With my arms outstretched and propped on the rim of the egg-shaped tub, we watch each other closely and carefully. Samantha slowly tracks one of her legs between mine. I clasp hold of her foot before she meets her goal, and begin massaging her sole.
“Hmm…” She tips her head back against the edge of the tub. With her long locks piled haphazardly on top of her head, and the bubbles tantalizingly covering her assets, she looks like she’s about to shoot a commercial for women’s razors––sat in the bath, leg raised, toes pointed––very seductive.
Before I can even contemplate the effect of my words, I ask, “Have you ever thought about kids, Sam?”
Straining her neck, she pulls her head back up to face me. Her playful and relaxed demeanor of only a moment ago is now overflowing with alarm, anxiety and intimidation. I suddenly regret opening my mouth.
“Kids?” she husks with clenched teeth and flutters her eyelids in dismay.
“Yes. Have you ever considered having children?”
To some degree, her expression softens as she processes her thoughts. With her brow arched minute, she focuses on the swaying water and shakes her head. “I don’t know.” Diverting her stare from the mass of white foam, she peeks up and holds my gaze. “Maybe one day, but definitely no time soon, thanks to this baby.” She rubs the inner section of her left bicep.
“Okay, now I am confused.”
“I have the implant. Here,”––she pushes herself onto her knees and wades closer to me–– “feel it.”
Taking my hand, she presses my fingertips against the embedded, foreign object.
“Jes
us,” I yell, pulling my hand away from the rigid, hairpin-length object as my stomach continues to flip and roil.
Giggling at my overreaction, she pushes herself back through the water and bubbles to resume her former position at the narrower end of the tub.
Searching blindly, I dig around in the bubbles and finally retrieve her opposite foot and begin massaging the aching tissue.
She giggles as I graze my thumbnail down the center of her sole; I never knew that was a ticklish spot for her. Her giggle soon turns into decadent groan as I bore my thumbs into her heel, and I idly wonder about the aspects of Samantha that I don’t know. I know all her unhappy periods, what she indulged in at those horrific times––which still forms that knot in my stomach and shatters my heart into a billion pieces––and what initiated them. But what about her happy memories, surely she has some stored somewhere. I know nothing about her family, she never talks about them. Does she even have a family?
As I ponder my queries, I am astounded by the notion that, I don’t actually know her––not as well as I want to. I want to push the boat out a little further; I want to learn more about her past…
“Okay, what is your favorite childhood memory?”
Making circular motions with my thumbs on the heel of her foot, she cocks her head and stares at me like I have grown three heads, or asked her a question in Swahili.
I study her crystal eyes as they darken, betraying a hidden pain, a secret anguish. She scowls at me, and I immediately feel a swell of guilt form and solidify, as I recognize that I have made her open a box she obviously wanted to remain sealed.
After what seems like a lifetime, her lips curl into a minor wistful, yet contented grin. She stares at the white foam that surrounds us. “Going into my Nan’s house and smelling her fresh, homemade cherry pound cake.”
I smile along with the happy memory that she is rehashing. I knew there was some there, amongst the mass of negativity.
I open my mouth to speak, but as I see her beginning to open up, I think better of it, and allow her to continue.
“I remember, my friend’s birthday was a few weeks before mine, and…” she gazes vacantly into the tub. “I was able to go ice-skating with her and her family. I was about nine, and I’d never been before so I had no idea how to dress. Well, I went overboard with my layers,” she chuckles shy and embarrassed. “A boy scared the shit out of me, and I remember stumbling. The blade cut through my jeans and my leg. But even 'til this day, I’m still baffled as to how my thermal pantyhose remained intact.” She shakes her head, seeming perplexed even still at the memory.
Yet her smile lights me up.
“You never talk much about your childhood.”
She shifts and inhales deeply. Looking me in the eye, she shrugs her shoulders. “I’ve seen a lot. Like the wise baboon said, ‘it doesn’t matter anymore, it’s in the past’, right?”
I press my lips together forming a firm, straight line in an attempt to stifle my chuckle. My eyes widen with unveiled amusement. “Did you really, just quote, Disney, Miss Kennedy?”
Bowing her head for a second, a saddened snigger travels on her exhale. She peeks up. “I’m like you, Hayden; I don’t want anybody’s pity.”
“There is a difference between pity and compassion, beautiful,” I recite the valued words of my mother. “What about your parents?”
“Hayden––” she grumbles, tossing her head back in exasperation.
Holding my hands up, palms facing her I quickly interrupt. “I promise, no pity…no one will ever receive any form of pity from me. I don’t like being subjected to it, so why would I inflict it on another?” I shake my head brusquely, in an attempt to prove my point.
Hanging her head and swirling the bubbles around her middle, she inhales heavily and licks her lips. “My dad died when I was very little.”
What? I did not expect that. “I’m sorry…I––”
“It is okay. I was so young. I have very few memories, maybe one or two photographs.”
“I couldn’t possibly imagine not having any memories of my dad.” And I couldn’t. Memories are the only thing that can possibly fill the void that’s left behind. Not having memories…it’s like he never existed.
