738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  Chase uses one of the new keys to access my room and bolts the door behind us. Then he searches my room and his, including the closets and the tubs, and bolts his door before letting go of me in his living room area.

  He stands near the dining table and pulls at the ACE bandage around his hand, unwinding it so he can remove the cold pack.

  Dread spirals from my heart down to my stomach. I recognize this tactic for what it is: he’s stalling, working out the words he feels he needs to say.

  “Amanda,” he begins.

  I knew it.

  Panic sprints through me. “I’m going to shower,” I say, turning toward my room. I can’t have this argument right now. I won’t.

  “We need to talk,” he says.

  “No, I’m going to shower.”

  He sighs, his face a mask of grim determination, but I move past him, heading for the door to my room, where I pause, a belated thought occurring to me.

  “If you’re thinking you’re going to pack up my stuff for me in some kind of heavy-handed tactic to try to force me to leave, then you’d better be prepared to share whatever clothes you have left in your room.” In the doorway, I fold my arms over my chest. I’m taking a stand.

  He frowns at me, but doesn’t deny the possibility.

  “In fact, gimme.” I wave my fingers at him in a summoning gesture.

  He stares at me like I’ve taken sudden trauma to the head. “Give you what? My shirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” he asks, even as he’s shrugging out of his jacket. God, I love this man.

  “I have an incomplete collection.” Because I want it. Because no matter what happens, I need another piece of him to carry away from this place.

  He gives me an exasperated look but pulls his T-shirt over his head.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” he reminds me, as he tosses me his shirt.

  I catch it easily, but I’m momentarily distracted. He is just as beautiful as he was when I first saw him without his shirt that first morning. But he’s not preening now, tempting me to look at the work he’s put into his appearance.

  Instead, he rubs a hand self-consciously over his chest and down to his stomach, where the edge of his black boxer briefs peeks out over the top of his jeans. And that only makes me love him more. This is the real Chase, and I want him. For as long as he’ll let me have him.

  “It does,” I say. “I want to have a shower because I didn’t get one this morning. Then I want to go to bed, with you.”

  Chase opens his mouth to object.

  “In the morning, I want to wake up with you.” My voice breaks a little, but I push on. “I want to go have pancakes with orange–goji berry–caramel syrup.”

  In spite of himself, Chase makes a disgusted face.

  “Ha!” I point at him. “Yes, see? Told you. It doesn’t work for everything. Good individually, not so good together.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “But I want all of that,” I say, trying not to plead. “There will be plenty of time to fight tomorrow morning, after that. Right?” I’m working hard to play to the rational since I know that’s what he’ll respond to, but it’s also true. How long will it take for him to tear us apart in his need to protect me, in his need to be a better person than he was before? A few minutes to crush something so delicate, so carefully but fragilely constructed.

  Chase hesitates.

  Screw it. Pleading works sometimes, too.

  I swallow hard and meet his eyes unflinchingly. “I just want tonight. Please?”

  He drops his gaze, but not before I see the flash of guilt and uncertainty. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, dragging his jeans lower. “Amanda, I don’t know—”

  “I do,” I say with as much firmness as I can manage. And that is huge for me, a victory I want to celebrate with him. Then, before he can respond or I break down in tears, I turn and walk away.

  With his shirt in hand, I hurry to my bathroom, shut the door, lock it. I’m not worried about the crazy stalker person. Well, not as much with Leon’s guy in the hallway and Chase right next door.

  I’m more worried that Chase is going to follow and try to talk to me. Even through the door, those words can’t be unheard. And if we have this conversation tonight, I’m afraid I might give in and agree to leave. Then I’ll never forgive him or myself for it. And yet, if I keep fighting him on this, he might begin to resent me for being stubborn, for putting myself at risk, for making him take the chance of what he sees as failure.

  Reaching for the tub faucet, I crank it full blast, drowning out everything but the white-noise roar of water pouring into the basin.

  Then, and only then, when I know Chase won’t hear, when I can barely hear myself, I sit on the edge of the tub and let myself cry. Great racking sobs that I held in earlier when I opened that stupid box; when Chase told Leon to take me home; when I watched Chase hit the ground, over and over; when I listened to the beat of his heart in the van and wished I could stop time to live in that moment.

  For the first time in forever, I know what I want. And instead of it being a negative—an absence of pain, fear, or anxiety—it’s something positive. Love, belonging, acceptance.

  But I’m going to lose all of that before I even really have it. Frustration and despair swell in me in equal parts. Because what am I supposed to do? What can I do?

  Why does it have to be so complicated? Haven’t I earned something simple? I survived, damnit. I’m Miracle Girl, a title I never wanted, never felt like I deserved. But I’d take it right now if it meant I could have this without all the pitfalls, trip wires, and nooses.

  I wipe my face and try to catch my breath. Chase’s shirt is in my lap. Against my better judgment, I lift it to my face, feeling the softness of the cotton that covered the rise and fall of his chest, and smell the scent of him.

  My heart twists in my chest. But with that pain—one that is also somehow pleasure because of what it means—comes a small burst of clarity.

