by Whitney G.
“Michael,” I say, using what’s left of my restraint. “Michael, I don’t want to talk if—”
“I don’t regret taking a single fucking soul,” he says. “Every person who I’ve killed personally fucking deserved it. My only regret is that I couldn’t do it twice.”
My jaw drops.
“So, if what you said when we broke up—” He pauses, glaring at me. “Excuse me when I broke us up… If you meant what you said, about loving someone enough to be okay with what I’ve done, you should know that I’ll never apologize for doing that.”
I swallow, and the steam begins to rise between us.
“You said that I could trust you enough to tell you,” he says. “You said if there was a good enough reason—”
“You’re not God,” I say, shaking my head. “So, there’s no ‘good enough’ reason for you to kill anyone. Ever.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” I step back as he steps closer. “Granted, what you did back at the resort was self-defense and it saved us—thank you, but there’s no reason to walk around this world like a vigilante and kill people just because you think they deserve it.”
“What if I know that they fucking deserve it?”
“Then that’s even worse. Take them to court instead of taking the law into your own hands. You claimed that you used to read a lot of John Grisham novels about delayed justice, so maybe you need a reread. Or was that a fucking lie, too?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“It honestly doesn’t matter since you’re taking me to the airport the moment they open,” I say, feeling a slight pang in my chest. “But just so you know, if you’d told me what you did for a living when we first met, I wouldn’t have given a single fuck.” My breath catches in my throat. “I was that fucking lonely.”
“I haven’t noticed any new friends in your life since then.”
“No,” I say, shrugging. “But now I have standards, and I only want good people in my life. A man who kills people for no rhyme or reason is—”
“I have a fucking reason,” He cuts me off, looking far more livid than I’ve ever seen him. “But since you want to suddenly act like you’re such a ‘good person,’ let me tell you a story about someone I know. It’s about a little boy who spent years of his life locked in chains, being held captive in a disgusting basement with his twin brother, being used and abused within an inch of his life. Day after day.” He glares at me, stepping closer. “And the first time he choked the hell out of his uncle for keeping him there and ruining his life, it wasn’t enough for him… It wasn’t enough for him when he buried him several feet under, and never told another soul. Because he knew that the twenty-eight men who used him and his brother like sexual ragdolls would get away with it if he did it the ‘good person’ way. That they had enough money to hold up justice in the courts for years. And since this man still can’t function decades later, because all of the memories still drag him out of his sleep every fucking night, he hunts them down one by one, city by city, until they get what they deserve.”
My heart drops as he looks into my eyes, and I know that this ‘story’ doesn’t belong to someone he knows. It’s his.
“What about that, Meredith?” he asks, standing right in front of me as the water drenches us both. “Is that a good enough fucking reason?”
“I…” I feel tears pricking my eyes, and I don’t even know what to say. I’ve never seen this pained look of vulnerability in his eyes before. “Michael, I’m so—”
“It’s ironic that you want to get on your high-horse, in comparison to me.” He cuts me off again, pressing his chest against mine. “Because deep down, you’re just as fucked up of a person as I am. In fact, I don’t think you’re as good of a person as you like to believe. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve attempted to look down at me over the past few days—to try to keep your distance, to try to act like you’re not as terrible as I am.”
“No….” I shake my head—understanding his pain and anger, but he’s reaching right now. “I’m nothing like you.”
“You’re too much like me.” He tilts my chin up with his fingertips. “You’re fucking intrigued by what I do, by the gritty ecosystem that you know nothing about. But you’d definitely take full advantage if someone gave the access to you…” His voice trails off for a few seconds. “You liked dancing at Club Swan back in New York, but you loved the high you got by stealing from the greedy people who you thought ‘deserved’ it. You tried to justify it, by telling yourself that you needed tens of thousands of dollars to start your life over, but you could’ve taken all the money you stole and moved on long before Rio Warren ever caught you…”
I feel my cheeks heating as he reads me like a book, as he reveals the part of myself that I never shared with him.
“Every man you stole from had shady ties to other companies,” he says, sliding his thumb against my bottom lip. “Which leads me to believe that you researched all of the people you stole from first—once again, trying to justify what you did. It also makes me see that you’re a hypocrite…”
I shake my head, attempting to get a word out, but he doesn’t let me.
“Furthermore,” he says, “You’re still here with me when you could’ve left long ago. I’ve left the keys on the dresser for you, left my phones out—all five of them, and there’s no indoor security system here. You could’ve walked out of this damn shower the moment I started talking, too. The other door is right behind you.” He pauses. “You want to prove me wrong?”
“I’m here because you’re supposed to take me to the airport…”
“You’re here because you’re a willing captive, Meredith.” His free hand pinches my nipple as he continues teasing my mouth with his other hand. “And at times in your life, you’ve been just as bad as me.”
“No,” I say, still in disbelief about the way that he’s described me. “None of the things I’ve done have hurt other people…None of the things you listed has anything to do with me being a good person.”