“I was told stories. When you hear a certain story over and over, you can create them into something more…so you recall it as either a vivid dream, or a memory.” She glances up at me, and offers a tightlipped smile. “I prefer the latter.
“He was um…” she frowns and cocks her head, the furrows of her brow deepening as she swallows, “…getting into the car just after leaving work, when he had a massive heart attack. He died on his own.”
Around her nose, mouth and eyes turn a bright red, and in an instant, I know that I’ve stumbled upon a very raw nerve while she represses her emotions. As quick as the redness appeared, she pushes it back, fighting to stay strong.
Sniffling, she regains her composure. “He was only thirty-six.”
I shake my head and ask, “What about your, mother?”
Rolling her eyes, she sighs and wobbles her head in defeat. “I gave up trying to figure out if a parent changes as you mature, or whether you just become wiser, and realize that they aren’t as honorable as what you once believed.”
She scoops up some of the bursting bubbles from around her middle.
“My mom’s epileptic. And when my dad died, she had to sell the majority of our stuff to give him a half-decent burial.”
Her words knock the air from me and make my heart billow; selling their possessions to bury their, husband/father? My God, I didn’t realize how much I took for granted.
“We lived in this tiny one bedroomed apartment,” she resumes staring inexpressive at the swaying liquid between us. “Everything we had was hand-me-downs. I remember the horrible, dark brown and burnish orange carpet. The couch was just as hideous, with oversized beige floral prints…but it was ours. And we had sliding doors that led into the bedroom.”
She takes the washcloth off the side and pulls it into the tub. Rubbing her shoulder, I wait patiently for her to resume.
“I must have been about three. I was sat on the couch watching the portable TV, and I heard a clatter from the kitchen,” she grimaces, and the flush around her eyes and nose blazes again. “I went out to see what had happened, and that’s when I saw her…and the blood.”
My eyes widen, blood?
“Mom had a collapsed due to her seizure…” she swallows hard, her mouth twitching as though she is about to be physically ill. “And she landed on one of the knives.”
I sit motionless, gaping as I take in Samantha’s sorrowful reminiscences. I feel my eyes burn with tears that I so desperately want to release, but I suppress them with every fibre of my being.
“By the time I was four, I was taught what to do if Mom went into an epileptic fit. Everything from, what position to put her into, making sure that she was safe, even putting my fingers into her mouth to make sure she never swallowed her tongue.”
The water is still so warm, yet my inner chill spawns a full, unrelenting tremor upon my body which I cannot fight. My throat constricts, pressing against the bitter mass blocking my windpipe, and a lone tear escapes my eye as I imagine a little red-haired girl, sat on the floor cradling her mother’s head in her lap.
Thankfully, Samantha doesn’t witness my sympathetic display of emotion, as she never once looks up at me. All I can do is watch on as she remains anchored to her past.
“I even had to learn which of her medications to give to her, if she was unable to do it herself.
“I couldn’t go out with my friends, just in case anything happened. And when I got older, I began to resent that fact.” She peeks up at me from under her lashes, her eyes shimmering, and distressed. She raises her shoulders, and shakes her head simultaneously, while displaying an enforced, longing grin. “I just wanted to be a normal girl and go play,” she mutters, her voice broken and breathy. “So one day, I decided to do just that
. There was a bit of lawn across from the apartment, and I went over with two of my girlfriends, doing girly things like handstands, or pretending we were pop stars and the lawn was our arena,” she chuckles, and another melancholic smile sculpts its way over her face.
“I was only out for about thirty minutes. When I went back in I called out for my mom to let her know I was home, but she didn’t answer. So I took my coat and shoes off and…” her smile fades into nothingness, her eyes more bleak and distressed than I have seen. “I found her on the floor, in the middle of the room…unconscious.”
To say that my heart sinks to my stomach is the understatement of the century; it sinks to the lost depths of Atlantis. How could a child live this way, a sacrificed childhood which is filled with so much responsibility…at such a young age?
“While I was out, she had a seizure and as she collapsed…” she lifts her head, and glances up at the ceiling, rolling her eyes to keep her own, painful tears contained. Exhaling a cleansing breath she finishes, “She hit her head on the hearth.”
I shake my head in sheer, utter, shock. No wonder she never told me about any of this. My poor Samantha never once had a break; she holds a crevasse of painful, heartrending memories that stem well beyond that of adulthood. I want to take her in my arms and kiss all of those memories away, to wrap her in cotton wool and vow to protect her both physically and emotionally until my last, dying breath.
Regaining her composure, she breaks the stifling silence hanging above and around us.
“And that isn’t even the tip of the iceberg of what I have seen.” She cups her hands together, and scoops up some water, splashing it on her face.
Not even the tip? There’s more? How on earth could there possibly be more? Oh, Samantha. Her strength was the one of the first attributes I was attracted to. And now I know how she came to acquire that inner-strength.
I push past the lump of compassion that clogs up my windpipe. “You are so, so strong, Samantha,” my voice trembling as I hold my tears prisoner.
She shakes her head. “No, Hayden. I’m not. I just deal with it, and move on.” She looks almost serene. But her blue eyes are hard and resilient to her blight.