Forgotten Obsessions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 1)

by Talia Maxwell

  The moon was out and it lit up a square area the size of a small house with carved stumps of wood at least three feet high arranged for a game of chess. Derek walked around and lit a line of torches along each side and the whole area caught aglow in oranges and yellows.

  Under the bright firelight, Maeve could see the pieces more clearly and she smiled. Still warm from the wine, but slowly growing sleepy and blissful instead of buzzed, she hummed and pointed at the tiny creatures designed as pawns on one side of the giant chess board.

  “Bunnies,” she said. The King was a lion; the queen, a giraffe, a string of carved wooden pearls around her neck. The entire area was a masterpiece. The board was crafted with pieces of painted wood, shellacked and glimmering in the night. And each animal sat, strangely lifelike, in their spot, waiting for a game.

  Only a deeply patient and creative man could sit down to invent an animal vs. animal wooden race across the chessboard. She wanted to simultaneously share Derek with the world and share him with no one.

  “So,” Derek said, and he pointed to one side indicating here he wanted Maeve to stand. She followed his direction, and went over and stood next to the chess pieces, which came up to her mid-thigh. “Let’s play some chess.”

  “You made this?” she asked, unwilling to let the entire thing go without comment. The Rooks were Gorillas. The Bishops: Lizards with hats. She was astounded and dumbfounded by the talent. “You carved all this?”

  He nodded, slowly, as if it was obvious and unimpressive.

  “Community College. Dropped out of high school to get my GED,” he offered. “I wasn’t good at school at first.” He tilted his head back and forth, and Maeve raised her eyebrows and he added, “Academics was fine. I guess I wasn’t good at other teenagers. But I took a woodcarving elective at the Community College before nursing school. You know. I practiced.”

  “You could sell this for, like, thousands of dollars,” Maeve marveled.

  Derek shrugged. “You’re the second person I’ve ever shown it to besides my woods class.”

  “The first was Julie?” Maeve asked. She wondered if the question sounded natural or prying, and she wished she hadn’t said anything at all.

  “No, actually,” Derek answered, with a soft smile on his voice. “My dad.” Maeve nodded and waited for him to elaborate. “Yeah, well, I had it in storage at his house, and she, Julie, you know, she wasn’t into…games. Chess. She didn’t know—”

  Maeve waved her hand, hoping to signal that he was off the hook—he didn’t need to explain. She knew she wasn’t owed justification and she didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable giving her one. The chess pieces were beautiful and he was beautiful, lit by the fire, and she felt ready to play.

  “Who goes first?” Maeve asked.

  He smiled and walked up to her, closing the distance between their bodies, his eyes gleaming in the light. Soon, he was right in front of her and he took her hand. Maeve steadied herself to be kissed or swept off her feet. It wasn’t that she knew he was going to kiss her; it was that she knew it would be the perfect time to kiss her. She was poised and ready, and the torches danced around both of them, hiding the glaring imperfections of daytime sun, masking their world with the hum of firelight.

  Before she could make another decision, he picked up her hand and passed her a single die, and then he retreated a few steps and told her to roll it. He tossed his own cube to the floor where it bounced and rattled and came up as a three.

  Maeve shook her hand and blew on the die for good luck and then tossed it to the floor. Six. She squealed and turned to the wooden figures in front of her, pondering her move. Despite his loss, Derek moved to his side and waited, arms crossed, face neutral; everything inside of him looked ready for battle.

  Maeve slowly moved a bunny forward two spaces. “Your turn.”

  He won.

  Not easily or handily, but he won.

  And when he said the solemn, “Checkmate,” Maeve walked over to Derek and shook his hand and their hands lingered together, it was no longer about the win or the loss and the sportsmanship but about how their skin felt together.

  “You made me work for it,” he said.

  “I think men should have to work at things,” she replied with teasing on her voice. She dropped her hand.

