Storms Over Secrets

by J. A. Derouen

  Or what if one of these guys is the man of your dreams? That’s what I really want to ask, but I keep that shit to myself. Hell no. That’s not gonna fucking happen.

  “I think you’re overreacting, Cain. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now. There’s nothing to worry about.” She sounds exasperated with me, and damn if that doesn’t piss me off.

  “Yes, I’m aware you’re an independent woman and all that happy horse shit—”

  “Happy horse shit? Cain Bennett, don’t make me—”

  “But will you please ease my worried mind and let me bring you and pick you up. At least I’ll know you haven’t fallen into the clutches of Hannibal Lecter.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, fine!”

  “It’s not Pete’s sake I’m worried about; it’s yours. Seriously, do you want to be part of a dress made of skin?”

  “Cain!”

  “’It puts the lotion on the skin,’” I say in the creepiest voice I can muster.

  “I put my foot up your ass! How about that?”

  People trickle out of the club, some paired up, others pissed off, none of them Celia and Alex. I glance at my watch and think about calling her and telling her to get her little ass out here. That may be crossing the line, so I start pacing again. I’m seconds away from barging right in there when I hear a familiar laugh. It’s about damn time.

  “What the hell took so long? People have been filtering out of the place for the past fifteen minutes. I was about to go in and find you, Celia.” I try to dial back the irritation in my tone, but I’m not having much luck.

  “I do not need a chaperone, Cain Bennett, so I suggest you cool your damn jets.” Celia stomps her foot and glares at me. She blows out a frustrated breath and gives Alex a knowing look.

  “Damn. Look, I’m sorry. I was just worried, Cece.” I grab her hand and sigh in relief. Speed dating or not, she walked out alone. Score one for the big man … that’s me, the big man.

  “I’m a big girl, Cain. There’s nothing to worry about. Will you take me home now?”

  Is it wrong that I get a chub at the sound of her asking me to take her home? Fuck it; if having a chub is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right. I tuck her into my side, and squeeze her. I smile when she snuggles into me, too.

  “Of course.”

  After seeing Alex safely locked in her studio, we hop in my truck and I drive Celia home.

  “Did you meet the man of your dreams tonight?” I ask, trying to sound light, not in the least bit concerned.

  Celia sighs and rolls her eyes. “Of course not. And neither did Alex, which totally sucks. I wish she could find someone amazing to make her forget her asshole ex.”

  I know exactly what Celia means. I don’t know the particulars, but Alex has been torn up about this guy, and I hate that for her.

  “Maybe she needs to let go of the past before she can move on to something even better,” I suggest.

  “Maybe,” Celia says, tracing the seam of her skirt, completely oblivious to how my statement could pertain to her.

  “Oh, I did find a new volunteer for the clinic, though. I think he’ll be a great asset.”

  “He?” I ask, sitting up a little bit straighter. I watch her reaction closely, searching for any sign that she’s into the guy.

  “He’s just a volunteer, Cain.”

  “Well … that’s good. I’d hate to have to search his fridge for body parts.”

  She sighs and stares out the truck window. “No, no search necessary. I don’t think I’ll need you to search anyone’s fridge anytime soon, but thanks for the offer. It’s always been just me, and I don’t see that changing. It can’t.”

  She holds the pendant of her necklace in her fingers and absentmindedly runs it back and forth over the chain while staring into space.

  “You’re always fiddling with that chain. Do you always wear the same necklace?”

  She sighs and tilts the pendant in my direction. “It’s a St. Jude pendant. He’s the patron saint of lost causes.”

  She turns away from me and continues playing with the chain, eyes trained to the telephones poles and passing cars.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Tink. I think you bring hope to the hopeless every day. I’m thinking there isn’t a lost cause you can’t fix,” I say, poking her side with a laugh, but my cheerful mood doesn’t seem to transfer.

  “That’s where you would be wrong … so very wrong,” she whispers.

  I may be wrong about a lot of things, but I know one thing for certain: Celia Lemaire is not a lost cause, and I’ll do anything to prove it to her.

