Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  I wait until Mandy settles back beside Melanie on the loveseat before I ask her about Josh. And she rolls her eyes and starts talking. Talking about Josh lying to her. Talking about him forgetting or maybe just ignoring their anniversary. Talking about the relationship being all but over.

  She doesn’t seem upset. Irritated, yes. But not really sad or anything. She changes the subject eventually, wanting to discuss baby names with Melanie. Melanie has decided that she’ll be going with another ‘A’ name. Can’t argue with that. Name organization. Name uniformity. I like it.

  We toss out potential ‘A’ names until the Friends episode ends. Then we put on The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

  During “The Time Warp” (which we decide not to dance to tonight since Abby is sleeping in the room), my phone buzzes.

  One text. Unknown number.

  My face smiles. Well, I’m pretty sure that it’s been smiling all night, though. I’m—

  Callie. Open his text.

  Onetwothreeopen.

  I already knew about the music in your head, by the way.

  What? How could he—

  Reply.

  How is that possible?

  Send.

  He has to be lying. Has to be. There is no way that—

  Buzz.

  Open.

  I could tell by the little movements you make all of the time. Foot taps. Head bobs. Small shoulder motions.

  What the hell? I move my—

  Another buzz.

  Open.

  I noticed your movements the first day you came into my office.

  Wow. Unrea—

  Wait. So he could somehow read or see or just know about the music in my head, but he didn’t know that—

  Reply.

  You could tell that, but you couldn’t tell how I felt…feel…about you?

  Send.

  Pick my nails. Stare at Tim Curry dressed in drag on the screen in front of—

  Buzz.

  Open.

  Well, I thought…I hoped…that you felt the same way. But when you started to talk the other night at my house, started to tell me everything that was wrong with us and then wanted to leave my house, I thought that maybe I was wrong.

  Reply quickly.

  You weren’t wrong.

  Send.

  I can’t believe that I let him think that. Let him believe that maybe I didn’t—

  Buzz.

  I know that now.

  Reply. Smiling.

  So your mind-reading powers are still completely intact. Don’t worry.

  Send.

  I can’t believe—

  “What’s he texting you about?” Mandy. “About getting a hotel room somewhere?”

  I shake my head. Still smiling. Laughing. “Shut up, Mandy.”

  Buzz. Open.

  Well, if I’m reading you correctly then, I sense that you don’t want to finish your days of therapy until after you see if the medication works.

  Ugh. Finishing therapy. Three more days of—

  Reply.

  What three activities do I still have to do?

  Send.

  Let the activities not be too bad. Let them not be too awful.

  Let them not—

  Buzz.

  Here we go.

  One. Two. Three. Open.

  Pumping gas. Using syrup (yes—I initially scheduled two days for syrup in case the first day didn’t work out). And blood work (I scheduled two days for this as well—just in case).

  I don’t want to eat syrup. And I don’t want to pump gas—not after I read an article years ago about contaminated needles in gas pump handles.

  And I really REALLY don’t want to get blood work—just looking at the words makes my stomach—

  Buzz. Open.

  Do not worry about these activities right now. Let’s just say that we’ll try the gas pumping and the syrup after you’ve been on your medicine for a month. And we’ll try the blood work after that as soon as we feel you are ready. Let’s say definitely within the next…six months?

  Reply.

  How about within the next three years?

  Send.

  Buzz. Open.

  One year.

  Reply.

  Done.

  Send.

  One year. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. That’s a long time. And maybe after a few months, I can persuade him to give me an extension. Maybe I—

  Buzz. Open.

  Good. Now that we have that taken care of, it’s your turn to read my mind. What do you think I’m thinking about right now?

  Hopefully the same thing that I’m thinking about right now. {“Alone.” Heart.}

  Reply.

  Umm…Halloween candy?

  Send.

  {Heart continues to—}

  Buzz. Open.

  No.

  You. Us. Tomorrow.

  My cheeks start to heat up and—

  “Now you are blushing, Callie. Are you guys starting the foreplay now, before you even reserve a hotel room?” Mandy again.

  Melanie laughs. I just shake my head. And tell them both to shut up. And smile.

  Reply.

  Me too.

  Send.

  Me too. Me too. Me—

  Buzz. Open.

  I’ll let you get back to Girls’ Night. Good night, Callie.

  Reply.

  Good night :)

  Send.

  I continue to watch The Rocky Horror Picture Show. My sisters continue to make comments about my texting (Well, Mandy is the main one commenting. Melanie plays on her phone as we watch the movie—she’s probably beating someone unmercifully in Words with Friends. She still laughs at Mandy’s remarks, however).

  My face continues to smile. It refuses to stop.

  My mind also refuses to stop. Thoughts keep coming. Thoughts about his texts. His words. His arms. His mouth. Thoughts about tomorrow.

  Thoughts about him.

  11:05 P.M.

  Mandy just went to bed. Melanie and Abby are both sound asleep. Time for my night routine.