  Maybe it’s always complicated. Nothing I’ve seen from people who aren’t even as messed up as I am suggests that love is easy.

  Maybe what matters is what you do when it isn’t, when it looks too hopeless, too difficult.

  That idea gives me the kernel of fortitude to get up, wipe my face, and do something instead of bemoaning my fate.

  I know what I want. So I’m going after it.

  In the shower, I take my time, though I know Chase is building an argument against me every second I’m away.

  When I’m done, I towel-dry my hair, not wanting to bother with blow-drying it. My pulse is thrumming, but not with fear.

  I pull Chase’s shirt over my head, and it stops at my upper thighs, barely covering everything. Perfect.

  This time, when I walk to the doorway between our rooms, I’m shaking with anticipation, determination, and desire in a heady mix.

  Chase is at the half-wall between the bedroom and the living room area, heading toward the bathroom. He’s wearing just another pair of dark boxer briefs. The sharp cut of his leg muscles is plain when he’s in motion like this. His hair is damp, too, and he’s holding a bunched-up towel.

  He stills when he sees me.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He clears his throat and chucks the towel toward the dining table chair, where it catches. “Hey.”

  I turn and shut the door, locking out my room. I’m not going back there tonight. I’m not retreating. I’m moving forward.

  I face him.

  His throat works audibly. “Amanda, you don’t—”

  I raise my eyebrows. “If you tell me that I don’t have to do this, I’m going to scream loud enough that Leon’s guy calls the cops. I am my own person, Chase, and I make decisions for myself, including this one.”

  He makes a frustrated noise. “Even if you’re going to ignore everything that’s going on—”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “—I don’t want to be a dare to you, some bound
ary you’re pushing against just to prove something to yourself,” he says, the hurt in his voice achingly obvious.

  I stop, stunned breathless. “Do you think that’s what this is?”

  Studying the ground, he lifts his shoulder once, mute.

  “It’s not,” I say, stepping up next to him. I press my lips against his bare shoulder. “Remember I told you I wasn’t going to run anymore, that I’m not hiding?”

  Chase makes a soft noise of assent, his chest moving rapidly against mine as I trail kisses across his collarbone, tasting him. His skin is slightly damp from the shower and a little slick from the fresh soap.

  When I reach his throat, I stop and look up at him. “I figured out that’s not enough. So now I’m going to chase what I want.” I wait until he looks down. “You,” I say. “I love you, and I want to be with you.”

  He draws in a sharp breath.

  Before I lose my nerve and with a blush that is probably visible to somebody on the moon, I take his hand and tug him toward the bed.

  I’m half-expecting him to argue or pull back, but instead, I feel him move with me, following without resistance.

  His silent acquiescence to—and respect for—my choice and my desires heats my blood faster than anything else.

  When he steps past me, I watch as he pulls back the covers in a smooth arc on one side and then slides beneath them, waiting for me, with an intense, watchful gaze.

  He’s giving me the lead.

  I love him so much in that moment that it feels like my heart, inadequate for this level of emotion, might just burst.

  When I kneel on the edge of the ironed-smooth sheets, he rolls up on his elbow, watching me, his attention so taut I feel it like a caress on my skin. Along my neck, between my thighs. I’m fairly sure his shirt is transparent with the bedside lamp on behind me, which means he can see everything, all of me. And just that thought makes my pulse throb at the center of me. I want his hands on me.

  An idea occurs to me then, probably much too late, but I’m hoping he’ll have the right answer.

  “Condoms?” I ask.

  Heat flickers in his gaze. “In the bathroom, my shaving bag.”

  I pull my knee off the bed and take the few steps to the bathroom in a hurry, the warmth between my legs already a distracting ache crying out for attention.

  His shaving bag is organized to a level I’ve never seen, everything in its place. And sure enough, I find three condoms tucked neatly in a side pocket.

  “All of them?” he asks when I hold them up on my return.

  I set them down on the nightstand within easy reach. “I’m not getting back out once I’m in.” Then feeling daring, I add, “And you’re not, either.”

  He makes a sound that’s half moan, half laugh.

  I kneel on the edge of the bed and turn off the light, but there’s enough moonlight shining through the gap in the curtains that, once my eyes adjust, I can see him on his side, his arm curled beneath his head on one of the pillows.

  He holds his arm out to me. “Come here,” he says in a husky voice that makes me want to press myself against him until we’re falling together.

  “Wait,” I say. I shimmy out of his shirt, pulling it over my head and catching my breath as the fabric in motion teases my already sensitive nipples.

  He makes a strangled noise. “You are so beautiful, like a statue or something.” Then he gives an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, I’m not the best with words.”

  But I know exactly what he means. The moonlight through the window has turned him into a silver and black outline, and the shape of him strikes a chord deep within me, the desire to possess, to take some part of that beauty into myself and hold it forever. And knowing him, knowing that he’s kind and protective and fierce, only makes that desire stronger.

  I lean over him, pushing at his shoulder gently until he lies back on the pillows. He goes willingly, his hand still tucked beneath his head.

  The triangle of his elevated arm reveals the paler, intimate skin beneath his arm, the darker hair a shadow. It feels like something private, vulnerable. I want to make it mine.