  I climb Celia’s front porch steps two at a time, tape measure and counter samples in hand. I tap on the front door and whistle a happy tune under my breath. Am I overly excited about replacing the countertops in her kitchen? Yeah, I guess you could say that. Replacing countertops, being Celia’s shadow until she realizes how awesome I am—call it what you like, but however you look at it, I’ve got a serious job to do. If I happen to trip and my lips fall onto hers? Well, let’s just say, I wouldn’t exactly complain.

  This is my MO—my strategy, if you will. Her porch needs sanding and repainting? I’m on it. The bathroom light flickers? Sounds like an extensive electrical rewiring is in order. At this rate, I’ll have a showroom-quality rental house on my hands. If things progress as I hope they will, maybe I could move out of my downtown apartment and reap the rewards of my labor with my hot ass, fairy girlfriend.

  OK, so maybe I’m jumping the gun.

  I hear her holler from the back of the house, inviting me in, so I open the door and proceed to the kitchen.

  “Hey, Tink. Are you ready to pick out your new, fabulous countertops?” I call out when I don’t immediately see her.

  My question is met with a loud ruckus, the slamming of doors, and a flustered Celia at the end of the hallway. She leans against the door handle, feet crossed and lips pressed together.

  “Cain, you can’t just walk into my house whenever you please. What if I’d been naked?” she shrieks, way more upset than the situation calls for, if you ask me.

  “I heard you tell me to come in,” I say as I place my things on the counter and cross my arms. She’s fully clothed, albeit a bit disheveled, so I fail to see the big deal.

  “I didn’t say ‘come in;’ I said ‘coming,’” she huffs as she meets me in the kitchen. “There’s a difference, you know.”

  I raise my hands defensively and bow my head. “My bad. I misunderstood, okay? Can we untwist the panties and move on to the fun stuff? Oh, wait, untwisting the panties could be a pretty good time, too, don’t you think?”

  I nod slowly and shrug, and that finally coaxes a tiny giggle from her. Her eyes dart from me to the back of the house. I’m not sure why, but she seems more nervous than usual.

  Something’s off.

  “Is everything all right, Tink?” I ask, eyeing her suspiciously.

  She nods nervously and smiles. I take a few steps toward the hallway, and she jumps in front of me and tugs my arm, pulling me back to the kitchen.

  “Let’s take a look at the samples you brought. I’m so psyched about my countertops!” Her voice is pitchy and not at all fairy-like today.

  I don’t like it one bit. What, or who, the fuck is back there? It can’t be…

  A strange squeal comes from the back of the house, and Celia throws her arms up at the same time. “So psyched!” she screeches.

  “What was that noise?”

  “What noise?”

  “You know the noise, Celia. The squeal from down the hallway.”

  She taps my shoulder and pushes back toward the counter. “That was me, silly. I tend to get a bit screechy when I’m excited.”

  I give her my best side-eye, but she just smiles and bats her eyelashes. I lay out the sample choices for her, and she runs her hand over each one.

  “Right,” I say as I clear my throat. “So I have a few different things for you to choose from. You coul
d choose a tile, if you want, or corian. We could also put in a butcher block countertop or granite, but we’d need go to the marble and granite shop to look at those choices.”

  “Granite? Don’t you think that’s a little pricey for a rental house? I don’t want you to spend that kind of money…”

  “Stop. Don’t worry about it for a second, because I’m not. I want you to have exactly what you want,” I say, deciding to omit the part about “So you won’t ever want to leave.” Yeah, I’ll keep that shit to myself.

  Celia tips her head and smiles, just as I hear scratching coming from the end of the hallway. I turn in the direction of the noise just as Celia starts scratching and pawing at the tile samples.

  “All of them,” she shouts as she tosses the sample boards around the counter with lots of clanking. “I love them all. I’ll never be able to choose.”

  I put my hands on my hips and stay silent. I stare her down, waiting for her to meet my eyes. Once she stops her little fit, she clasps her hands and watches me through lowered lashes. I feel the adrenaline coursing through my body, making my heart pound and the veins in my temples throb.

