by BL Mute
The corner of my lips pulls up. “And what if I say I do?”
She spins around, letting her front brush mine, and locks her blue orbs on me. Her body language doesn’t match her eyes. Her hands are shaking, she’s chewing on her lip, and her brow is furrowed. But her eyes scream curiosity. Desire. Want.
“I—”
“Why are you here, Lydia?” I ask, cutting her off.
She opens her mouth again, but I clamp my hand over it. “And be honest—I don’t like liars. Liars get punished.”
I remove my hand and watch her pink tongue slip out and lick her lips before she speaks again. “I’m here to see you.”
I nod. “Mhm, and what do you need from me?” I plant my hand on the door behind her, caging her in.
“I—I’m not sure.” Her voice shakes.
I smirk. “You know why you’re here, so let me hear you say it.”
Her eyes bounce between mine. “I just wanted to see you.”
I lean in closer and love the response I get. Her throat bobs as she tries to look anywhere but at me. “Any particular reason why?” She nods. “So, tell me, then.”
Her lip trembles as she takes in a breath before leaning in even closer, hovering her lips a millimeter from mine. “I want you.”
“Is that so?” I slide my hand down the wall until it hits the handle of the door, then quickly turn the lock.
Ever since Lydia turned fourteen and started developing, I’ve watched her. And I’ve wanted her. I’ve made small comments and made sure she knew I liked her, but nothing that could incriminate me. Sure, she’s a minor, but that doesn’t matter to me. I was willing to wait until she was of age if that’s what it took. But now I don’t have to.
I knew this day would come, and I couldn’t be happier to finally see what she looks like under all her clothes. To feel her. To taste her.
CHAPTER SIX
LYDIA
He leans over his desk with his shirt still open and his back to me. His belt buckle clinks against the hard wood with every inhale. I want to say something—anything—but my lips won’t move.
I let out a breath, trying to process what I just did, but everything is a blur.
An ecstasy-filled blur.
A dirty blur.
A wrong blur.
Fuck…
I shimmy my dress down my thighs and grab my clutch from the floor. I turn and hurry out the door before he can say anything about what we’ve just done. There is no need to talk about it. We both know every dirty detail, and that’s enough.
Once I make it to the stairs, I hear his door open again, but I’m too scared to turn around. I don’t want to face him. I can’t face him, so I just focus on not tripping as I rush down the stairs. One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other.
When I make it to the bottom, I turn left and hit the bathrooms. A place I think would be safe from him. From his hard eyes… His talented tongue… His skilled hands…
“Shut up, Lydia,” I whisper to myself, but what’s the use?
He did things to my body I will never forget. No matter how much I try and quiet my mind, it will still scream.
I walk into a stall and close it, then flip the small latch to lock myself inside. I pull my phone from my clutch and hit Stop on the recorder, then slump onto the closed toilet and run my fingers through my tousled hair.
The door to the bathroom opens, and I freeze. The sound of footfalls on the porcelain floor is deafening. Slowly, I pull my knees to my chest, hooking my heels on the edge of the toilet, and pray whoever it is leaves. But when the toes of his shiny Gucci dress shoes peek under the stall, I know luck isn’t on my side.
I hold my breath and clench my clutch to the front of my knees, then close my eyes. A millennium passes before I hear his husky scoff, and his footsteps start again. They grow fainter and fainter until the door opens again and they’re gone completely.
I let the breath I’ve been holding out and look to my phone. I only needed a minute to compose myself—to let the flush in my cheeks die down—but now my heart is beating faster than before with the thought of having to actually face him again. I clearly didn’t think any of this through enough.
Planting my feet back on the ground, I stand and unlock the stall door. I give myself one quick glance in the mirror, then leave the bathroom.
As soon as I step out, every ounce of strength I had vanishes. Malcolm stands across the threshold with his back and the sole of his shoe pressed into the wall. A wicked smirk dances on his lips. He opens his mouth to speak but never gets the chance. Almost like the universe is doing me a solid, Carter turns the corner and walks between us both.
I grab his bicep and cling to it. “Walk me outside.” I make it a statement, not a question.
He raises his brow like he’s going to object, but I pull him toward the front entrance before he can.
When we step outside, he jerks from my hold. “What the fuck?”
I hold up my hand I was grabbing him with. “Sorry. I needed a way out. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, and when you’re with someone else, people are less likely to approach you.”
He huffs. “Whatever. Don’t ever touch me again, Lydia.”
My head rears back. “Oh, I’m sorry. What happened to the Carter from the other night who wanted to fuck? You know, the one who was less of an asshole?”
He grabs the lapels on his leather jacket and smirks. “Clearly, I was drunk, and when I’m drunk, my dick does all the talking. You’re delusional to think I would ever actually fuck you. I haven’t forgotten about you hooking up with Charles our freshman year. My best friend.”
I roll my eyes. “You only cared because he got to hit it before you.”
“No, I cared because I liked you.”
His confession catches me off guard. I wait for the playful tone in his voice to come, but it never does. His face is steel, and his words are serious.
“Whatever. I don’t have time for this.” I wave my hand around, then start toward my car.
