“I don’t feel held back by you, Frankie. I’ll never feel that way.”
“Luka, I’ll never be able to give you what you really deserve. There will never be holding hands, kissing by a fire, a house, a wedding, a future. Those are things I never want. This is a perfect friendship that involves frequent sex.”
“I’m well aware of the dos and don’ts of Francesca Winters. I know quite well what this is. One day, I may finally meet a woman worthy of all this charm and class and raw sexual magnitude. Until then, I am all yours, whenever you want me.”
His toes bumped against mine as he wrapped me in a tight and warm embrace. I breathed in deep, savored his scent of musk with a hint of tobacco.
“Raw sexual magnitude?” I questioned.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“You’re my rock, Luka,” I breathed, my smile slipping.
“Always, Frank,” he breathed into my hair. “Just don’t hide from me.”
How could I not? I hid from myself. It was easier to live with the demons when you did it in the dark.
Chapter 8
Time passed slowly after Elise’s wedding, and after two months had gone by, I felt like I’d lived a year. Between working non-stop and helping my mom around the house, I was exhausted. I thought that keeping myself occupied would help keep Rory off my mind. It didn’t. He was always there—naked, smiling in that cocky way he did.
It almost felt as if I’d left some part of myself behind that night, perhaps a part I hadn’t even realized existed. It lingered somewhere in time, reliving the night I’d been hard pressed to forget. I suppose I liked to think of it that way. It was easier than digging deep, understanding my feelings. I hate feelings; they complicate too much.
Feelings are what those needy girls—you know, the clingy ones that always expect too much, that blubber incessantly after an unfortunate heartbreak—have. It’s what drives them. Feelings and emotions nourish and flourish them. They nauseate and piss me the fuck off. I live my life the way I choose for a reason. Feelings are fickle, dangerous, premenstrual bitches that sock you in the most inopportune times. I’ve no use for them.
Don’t get me wrong, I do feel things. The problem is, I feel things on such a deep and intense level, they threaten to consume and overwhelm me to the point of breaking. Good and bad—my ability to balance is non-existent. And thus my rules for protection were born. As long as I follow them, I have a chance to survive, to live up to the promise I made to my father. Even if living was sometimes the hardest thing I ever did.
I stretched in bed, my hair fanning around me. I was sated and satisfied, fulfilled and exhausted. I’d just spent the past hour locked in a room with one of my best friends, my confidant, and my sexual relief. My body tingled from the release, my muscles ached, and my mind cleared. For just a minute. . .
Lukas Pope.
What was there to say about the man? He was hot as fuck, knew how to own a woman’s body like it was his job, and worked like a goddamn dog every day to support himself. He was the catch of a lifetime for any woman. Just not me. What we had was a contractual agreement—nothing more, nothing less. He filled a physical need, never an emotional one. I appreciated the things he did to my body, but I had fastened a tower around my heart of brick and mortar. It didn’t matter that I’d known him my entire life; nothing was going to breach that tower. While I cared for him as I did any of my friends, my heart belonged to only me.
I suppose there are some that cannot separate love and emotion from sex. Sex is a physical act, a need that brings a calm and medicinal peace to the mind and body. Emotion complicates and confuses such a simple, base act. I like easy. My relationship with Lukas was just that—easy. It existed for my safety and my pleasure. There were no sleepovers, no spooning or cuddling, just sex. Simple.
In the two years since I had attempted to end my life, he was the only man I’d slept with. Leading up to that moment, when I had gone off my meds and was manic, I left a trail of one-night stands that would shame a hooker. But Lukas and I had developed our agreement and I’d never strayed from it. I was never tempted to. Until Rory O’Neill crashed into my goddamn orbit. That night with him, what I remembered, was on constant loop almost twenty-four hours a day. Every day. The man haunted me. And I knew, without a doubt, there would be nothing simple with him—that was the scariest part.