“Meredith…” He looks into my eyes, pressing his forehead against mine. “A ‘good person’ wouldn’t be standing in front of me right now.”
Silence.
His lips quickly latch onto mine, and I wrap my arms around his neck. He slides his tongue into my mouth, giving me a taste of what I’ve been missing—what I’ve been needing, for weeks.
When he kisses me like this, nothing else in the world matters. Every remnant of the last argument is slowly erased, every petty word spit out of spite sails away, and the world comes to a complete stop.
Reaching behind me to shut off the water, he keeps his mouth on mine as he pushes me back against the shower’s glass—not letting me catch more than a few seconds of breath.
“Meredith…” he whispers my name in between the more aggressive kisses, rendering me speechless all at once. His kisses take away all of my previous thoughts and doubts, each one rolling away from my tongue and onto his.
“I missed you…” I manage to utter a few words. “I fucking missed you.”
He bites down on my bottom lip before gripping my waist. “I missed you, too…”
I shut my eyes as he begins kissing me again, as I feel his cock hardening against my thighs, but he suddenly stops.
“Not this time,” he says, waiting for me to open my eyes. “I want you to look at me while I’m fucking you…I want you to look at me the entire time.” He leans down and sucks my left nipple into his mouth, then he slips two of his thick fingers deep inside of me.
Slowly moving his fingers in and out, he sucks harder on my nipple, still keeping his green gaze locked onto my eyes.
“Fuck, Michael…”
He pulls his fingers out of me and bends down to his knees, pressing his mouth against my pussy and kissing it even longer—in the same sensual way that he kisses my lips.
My knees start to weaken as he teases my clit with his tongue, and I can’t help but grab fistfuls of his
hair.
Laughing softly, he looks up at me, whispering, “Do you want my cock back where it belongs?”
I nod, too on edge to speak right now.
He presses one last kiss against my clit, driving me even closer to the cliff, but he doesn’t let me go over it.
Standing up, he slides a hand under my thigh and lifts up my right leg, slowly positioning his cock against my soaking wet slit. He pushes it in a few inches, groaning as he slips it in a bit further, and then he pushes himself deep inside of me before wrapping my leg around his waist.
I’m lost before he even begins fucking me, lost in the length of him, in the way that he’s looking at me. Like he can’t bear to be without me again. Even if I wanted to, I can’t dare look away...
He squeezes my ass as he pounds into me relentlessly, as he fucks me in the way I love, in a way that only he can.
“Michael…” I moan his name as I claw my nails against his back, marring his skin. “Michael…”
He keeps his gaze locked on me, keeps fucking me harder and harder. “Meredith…”
As he picks up his tempo, I moan even louder.
“I’m about to come…” I whisper, feeling the tell-tale tremors beginning to run up and down my spine. “Michael, I’m about to…” I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence. I come apart in his arms as he watches me, screaming his name at the top of my lungs.
He holds me taut as he watches, seemingly becoming even more turned on, and he stills seconds later. Finding his own release.
He holds me against his chest as we both come down from our orgasms, his cock still inside of me.
It’s not until several moments later, that he lets me go.
We stare at each other, not saying a word, and I see my future in his eyes—us against the world, me fighting his demons, him conquering mine.
“For the record,” I say, still trying to breathe normally, “Our sex doesn’t count as an apology and I don’t care that you fuck me better than anyone else. You still left me alone in a foreign country and—”
My sentence ends on his lips and he wraps his arms around my waist.
When he finally lets me go, he looks into my eyes and waits until I catch my breath. “I’m fucking sorry, Meredith. I should’ve never left you like that.”
“You should’ve never left me at all.”
“That was my next line,” he says, looking genuine. “I should’ve never left you at all. I’m sorry, and I’ll find a way to make it up to you…”
I stare at him, completely stunned that he gave me an apology. My heart is pounding wildly against my chest, and even though he’s rendered my body completely useless for the next several hours, my brain is begging me to hold out for a little while longer. To not take him back yet. At least, not right now.
“Take me back, Meredith,” he says, suddenly—catching me off-guard again. “Tell me that you’ll take me back, that we can start over.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t forgiven you for leaving me in Mexico yet.”
“I don’t expect you to anytime soon…” He looks at me. “I’m just asking you to take me back.”
“Are you still attempting to fly me off to Switzerland?”
“No, I would much rather have my wife back, and with me—without strings attached…” He smiles and brings my head closer to his—kissing me again. “I’m still waiting to hear her take me back, actually.”
“Are you begging or asking her?”
“I’m asking.”
“She needs you to beg…”
He stares at me, saying nothing for several seconds. Then, as if his mouth is incapable of saying the word, “please,” or if he’s above begging for anything, he ventures down an alternate route. “Meredith Anderson, it would be in your best interest to take me back. If you don’t, you’ll only be cheating yourself…”
I say nothing.
“Is in your best interest,” he repeats, looking worried that I may say no.
