Madness

by J. L. Vallance

  “You wear them well.”

  The table settled into silence, the two of us working on our dinner. The waiter returned, inquiring about dessert. We ordered cheesecake to split. It felt oddly intimate—sharing a sinful piece of cake with someone I’d shared my body with. Watching the fork go from the plate to his mouth was intensely sensual.

  “I really do look forward to more of these moments. . .with and without clothing.”

  I blushed and swallowed hard, attempting to convince myself that I didn’t agree.

  But I absolutely, wholeheartedly did.

  Chapter 13

  The parking lot was filled with lights, the building beyond it, shrouded in darkness. I pulled the truck up next to the winery and put it in park. I looked over to Rory who smiled at me in the dimly lit space. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I’d enjoyed every moment of the dinner we shared, and my body hummed with tension from all of his gritty innuendos and reminders of our night of shared passion.

  “Would you like to come inside?” I asked, not missing the surprise crossing his face. “Have a glass of wine, on me?”

  “By ‘on you’ do you mean it will be free or that it will be literally served on you?”

  “Do you want me to just end this now, Mr. O’Neill?” I asked, narrowing my eyes, turning off the ignition.

  “Free and in the glass it is,” he replied, opening the door.

  We walked into the winery and I turned on the lights as we went. The wood burning stove had long ago burned out. I opened the door, added a few logs and lit them with a long match. Slowly, heat began to filter into the open room. Rory stood silently behind me, waiting.

  “Make yourself at home,” I advised, stripping out of my coat, enjoying the goose flesh that rose on my arms. I walked across the room, taking up residency behind the bar. Rory followed, shedding his coat, tossing it on a tabletop as he passed.

  “Give me something good,” he said, standing beside me.

  “It’s all good, Rory. Be more specific.”

  “I prefer reds.”

  “I know you’ve had the Francesca Reserve before,” I said, pulling a glass from under the counter. I grabbed a bottle as well. “How about this?”

  I filled the glass and handed it to him. I watched as he sniffed it, swirled it in his glass, and finally took a sip. He held it in his mouth a few moments before swallowing. I waited anxiously for a response. It was a new blend, the one I named after my father.

  “That is. . .rich and full-bodied. I just drank Bordeaux that was ninety dollars a bottle that doesn’t compare to this.”

  “I’ve been working on this particular blend for a long time,” I replied. A cabernet-merlot blend with notes of black cherry and oak that was rich and smooth. Just as my father had always been.

  “What is it called?”

  “Patrick’s Paradox.”

  “It’s perfect,” he replied, setting the glass down on the bar, stepping closer. “We’ve just spent the entire evening out at dinner, had hours of conversation, and I feel like I have barely begun to break the surface of who you are.”

  “It’s going to take much more for me to let you in deep, Rory.” My words came out as a whisper.

  He lowered himself, pressing a kiss to my lips. They moved, softly and slowly at first, his tongue sweeping over my lower lip. I could taste the wine that blanketed his tongue as I opened to him. My arms left my sides, my hands weaving into his mess of hair as his hands gripped my hips and pulled me closer.

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “And your ink—”

  I halted his words, devouring his lips, kissing him until we were both breathless. He rested his forehead on mine as he struggled for air.

  “I love all your ink, Bubbles. Your words, your art. . .it’s like a map.” His voice dipped low, his words washing over my lips as his fingers trailed over my marked flesh. I fought to stifle the moan that was building in my throat. Every time Rory came into my atmosphere, I lost a little more self-control; a little more of my willpower ebbed away. It was the way his eyes raked over me, telling me he remembered exactly how my skin tasted beneath his lips, the way his voice caressed me long before his fingers did, and in the way that every touch he provided was methodical and left me breathless. While I wanted nothing more than to resist him, I was more and more drawn to him and the things he made me feel. It had been a long time since I’d allowed myself to feel. “It’s a guide to understanding why you are the woman you are. I want to read and study every line of it until I know all there is to know of Frankie Winters.”