He could very well be my undoing.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I looked at Lukas over my shoulder, tracing the contours of his well-toned body. His arms were thick, heavily inked bands that he stretched above his head, gripping the doorframe. His broad chest was covered from one side to the other with a span of wings, a blood filled heart resting in the center. His hair was like dark cocoa and was a shaggy mess around his head drawing out his gold-rimmed hazel eyes. I did care for him, just not in the ways that mattered. I loved him, it just wasn’t the kind of love that simmered into a deep passion that would last a lifetime.
It was getting more difficult, with each passing meeting between the two of us, to pretend I was unchanged. I never wanted to change; I had never wanted to experience anything outside of my norm. That was my shelter. I’d not really been okay since I’d opened myself to Rory the night of the wedding. I allowed him to see the parts of me I lock away from everyone else.
“I’m just tired,” I answered, resting my head on the pillow. The lie tasted sour on my tongue.
“I could stay, get some food, and find a movie. . .” his voice trailed off as his arms dropped, crossing over his chest.
“That’s against the rules, Pope.”
“I can stay as your old friend Luka,” he replied, walking toward the bed, sitting on the edge. “Not as the man that makes you scream out in mind-fucking pleasure.”
I sat up, drawing the sheet to my chest. My hair fell over my shoulder and Lukas moved to push it back behind my ear, meeting my gaze. He had a gaze that could make any woman melt. All it did was bring me comfort—comfort in knowing he cared enough to protect me from the world.
“Is that what you think you do?”
“I know it’s what I do, Winters,” he replied, smiling wide. “What do ya say—movie and grub?”
“Only if it’s not fried,” I lamented.
“Deal.” Lukas stood from the bed, picking a shirt up from the floor, slipping into it. “Pizzas are baked.”
“You better get me veggie.”
“We’ll see,” he smiled, grabbing his wallet from the dresser. “I’ll be back.”
I sat in the bed, staring at the door, smelling Lukas on my sheets and on my skin long after he left the room. Something in the back of my mind poked at me, reminding me of a conversation with Karleigh months ago, before the wedding. Things could become complicated, very easily. Especially since I was beginning to feel like I should let Lukas go. I’d started to think that our arrangement was more than a little unfair to him.
If I didn’t let him go soon, it could break what we have. And that is a friendship I’m not willing to sacrifice.
**
“You know I hate scary movies.”
“I do,” Lukas admitted, smiling wide. “But I don’t.”
“It’s not that you like them, Lukas. It’s all in the fact that you love how they terrify me.”
“That’s simply untrue.”
I smiled, knowing that my face lit up like the fourth of July with that one simple act. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Maybe just a little,” he admitted, leaning closer, his lips hovering above mine. “And maybe I think you’re sexy when you tremble.”
His lips sealed over mine. He kissed me tenderly, the kiss of a man that cared for me on a level far deeper than I could ever understand or deserve. And I kissed him back with as much as I had to offer, which was barely a fraction of what he gave.
“You’re not okay, Frankie,” Lukas whispered across my lips, holding onto the back of my head. “Talk to me. I feel you
slipping.”
I met his intense stare and wrinkled my brow.
“I’m not slipping, I promise.”
“I know you better than you know yourself, Winters. You’ve been off for weeks, and it’s been getting worse,” he replied. “You’re not even the same in bed. Tonight there was. . . an urgency. Is everything okay, up here?”
His finger tapped on my forehead, and I wanted to slip into myself. I wanted to hide. I spend my days attempting to be normal. This meant attempting to outrun the stigma that follows mental illness, which at times, includes attempting to forget I have a chronic illness. The only time I think of or face my disease is when I take my meds or attend a required doctor’s appointment. Of course there are those dreaded moments that it’s thrown in my face by a random family member or cruel “friend.” Or even times like these, when concerned friends and loved ones make me face it.
“Because I was really in the mood I must be manic, is that it?” I snapped, pulling away from him.
“Is it?”
