by R. J. Lewis
“Wasn’t it better than the streets?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know? The only taste of freedom I ever got was on those streets and I was seven years old. Think about that for a second.” I shook as the tears fell hard now. “You know what’s funny, Remy? They say you can’t remember much at that age, but me? I remember everything. I remember the sun on my skin. I remember the look on people’s faces when they waved at me from that window. I remember the days cold in my mother’s apartment. I remember begging her to play with me. I could still tell you what we had in the fridge, and that I pissed myself almost every night because I was frozen cold and too weak to leave the bed! But I was free. I could feel. I wasn’t stuck in a prison of apathy. What prison would you be in?”
“You could have ended up dead,” he said quietly. “Or into drugs. Or turned into a fucking hooker on the side of the road.”
“Maybe.”
“So then have your freedom, Olivia. Go, if that’s what you want. I can make it safe, even.”
I pointed at him, angry now, not sure where this was coming from. “I never said I wanted that. You brought it up! I don’t even know why we’re talking about this! You act like you’re fucking responsible –”
“You’re miserable here–”
“How would you know?”
“You looked broken in that room every fucking time I went in there! I spent every night sitting on the other side of the door. Did you know that?”
My heart hiccupped. “No, but I looked out every day searching for you.”
“Well, I was right there the whole time. I heard you talking to yourself. I heard you pacing –”
“Because I was alone.”
“No, it was because of what those fuckheads did to you for those short seven years of your life. Imagine if they robbed you of more years. If you hadn’t been plucked out of that life, away from fucking Bogeyman, imagine what would have happened to you.”
“We’ll never know, Remy –”
“That’s not my fucking name anymore, Olivia,” he snapped, sharply. “You don’t know that person and you never will.”
Fucking ouch.
I nodded once, hurt. Then I turned and hurried inside. He called after me, a hint of remorse in his tone. I ignored him. He followed me, right on my heels. “Olivia! Stop.”
I hurried into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, quickly locking it just as he turned the knob. He knocked. “Olivia,” he said, “please, open up.”
“Go away,” I said, swallowing back my emotion.
“Olivia –”
“Go away, Reaper.” I said his other name like it was poison.
“I’m sorry.” His head banged on the door. “Olivia, I’m sorry. I was in a destructive spiral.”
“Brought on by what?” I questioned.
He sighed. “I’m out of my depth here. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I felt nothing either for the longest time. I…I was just so angry. I obsessed about power, and now that I got it…it’s empty. It’s meaningless. And I’m tired. My soul is tired, Olivia. And then this happens – you happen – and I feel…good. It scares me that it feels good. I keep waiting for it to stop. I keep waiting for you to run.”
My heart squeezed, pained by the distraught I could hear in him. He was opening up. Feeling a sliver of hope, I unlocked the door and opened it, staring up at him. Soaking wet, eyes raw. I let out a long breath. I couldn’t be angry at him. Not when he looked like he was hurting.
“Come on,” I said, taking him by the hand. “You’re cold. Let’s get you warmed up.”
“Olivia, about what I said –”
“Look, Remy, I understand your side of it, okay? You know, you’re right, I got it better than most people. I would have probably chosen the same if I’d seen a kid living that way. I know that. Every time I talked about it out loud, I was just expressing myself. I’ve never told these things to anyone, except you.” I looked down, holding back another wave of emotion.
His fingers went under my chin, pulling my face up to look at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, the apology clear in those deep brown eyes. “You did nothing wrong. I like when you talk to me. I like knowing everything about you. Don’t stop.”
He was getting under my skin fast. It was hard to breathe.
I nodded, trying to appear fine. “Let’s just shower now.”
I undressed him, and he undressed me. We were rebuilding that intimacy. He gave me a pleading look not to talk. He had opened up enough. He wanted the silence. He wanted the touches and the stares. I nodded, giving him it.
Under the water, I wrapped my arms around his neck. We kissed softly, languidly under the water. He dropped his hands to my thighs and picked me up. He made me feel like I weighed like a feather. There was no struggle, no heavy breaths. He pressed my back against the wall and slid his length straight into me. Then he kept himself there, deep inside me, watching my face react at the way he filled me.
“Say my name when you come,” he whispered in my ear. “I like when you say it.”
“Remy,” I said to him, to be sure.
He pressed his forehead against mine. “Yeah, I want to hear that name a little more often.”
Meaning, he wanted to feel like his old self a little more often.
That broke my heart a little more.
He looked at me like I was perfect. Like I was his. Then he captured my mouth and fucked me slowly against the wall, until we came groaning each other’s mouth.
That evening he wouldn’t talk, but he kept me by his side, determined not to let me go. I kept waiting for him to say something. To let me know something real was happening.
Remy was still fighting.
Thirty
Liv
“Why did you warn me not to love you?” I asked.
The room was black. It must have been around midnight. We’d just fucked for the third time that day. Our time away was beginning to end. Reaper was starting to get itchy feet, staring up at the sky like the gods were going to smite him.
