by James, Ella
Like I’m so far from the living, nothing warm can touch me. Like there’s a glacier shoved inside my ribs, and I’m not even breathing. No heart beating. Hollow and filled up with cold.
I know I lost my shit and let her see me looking wrecked and crazy.
... And I know she put her arm around me. Tried to rub my neck.
I remember all of that.
Afterward, upstairs... I went into the locked room because I had to. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to make any calls. I don’t want to pull the trigger on my time with Cleo. I can’t yet.
So I repaired things as much as I could, and by the time I was done, she was asleep—so I slid under the sheets beside her. Her body was so warm, and mine so cold. Even in her sleep, she reached for me. She cradled me. And for the first time in—the first time ever—I started to wonder what I need the most. And how, when I can’t feed this growing hunger for her, I’ll be able to do anything but die.
I look up at her now, at her sad face, and I feel the vestiges of my own pain fall away as I think of ways to ease hers.
“How’d you sleep?” I ask—because I want to know if she remembers being joined in bed by me.
“I slept okay.” She rubs a finger over my scabbed knuckles and frowns down at them. “Did you hit something else?” She pulls her gaze up to my face and strokes her fingertip over my skin. “This little cut is still bleeding.”
I shrug and draw my hands away. “I’ve got that punching bag...”
She reaches out for me. “You punched a punching bag? You shouldn’t do that,” she says. I lean back toward her and let her have my hands.
It feels so good to have her stroke my hand and wrists. I could shut my eyes and give in to her soothing touch. But today, the focus is on her.
“You want some breakfast?” I ask, gently withdrawing my hands from hers.
“I want you to let me put another bandage on your knuckles, especially that one that looks so puffy. I’m leaving to go home after that, so I’ll probably just grab a Pop Tart on the road.”
“Come here,” I beckon with my hand.
She hesitates a moment, then comes around the counter, and I place a hand on her shoulder. I don’t plan to, but I draw her closer, close enough so I could wrap my arms around her. And I want to. I want to so damn much. But I’m still feeling cold and dead inside, so I just stand there, breathing.
“Thank you for last night,” I whisper. “You were very kind to me—with not much regard for you and very few questions answered.” I release her shoulder and look at her pretty face. “Do you want to know what happened at the factory?”
She shrugs. “Only if you want to tell me. It’s okay if you don’t.”
I owe her. I lean back against the counter and tap my fingers against the granite, trying to think of where to start. How much to say. And if it even matters. I’m surprised to find I want to tell her. When I meet her eyes again, they’re warm; encouraging.
“Pace is a first cousin of my father, Robert. My father is... a powerful man—in many ways. Most people feel beholden to him. They do everything he asks. My father and I have been estranged for several years. Since Lyon’s death,” I manage in a steady voice. “But Robert can’t accept that. Everything has to be... according to his wishes. So right now, he’s trying to put pressure on me. He had Pace drive here—even though Pace is an employee of mine, he doesn’t work for my father—He had Pace drive to Georgia with an empty van. To prove a point.”
Her eyes widen. “He drove here from—where again?”
“From California,” I tell her.
“He drove that far with nothing?”
I nod.
“Did Manning know about it?”
I’m surprised she was watching closely enough to see Manning was batting for Pace’s team back at the warehouse.
“He didn’t know, but Pace told Manning some bullshit, and the two of them tried to get me to... yield to my father’s wishes. On something important. Something that’s not their business, either one of them.” I inhale; exhale. Robert is dead to me. I want to tell Cleo why. How I blame him for Lyon’s death. But one look at her sympathetic face and I know this day should be all about her. Even mentioning this right now... it’s selfish.
“I’m so sorry that happened,” she says.
I nod. “I know you are.” I let a breath out, releasing that subject, and look back up at her. “I appreciate it, Cleo. Now let’s get some food and water packed.”
“Um... what?”
“I’m driving you. Don’t protest. I know it’s hard to do this shit alone, and I want to go. Anyway, you don’t have a car here.”
