Live Out Loud

by Marie Meyer

  I plop onto the black leather, pulling Harper down beside me. She’s still wary. I can see it on her face. Twisting around, she rummages through her purse, withdrawing her phone. Unlocking it, she types. When she finishes, she turns it around, shoving it in my face. Thor, what’s going on? Why are you acting so weird?

  Lifting it from her fingers, I add my response below her questions. Working my thumbs over the tiny keys, I feel Harper’s fingertips graze over the backs of my hands, across the scabbed over cuts on my knuckles from the speed bag.

  With a little shove of my arm, she forces me to meet her eye. “What happened?” Furrowing her brow and shaking her head, she waits for an answer.

  What can I say? I want every detail of her weekend, the mundane, the exciting, anything that she’ll give me. I want all of her. Yet, I can’t do the same. I can’t tell her what happened yesterday, what my dad did to my mom. There’s not much I fear in this world, but to have Harper look at me like I’m trash, because the man who fathered me is trash. That’s the worst nightmare I can think of.

  I hold it in. She can’t know about my dad…about the other half that made me. If she did, she’d head for the door and never look back. I finish typing and hand the phone back.

  Not weird. Just missed you. Wanted to know how your weekend went. Hands are fine, babe. Did a little boxing workout this morning, speed bag tore me up.

  Not exactly a lie.

  She lays the phone on the coffee table and cups my hands in hers. Bending down, she kisses the backs of my hands; her lips pressing gently over each cut, scrape, and busted knuckle. What did I do to deserve this woman?

  Pulling back, she yanks her phone off the table, types, and turns it around. My weekend was actually pretty great. I did not expect it. Had a heart-to-heart with my dad, worked some things out. It was nice to understand him, and for him to understand me for once. Mom is going to take a little more work, but things are good. Besides work and sending me dirty text messages, what did you do?

  Me: That’s awesome, Red. Glad to hear it. Trust me, you just nailed the highlights of my weekend. Oh, with the exception of one thing…

  When I finish typing, I hand the phone back to her, waiting for the quizzical look I know she’s going to hit me with.

  And there it is. The head tilt, half smile, squinty eyes.

  “What?”

  Holding up a finger, I straighten my back and clear my throat, shaking out my hands. I swipe my open hand, fingers together, in an upward motion on my chest. Continuing the phrase, I point to her and then pinch my fingers together at the corner of my mouth, moving them up and inch or two toward my ear. “Glad you’re home.”

  Her smile brightens. No. It fucking glows. Raising her hands, she shakes them. Pushing her palms outward, twice, she signs, “Wonderful!”

  I read the word on her lips, but the sign makes sense. The more she uses them in front of me, the more I understand. I do think another ASL-guitar lesson is in order. I need to know more. I love talking to her in her language…seeing how happy it makes her.

  “Wait,” I say, wishing I knew the sign. Holding up my index finger again, I sign, “More.” and “I miss you.”

  “T-H-O-R!” Scooping the phone off her lap, she types, and passes it over when she’s finished. You have no idea how much I love it when you sign! It’s like a shot of adrenaline right to my heart! You learned those phrases this weekend?

  Oh, I just might have an inkling about how much you love it, Red. I feel it in my chest, too.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” She leans in and kisses me quick before pulling away. Sitting back, she taps out another message. How did practice go? You guys ready for tomorrow? How’s your mom?

  We’re ready. Tomorrow will be kick ass. Mom’s fine. I hesitate to turn the phone around. Again, another half-truth. Yes, technically, Mom is fine. But, really, she isn’t. It’s not fine when your estranged husband beats the shit out of you.

  I hate lying to her. But, if I’m going to keep her around, it’s what has to be done. She doesn’t need to know about my father. Period. End of story.

  I drop the phone in her hands, hating my lie, but knowing it’s the lesser of two evils. Keeping Harper as far away from my fucked-up family is the safest thing I can do for her.

  Harper: When do I get to meet your mother? You speak so highly of her, I want to meet the woman that raised such a great guy. ;-)

  Stitches, a scabbed-over scalp where he pulled out tufts of her hair, a bruised and swollen eye, scrapes, and a broken soul. This is not the mom Harper needs to meet. She’s getting over a cold. Not a good time. Another lie. I fucking hate myself.