  Does she have a fucking guy back there? Is the volunteer from the speed dating fiasco paying her a visit? We’ve made no promises, and she owes me no explanations, but fuck that. Just the idea causes murderous thoughts to scroll through my head. She may not know it yet—it may take a bit longer for her to accept it—but she’s mine. End. Of. Story.

  “Something you wanna tell me, Celia?” I ask evenly, trying to keep my boiling-over temper in check.

  She wrings her hands and looks to the side. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” she whispers.

  Unfortunately for her, right after she feigns innocence, a loud, unmistakable meow fills the house. I cock my head to the side as her eyes widen in an expression that can only be described as “Oh shit, I’m busted.”

  She lets out a deep sigh and shrugs her shoulders. “Well, you see, I may have—”

  I raise my hand to stop her. “Oh no, little one, it’s too late for that. The cat’s out of the bag. Pun intended,” I say as I stomp down the hallway and open the door to her bedroom.

  I keep up the act, which isn’t hard to do because I’m less-than-pleased about a cat being in my rental, but my body exhales in relief. A cat won’t break my heart. A cat won’t steal my girl. That being said, it doesn’t mean the fur ball can stay.

  A little orange nose peeks out from behind the door and sniffs my boot. Once I’m deemed fit, the kitten pounces on my foot and uses its razor sharp claws to climb its way up my jeans leg. I pluck it off my leg, but Celia swipes the kitten out of my hands before I can do anything else.

  “Please don’t make me give Eddie back, Cain. Please.” Her shoulders hunch in defeat as she cradles the kitten in her arms. She shoots me the most persuasive pout I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I have a strict no-pet policy. Animals scratch up doors and piss on baseboards. Those little fuckers will eat a hole straight through sheet rock. They are a pain in the ass I’ve never wanted to deal with. Celia’s just gonna have to understand that.

  “It can’t stay,” I say, looking away. Her pitiful expression is the equivalent of a solar eclipse—if you look straight at it, you’ll be blinded for life.

  “What if I promise to have all the carpets professionally cleaned when I move out? Would you consider it?”

  Hold the fuck up. Did she just mention moving out? She can’t move out—I forbid it. Logically, I know I don’t have the right to tell her what she can and can’t do, but … no, screw that, I’m pretty sure I forbid it.

  “Now, hold on a minute, maybe we can figure something out,” I say, conceding, even though it goes against my better judgment. Hands on my hips, and head lowered, I grab the back of my neck and lay down the law. “You can keep Eddie, but no new carpet until … well, let’s not go there. Just … you’re not getting new carpet any time soon, okay?”

  No new carpet? Ugh! Good job, asshole. Way to show her who’s boss.

  Celia squeals in delight and throws her arms around my neck, before hopping up and down. Eddie clutches onto my chest to keep from falling, and I feel those little claws piercing my skin.

  “You won’t regret it, I promise,” she says as she lays a loud, smacking kiss on my cheek. She takes a step back and dislodges Eddie’s claws from my mangled chest and scratches the kitten’s belly. “Did you hear that Eddie? This is your new home.”

  “Which one of them orchestrated this?”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Which one of my moms did you scheme with?”

  Celia’s head pops up, and she has the nerve to look offended. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it scheming. Lila saw how much I loved Eddie, and she said she knew you’d understand. She called me last week, and I drove out there this past weekend,” she explains.

  “She’s got your number?”

  “I gave it to her when we visited, you know, in case we wanted to have girl talk,” she replies innocently.

  Christ…

  “You and I both know there won’t be any girl talk. Instead, there will be comedy hour at my expense, I’m sure.” She smirks at me and shrugs. At least she doesn’t try to deny it.

  “Oh, and I also told her I couldn’t make Sunday lunch at your grandparents’ house,” she adds. I start to tell her she’s welcome to come, but she stops me with a shake of her head. “It’s obvious you’re uncomfortable, Cain. Please invite me one day when that changes. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I say, hating that she feels unwanted. I think she gets that it’s not about her. When it comes to my family, there are some things I’m not ready to share just yet.