“Fuck you!” I shouted, jumping from the couch. I was angry and offended, although I knew I was overreacting. I wanted him to leave. I couldn’t run away, it was my home.
“No, don’t fuck me! I’m being your advocate, Frankie!”
“I didn’t ask for an advocate! I asked for you to come over and have some sex with me. I don’t want any of this other bullshit!”
Lukas stood from the couch, hands out in front of him, taking a tentative step toward me. “Tell me what is going on. Ease my mind, and I’ll drop it.”
“You want me to ease your mind?” I asked, and he nodded his head. “Get the fuck out, Lukas.”
“No.”
“Now, I’m not kidding. I will start tossing shit in five, four, three. . .”
I didn’t need to finish the countdown. Lukas turned, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door. I released a loaded and heavy breath as I followed his steps, locking the door behind him. Leaning back against the door, I closed my eyes and blocked out the berating voices in my head.
To some degree, Lukas was right. I was acting bizarre. Had been since the night I had sex with Rory O’Neill, and I didn’t see that changing any time in the near future. I dreamed of him almost every night and thought of him hourly. When Lukas said I displayed urgency in the bedroom today that was an understatement. I’d spent an hour getting myself worked up over Rory before I called him.
It was wrong, unfair, and horrible on a plethora of levels. But I did it in spite of all those things. Unfortunately, I’d do it again. I’d also regret it—again.
“Will you ever learn from your mistakes, Frankie?” I grumbled, schlepping my suddenly too heavy body toward the comfort of my bed. The one that still smelled of Lukas and fresh sex. “No, no you won’t.”
**
The fucking drawer next to the fridge stuck as I pulled. I slammed my palm into it twice, released a heavy curse under my breath, and pulled again. Excitement dared to show its face as it finally squeaked open. I looked down into the cornucopia that lay in the depths of that magical drawer, weighing my options.
“Red fish, yellow fish, white fish,” I called, my fingers waving in anticipation. “Ah, blue fish it is.”
Plucking two blue tablets from the drawer, I shuffled to the cabinet above the stove, pulling out a full bottle of whiskey. I stared down at the pills resting in the palm of my hand after opening the amber liquid, my mind offering me a moment to reconsider my destructive choices. That brief moment came to a crashing halt with the image of Ryan, sprawled on the floor, hole in his temple, dried blood streaked down his face, cold and listless eyes staring at nothing as he lay in a pool of sticky blood, a revolver in his hand.
Fuck destructive, this is therapeutic, I thought, tossing the pills into the back of my throat, following it with two big swigs of whiskey. Before lunch, all images of Ryan, of his suicide, would be a faded memory. One that would remain forgotten until my therapy wore off.
The fact was, the past three years of my life, since Ryan’s death, I’ve been living within the walls of a nightmare. The haunting images bombard me, fly at me as if they’re stuck on repeat. And fuck if I could stop it as every day I lost a little more of myself and my soul. I slipped further and further away from myself; I fled crippling reality. I hungered for that existence until I had Francesca.
I shared nothing more than a few hours, a half a bottle of tequila, a dance or two, and a night of the most unbelievable sex I’d ever had. That’s saying a lot considering all the hookups I’ve participated in throughout my life. I saw something in her that I knew lived within me—hurt, failure, a damaged and beaten down soul. Oh but she also carried the heart of a survivor.
That night with her changed me. I had a glimpse of what my life could be, what I could have; fuck, I wanted that. I needed it. Because when I was with her—feeling her, seeing her, tasting her—Ryan no longer haunted me.
There was something about her.
Every night I fell asleep to the lullaby of her cries, her passion, her gasps that came just before her orgasm, and the sound of her delicate laugh. When my eyes closed, her eyes stared back at me. They’re like twinkling stars in the night sky to guide me back home. A home where I dream I’ll find her, waiting for me with open arms. But reality is harsh. She’s long gone; she left me to wake up cold and alone.