I smile. “That’s as good of a ‘beg’ as I’m going to get from you, isn’t it?”
“It is if you know the man you married.”
I hold back a laugh and lean against him. “I’ll consider taking you back if…”
“If what, Meredith?”
“If you give me two things.”
“Name them.”
“I want more from you,” I say. “I want you to go back to the little things you did when we were dating, but I want a little more…”
“Okay.” He kisses me. “I’ll do that. What else?”
“I want you to tell me the whole story about who you were before, how you turned out to be who you are…”
I brace for him to shut that idea down, but he doesn’t, surprisingly. He leads me out of the shower and dresses me for bed—returning the wedding ring to my finger. After dressing himself, he positions me on top of him, on the mattress, and looks into my eyes.
“Let’s start with when I was twelve…” He starts slow, finally discussing the fact that he hid his identical twin brother from me. He sits still for hours and lets down his guard, temporarily letting me hold the shield.
We remain in the bedroom for the next day and a half, with him holding me close and unraveling the years, only stopping to take bathroom breaks or wipe away my tears when he retells the worst moments. Occasionally, he makes me stop listening so I can rest, but he’s always ready to pick up right where he left off, whenever I wake up. (He still can’t sleep for more than five hours at a time, even all these years later.)
When he’s uttered the last word, I expect him to say that he never wants to talk about it again.
Instead, he pulls me close and whispers, “I’ll answer your questions tomorrow…I know you have at least twenty-one.”
“Can I ask one right now?” I say.
“Yes.”
“You said that there are two guys left on your list, one for you and one for Trevor.” I pause. “Is there a reason you’ve saved this particular guy for last?”
“Yes.” He nods, pulling me into his chest. “If it wasn’t for him, none of this would’ve ever happened to me…”
Michael
Long Before
When Someone Burned Me That Badly
I park outside the National Foster Youth Institute Center in Los Angeles, staring at the bright yellow and red statues that they’ve flown in from their former headquarters in New York. They’ve painted over the old quote that once read, “All children deserve a safe home,” and replaced it with, “Children are the world’s greatest gift.”
I can still remember the brochures that they sent to my Uncle Avery’s house, how he tossed them down to the basement for us to read. It only took me three issues to never crack open another one; the smiling kids’ faces on the pages always made me want to vomit.
Getting out of the car, I walk past the foster center, toward the row of houses down the street.
I stand under an oak tree and light a cigar, waiting for the woman who lives in 3246 to walk outside her front door.
At exactly nine-thirty, she steps onto the front porch—wearing a bright yellow sundress and a matching floppy hat.
With her long brown hair and light green eyes, she’s pretty, but not in a striking way.
I’ve watched her from afar for an entire year, taking flights during my free time just to get glimpses of her life. She has two sons, a husband she adores, a spot on The Parent Board at the exclusive school down the street. Her name is Lauren Clarkson, and I’ve wanted to force her to sit down and talk for years, but I can never pull the trigger. No pun intended.
All of her “friends” know her as the mom who likes to bake cookies for the neighborhood kids on Sunday afternoons. Her husband works in Silicon Valley, and he has no idea that she was once two steps away from a heroin overdose, one strike away from losing everything she had.
I watch as she picks up one of her sons and kisses him on the cheek. He laughs and demands to be put down to return to the swing set
. The other son runs into her arms to take advantage of her time.
She’s doing for them what she was never able to do for me and Trevor. She didn’t have the time or money “to handle two really advanced boys,” so she gave them up to the very uncle who’d abused her when she was younger. The uncle who promised to keep us “only for a little while,” and make sure we were placed into the best foster care.
She never called to check and see if he did it, though. Once she dropped us off on his doorstep, we no longer existed.
Instead, she placed us in the back of her mind and never sought us out. And after picking up the pieces of her miserable life, she checked into rehab and got clean. She washed away all of the things that made up her past—her children included, and then she hitchhiked here. To the fucking West Coast.
Once, I sent her a Christmas card—telling her that we wanted to reconnect. That Trevor was wondering if she was still alive and well, and that he still held out hope that he’d be able to see her again.
She never wrote back.
In fact, I sat across from her in a car as she checked the mail that day. Watched her face pale as she read my handwritten words. Then I watched her look over her shoulder, up and down the street, to make sure that no one was watching before she ripped my heart to pieces and tossed the paper shreds down the drain.
I never told Trevor that I found her.
I know him well enough to know that he’d never understand it, and he’d add her to our personal list. He’d even insist that he be the one to handle her.
As she chases her oldest son around a makeshift swing, my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“The McGregor job is in the works,” Trevor says. “I need a few more days of research, though.”
“Noted.”
“Where are you on Ryan Teddy, the foster care asshole who Uncle Avery paid off?”
“I’m—” I pause as he steps out of the same house where my ex-mother lives, as he kisses her on the cheek. He’s married to another woman who lives in a different suburb, and he and my mother are, apparently, fucking cheaters.