  “I’m a very complicated woman, Rory, with a troubled past.”

  “We all have troubles.”

  “What are yours?” I asked, and he stepped away from me. I instantly felt cold, missed the feel of him on my skin.

  His eyes seemed to have lost some of their luster as he stared back at me. Rory grabbed at the glass that rested on the bar and swirled its contents, his eyes never wavering. His shoulders slumped; some of the ever present, ever infuriating swagger had instantly drained from his frame.

  “I lost my brother.”

  He lifted and emptied his glass in two massive gulps. He stared at the bottle that sat on the bar, and I took the unspoken command and refilled his glass. He emptied it in a few short gulps, and I repeated the process.

  “I’m—”

  “No, don’t give me the speech,” he interrupted. “You can’t change what happened. No one can. Your sorrow, nor my own, will bring him back.”

  “You’re right, it won’t,” I replied. “But sometimes, it’s nice to know that we aren’t alone in the world.”

  “Not in the world, but often alone with our demons. We’re alone, caged in our memories. . .” His voice trailed off as he emptied the glass again. “What about you, Bubbles, what troubles you?”

  “You haven’t yet earned the weight of my world, Rory.”

  Slowly, carefully, and very calculated he threw the empty glass, and it shattered against the wall, startling me. He began to stalk forward, backing me against the wall, caging me in, resting his arms around my head.

  “I will, Francesca,” he breathed, sealing his lips over mine. I gasped as I felt his hand grip the nape of my neck as he ground into me. My heart beat wildly with fear and excitement.

  Kissing Rory awakened so much in me. It reminded me of the night we spent together, that he made me feel things I’d closed myself off from feeling a long time ago. Kissing him allowed me to embrace the idea that I could have a future. Maybe even a happy one. And maybe Karleigh had been right.

  Perhaps the reason I never desired a commitment or a deep connection had been because I never found someone worthy of it. Could I have finally found someone that was? I wasn’t sure. But I wanted to find out.

  “Rory—”

  “Just give me time,” he murmured, his eyes closed tight.

  “I can’t let you drive home,” I replied.

  “You said no sleepovers,” Rory replied.

  “I have a really big couch.”

  He released a heavy breath that washed over my flushed skin. “Lead the way, Bubbles.”

  **

  The first thing that struck me when I roused into wakefulness was the abundant and more than welcome scent of violets and fresh rain. It surrounded me, fuck, it smothered me. I would happily succumb to asphyxiation if that were the culprit. Because it belonged to her.

  Francesca alone had the power to drive away all of the voices and demons—the ones that drove me to the pills and drink. Maybe I still needed the drink a little. But I made it all night without any fucking pills, and I hadn’t seen Ryan once. It was a blessing that I longed to experience more of.

  I had her in my bed already. Did I want her back? More than anything. But I wanted to know her, to feel her more than I wanted to fuck her.

  Fucking had never been a problem; women have always thrown themselves at me. But it's always the wrong kind of women. They’re fast, easy, and about as deep as
a fucking mud puddle. Francesca was different. There were depths to her I could spend a lifetime exploring—ones she probably hadn't even discovered. I wanted to be the one to lead her to them. I wanted to drown in them.

  I sat up on the couch, letting my bare feet rest on the cold hardwood floor. The sky outside the front windows was gray, and I imagined the snow was falling, adding to what had been coming for days. My mouth was dry as I rubbed at my face and glanced around the room.

  Her space was exactly how I’d imagine it. It was the right mix of old world style meets new world artist. It was contradiction from one corner to another. Framed, artistic photography littered her walls—walls that were painted bright and vibrant red, while antique furniture decorated the space. The woman was a goddamned mystery. The world surrounding her was splashed in vibrant color, color I could see shining in the depths of her eyes. I knew something extraordinary brewed beneath the surface; she’d shown me a mere glimpse of it the night we slept together. But Francesca held herself in so tightly, she dulled every glimmer of her shine; she held the world an arm’s length at bay. She was protecting herself. Just so happened that in doing that, she was depriving herself of everything.