He didn’t answer or move. His hand was still possessively holding a boob, like usual. He was probably half asleep. Or he didn’t give a shit to answer. Who knew? Whenever we talked, it was pointless shit. Like what I liked to have for breakfast. I told him anything because when you have a hunger issue that stemmed from serious PTSD, food was food and goddamn anyone for being picky. We had television, and he lamely suggested romance movies, but why would I watch romance movies? I liked a good thriller every now and then – not some dashing idiot with smouldering eyes, wooing an equally dumbass heroine overlooking the obvious signs he was into her.
Reaper would look at me like he wanted something from me, but every time I neared him in those moments, he’d shut off and the walls were back up. He was determined I stay away. Determined I never got too close to get to know him. It was exhausting.
The only personal shit I managed to pry was that he was a former vice president of his club, he had a sister he wasn’t close to, and his parents and brother were dead. And just getting that information out of him took serious effort. The kind only post coital could accomplish when your victim was weary, satisfied and half-asleep.
So now I was just curious. I didn’t want to skirt around the topic any longer.
“Who’s Sara?” I then asked. I was trying to get a reaction out of him, and it worked. I felt his body go stiff. “You shouldn’t be shocked. The walls of your room weren’t entirely insulated, Remy. And Christy did a good job making sure the entire jungle neighbourhood heard her sob story. You were brutal, by the way.”
It kind of made me jealous he had reacted that way over a name. I had hoped our time here would have opened him to me a little more. Instead, he’d flipped the attention on to me, asking me loaded questions, dissecting me with feverish interest. I felt like a lab experiment.
“Is she dead?” I carried on, unable to stop myself. I’d thought about it too long now. “Or did she just break your heart? You
’re a hard tell, Remy. I think everyone’s sick and tired of trying to figure you out. I’m your wife. Don’t I get the privilege?” He still didn’t answer. Huffing, I grabbed his hand on my breast and tried to remove it, but he wouldn’t let me. “Let go, Remy.”
“It belongs to me,” he finally spoke.
“No, jackass, they’re mine.” I shoved his hand off successfully.
“What’s your problem, Olivia?” he asked, his voice unusually calm despite what I’d just said to him.
“I want to understand you.”
“You can’t understand me that way.”
“Wrong. I think it’s the only way I can understand you.”
“No.”
“It’s the only thing that makes you feel.”
“Yeah,” he bit back, “it makes me feel angry.”
“Why?”
He got out of bed, nude, and began to walk to the door.
“Are you serious?” I called out, frustrated. “You’re leaving the conversation just like that? All because it got too hard?”
“When you use a name that you know gets this sort of reaction out of me, don’t be fuckin’ surprised when I react.” He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him. Moments later I heard the shower go on.
I blinked back angry tears and for a moment tried to go to sleep. If he wanted to keep it to himself, fine. I would stop asking. I would stop caring.
I turned to my side and tried to sleep. I tried to sleep for what felt like an eternity, but my mind was racing.
Maybe I did push him, though.
Maybe he was right, and I shouldn’t have expected anything different.
But it was hard feeling shut out. He was so attentive with sex. So attentive with learning my triggers and trying to figure me out. Then he’d opened up to me for that short moment, and I thought we were onto something.
Why was I even hoping for that?
How the hell had I found myself caring for the brute?
Huffing, I threw the covers off me and stepped out of the bed. I’d apologize but that was it. I would say sorry for knowingly using a name that angered him, but I wasn’t going to apologize for being curious.
Mid-step toward the bathroom and I immediately changed my mind. No, I was too annoyed. Too angry. I didn’t feel like being an adult just yet. I fell back down onto the mattress and stubbornly wrapped the covers around me.
When he stepped out a long while later, I pretended to be asleep. He laid back in bed. The steam in the bathroom filled the room. I could smell his body wash. Fucking delicious, of course.
“Hey, rebel,” he suddenly said, “you ready to apologize?”
Ex-fucking-cuse me?
I whipped around, ready to lose it at him. I stopped short because he was completely nude, wet, and had his hand wrapped around his length. He looked at me, his other hand buried comfortably under his hand. Whatever anger he’d had was gone now.
“I want your lips,” he said slowly, “around my cock. Now.”
I blinked, absorbing his words. “I’d rather eat rusted nails right now, Remy.”
“I need you to fuck me with your dirty mouth, Olivia.”
“Why?”
“I gotta clean it somehow.”
“Clever. Ladies and gentlemen, our future Bachelor.”
“Thank you.”
“Did someone drop you on your head as a kid?”
“Repeatedly,” he answered, unusually serious. “Mouth on dick, now.”
He was taking my jabs with ease, not offering any in return. I wondered if he was trying to annoy me. I glared at him, shaking my head. “I’m not giving you a blow job, Remy, until you tell me you have feelings for me.”
“I have feelings for you,” he declared, steadfastly.
I paused. I didn’t expect that. “For real?”
He looked at me like I was a moron. “I married you, Olivia. Why do you need words? Why haven’t you listened to my actions instead?”
I went quiet. Why did he constantly make sense?
“I need to get my mind off the bad shit, babe,” he added. “I need you.”
Fucking fine.
Goddamn him.