  Thermostat: 70 degrees (I’m still smiling). Stove: off (still smiling). Doors: locked (Thinking about him on my doorstep earlier tonight. Holding me). Blinds: closed (Holding me. Holding me. Holding me). Alarm: set (Set for 5:00 a.m. Early. So I can be ready when he picks me up to fill my prescription before church. When he picks me up. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow). Teeth: brushed (mouth still somehow smiling during brushing). Pictures: straightened. Clothes for tomorrow: out (black dress and black leather shoes for church…and for my day with him). Mandy’s room: cleaned. Nails: painted. Email inbox: empty (One unnecessary email from Dr. Gabriel about the upcoming university holiday schedule. DELETE. Two pieces of junk mail—apparently I won the lottery in two different countries. Delete. Delete.) Laundry: away (wondering what he is doing tonight). Entire house: dusted (picturing him in his bed). Kitchen: scrubbed (picturing him in bed). My bathroom: sanitized (Him. In. Bed). Evening shower: taken {Il Divo takes over Heart. Same song, though. “Alone.” Now in Spanish.} Body lotion: applied {Louder.} Pajamas: on (purple silk pajamas—retrieved from the box in my closet). Hair: dried {Il Divo. Louder and louder. Four male voices singing all at once.} Prayers: said (Thanks for bringing him back to me. Thanks for bringing him back to me. Thanks for bringing him back to me. Oh, and sorry my thoughts are so inappropriate tonight). TV: on (flame broiled—)

  BUZZ.

  My phone is buzzing on my dresser.

  I grab it. One Unknown Number text.

  Open.

  Are you finished with your night routine?

  He’s still up?

  Reply.

  I am.

  Send.

  I crawl into bed, still holding my phone. Still smiling. Still thinking about tom—

  Buzz.

  Open.

  Do your leaving-the-house routine then. I’m picking you up in forty minutes.

  I can’t sleep without you tonight.

  Chapte
r 19

  him. him. him.

  {IL DIVO. STILL SINGING IN Spanish.}

  My skin begins to burn.

  Bare arms. Bare neck. Bursting with heat.

  He’s on his way. He’s on his way. He’s on his way.

  I push the covers off of me, feeling every movement of the blanket on my legs, my thighs. I step out of bed. My skin notices every brush of my silk pajamas. Each graze of fabric.

  Skin. Alive. Aware. Scorching.

  I start out of my room to do my leaving-the—

  Wait.

  I need to change my clothes. I have to change my clothes.

  I can’t exactly go out like this.

  Back to my room, ripping the silk camisole and silk shorts from my body.

  Brush. Graze. Tingle. Brush. Graze. Tingle. Brush. Graze. Tingle.

  I fold the pajamas and place them on my hamper. Then I fling on my clothes for tomorrow.

  Black dress on. More silky fabric. Grazing and brushing and—

  And feeling. Feeling everything.

  I head downstairs to (quietly—don’t want to wake anyone up) start my thirty-three checks.

  Checking and checking and checking. My dress rubbing against my skin. My body reacting…and burning. Sensitive to everything. Feeling everything.

  {Il Divo singing. “Alone.” Soon. Almost alone. Almost alone. Almost alone.}

  THIRTY-THREE CHECKS. DONE THREE times. Without waking anyone up.

  I grab my purse and phone, and I—

  BUZZ.

  A text. Obviously from him. It’s almost three o’clock in the morning. No one else is awake.

  Open.

  When you are finished, just open your front door.

  He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.

  He’s only a few feet away from—

  My feet move to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open quiet—

  Eyes on eyes.

  He looks like I feel. Alive. Impatient. On—

  His arms reach out and—

  And take me. Pull me in.

  His lips go right to mine. Mouths moving frantically. Tog—

  A cough in the silence.

  We both freeze, lips frozen together.

  A young cough. Abby. In the living room. Coughing in her sleep.

  His lips move maybe a millimeter. “Shh. Let’s get out of here.” His words fall right against my mouth. He says it again. “Let’s get out of here.” Each time his lips move, they hit mine. I—

  I kiss him again. I can’t help it.

  His mouth breaks into a smile against my lips. After a second, he pulls back a little, taking me with him, tugging me through the door. “Let’s go, Callie.”

  IN HIS CAR.

  It’s silent. But it doesn’t matter. My ears are fuzzy. Buzzing. {And Il Divo is still singing in Spanish.}

  He starts the car and backs out of my driveway. We—

  One of his hands leaves the steering wheel and—

  And moves right to my bare legs.

  Warm fingers on my lower thighs. Rubbing back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Heat. Heat. Heat. Everywhere.

  My back pressed against my leather seat. My arms—

  His fingers slip under the hem of my dress. Reaching further and further up my thighs.

  More heat.

  So. Much. Heat.

  {John Legend reappears with “All of Me.” All of me quivering. All of me burning. All of me—}

  The car stops. Red light. No other cars anywhere. No one else out at three o’clock in the morning.

  My hand moves over. Over to his jeans. Over to his leg.

  His leg. Hard. Firm. Warm.