  Harper: When she’s better then.

  Handing the phone back to me, I read her words and nod. I don’t know if it’s my guilty conscience, or if she knows I’m hiding something, whatever it is, a shadow passes over her face, dimming the light in her eyes.

  She runs her fingers over my busted knuckles, her eyes like X-rays, seeing right through me. Harper’s superpower. She knows I’m full of shit.

  And she’s still here, Thor. Tell her what happened.

  That little voice in my brain loves to play head games. One minute it’s, Tell the truth, Thor. And the next minute it’s like, Shut the hell up.

  I wish I could flip the switch and turn it off completely.

  The doubt in Harper’s eyes fades, turning into a coy smile. She snatches the phone from my hand, types, and flips it around for me to see. Umm…I’m really horny. Wanna help me out with that?

  Holy. Fucking. Shit. I did not see that coming.

  My eyes flick to hers. Smiling her lopsided grin, she bites her lower lip and shrugs.

  Is she for real? And how did I end up with her? Girl next door and sex kitten all rolled into one. I am the luckiest bastard on the planet.

  Standing, I whip out the phrase I did not learn in the Dummies book. “Let’s fuck.”

  Her eyes go wide and her jaw drops. “Did you learn that, too?”

  Proud of myself, I shake my head up and down, wagging my eyebrows.

  “Let’s fuck, then.” Her silly grin widens into a full-fledged megawatt smile, shoulders bouncing in silent laughter.

  My heart thumps an extra beat and my dick stands at attention. Hells yeah!

  Holding out my hand, Harper puts her palm against mine, and I yank her to her feet. My lips are on hers faster than Jimi Hendrix played his “Red House” solo. Bending my knees, I lift her up and she locks her legs around my waist in an instant, hugging me tight.

  Burying my lying guilt deep in the pit of my stomach, I focus on her body and how good it is to have her back in my arms. Opening her mouth with mine, I taste her. Chocolate and peanut butter, sin and pure heaven. I’ll never be able to eat a peanut butter cup without getting hard.

  My hands on her ass, pressing her to me, I kiss her like tomorrow’s the fucking apocalypse and all we have is tonight, because if she ever finds out my family’s secret, this may be all we have.

  I carry her down the hall, eager to get her to my bed. Taking to the stairs, Harper moves her mouth to my neck, planting kisses over my skin. “Almost there, babe.” I tilt my head, giving her better access. She kisses my Adam’s apple and I groan. Racking her fingers over my throat, she kisses the same spot. “Do you like when I talk to you, Red?” I ask.

  She exhales, her breath cool against my damp skin. Thrusting her hips upward, I readjust my grip on her. My arms shake, biceps burning, but I flex harder, bringing her closer still, giving her whatever she wants.

  “I love it when you tell me what you want.” My vocal chords vibrate in my neck and chest, and I know Harper can feel it. As I speak, she presses her lips to my Adam’s apple, drinking in each vibration.

  My bedroom door is open. Walking inside, I kick it shut, and step up to the bed, lowering Harper onto the clean sheets.

  Leaning over her tiny frame, she begs me to come closer. I press my body weight into her and she tightens the v
ise grip her legs have around my waist.

  Pulling my lips away from hers, I stare into the sparkling depths of her eyes. There’s so much life inside her, it blazes, burning up everything in its path. I’d give anything to be consumed by her wildfire, her passion.

  I stroke my hand over her forehead, pushing back a tangle of untamed curls. She smiles and it crashes into me. I don’t ever want to forget the way she looks right now. I want to remember everything. Her racing heart, the light in her eyes, the pink flush of her cheeks. The way her hair springs in every direction because I can’t keep my hands out of it. I’ve had so many women in this bed, but not one of them has forced me to pause and take stock of each little feature.

  I rest my fingertip at the bottom corner of her left eye, against a dark freckle. Leaning down, I kiss it and I feel her eyes close. The whisper of her eyelashes brush against my lips.