  “Is that so?” he asked, a smile on his voice. He took a step forward, and she caught a breath in her chest. She hadn’t anticipated the moment to arrive so fast and she wanted to enjoy it.

  “I’m not afraid of hard work,” he said, holding her gaze.

  She hadn’t even formed a response inside her brain before he kissed her. Took her by surprise, leaned down, his black stubble rubbing against her chin, and he kissed her. Maeve stepped into his embrace, aware of how every part of her body aligned perfectly with his. Hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder; she felt like they should dance.

  And as he kissed her, his tongue finding hers, his mouth lingering and pushing and all she could think as she moved her own lips to follow his was: I’m kissing Derek Shelton, I’m kissing Derek Shelton. Maeve tried to memorize every sensation. She was so going to tell her sister about this.

  Their lips lingered while their hands moved slowly around her other, circling over the safest parts of each other’s bodies—their hands drifting to each other’s backs and shoulders, to the back of their heads and down, briefly, to an ass, and anywhere else they felt like touching—all in one moment. Both of them allowed the pretense to fall away that they needed to show prudeness or slowness, or mature resolve to give it any allotted amount of time.

  They’d been waiting for this moment all night. Since she walked into the Italian place, probably.

  It was impossible to deny that there’d been an attraction there from the beginning. For Maeve, she’d been waiting over a decade to be able to know how it felt to be with him, and now all her ridiculous teenage desires seemed possible—especially the one that said that someday she could land her obsession.

  He kissed her again; they breathed in and explored each other with their kisses and Maeve tried to keep herself in the moment.

  The urgency of their bodies carried more weight than a generation’s worth of mores. The universe offered up this man to her, and if she turned him away, if she said no, she’d be disappointing the stars, the universe, the gods.

  Derek Shelton. She honestly couldn’t even stop saying his name in her brain.

  They crashed into each other with such pent-up anticipation that Maeve felt disassociated from reality for one quick moment—was this her? Could this be happening? Was he kissing her? Was he sliding his hand to the small of her back? Was he putting his hands up the back of her shirt, moving her body closer to his? Was this all actually happening to her?

  And when her brain reconciled the truth—yes, yes, yes! She let herself go and tumbled completely into him. She ran her hands through his hair and pushed his head into hers so his lips lingered while they tilted toward each other, with intention.

  They kissed and they kissed. The torches burned in all directions, separating them from whatever else lay beyond the chess set, riddled with the remnants of their game. Her pieces and his, abandoned.

  His tongue slid along her tongue, her breasts pushed against his chest, his hands moved downward, sliding along her hip, her ass.

  Fully clothed, they tumbled downward—hitting the chessboard with such force that a nearby Bunny Pawn fell sideways and rolled away—and the duo paused to watch it settle. Derek was on his back and Maeve adjusted her skirt and sat on top of him. She felt his cock rock hard underneath her and when she looked down, she could see his desire for her pushing against his pants. Her hand went to touch him and over his clothes she began to rub the outline of his erection. She bent down, her hair falling into his face, and she kissed him. Long and slow. He sat up to meet her halfway, but she led him back down.

  His hands fumbled for her bra before he abandoned the task and settled for putting his hands on her ass, cupping h
er cheeks.

  Derek Shelton is holding my ass, she thought. A moan escaped her, involuntarily and deep, it came from a place of pure sexual abandonment. And it came from him simply touching her ass. She leaned down and kissed him again; she kissed his lips, his cheeks, his forehead. She kissed his chest and then she slid lower, kissing his stomach, unbuttoning and moving the shirt as she went.

  “Hey,” he sighed, between kisses. “Unless fooling around on a chess board is a bucket list item,” he said, “we can move inside. I have a bed, actually. I’m not a total wild man.”

  She ran a finger over the waistband of his pants and felt the smoothness of his skin. He closed his eyes and arched his back and she ran her hand down against his penis.

  He thrust up, the power and hunger for her unavoidable.