  His breath catches. His hand pauses on my legs. Under my dress.

  Light. Still. Red.

  My hand slides slowly. Further up, up, up his jeans, his leg.

  Touching him. Feeling him. All of—

  Green light.

  He groans. Breathes heavily. Takes his fingers off of the steering wheel and gently moves my hand back down, back down to his thigh.

  He whispers. “Callie, if you don’t stop, I’m going to have to pull over and…and—”

  He stops. Looks at me. Fervently. “I’d rather have you in my bed.”

  In his bed. In his bed. In his—

  He turns his head and puts his hand back on the steering wheel. He starts to drive again.

  His other hand remains on my thighs. Under my dress. Still. Paused. Waiting.

  My fingers rest on his leg. Waiting too.

  Impatiently.

  In his bed. In his bed. In his bed. Have you. Have you. Have you. Have me. Have me. Have me.

  {John Legend. “All of Me.”}

  WE ARE HERE. PULLING INTO his garage.

  His hand still under my dress. My fingers still resting on his leg.

  Still waiting.

  Silent. Except for our breathing. Heavy breathing.

  {And except for singing. Loud singing. John Legend singing.}

  He turns off the—

  “Before we go in…” Quiet. Looking straight ahead. Not looking at me. “Before I take you to my bedroom…my bed…”

  His bed. His bed. His bed.

  His hand, still burning against my—

  “I want you to know…” He pauses. “I want you not to worry.”

  I’m not worried. I’m not worried. I’m not worr—

  “The sheets are clean. I change them every week. The comforter too. It’s clean. And the bed is clean. Rather new. I bought it last year. No one has been in it other than me.”

  {Jason Derulo bounds in with “Talk Dirty.” Singing so—}

  He coughs. Still not looking at me. “Does that sound okay? Because I can ch—”

  “Stop.” My voice interrupts him. Stops him.

  Is he serious right now? Does he really—

  He looks at me. Concerned. Restless. Disheveled.

  He’s serious. He’s worried right now. He’s—

  Gotta fix this.

  My hand steals slowly back up his leg. Creeping. Rubbing. Feeling.

  The concern gradually melts away from his eyes, leaving a rawness behind. Raw hunger. Raw desire. Raw need. Raw—

  “Let’s go in.” My mouth pushes out more words. Quiet voice. Demanding tone.

  I pull my hand away from his lap and start to open my do—

  Door open. I move one leg out and then the other, his hand falling away from my thighs as I move.

  I push myself out of the car and move toward the white door, the door to his house, to his kitchen.

  Legs wobbly. Body heavy. Skin tingling.

  I hear him move behind me. Getting out of the car. Shutting the door. Walking up, up, up to—

  To the house door. To me.

  His hand, his arm, slides around my waist as he one-handedly pulls out his keys and unlocks the door.

  His arm around my waist. His hand against the thin fabric of my dress.

  Thin fabric. Warm arm. Thin fabric. Hot hand. Thi—

  The door opens.

  He guides me through it. Moving together. Walking together.

  Bodies moving against each other. Leg against leg. Hip against hip.

  Friction.

  We make it in the door, through the doorway. Quickly, he shuts the—

  He moves me, pushes me against the back of the door. Both of his arms completely around me now. Moving up and down and—

  And everywhere.

  Hips pressing into my hips. His jeans against my dress.

  His lips on mine. A frenzy of kissing.

  My hands in his hair. On his chest. All over.

  My body smashed between the door and him. Solid door. Unmoving.

  Solid him. Hard him. Pushing. Pressing. Unyielding.

  Urgent kisses. No time for breath—

  He pulls back a little. Just his face. Just enough so we can look at each other. Famished eyes on famished eyes.

  His hips still press against mine. Crushing me
against the door. Making my body ache. Making my body need to—

  “Are you ready?” Throaty words. Blazing eyes.

  Dizzy. Speechless.

  Ready.

  Ready.

  Ready.

  I nod. {Il Divo starts singing again. A new song. In English. “Every Time I Look at You.”}

  We stay there for another moment. Or two. Or three.

  Bodies smashed together. Ready eyes on ready eyes. And—

  He pulls back a little, groaning as our bodies part. He takes my hand in his, leading me through the kitchen and into the dining—

  “There are the flowers that I owe you.” He pauses in the dining room, pointing at the table. Pointing at a bouquet of yellow roses in a vase. “I bought them after I left your house. For tomorrow.” He looks back at me. “But I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

  Couldn’t wait. Couldn’t wait. Couldn’t wait. Can’t wa—

  He tugs on my hand, and we keep moving, my heels trying to keep up with him.

  Through the dining room. Into some sort of softly lit living room. Through double doors and into—

  He pulls me back to him. Bodies together. Lips together. Hands roaming.

  Darkness. Only a dim shadow of light coming from the living room.

  Feet moving. Walking forward and backward and sideways. Together. Moving and moving and moving until—

  Until the edge of a bed…a mattress…a comforter…is behind my knees.