There was no note, no scribbled number on a random scrap of paper. No small token to serve as a reminder of our night together. She was just gone. I sat up and fought to convince myself she was not a mirage. Francesca ran; she bolted the second she had the chance, but what she couldn’t take was her lingering scent on the sheets, or my clothes, or even my skin. That was now burned in my memory with everything else from that night.
It’s been two months, three days, and more than a handful of hours since I felt her flushed skin beneath my palms. It’s been way too fucking long. I’ve waited for her to call about the truck, to call and ask me to come stay the night, to say that I left as big a stain on her heart as she had mine. I’ve given her more than enough time.
Today will be the day I go to her. Today I will pursue Francesca. And she will run if she knows what’s good for her.
Chapter 9
Things had been slow at Winter’s Night for being a Friday. I’d sent Karleigh home two hours before closing. My assumption was the fucking snow was keeping everyone at home—warm and safe—for the night. I couldn’t really blame them. I’d much rather be curled up in front of the wood stove at home, steaming mug of tea in one hand, a great book in the other. But, I had a business to maintain, even if I only had a couple handfuls of patrons throughout the afternoon.
I’d already made my rounds twice. I cleaned all the tabletops, changed out all the votives in the cups, and swept the tiled floor. The bucket was filled and ready for the mopping to commence in T-minus twenty minutes. Official closing. After all, someone might decide to drive out in the storm of the God-blessed century for a glass of wine or two. Hell, they may even waltz right out of my doors with an entire case. Stranger things have happened.
Music tinkled lightly in the background as I cleaned up in the kitchen. I wiped the counters, drained the sink, and made quick work of restocking a few of my cases that I’d run through during the week. The bells on the door chimed, and I felt the draft come in through the entire building, swirling around me.
“I’ll be right out,” I called, closing the cellar door.
After washing my hands, I walked into the tasting room, glancing at the tall figure standing in front of the wood stove. Seemed like a good plan; it was bitter fucking cold. I crouched behind the bar, placing bottles beneath the counter, and waited for my patron. I heard heavy boots rapping on the ceramic tile with each step.
“Francesca,” a deep, smooth voice called from above me, making me feel as if the floor was falling out from under my feet.
I didn’t need to stand to look into his face to know he stood there, his voice reached me in place
s I didn’t need reaching. Not right now at least. Fuck, not ever if I were smart. It was the voice of a man I’d spent one amazing night with after Elise’s wedding; a man I’d thought of countless nights since, but vowed I’d never see again. It was a voice as smooth as silk, with a deep timbre that hinted at all the sensual things he knew to do. Rory O’Neill stood at my bar, in my winery, waiting for me to stand up and face him.
Slow panic began to seep in as my mind started to play through all of the possible scenarios of why he’d be here. None of them had an ending that turned out positive for me. He’d most likely want a replay of our last meeting. I couldn’t survive another meeting. The last one still affected me more than it fucking well should. He could be coming to warn me of an STD exposure, or maybe he thinks I took off with something of his that he misplaced? Well Frankie Winters in no thief, I’ll tell him that.
“Frankie?” He said my name again, his voice wrapping around me where I knelt on the floor, threatening to turn my legs to gelatin. Why does he have to be so damned sexy?
I stood slowly, meeting his gaze—his perfect bright and brilliant blue eyes. My pulse raced, and I was certain he could hear it. The citizens of the next county could hear the rapid drumming.
“Hi, yes, I’m Frankie Winters. Is there something I can help you with?” I asked, plastering a full, fake smile on my face. Avoidance was my coping mechanism. However idiotic that plan may have been. “Maybe a glass of red to warm up from this storm we have brewing?”
He leaned against the bar, a crooked smile playing at his full lips. The candles flickering on the bar made his eyes shine like bright stars. As he reached me, stood within touching distance, I noticed the five o’clock shadow marking his cheeks. He was dangerously beautiful no matter the amount of alcohol tainting my blood—or lack thereof. I shoved my hands deep into my jean pockets to keep from touching him.
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