  I had to make her see that.

  “I’ll go for breakfast,” I mumbled, climbing to my feet, searching for my socks and boots.

  I didn’t look long before remembering I didn’t have a car to make a food run with. Francesca had insisted I wasn’t in any shape to drive anywhere. That’s how I ended up asleep on her couch. I changed my course and searched out her kitchen.

  I began looking through cupboards and the fridge, looking for anything with the words “instant” or “microwavable.” I’m shit at cooking. There is a reason I have a drawer full of takeout menus in the kitchen at home. It rested warmly, comfortably beside my drawer of pharmaceuticals.

  I came up pretty much empty.

  Francesca kept every known fruit and vegetable—fresh and frozen—on hand along with organic eggs and soy milk. I’m dealing with a fucking granola! She even had a few different varieties of tofu, ground turkey, and turkey kielbasa. Not even fucking kielbasa is sacred anymore. I did happen across some five-minute oats and a loaf of multigrain bread. Toast and oatmeal. I could manage that.

  “How hard could it be?”

  Turns out, it was pretty fucking hard. I burned four pieces of bread to the point of near ignition. The oats. . .they were scorched onto the bottom of the pan. At least I had the skills to brew a pot of coffee.

  “How the fuck do you prepare tofu?” I growled, opening the fridge.

  “It depends on the type of tofu as well as what you plan on using it for.”

  Closing the fridge, I cocked an eyebrow as I took her in. She stood in the doorway, arms hanging at her sides, hair in wild waves around her face, thick, black-rimmed glasses resting on her nose. She didn’t have an ounce of makeup on, and she looked more beautiful than I’d ever seen her. She was fucking flawless, and she had no clue.

  “I have a clue to my general attractiveness to the opposite sex, Rory,” she said walking toward me. My eyes followed her legs—her long, porcelain, bare legs. I wanted to erect a statue to the creator of the women’s sleep shorts. Fuck, while I was at it, add one for whoever dreamed up the cami. “You just going to keep standing there, staring at me like an idiot, saying stupid things, or are you going to let me take over cooking breakfast?”

  I shook my head, attempting to pull myself from the apparent daze she had put me in. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken, or that I’d been gaping like a goddamned fool.

  “You wear glasses?” I questioned.

  “Contacts most of the time,” she answered.

  “I don’t think I fucked up the coffee. Everything else is garbage bound.”

  “I appreciate the effort,” she laughed.

  “Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”

  “I prefer tea.”

  “So what you’re telling me is I’ve really done nothing right this morning?”

  “I’m telling you you’ve done everything right,” Francesca answered, hooking fingers in my belt loops, pulling me close enough to touch her lips softly to mine. “How about I make us something edible?”

  “So long as it isn’t tofu.”

  The sound of her laughter was enough to keep my demons at bay for as long as she would continue to gift me with it. Was it foolish to say I’d fallen in love with her? Fuck yes it was. I barely knew her. That didn’t matter though. I’d already begun the long, hard dive.

  “How about eggs with fresh veg and some turkey bacon?” she asked, rifling through the fridge.

  “Turkey bacon?” I turned up my nose. The only way turkey should ever be served was with stuffing and gravy. “Do you have something against pigs?”

  “I have something against high cholesterol,” she replied, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Grab the container of diced veggies in the fridge and pour them into the pan on the stove-top.”

  I poured the peppers, mushrooms, and onions into the pan and watched her work. My fingers itched to touch her, to memorize more of her skin. She was infectious.

  “What next?” I asked, standing close enough I could feel the heat radiating from her body.

  “Why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee, and have a seat at the table?”

  “Are you relieving me of my duties?”

  “Happily. I only have so many pans for you to ruin, Mr. O’Neill.”