“Oh, I guess I don’t.”
I start opening cabinets. “What do you want?”
I open the liquor cabinet, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God, is that Snow Queen vodka?”
I can’t resist a smile. “It’s my favorite. Have you had it?”
“I love it. This is really weird... but can we take some with us?”
I give her a gentle smirk. “Only if you tell me why.”
She smiles a little, and I can’t tell if it’s sad. “My friend came up with some instructions for me once, for visiting the cemetery. One of the things was having some Snow Queen with me.”
“You should,” I say, trying to ignore the sharp twist in my gut. “Your friend sounds like a smart dude.”
She frowns. “How did you know it’s a dude?”
“You said ‘he.’”
“Oh.” She nods. “Yeah. I haven’t heard from him in a while. I’m actually really worried about him.”
All the air in my lungs dissipates, and I feel the color drain from my face. I draw a deep breath, taking care to look away from her. “What makes you worried?” I ask as I get the Snow Queen down and set it on the counter.
“He’s got a weird situation. Kind of... risky.” I wait for her to tell me what she means by that, but Cleo just runs her palm over her upswept hair. “I found out he has a P.O. box in a city like an hour from here, which is totally crazy. It’s just across the Alabama line, in this little town called Eufaula. I was thinking of stopping by on my way back up to Chattahoochee, to see if anyone around has seen him.” She rolls her eyes. “I have stalker tendencies—I know.”
I smile a little at how ruffled she seems, even as I feel a yawning ache behind my sternum.
“We can do that. We can do anything you want,” I lie. I keep my business P.O. box across state lines for security reasons, and there is no way we’re going by there.
I stretch my arm out and rub my palm over the coil of her bun. Cleo stands perfectly still, her eyes level with my throat as I just... touch her. My hand lingers there, barely brushing the soft nest of her hair. Because I need to touch her. Because now that I know who she is, I feel a fucking tug toward her, as if a rope is tied around me and she’s got the business end.
Cleo’s hand touches my throat. “What’s this?”
My muscles tighten. “What?” I trail my hand down by her ear, hoping to distract her—but she leans closer.
“You’ve got this little scar... right here.” Her finger rubs gently over the base of my neck, just atop the thick throb of my jugular. “It looks exactly like a little white Sharpie line.” She strokes me there again, and I suck in a deep breath.
“Oops, I’m sorry. Does that bother you?”
I shake my head. I guess I held my breath while she was touching me. I press my lips together for what I hope looks like a normal smirk. “You want to hear that story?”
She nods, eager.
I stroke her ivory white throat. “In the car,” I lie again.
Cleo shakes her head and pulls her lips down. “It’s not a car.”
Goddamn, her mouth like that. It’s fucking sexy, that little smirk. There’s something feline about it—like a smug housecat pondering a bowl of milk. I want to kiss it off her lips.
“What is it then?” I ask, turning toward the refrigerator before she
sees my boner. I grit my teeth and start to rearrange my canned nutrition shakes.
“It’s a gas guzzler,” she says, coming to stand on the other side of the refrigerator door. I train my eyes on the label of one of the shakes, because I can feel her eyes on me. She’s so damn close, her gaze burns.
“Do you know the miles per gallon?” she asks.
I reach in and get two water bottles out, and I think of checkers. That’s all it takes to kill my boner, so I’m safe to turn around. “You really wanna know?”
“I’m not sure. Do I not?”
I tug the sleeve of her shirt. “Are you a tree-hugger, Cleo baby?”
“Don’t call me that.” Pink spots bloom on her cheeks.
I grin. “What—Cleo baby?”
“Yes.” She takes a step away from me. I step with her. She leans against the countertop, right in front of the sink. I come in close, so close our hips are almost touching.
I’m still grinning. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s... I don’t know.” She fusses with her hair. “It makes me feel like I’m... being teased.”
I rub my thumb along her smooth jaw, smirking because I can’t help myself. “Cleo baby?” I tilt my head at her. “That makes you feel teased?”