  Now, they sat, his mouth on hers, his hand on her face, her hands on his chest—and she heard a small voice tug on the back of her mind, something that simultaneously craved sex on the giant chessboard and something else that didn’t want to risk that this was the product of lowered inhibitions and pent-up sexual desire. And she would regret it all in the morning.

  “Wait,” she whispered. “Wait.”

  And Derek stopped.

  He took his fingers and brushed a piece of hair out of her face and tucked it behind his ear. His eyes went soft and logy, focused on her face, on calming down the momentum they had built. His hands were still on her; one hand on her knee, the other on her waist—if she gave him permission to devour her, he would, and she would let him.

  But she had to stop.

  He was too good, too hot, too inviting—he was all the things she wanted in her life. And as much as she wanted him, too, all of him, she didn’t want it there.

  She didn’t want to give an apology for the brakes since it gave the wrong impression.

  Instead, she leaned over and kissed his forehead and said, “I want to,” the but lingered next and she couldn’t find the perfect phrase to explain why not. I want to ride you until dawn, but someday you’re gonna find out I’m a little true crime groupie and you’ll wonder if you were used.

  That was it.

  That was what she was afraid of.

  “Derek,” she started, but he didn’t let her finish.

  He stood up, walked over and began to put out the flames light by light, extinguishing them all. When the darkness engulfed them, he took her hand and they walked in a loopy, dizzying gait up to the doors of a small trailer. Derek started a generator and the trailer blinked to life. A canopy outside was draped with Christmas lights and underneath there were two lazy boy chairs side-by-side, facing in opposite directions. He directed Maeve to sit down in one and then he handed her a fleece blanket, which he draped around her body.

  “You live here?” she asked.

  Derek nodded. “Five acres of land and I’m going to build a house here. Concrete for the foundation gets poured next week.”

  “Whoa,” Maeve said and looked around, but she could only see a few feet beyond the canopy in the dark.

  “It’s been my dream to build my own place. I designed it.”

  “That’s really impressive,” she said, and she meant it. She snuggled up and smiled at Derek. He hummed softly and looked away.

  “A nightcap maybe?” he asked and she nodded. He slipped inside for a few minutes, with the sound of glasses tinkling filtering out into the night.

  When he returned, he handed her a hot-buttered rum and she sipped it slowly, still wrapped up and tucking her knees up under her. He sat down in the joining chair and their shoulders nearly touched, the space between them small and close—she could hear his breath and the sloshing of his drink, but way out there in the country there wasn’t the steady hum of traffic she was used to in the city.

  They sat alone basking in silence without discomfort before Derek spoke.

  “Go ahead,” he said, and Maeve tilted her head as though she didn’t know what he meant.

  “And do what?” she asked.

  “Ask me what you really want to ask me,” he said leaned back in the chair, extending the legs and back so he stared up at the canopy above. Maeve looked down at his face and shook her head.

  “Ask you what?” she asked, but she knew what. She could tell by his smug silence that he’d somehow deduced her reluctance to sleep with him was because she didn’t get to ask about the murder. That wasn’t it at all. She could respect his wishes easily and that was different than hiding her own interests.

  “What you’ve been wanting to ask me about all night,” he said. He closed his eyes and looked like he was about to pass off into peaceful sleep. It felt like arrogance that he’d expect it was the only thing on her mind—and even though he was partly right, he was still mostly wrong.

  Maeve cleared her throat. “No, I don’t want to ask you questions about the Woodstock Killer,” she answered with such bite that Derek’s eyes snapped open and he looked at her. “Anyone would be curious and of course, if you ever told me anything about it, I’d probably feel excited and honored. But I didn’t want to ask you about it if you didn’t want to talk about it…”

  “Okay,” he said, conceding. “I’m sorry, I just assumed because—”

  “Because of the Social Club?” she rolled her eyes and took a drink to distract herself from the mounting shift in the evening’s tone.

  “You mean the murder group,” he said without emotion. He raised his eyebrows and waited for her to confirm.