  Slowly, I pull at the bottom of her sweater, working it upward. Harper lifts her shoulders, rising up just enough that I can remove her top. I throw it away, keeping my eyes on her breasts, full and beautiful, committing each inch of her skin to memory. The sexy way the black lace of her bra hides her nipples, but not quite.

  I touch her. Running a hand from the base of her neck and over the rise of her chest. She breathes in, filling my hand even more. Reaching for me, her fingertips graze over my piercing. I gasp, sucking in air between my teeth. Shaking my head, I smile and pull away from her roaming fingers. “It’s my turn, babe. I’m going to touch you. And I’m going to watch your beautiful body fall to pieces as I make you come. And then”—I slide my hands to her waist, tugging her leggings down—“I’m going to slide my dick inside you, real slow.” I rub my hands up the insides of her legs, my fingers stopping just shy of her panties. She’s hot; I can feel it rolling off of her in waves. Lifting her hips, she tempts me closer as she watches my mouth, licking her lips.

  “I’m going to stretch you, and fill you, and commit to memory the way your tight, wet pussy”—I hook my index fingers into the sides of her panties and drag them down, too—“clamps down around my cock.”

  Lifting up beneath me, she reaches around her back, unhooks her bra and rips it off, tossing it to the floor with the rest of her clothes. A second later, she wraps her arm around my neck, and kisses me deeply; bring me with her as she falls back on the bed.

  Now it’s time to put all my talk into action.

  I pull away from her mouth, breathless, moving to her chest. I flick my tongue against her nipple, watching it tighten into a hard pebble before I suck her into my mouth. “Jesus, Harper. You have…” I suck harder and tug her nipple between my teeth. “The most gorgeous tits.” I move to the next one, making sure I give both equal amounts of attention.

  While I play at her top, I feel Harper’s hand move between us, dipping between her legs.

  I stop what I’m doing to get a better look as she touches herself. “That’s it, babe. Show me how you like it.”

  With her eyes closed, she rubs circles around her clit, grinding her hips for added pleasure. I put my hand on hers and she stops, eyes popping open. Nodding my head, I urge her to continue, “Keep going. Teach me what to do.” I move my fingers over her sensitive bundle of nerves.

  Continuing her sultry ministrations below, she guides me over each slick fold until she gives her body over to me completely. And just as I promised, I watch her fall to pieces as she comes around my fingers, her body quaking with pleasure. She’s so goddamn beautiful.

  I kiss her, tasting bliss on her mouth, and wishing so desperately that I could hear her come.

  *

  Harper’s sprawled out on the bed beside me, sound asleep. Tangled in my sheets, her ass is covered, but the speckled, porcelain skin of her back needs to be touched. My fingers hover inches above her spine, remembering how smooth and silky her skin feels. I want to draw constellations over her back, make pictures from her freckles.

  I drop my hand on the mattress between us, instead. I don’t want to wake her. I want to savor even the sleeping moments we share. Is this really what a relationship is supposed to feel like? I can’t imagine Mom and Dad ever having this. Peace, contentment…happiness.

  Remembering the dark purple bruise covering Mom’s left eye, I’m sure as shit she’s never felt this way. My chest constricts, suffocating my newfound serenity. I can hear Dad’s drunken growl in the back of my head, “You’re still my son, boy.”

  Harper’s the first woman I’ve allowed to spend the night. Was that a mistake? What if I do end up just like him?

  I shake off the nightmare thought. I can’t. I won’t. I’ll remember what this feels like, waking up beside her. The warmth of her body, the scent of our lovemaking and her flower shampoo lingering on my sheets.

  Between the slats of the shade on the window, the sun chases away the darkness, just like Harper’s presence scares away my dad’s voice in my head. Pulling the sheets over my legs, I slide in beside her, touching the tip of my nose to hers.

  Heavy with sleep, her eyes flutter open, and she smiles. I kiss her, throwing my arm over her bare shoulders, drawing her close. I’ve never needed someone to protect me, but Harper does, even though she doesn’t know it. She’s my safe place.

  Today’s going to be insane. First day in the studio. Probably should have gotten more sleep than I did, but I’m not complaining. In spite of all my apprehensions and fears, I’ll take an eternity of sleepless nights if it means I get to spend them with Harper in my bed. And wake up with her at my side.