  I smiled as I walked from her, grabbing a cup of black coffee. I sat at her table, drinking the coffee, watching her as she worked over the stove.

  “Tell me something about you, Francesca,” I commanded.

  “Like what?”

  “Anything.”

  “Safety pins gross me out,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I replied, scratching my scalp. “No one is grossed out by safety pins.”

  “I am. They are obviously breeding grounds for bacteria.”

  “You have a fear of bacteria and cholesterol. What else?”

  “Now, don’t put words in my mouth. I never said I was afraid of either of those things. I have an aversion to them.”

  “Okay,” I mocked. “Tell me something else.”

  “Nope. Your turn.”

  “I don’t have any tattoos.”

  She turned from the stove, spatula in hand, looking more fuckable than ever. I swallowed hard past the coffee I held in my mouth.

  “Tell me something I don’t already know. I have seen you naked, remember?” she asked, nudging the glasses higher on her nose.

  It was a rarity that she brought up our night together. It was even rarer that she mentioned seeing me unclothed. The thought of her thinking of me in that manner made me stiff in all the wrong places. At least they were wrong for the moment.

  “It’s nice to see that you do, Bubbles. I was beginning to wonder.”

  “Yes, I remember. Now, tell me something about yourself, Rory.”

  “I lost my virginity at twelve,” I admitted. Francesca cocked her head to the side, scrunched up her lips, and looked to be deep in thought.

  “I would say that is incredibly tragic, but I wasn’t too far behind. I was just over fourteen.”

  The thought of someone stealing her innocence boiled my blood. But I nodded and looked as though it was no big deal. What is her story?

  “These photos. . .” I said, pointing around the room.

  “They’re mine,” she replied, her eyes following my pointing. “It’s a hobby that gives me a productive distraction.”

  She pointed to a cityscape across the kitchen, one that provided bright and lively light to a night sky. “That is my favorite. It’s from a trip I took with a friend to New York last year.”

  That friend was probably the one that she had frequent sex with. I shook my head at the thought.

  “You have a good eye,” I complimented. “Any other hobbies?”

  “Your turn, Rory,” she smile
d.

  I took another long drink of the coffee, emptying the cup. What could I tell her about myself that wouldn’t make her ask me to leave and never return? Favorite color, food, bedtime story as a child. She wouldn’t really give a fuck about any of those things. If I was ever going to get her to open up to me, I was going to have to give her parts of me I wasn’t willing to give to others.

  “I’m a twin.” The words tasted salty on my tongue. I knew what it was. It was the salt of the countless tears I’d shed for him since his death. Since the day I opened the door, six-pack in one hand, wings and a fresh pie from Luigi’s in the other and found him on the floor.

  “Identical?” she asked, unable to keep the intrigue from her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you close?”

  “We were,” I replied, rising to refill the mug. I wished like fuck I could find some goddamn whiskey.

  “Is he the brother that—”

  “Suicide.”

  Chapter 14

  I wanted to vomit when the word left his lips. It was a sinful and vile word that made my skin crawl. It carried such a negative stigma.

  For someone that hadn’t ever lived in a state where I had—one where thousands, perhaps millions did—it seemed like such an illogical and reprehensible deed. But for those that suffer, for me, it was my only hope for a reprieve from the bottomless well of sadness I existed in. I say “existed” because it’s what I did. I certainly hadn’t been living.

  If I were completely honest, I’d admit that I really hadn’t wanted to die. I didn’t want my life to end when it had barely begun. I just wanted the unrelenting sadness to disappear. I couldn’t figure out a way to make it stop—at least not one that wasn’t lethal. That became a battle I struggled within every day. The only answer had been to cut it away, to let it leak from my bones. I felt it was my last option. My final hope.

  “I think your eggs may be burning.”

  Rory’s eyes bore into mine as his hands wrapped around mine, directing the spatula to the pan, turning the eggs.