I leave Carter standing by the entrance and slip in. He can’t be serious, and if he is, why wait so fucking long to say something? But that’s just like Carter. Say something that’s totally from left field, then act like it never happened. Carter and I were friends, never anything more. And I just fucked his dad.
I slept with Carter’s dad.
I groan and push my head into the back of the seat as I start my car. The thoughts of Malcolm were almost dissolved—completely pushed to the back of my mind—but now they’re back to front and center.
I grab my phone and go to my voice memos, then connect my Bluetooth before hitting Play and pulling out of the country club. Immediately, I hear Malcolm say my name. So much confusion, so much question in his tone, but still almost excited.
I listen and let myself get lost in his voice. I know I should hate myself. I should delete it and forget I ever did it, but I did this for a reason. A reason that is so much bigger than me.
As my own moans fill my ears, I rub my knees together as much as I can, trying to kill some of the friction that is coming back stronger than before, but I don’t have to fight myself long. Loud ringing travels through my speakers and slams into my ears.
I look down and see my mom’s name dance across my radio screen, so I take a breath, then hit Answer on my steering wheel. “Hey, Mom. How did dad’s surgery go?”
I guess my act of cool, calm, and collected worked, because her reply comes out low and smooth. “Are you at the house?”
“I’m actually leaving the club now. I came by to see Carter.” I kick myself for even saying that, but our parents don’t know we fell out. That our friendship dwindled to nothing within days, so I know she won’t question it.
“Okay. When you get home, wait downstairs. I need to talk to you.” She ends the call without an “I love you,” which makes my stomach sink.
There haven’t been any discussions, talks, nothing, for six months. Not since the big
talk about my dad’s diagnosis. Nothing so significant it requires a phone call as a warning, at least. Every doctor’s appointment, surgery, or anything else involving Dad has been talked about in passing.
The rest of the drive home, I keep my radio volume muted and do my best to not think of every possible scenario there could be, but with how shit has been lately, nothing is off-limits. Everything is possible, and everything is terrifying.
When I top the hill and my house becomes visible, my palms start to sweat. My mom’s car is still gone, so I know she’s not home, but I wish she were. I hate having to wait.
I park once I’m in the drive, then waste no time looking at my house how I’ve done every time before in the past few months. Instead, I rush inside. Although I don’t like waiting, I’m kind of thankful I have a minute to run upstairs and change so my mom doesn’t see me like this.
Closing the door, I take off my heels and throw them to the side, then take the steps two at a time. Once I’m in front of my bedroom door, I push it open and bolt inside. I throw my clutch on the bed and strip out of my dress. I throw on some sweats and a T-shirt before heading back out and down the stairs.
When I make it to the den, I sit down, and I wait.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LYDIA
The door screeches open in the distance, but I stay glued to my spot on the couch. Whatever’s coming can’t be good. I just know it and don’t trust my already weak legs not to give way to my tired frame.
Tension builds in my chest, my nerves growing weary with each slap of my mother’s heels against the marbled floors. It’s the same way Malcolm’s shoes hit the tile at the club. I squeeze my thighs together out of reflex of the memory only to push the thought from my mind.
Now isn’t the time to think about him.
As my mother breaches the threshold, she locks eyes with me. Red stains her eyes, and that’s all it takes for me to know what’s coming. Normalcy was short-lived, and the months where she looked somewhat human is now a faded memory as I stare at the sadness written all over her face.
We had six months of somewhat peace.
A hundred and eighty days of hope and wishful prayers.
That’s all gone now. The pained expression I know all too well tells me so.
“Mom?” My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, her name bittersweet on my tongue.
I mentally tell myself that everything is okay, choosing to ignore her dilapidated appearance. A fool’s errand, I know—it’s scribbled in the lines creased into her forehead and the wrinkles in her clothes.
I can smell the wine on her breath even with several feet between us. That’s how I know things are bad. This isn’t like her, to be unkempt and intoxicated. She’s good, down to her toes. Never one to swear and definitely not one to drink. Not unless it’s communion Sunday.
Her mouth moves, her words tentatively falling on thin air. More of an inaudible whisper, and I sense how hard this is for her. Mom doesn’t show emotion often, always giving all her worries over to God.
“He’s gone…” she mutters with a single tear trailing her cheek, smearing her makeup even more.
Gone?
I toss the word around in my head, hoping to find an entirely different meaning. Because things had turned around, we were sure of it. My dad was doing better than he was previously; he was happy and up moving around again. At least that’s the picture I’m trying to paint in my mind. I don’t want his frail arms, thin frame, and pained face to be my last memory. It can’t be.
But no matter how many times I replay those two simple words, the outcome is the same. And seeing my mother like this only solidifies my standing on religion.
I want to question it, tell her she’s lying. Anything to shift the reality she’s laid on me, but what’s the point. The answer will still be the same. He prepared us for this day, my dad. He didn’t want us to go through this moment ill-equipped. But nothing can erase the heaviness in my chest.
Her cries suddenly become background noise as I try and process everything. The phantom sound of my dad’s voice bounces around in my head.
“I love you, Lydia.” He smiles and turns his attention back to his favorite television show.