  Rolling toward me, she scoots closer, slinking her leg over mine. No words are exchanged, but we understand what the other needs, loud and clear.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Harper

  Sitting at the computer, I record Xavier Bexworth’s prescription information onto his patient chart. At rounds this morning he did not look any better, whooping cough and pneumonia taking a toll on his little three-year-old body. His worried parents hadn’t looked much better than their son, both sick with worry.

  Midsentence, there’s a tap on my shoulder. Abandoning the detailed list of antibiotics and nutrient fluids Xavier’s being administered through his IV, I swivel my chair around. Pharmacy manager, Mr. Ellis, the man that holds the fate of my future career in his hands, stands in front of me.

  “Ms. King, I checked the prescribed dosage of dobutamine for patient Lilly Jones in room 428, which you entered on the patient’s chart during rounds earlier. Upon verification, dobutamine was not the physician’s desired course of treatment for patient Jones, it was dopamine. Errors like this are unacceptable, Ms. King. I suggest you double-, no, triple-check the prescription order before you update a patient’s chart.”

  My heart climbs into my throat and the acid in my stomach threaten to burn a hole right through me. If my carelessness has hurt a patient, I will never forgive myself. How could I have been so negligent and misinterpret dobutamine and dopamine? When I lipread Dr. Melton’s prescription, I was positive she said dobutamine.

  Without turning around, I reach my hand backward and grab the notebook off the counter. I don’t even bother to sign, or make Mr. Ellis read my lips. Writing quickly, I hand Mr. Ellis the notebook. Is Lilly okay? I am incredibly sorry, Mr. Ellis. I was certain that I understood Dr. Melton correctly. From here on out, I will triple-check the prescription order. Like you said, my mistake is unacceptable.

  Mr. Ellis hands the notebook back to me, a scowl still on his face. “Patient Jones is fine. Like I said, I reviewed your notes from rounds with the physician and caught the discrepancy before the wrong medication was administered. Ms. King, you’re a good pharmacist. You’ve done well, despite this mistake, be sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Watching Mr. Ellis walk away, tears sting my eyes. How could I have been so, so stupid? Glancing at my watch, I still have twenty minutes of my shift. Twenty minutes to hold in all the emotions that are threatening to burst out of me. My error could have seriously harmed that infant. What other
mistakes have I made that haven’t been caught?

  I turn back to the computer and stare at the blinking cursor, second-guessing myself. Did I record Xavier Bexworth’s prescription correctly? I took his information on rounds, too.

  Time to triple-check.

  I fire off an email to two other pharmacy technicians who were on rounds with me, and one to Xavier’s nurse, checking the physician’s order against the information I recorded.

  Staring at the screen, I wait, unwilling to put another scrap of information onto the Bexworth chart until I’m certain I didn’t make another mistake.

  Goddammit, Harper. Children’s lives are at stake; there is no room for error.

  I can’t get Mr. Ellis’s words out of my head.

  Waiting for the responses to my email, I open Lilly Jones’s drug chart. Mr. Ellis noted the change of dobutamine to dopamine and signed off on it.

  Bile rises in my throat. Me, of all people, I cannot make mistakes like this. There are a dozen people, if not more, looking for any reason to say I’m unfit to be a pharmacist, that being deaf is too big a hurdle to overcome in the field of medicine. I got lazy, complacent, and I could have seriously harmed a human being—an infant no less.

  Even though the words are so similar and the two drugs are both inotropes, I shouldn’t have confused the two—they don’t even have the same number of syllables.

  I choke down my tears. I don’t have time to wallow right now. Do your damn job, Harper, and do it right.

  My inbox confirms a new message. I click on the screen and read the email from the charge nurse overseeing the Bexworth case. The medications prescribed on rounds were exactly as I had listed. Thank God. Now to wait on the technicians’ responses.

  Staring at the computer, I flip back to Xavier’s chart, feeling another tap on my shoulder. What now? How many screwups can I make in one day? Turning around, another pharmacy student, Trisha Miles, stands in front of me. Standing, I take my phone from my lab coat pocket. I unlock the screen and type. Hi, Trisha. What can I do for you?