A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2)

by Q. T. Ruby

  “Come on, let’s get you home,” Camille says slipping an arm through mine.

  I sigh. “Yes—home!”

  On the way back to our apartment, I fill them in on the specifics of my new job and all that’s happened with Dan.

  “Wow. You’re a professional songwriter and composer! Amazing. What kind of songs will you write?” Camille asks.

  “It’ll vary. My current assignment is to put together a demo, which is a sampling of songs and styles for David to shop around. He’s supposed to be very good, so I’m crossing my fingers!”

  “Not to burst any bubbles or anything, but don’t you need a piano for that?” Bridget asks.

  “Well, yeah, that’s the tricky part. Our apartment’s way too small for one. I could use a keyboard, but it’s not the same. So David had this great idea—he said sometimes NYU lets musicians use their space and instruments if they donate to the university. He’s checking into it for me.”

  “Donate to the university? How much? Because I’m thinking ten bucks isn’t going to be enough,” Bridget says.

  I laugh. “Nope, definitely not enough. David said it can be pricey, so it’ll be a stretch, but I’m used to that. Plus, it’s an investment in my new career. I guess I’ll just have to wait to see what David finds out. One step at a time, right?”

  Bridget and Camille share a look. “Who are you and what have you done with our Claire?” Camille asks.

  We all laugh.

  ***

  Outside the apartment, I’m bouncing while Camille digs the key out of her bag.

  “I can’t believe I’m back!”

  “It wasn’t the same without you,” Bridget says. “No one to dress up, no one to sit on . . .”

  Camille opens the door, and everything is just as it had been. All the furniture’s in the same place, it smells the same, too, and a rush of happiness hits me. My eyes well up with tears.

  “What’s wrong?” Bridget asks.

  “Nothing. I’m just so happy to be back here with you guys. I really didn’t think I’d be back.” I wander into my old bedroom, where I’d left my bed and bare mattress since neither would fit into the moving truck. “You guys made up the bed for me? With your furry comforter and pink satin sheets?” I look at Bridget.

  “I didn’t make up the bed for you,” Bridget says. “When I opened the windows to sing my morning song, the animals scampered in and took care of it with their forest magic.”

  I giggle. “Well, thank you—and the animals.” I plop down on the bed, the softness enveloping me. Camille and Bridget flop on either side of me.

  “This is awesome,” I say, sighing happily as we lie back, our feet dangling off the edge.

  “So, you’re flying to Mexico in two weeks, and you have to make a demo before you go . . . and we’re getting your stuff from your parents’ tomorrow, a.k.a. Mission Impossible, right?” Camille asks, smiling.

  “Yeah. I’ve been avoiding calling my mom to let her know we’re coming.”

  “I think we should just surprise attack,” Bridget says. “She surprise attacks all the time. It’s only fair. Plus, I could put together some killer ninja outfits.”

  The idea of it makes me giggle. “It’s tempting to sneak attack, but . . . someone once told me to expect nothing, but hope for the best, so I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe enough time has passed.”

  “Seriously, who are you?” Camille laughs. “All this hope and optimism. It’s unnerving.”

  I smile, laughing at how different I feel.

  “Well, until the onslaught . . . let’s get some dinner,” Bridget says. “Chow’s Chinese? Your favorite to celebrate you being back here?”

  “Yes!”

  We order in, and I get all kinds of caught up with their lives, but soon enough I’m yawning—I’m too tired from the long day and need to sleep.

  “See you bright and early to get your stuff, Cinderella!” Camille blows me a kiss, as I head to my room.

  I unpack what little I have with me and climb into my old bed, leaving my shades and windows wide open so the city lights and sounds I’ve missed so much can filter in. But what I miss most is Dan. Hopefully I can reach him, since neither of us was sure exactly where he’d be or if he’d be busy working when I got in. I slink down into the slippery satin sheets, cross my fingers, and dial him.

  “Hello? Who’s this?” The Englishman answers slyly, as if he doesn’t know it’s me.

  “Well, it’s definitely not your girlfriend,” I say, with a heavy dose of breathlessness.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he teases.

  “Maybe you need a girlfriend.”

  “Nah.”

  “Really? You mean you wouldn’t want a girlfriend who’s lying in bed, thinking of you, and wearing only a tight, sheer tank top that barely covers her nipples and super tiny short shorts that double as underwear since all her other clothes are dirty?”

  The other end is dead silent. I wait.

  “Holy shit, Claire. Say that again?” he blurts out in one quick breath.

  “Who’s Claire?”

  “Claire’s my girlfriend,” he says quickly and factually. “Seriously, say that again?”

  I giggle. “Say what?”

  He laughs. “What are you trying to do to me? You’re not even remotely nearby, and after weeks of near-constant sex, I’m going through withdrawal now. It’s painful.”

  “Aww, poor baby. Then I guess I shouldn’t tell you how I’m lying here in my bed, all alone in the dark, wearing just these itty-bitty pajamas that can be slipped off my body so easily.”