  “You called me. You knew that’s where I met your dad,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “You called me back,” Derek amended with a smile, “and I knew you were someone at The Alibi, sure.” A bluff and Maeve knew it, but she let it slide. “What do you know about me, Maeve? Why don’t we start there?” he asked and she knew that was a different question entirely.

  “There you go,” Maeve whispered and she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “That’s the question you should’ve asked from the beginning, I guess.” Her stomach sank with the realization that answering honestly meant he might discard her. A heavy make-out session didn’t communicate any promises made. Honesty had its virtues and its victims.

  “You could’ve said something,” he remarked in a whisper.

  “Wait. I didn’t want you to have to talk about your past,” she said. “That was the deal. You told me—”

  “I know,” he interrupted with a conciliatory grunt of frustration. He lifted the chair back to seated position and reached over taking her hand in his. When he touched her and looked at her apologetically with his blue eyes and long lashes, she forgave his assumptions.

  His touch was electric. He simply tapped an index finger against her thumb and energy jolted up her arm and god, god—her body clenched and unclenched in response. Who could tap her with an index finger and make her wet? It was impossible to quell her yearning.

  She didn’t know if the touching would lead to kissing, and if it did then kissing, with absolute certainty, would lead to sex because the chairs were made for lovemaking and the porch was so beautiful under the twinkle-lights and Maeve wouldn’t stop herself this time. Her body ached for him.

  Derek sniffed.

  “You’re right. I knew. And I asked anyway.”

  Maeve nodded. “I’m not here for details about your life,” she whispered. “I want to know you now. This isn’t some trick.”

  “I’m not good at dating,” he said on her heels. His finger reached her shoulder and he leaned and traced her collarbone. The back. Down her arm and to her fingers. He intertwined his hand with hers. “On the phone…do you know how long it’s been since I could just talk to someone like that? I don’t want to overstate it, but…I have really enjoyed being with you tonight. I don’t want it to end, yet.”

  “I know. Yeah. When it’s good, it’s good, right?” she agreed. “And I didn’t want to ruin it by—” she said, slowly.

  “Talking about the Woodstock Killer?”

  “Not exactly. Just by
…ruin it by—”

  “Oh, come on,” Derek asked lazily, unprepared for her answer.

  “By telling you that I had a crush on you as a kid? That I used to follow the story in the newspaper because I liked to look at pictures of you. You were the first person I ever…my first…fictional crush. Unattainable crush.” She said unattainable with a self-reflective smirk. Life was strange.

  Derek stared at her, his finger stopped moving.

  She held her breath and wondered if she’d just made a horrible mistake.

  Chapter Nine

  Derek had been turned off by women even talking about watching True Crime documentaries or mentioning they followed the trial when they were younger, but when Maeve confessed the motley details of her childhood obsession, he felt amused and flattered.

  He pretended to scowl a bit, but he didn’t feel as though he could fault her; he’d written ridiculous love poetry to girls and spent his own junior high and high school years obsessed with Victoria’s Secret Models. Derek Shelton, the kid who grew up in the spotlight, however, was not him in real life. He only needed to convey that she had crushed on a ghost, a person who no longer existed.

  She told him the entirety of her story with self-deprecating comments and embarrassed laughing, and he listened to her honesty with genuine appreciation.

  “I tried to go down to the courthouse one day,” Maeve added timidly. “I was going to ride the city bus and stand outside the courtroom that said something about always believing victims, or something. But I got caught by a transit authority for truancy.” Maeve laughed, remembering the moment.

  He took her hand, and she paused her story.

  “If you kiss me,” she said slowly, “I won’t be able to stop you.”

  His stomach dropped deep into his groin and all the blood in his body rushed to his cock—he tried not to look down at it, to draw attention to the growing excitement for her. Maeve made him laugh, and she knew interesting things and she told amazing stories while asking him questions. And she tasted like chapstick and wine.