I scooted to him and wrapped my hand around his cock, making him let go. It was heavy and full. He was straining. He watched me closely – intently – as I stroked him. Then I bet down, bringing him to my lips.
Apologize. He’d said. I sucked his tip, and then peeked at him. “I’m sorry, Remy.”
And I was sorry. That was simply toxic of me, trying to get a reaction out of him. It wasn’t in jest. There’d been no other reason than to simply get my answers. He grabbed a chunk of my hair, encouraging me to move at the pace he wanted. Which was slow at first. The need in him showed as he gripped me harder, breathing faster. He was so deliciously thick, my jaw ached only after a few minutes.
“Get on top, Liv,” he said, pulling me to him. I let go and climbed on top. He let go of my hair and gripped my hip, setting me upright. He set his length against my entrance and slowly I sat, letting him fill me one inch at a time. He fucked me slowly. Breathing so unsteadily, watching me closely as I writhed on top of him, getting closer and closer.
When he came, I watched the pleasure and pain of whatever ailed him flash in his eyes.
“She isn’t dead,” he spoke, filling the silent room sometime after.
I was in his arms, still basking in that afterglow of sex. I went still, eyes wide open, staring ahead as I listened. I wouldn’t push. He would tell me whatever he was ready to.
“I thought I was in love with her,” he continued. “I don’t know if it was, in the end. I put her through hell. I wanted her to be mine. I did horrible things. You wouldn’t want me if you knew about. Hell, you won’t want me when I come clean about everything else too. But at some point, I gotta come clean. About everything.”
Why wouldn’t I want him? Again, I didn’t want to push it. I asked safe questions. “Is she okay now?”
“I hope so.” He sounded genuine.
“Then you’re angry at yourself, not at her.”
“Yeah, feisty. I am. Every time I hear her name, I feel nothing but shame.”
I looked up at him. “So, you don’t want this woman anymore?”
His lips went up as he studied me, like he finally understood what I was getting at. Yeah, I’d totally given myself away.
“I don’t want her,” he said, firmly. “I’ve had my eyes on you a long while, Olivia.”
My lips parted. “How long?”
“Two years. I saw you. You were crying outside your apartment building. I wanted you right then. I just didn’t tell your dad until recently. But he knew, I think. He knew I was coming for you. He knew I’d be back.”
“You’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that, Remy.”
“One day,” he promised. “I’ll tell you everything. As long as you promise you won’t go.”
I felt hesitant. “All of this will make sense?”
“Yeah.”
I swallowed and slowly moved to him. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me to his side. He looked down at me, his eyes warm. “I want you, Olivia. I wouldn’t marry you if I was hung up on someone else.”
“I thought we were just business.”
“I don’t need your dad’s connections. I could have gotten rid of him a long time ago. You knew that too. You said so to Shane. In a way, you knew all along I wanted you.”
“Then don’t tell me not to love you. That’s stupid.”
His grip on me tightened, and he looked almost fearful looking back at me. “I gotta be honest, Olivia, I don’t know what it’s like to be loved unconditionally like that anymore. I haven’t felt it since my mom, and she’s been gone a long time. I haven’t even felt it from my sister, but she’s got her reasons. I’ve been alone for too fuckin’ long now. I…damned myself four years ago, telling myself I was never going to bother trying again. But…fuck, when I looked at you, it was differen
t. It wasn’t like her when I first saw her walking down that street that night in my car. I think I was high off adrenaline that night, or something. You were…visceral. I felt like I knew your pain. And for the second time now, I’m doing this, I’m telling someone I want them to be mine. How do I do that without breaking apart again?”
I ran my thumb over his cheek, breathing lightly because I felt the fear too. “You trust them, Remy. So…trust me not to break your heart.”
Finally, finally, I was getting through to him.
The walls were falling.
Thirty-One
Shane
They returned to the hovel in the beautiful jungle exactly one long-as-fuck week later. Olivia had bags of hygiene products. She’d even brought that tridactyl a bag of goodies too. Maybe a peace offering. Christy actually took it, all the while avoiding Shane’s eye like he was the plague wrapped in the Ebola virus and coated in AIDS.
He didn’t blame her.
He was doing the same.
Fucking hell, let’s just say there are mistakes and then there is the god of all mistakes, and they’d committed that god of a mistake on her pitiful, pathetic night of crying. Then for her to have looked so fucking grossed out in the morning…Well, fuck her very much.
She was a dumb tridactyl anyway.
Liv glowed as she went to him, hugging him like she hadn’t seen him in years. It had felt that way. He couldn’t look at Reaper with disdain anymore. Not after the things he’d learned, and as he watched Reaper carefully now, his wonderings only grew deeper.
“We got another week out here, and then we’ll be finished,” Reaper said.
Everyone was relieved. Everyone wanted out. The tension on the ground was kind of dramatic and ridiculous. Who knew a bunch of grown ass men could rival housewives of Orange County with their soap opera bullshit?
Now that there was a deadline, there was more energy. People cheered the fuck up.
“Make her happy, Reaper,” Shane told him when he caught him alone that day.