  “No.” A heavy exhale and a long pause later he says, “Oh fuck. Yeah, tell me.”

  “Are you sure?” My voice is husky, and I’m trying not to giggle at his excitement.

  “Oh, yeah. I am.” His voice, deep and rough, has turned serious.

  We are good to go. “You sure you want me to tell you how it’s so hot here, and how I might need to slip off my top to cool down?”

  “Fuck. Mmhmm.”

  I hear movement through the phone, a rustling or something. “What’s that noise?”

  He snickers. “Me. Getting into bed. If I don’t, I might trip up and get hurt. Now continue.”

  All righty. “So, you’re alone in the dark like I am?”

  “Yes.” There’s his husky English voice again, stirring me up as always.

  “Hang on a sec. I need to slide off my tank.” I hear him exhale. “Ooh, it just slipped against my tight, hard nipples. Let me toss this to the floor. Ahh, that’s better. Huh. Look at that,” I say, listening to the shift in his breathing. “My nipples are so hard . . . and if I twist and pull at them like this, the way you do . . . they just get longer and harder. Mmmm.”

  “Holy fuck . . .” He’s panting. “Don’t stop . . .”

  “Okay, baby.”

  “Did you just call me baby?”

  “Is that okay?”

  “Very okay.”

  “So let’s see . . . where was I?”

  “Your nipples. They’re hard, and you’re touching them like I do,” he says quickly, which makes me laugh to myself, because it’s like hurry the fuck up!

  “That’s right. Do you remember touching them yesterday?”

  “Mmm.”

  “And you remember their taste?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Me, too. I’m thinking of just that right now . . .” I pause, but there’s no response, only breathing. Heavy breathing. “But you know? I’m still sort of hot.”

  “You are?”

  “I think I should slide off my shorts, but . . . then . . . then I’ll be naked. I don’t know. What should I do?”

  “Slide them off! All the way. Off, o
ff, off!” His breathing’s shallow now, and, my God, I love it.

  “Right. Hang on a second.” I shift around, purposely making the bed squeak. “Ooh. It feels so good to have them off. I’m a little cooler now, except . . . right between my legs. It’s just so warm there, and let me feel . . . oh . . . slick.”

  “Oh fuck . . .”

  I gasp for effect. “So wet. You remember how wet you get me?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . I do.” He pants in and out, like he’s catching his breath after a run.

  “And your strong fingers gliding across, spreading the wetness . . . mmm . . . all over?”

  He responds with a quick grunt.

  “Circling and circling, my back arching from your sweet touch . . .” I moan a little because, to be honest, I’m getting pretty hot, too—my boyfriend’s moans and grunts are caused by me, by my words, by our memories. “And your fingers dipped inside, exploring . . . do you remember? It’s just like how I’m doing it now . . .”

  He growls low and deep.

  “It felt so good, baby. Remember?”

  He releases a louder groan.

  “It was so, so good. I couldn’t help the way you made my hips come off the bed. And I’m thinking about what you did to me . . . over me . . . under me . . . inside me. Remember?”

  “Fuck.”

  “Then I got on top of you . . . and slipped you right inside this slick spot . . . it’s aching for you now. I’m aching for you, only you . . . mmm.” He’s all hard breaths and groans, and it’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced—over the phone anyway.

  “Keep going . . .” he says quickly, mumbling almost, as if speaking is a struggle.

  “And then I rode you faster and faster and faster—remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He’s insistent now, and I can tell he’s so very close to the edge.

  “And you looked up at me, my breasts bouncing in time as we thrust together, my mouth opening as I moaned loudly?”

  “Fuuuuuck.”

  I’m thinking that maybe this long-distance thing won’t be so bad after all.

  Chapter Three

  I wake to the sun on my face, but I refuse to open my eyes—I want to lie here and rewind-play-rewind-play last night with Dan. Sure, he’s thousands of miles away, but hell if phone sex with him wasn’t one of the sexiest things I’ve experienced. Just to do that with him—no, to him over the phone. I remember our conversation afterward.

  “So, how was your flight?” I asked, nonchalantly right after he was done, at which point we both burst into laughter.

  It took a minute before he responded. “It was fine. I’m tired, but that—that just now woke me right up. You may have missed your calling. Calling—get it?”

  We laughed. “At least I have a backup career.”

  “Have you done that a lot?”

  “Phone sex? Well, there was a workshop Bridget made me attend one night—”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, and I had sex with the phone. I was the . . . receiver!” I erupted into giggles. “No, I’ve never had phone sex before. Have you?” Why do I ask questions I probably don’t want to know the answer to?

  “No, not really.”

  “‘Not really’? ‘Not really’ isn’t a no.”

  “Well, not with anyone I know.”

  “What?”

  “One night, like four or maybe five years ago or something, Colin, me, and a couple of guys from home got pissed and crashed at Colin’s house, and we called a phone sex line.”

  “Do phone sex lines still exist?”

  “They did then I guess.”

  “And you had a phone sex orgy? Circle jerk? Maybe I shouldn’t know this.”