  I lean down and press my mouth against that soft skin, breathing in deep the scent of him.

  He shivers, the goose bumps rising against my lips.

  I look up at him. “Cold?”

  “No,” he whispers.

  Pressing my hands against the mattress for support, I kiss a line across his chest, opening my mouth to scrape my teeth against the curve of his pectoral muscle.

  He gasps. And I smile against his skin; the rush of power is heady. To make him feel the way he makes me feel, to cause him to want, to be in control. I am invincible in this moment.

  Then that muscle shifts beneath my mouth, his arm moving. I feel his hand slip between my knees and up. One long finger strokes me once, teasing, before plunging inside.

  My hips automatically arch toward him, throwing the top half of me back.

  Chase stops abruptly, catching my wrist.

  “Hold up.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice throaty, barely recognizable to my own ears.

  He shifts toward the center of the bed, tugging at me to follow.

  “I was afraid you were going to fall off the edge,” he says with a soft laugh.

  Love for him rises in me in a wave that feels so thick it might fill my lungs and block the air, and I welcome it.

  Bending down, I let my mouth wander over his chest to the center dip, a small hollow that is perfect for licking, and to the heartbeat throbbing on the left side.

  His hand returns between my legs, touching the top of my thigh, the hollow to the side, just an inch above where my skin is throbbing for him, everywhere but where I need him to touch. I squirm against his fingers, moving my hips, trying to manipulate his position, but he resists.

  Making a frustrated noise, I slide down to press my tongue against his abdomen. His erection is right there, just peeking out of the top of his boxer briefs.

  It looks impossibly uncomfortable and incredibly hard.

  I ghost a breath across that part of him, and his hand between my legs ceases its torment and slides over the center of me.

  My eyes snap shut. Yes. Want.

  I open my eyes and stroke my hand down him, and his breath catches even as he pushes into the pressure, demanding more.

  When I slip my fingers into his waistband, touching him tentatively, the skin so hot and tight, he groans.

  Then his hand leaves me and he pushes his boxers down, giving me free rein.

  Moved by instinct, I duck my head and trace his hardness with my tongue, curling over the top.

  He moans, his hips thrusting up toward my mouth. As it seems like I’m doing something very right, I keep going, licking down the length of him. Then when I reach the top again, I close my mouth over him carefully.

  His hand fumbles, shaking, between my legs, and then he presses his fingers inside me.

  I suck in a breath over his skin and he groans, pushing himself deeper into my mouth.

  Now we’re moving together, my mouth on him, his hand in me.

  I’m sideways to him, my breasts brushing over his stomach and his hip, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Rocking myself against the friction of his hand, I can feel the return of that spreading warmth in my lower half.

  And I know what it means, but I want more. I want all of him.

  With one last suck against his skin, I release him from my mouth and straighten up.

  His hand falls away from me when I tap gently at his wrist. Then I swing my leg over to his hips to straddle him, my heart racing with anticipation.

  The heat of his body rises up in a wave, and I lower myself carefully against him, not pressing down, not yet, but making contact.

  It’s a strange feeling. I’m in control, his hands rest lightly on my legs, nothing more, but it’s the feeling of being exposed, of opening myself up, that sends a faint tremor of uncertainty through me for the first
time.

  Chase lifts up, propping himself on his elbows, which brings his stomach against me, and I feel the muscles contract with the motion. “Kiss me,” he says.

  I lean forward and press my mouth to his. His kiss is lazy, unhurried, as he bites my lower lip gently and then slides his tongue over it to soothe.

  The tension in me eases, and I can feel the slow, easy languor returning. My position over him doesn’t seem quite as overwhelming or the tiny bit frightening that it did only moments ago.

  He presses his mouth against the tops of my breasts, his tongue caressing every inch of skin he can reach. His chin, rough with the beginning of stubble, scrapes over my nipples.

  A whimper escapes me, and acting on instinct, I lift myself up, bringing my breast to his mouth.

  His tongue flicks out against my nipple before his mouth captures it, sucking it in deep.

  I buck my hips against him, but the angle is all wrong. I’m too high.

  His hands move to my thighs. “Open your legs just a little more,” he whispers, sliding his palm between the side of his body and the inside of my leg. “You’re safe; I promise.”

  I relent, following his gentle pressure to ease my knees away from his body, and to relax my weight onto him.

  This brings the sensitive wet part of me in direct contact with the heat and solidity of him, still damp from my mouth. It feels shockingly good.

  His head falls back, exposing his throat.

  It feels natural and easy then to slide up him to press a kiss against his Adam’s apple and then down again.

  The angle presses him against the sensitive nub at the heart of me, and suddenly we’re moving smoothly together in slick rhythm that feels effortless.

  He grips my hips, dragging me over him with more pressure.

  The tip of him presses into me barely, and I wiggle in frustration, trying to find a way to take him in deeper.

  “You okay?” he asks tightly.

  “Yes, don’t stop!” I push against his shoulder.

  But he gives a shaky laugh and lowers himself against the pillows. “Too close to the edge.”