  I look down at the ball of fur in her arms and shake my head. I have to admit, the little sucker is cute. “Um, Celia, you do realize Eddie is a girl, right?”

  “Of course, I know that. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Eddie is a dude’s name,” I say with a shrug.

  Celia giggles and raises Eddie into the air so she can admire her. “Eddie’s short for Edna Catherine Lemaire.”

  I grab Eddie from Celia’s arms and stare her down. “I’m sorry she gave you a granny name, little one,” I say with a laugh.

  “Ha! This coming from the man who named his dog Mr. Biscuit.” Celia wraps her arms around my waist and places her head on my chest, putting her at eye level with Eddie. “She’s an old soul; I can’t help that, can I?”

  My arm instinctively falls to her waist, and I watch as she tips her nose to Eddie with a smile. Eddie inches forward and taps her wet nose to Celia’s, making her giggle.

  “Nah, I guess you can’t,” I whisper, squeezing her closer.

  As I look down at her and take in all that is Celia—my stunning, magical fairy—I vow then and there to take off the kid gloves. Today is a wake up call. There may not have been some douchebag sniffing around what’s mine today, but it can happen if I don’t man the fuck up.

  Game on.

  “Kiss Me” by Ed Sheeran

  Present Day

  “HEY CELIA, CAN you grab me a Band-Aid? I sliced my wrist on a broken piece of tile,” I call out as I walk through her front door with my arm wrapped in a shop towel.

  I look up just in time to catch a glimpse of a guilty Celia jamming something between the cushions of her couch. Her eyes meet mine with irritation, and she huffs as she crosses her arms. I can’t help but notice the pretty flush on her cheeks.

  “Cain! What the hell happened to knocking?”

  “Jesus, are you serious? I told you I was heading over here when I left the hardware store. You said you were fine with it.”

  “Ugh, whatever,” she says with an eye roll.

  She stands up and glares at me before stomping away, her skirt swinging around her legs. I crook my head down the hall, looking for the skirt to swing just right and give me a panty shot … hopefully a thong. What can I say? I’m a man. I make no apologies for my hedonism.

  As soon as s
he’s out of sight, I toss the shop towel over my shoulder and dive for the sofa. I reach deep into the cushions, my tiny cut forgotten. Eh, it’s not that bad anyway. My hands wrap around the object in question, and I rip it out, anxious to solve the mystery. It’s a … book. Yep, it’s definitely a book. This particular book has a man with his frilly lace shirt ripped open to display a set of greased up abs on the cover. I also see a bookmark sticking out at about the halfway point.

  Oh, hell yes.

  I flip open to the marked page and start reading, my smile getting wider and more mischievous the further I read. So, the fairy likes it dirty.

  I hear her fumbling around in the bathroom, and then the distinct sound of a cabinet closing. She’ll be rounding the corner any second now, so I hitch my ankle on top of my knee, relax back into the couch, and start reading.

  “He rips open her blouse, buttons flying, scattering across the floor, to reveal her full, rounded breasts and taut nipples. His hands instinctively reach for her nipples, pinching and pulling while she groans with desire.

  ‘Is that pussy wet for me? Are you ready for my cock?’ Duke Wellington asks gruffly as he grinds into her petticoats.

  He quickly tears away the blouse and skirts, leaving her naked before him. She pants softly as he peruses her body. She doesn’t make a sound as his boots kick her legs open, and he lowers his face to hers.

  ‘Answer me, maiden. Are you ready for me?’ he growls as he slaps her sex with a stinging pop.

  She cries out, half-yelp, half-moan. ‘Yes, Duke, I’m ready for your cock.’”

  Celia rips the book from my hands and shelters it in her chest behind crossed arms. “Ha ha! You think you’re so funny. I especially like your squeaky rendition of the maiden,” she says, managing to look embarrassed and pissed all at once.

  “Ah, you liked that, did you? I tried my best to do that fine piece of literature justice.” I cross my arms and grin smugly.

  “It is, in fact, a fine piece of literature,” she says as she pulls the book from her chest and checks out the cover. “The Affairs of the Duke of Hamptonshire is very thought-provoking.”