  He laughed. “No. It was a joke! My friend Phil hadn’t had sex yet, and we were teasing him and made him call a phone sex line.”

  “But you know with phone sex you don’t actually lose your virginity, right?”

  “Unless you’re the receiver!”

  We both cracked up.

  “So, did he, you know, follow through? With all of you there?”

  “Fuck no! When Phil refused to talk, Colin took over and said something about needing his pencil dick sharpened. I can’t even remember the rest, but he had us literally crying laughing.”

  “Sounds like Colin!”

  “Yes! Anyway, my point is that she sounded really sexy, and I thought about actually calling it up one night—when I was alone, of course—but I never did.”

  “And you’ve always regretted it? You know what they say, Dan. YOLO.”

  He laughed. “Well, I guess there’s no need now—YOLO, Claire. You’re my fantasy phone sex girl.”

  YOLO! I couldn’t stop giggling. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

  “I’m all about the compliments.”

  “That you are.”

  “So tomorrow you’re moving your stuff back to your flat?”

  I sighed. “Yeah.”

  “You sound thrilled.”

  I sighed louder. “Well, I called earlier to tell my mom I was coming and no one answered, so I don’t really know what I’m walking into tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Knock. Knock. I’m suddenly brought back to the here and now of the morning after the phone sex.

  “Come in.”

  My bedroom door opens, and Camille peers in. “You’re still in bed? Get up! We have to go! Bridget will be back with the van any time now.”

  I glance at the clock. “Oh God, I lost track of time!” I throw the sheets off and get going.

  Not a minute later, Bridget appears in my doorway, holds up the keys in both her hands like a warrior, and uses a deep voice to say, “I’m the Keymaster!”

  “It’s the little things with her,” Camille says with a laugh.

  I laugh, too, and quickly get myself together. In no time, we’re on the road, the three of us sitting on the bench seat with Camille driving and Bridget in the middle.

  “I’m so excited to see your mom again, Claire. She’s always so sweet and welcoming.” Bridget snorts.

  I groan. Sweet and welcoming—ha!

  “I’m sure she’ll offer us cookies and hugs. She’s the best,” she continues.

  “How could you have been birthed from her loins? Seriously. You don’t have a mean bone in your body,” Camille says.

  “Because her mom’s hogged them all!” Bridget says.

  I shake my head. This is going to be interesting. Soon enough, there it is: my parents’ large, white colonial house. I take a deep breath. It’s only been a few weeks, but it feels like forever ago that I was here, depressed and ready to hang it up. But then a wonderful turn of events happened—things I never could have expected—and I’m returning here worried that those wonderful things have forever divided my mom and me. My stomach twists.

  Camille parks and shuts off the engine. “We’re here!”

  “Ahh, Mount Doom,” Bridget says. “This should be a good time.”

  “Are you referencing The Lord of the Rings?” Camille asks, getting out of the van.

  “Yep!” Bridget says with a chuckle.

  “No more movies for you,” Camille says.

  We walk up to the front door—the door reserved for guests, since that’s how I feel—although guests are welcome, and I might not be. I knock. We wait. And wait. Finally, the door opens and there she is—my mom, Rita—dressed to perfection with precisely matching jewelry and fiery-red hair styled just so. She nods. Her face is devoid of emotion.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Mom,” I say tentatively. I’m hoping, hoping, ho
ping for a hug, a smile, something, but the tension is thick like mud. Do I make a move to go inside?

  “You’re here to get your things, I see.”

  I nod. “Yes, I called yesterday and left a message for you guys. Did you get it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say. This is horribly awkward.

  “Come in.” She steps to the side and closes the door behind us. “I’ll get out of your way.” She grabs her keys and purse.

  “You’re leaving?” I ask.

  “Yes.” For just a fraction of a second, there’s a flash of something—some emotion—but she’s hiding it, whatever it is. “Good-bye.”

  “Wait! That’s it? You’re not going to talk to me?”

  “What is there to talk about, Claire? You’ve made your decisions, and you’ve made it very clear you don’t want me interfering—or whatever you see it as—so yes, I’m leaving. Keep in touch if you’d like.” She turns and walks through the kitchen into the garage.

  I hear the car start, and I run to the living room window to watch in disbelief as her car pulls down the driveway. With my mouth agape, I turn to Camille and Bridget who are surprised, too. It’s brutally anticlimactic and more painful than a screaming match.

  We stand silent for several long moments.

  Bridget claps her hands, startling Camille and me. “Well, come on! Before Sauron comes back!”

  We pack my things, and although Camille, Bridget and I talk, I find I’m incapable of much conversation. Part of me wants to drag this out until my mom returns, and the other part of me wants to torch the rest of my things just to get out of here faster.

  When we’re finally done and get into the truck, we’re sitting in the same order as we did on the way here.

  “That didn’t take that long,” Bridget says, slapping her thighs and smiling.

  I nod, staring out the front window.

  “It’ll be okay, Claire,” Camille says. I know she’s trying to catch my eye, but I just can’t look at her. I can’t look at either of them.