My eyes sting with tears as every second of our lives together flash in my subconscious. “Mom?” I utter, my lip quivering in the process. “He’s gone?” I recite her statement as more of a question
She closes the distance between us and sits down next to me. She pulls my head into her chest, hugging me painfully. “He’s gone.” It comes out like a confession this time.
“H—” I clear my throat and swallow the lump that’s formed in my airway. “How?”
She shakes her head but doesn’t release her hold on me. “They went in with a scope to try and break up the mass but nicked something. He was bleeding, so they opened him up.” She pauses for a moment. The only sound coming from her is a soft sniffle. “They couldn’t control the bleeding.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and wrap my arms around her.
He’s gone.
The thought is becoming more of a reality now. My dad is gone. He was taking his very last breath while I was busy fucking his business partner. The same man he warned me to watch out for.
How disgusting—shameful.
“It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay,” I whisper, hoping my guilt can’t be heard through my cracking voice.
The words are slick on my tongue, pretty convincing, but only if I believe them. What happens when you lose someone? Do you just move on? What about the tears, when do they stop? Will it ever stop hurting? Or will guilt consume me? Maybe it’s the emotions or a combination of them both that’ll drown me in self-loathing—self-hatred.
Mom pulls away and cups my cheeks. “We are going to be okay.” She swallows. “It hurts, but we knew this was coming. It was only a matter of time. We just have to keep telling ourselves he’s in a better place. His suffering is over, and he’s with God.” Her chin twitches with her words.
I nod, trying to give the illusion of strength for my mother, but in reality, she doesn’t need me. She has her faith. It doesn’t stop me from wondering though.
Where was her God while my father suffered? Why would any higher power leave a faith-believing woman husbandless or her child fatherless? Even then, she continues to believe.
And me… all I had was my dad.
He was the one I went to when I was down. The one who showed me what love really looks like. He never judged me. Never made me feel bad for a decision I made, and right now, that’s what I need. I need him to tell me it will all be okay, though I know it isn’t possible.
Maybe if I had something to believe in, like Mom has her faith, I’d feel better. But that’s not me. I don’t follow anything, especially a God we can’t even prove exists.
My dad is gone—and I’m alone.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a fog. People come, and they go. Mom continues to cry as everyone expresses how sorry they are for our loss. I choose to ignore it all. They mean well, but it won’t bring him back. So, I sit in the same spot on the sofa, never moving, barely existing.
I started mourning months ago, but when we got the news on the procedure that could really help, I tried to put it to bed. To believe things will work out the way my parents had hoped. I buried the emotions I had and worked overtime to replace them with positivity.
What a fool I was, and now it all comes crashing in waves. Where some are pumped up on adrenaline, moving about, making plans without ever really letting themselves feel, I have the opposite effect.
Instead, I sit here, useless. I do nothing but battle with the guilt and sadness stirring in my mind, silently telling myself to forgive my actions, but that doesn’t work. After a while, people begin to file out of our home, emptiness immediately filling the air. It’s not until they’re all gone do I move from my place on the couch. I can hear my mom in the kitchen as I tiptoe through the family room. When I get closer to th
e entryway, chills run down my spine at the voice I hear.
“I came as soon as I heard, Claire.” Malcolm’s deep voice vibrates through the open space.
I freeze in place, every fiber of my being telling me to turn the other way. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment, though, because I trek forward. My eyes land on him the moment I turn the corner. The false sense of empathy he displays making me sick to my stomach.
He stares at me, his posture steady and unbothered while still wearing the clothes he wore as he fucked me senseless. My blood boils at the scent of his cologne filling my lungs.
“Lydia, sweetie, Malcolm came to pay his respects,” my mother says meekly.
I stare at him, my legs growing wobbly when he pushes away from the counter and saunters toward me. Red stains the collar of his shirt, the exact shade of my lipstick. My breath leaves me in a huff at the audacity of him.
How dare he show up here, still wearing the evidence of our time together? How dare he stand in my father’s kitchen, cozying up to my weeping mother? How dare he stare at me with the same impetuous eyes as before?
As he stops in front of me and reaches for my cheek, I rear my head back and slap him away. “Get out,” I whisper.
“Lydia,” my mother says from behind him. “That isn’t the way you treat someone who cares.”
I look at her and see confusion swimming in her eyes from my outburst. “Oh, he cares alright,” I remark, leaving the kitchen and running up the stairs.
When I make it back to the safety of my room, I pull my phone from my clutch and hit my message icon. Carmen is at the top of my list. A message from 6:00 a.m. shows first. You going to tell me who you’re going to see with no panties so early in the morning, whore? Then another from an hour ago. Babe, call me. I just heard.
My lip wobbles as I type out “911,” our own way to say we need help. And right now, I do need help. I need her. I need my best friend. I hit Send, then fall into my bed and let the sobs I’ve been holding back break free.
The door to my room opens and closes, having me shoot up to see who it is. When Carmen makes her way to my bed without a single word, I break down again. I glance to my phone and see it’s already been twenty minutes since I texted her, but it doesn’t even feel like it.