She leans back. “You are teasing me—right now. Don’t act like you aren’t,” she says indignantly.
“You never answered me. About the trees.”
She leans back toward me with reluctance on her face. I could step back to give her space, but where’s the fun in that? I know my breath smells good because I chewed a bunch of Big Red after my run earlier this morning.
I rub my fingers over the hemline of her tie-dyed shirt. “You look cute in tie-dye, Cleo baby. Like you belong in California with me, hugging redwoods.”
Her cheeks are even redder than before. I’m surprised, and irrationally charmed.
“I’m getting ‘The Lorax’ on my ankle next,” she says, and then presses her lips tightly together to hide a smile she wants to beam at me.
That makes me laugh. I don’t know why I find it so damn funny: that smug little smile she’s trying to hide, and the thought of that damned mustached Lorax on Cleo’s little ankle.
“Dr. Seuss.” She shrugs, her eyes alight, as if my amusement has infected her. “I’m his number one fan girl.”
I give her a grin, because fuck it, I can’t help myself. I notice a glint of something silver at her throat and pull a necklace out of her shirt. I see a small sloth hanging from the chain and lose my grin.
I guess my face must show my feelings, because Cleo’s eyes widen in response to what she thinks is disapproval. “Are you hating on my sloth necklace?”
“Hell no.” I fake a quick smile for her. “I’m a lover of the sloth.” I turn toward the pantry but I slide a glance her way. She’s folded her arms and is leaning against the refrigerator, looking skeptical.
“Have you ever heard of Save the Sloths International?” I ask. She frowns as I step into the pantry, looking for some shit for us to eat. “I’m one of its biggest donors. Same money that bought the Escalade—” I stick my head out, giving Cleo my most earnest look—“I’ll have you know, it saved three sloths.”
She steps toward me. “What kind of sloths?”
“The slow, tree-dwelling kind.”
“Sloths that live in... ?”
“Endangered locations,” I tell her. “Much of South America is being pruned by... well, you know—Mr. O’Hare.”
Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen. The shocked look quickly morphs into a smile. “You’ve read ‘The Lorax?’”
“I helped write it,” I tease.
“Kellan Walsh, you... sneaky trickster.”
I laugh. Sneaky trickster—that’s all she’s got? I step out of the pantry with an armful of food and shrug. “I’m a closet whore for Dr. Seuss myself.”
She shakes her head, still laughing, and then steps to take some of the food out of my arms. “Holy hell, Kellan. Do you think we have enough snacks?”
I lay out the array of food on the countertop, and Cleo starts to weed through it. “White powdered doughnuts—score!” She sets the two packs off to the side. “Twizzlers—these things are my super fave.” She pushes them into the pile, and I smile at her enthusiasm. “Teddy Grahams—hell yes, childhood! Olive would love these.” I watch as her smile falters, but she pastes it back on.
“KIND chocolate and peanut butter protein bar, yes, please. Hell yes, Nutella and these godly little dipping sticks. Kellan, you have great taste in junk food.” I laugh, and Cleo wraps her arms around her food pile. “You’re a shopping god.” She moves a pack of candied peanuts, a bag of Nilla Wafers, and a small bag of Doritos into the stack, rejecting two bags of pork rinds and one bag of Fritos.
“No pork rinds?” I tease.
“Hell no. Those things are sick. Pigs are super smart, you know.”
“But not when there’s bacon around, huh?”
She hangs her head. “I know. I’m evil.”
I laugh, and turn to get a grocery bag out of the pantry. “Manning left those here.”
“Ewww. No thank you. Pork rinds are a Southern thing I’ve never gotten behind,” she tells me.
I hold a plastic grocery bag open, and Cleo dumps her booty in. “This is going to be the yummiest sad day I’ve ever had.”
That makes me smile. I take the bag from her and set it on the counter, then I grab a stick of beef jerky from the refrigerator and peel it open.
“You refrigerate your beef jerky?”
“It’s the only way.”
“How about just not eating it?”
I shake my head and rip a bite off. “Protein,” I say between chewing.
“Eat an egg.” She wrinkles her nose. “Eat chicken.”
“I don’t do leftovers, Cleo baby. And I’m not up for cooking right now. Unless you want something?”
She shakes her head.
I finish off the jerky in three more bites and toss the wrapper. Then I grab a TwoCal out of the refrigerator, peel the aluminum top off, and dump it into a glass.
“That looks disgusting,” Cleo leans against the counter as I swallow the creamy liquid. Her eyes run over my navy blue Dr. Who t-shirt and my ragged ass jeans. “Is it for body building?”
I smirk. “You think I look like a body builder, Cleo baby?”
Her cheeks redden. “Stop calling me that.”
I sweep my eyes down myself. I know I’m looking pretty cut right now. Since May, I’ve been working out like a fiend and piling on the muscle mass. My body fat has got to be low as shit, and yeah—before I started dropping weight these last two weeks or so, my shirts had gotten tight as fuck tight around the chest and arms.
I can’t help a smug look. I toss back the TwoCal and set the glass in the sink, beside another empty one. Cleo peeks at them.
“You drank one of those earlier today, too? Like for breakfast?”
“You worrying over my diet, Cleo baby?”
She shoves me in the chest, and I wrap my hand around her thin, tanned wrist. I look down at her face—her teasing eyes, her playful smile—and all I want is to kiss those soft, full lips.
A heartbeat passes. Another as I try to bridle myself. Then I lean down, take her face in my hands, and kiss her like she’s the last thing I’ll ever taste. I kiss her with the power surging through my veins, with all the strength of my desire to protect her from this day. With all the want that’s burning through me—want of more than just her body. Want of days and nights, forgotten things like the weight of a woman’s body in my arms and the way the woods sound when the sun comes slanting through the trees like sheets of gold. Everything I long for, everything I can’t have, I pour into her mouth—and Cleo responds beautifully.
Her arms twine around my waist, pressing her soft belly against my bulge. I’m so damn hard, I just want to push myself against her until she spreads her legs and lets me in. Instead I slide my tongue into the sof
tness of her mouth. Cleo gasps. It makes me smile around her lips, knowing that I can make my dirty girl gasp with just a slip of my tongue.
I explore her slowly, wrapping an arm around her back and cradling her head, so when I thrust my tongue into the hot, slick sanctuary of her mouth, she doesn’t have to work to stay upright.
I kiss her soft and slow, and longer, harder, until she’s gasping and my hand is squeezing her breast. Her back is pressed against the refrigerator, and I’m thrusting against her.
She’s rocking against me, too. She slides down the refrigerator door, and I take her in my arms and lay her on the floor. She’s panting. I can see her nipples poke out through her colorful t-shirt.
I kneel over her. “Do you want to be fucked on my kitchen floor?”
She starts to nod, and I crouch over her, pressing my lips against her temple even as I straddle her and rub my bulge against her softness.
“Know what I think would be better?” She blinks up at me, her eyes liquid and dreamy as I shift myself against her. “We’re going to do this sometime on the way there. I’m going to pick the spot.”
She pushes her pussy against my dick. “But it’s a—”
“A serious occasion?” I lift my hips off hers and work my hand into the elastic waistband of her leggings. “A sad one?” I ask, stroking her soft belly.
She nods. She looks down guiltily at my hand. My gaze rolls to her nipples, and when I don’t see their outline against her shirt, I help her up and lean her against the counter.
“Here...” I twist the top off the Snow Queen. I get a shot glass from the cabinet and fill it to the brim, then hold it out to Cleo. “I don’t think your sister would want you to have a shitty day. And you know what else I think?”
She takes the glass and shakes her head.
“I think you don’t have to feel like shit to commemorate someone who’s gone.” I think of Ly and his khakis and his button-up Polos with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms.
“You know why I ran for SGA, Cleo?”