“Didn’t know where you were,” I replied tersely. “And I needed some air too.”
He had the decency to at least appear apologetic. “Sorry about that. When I looked at him, I pictured the accident. I couldn’t believe how close he’d come to dying, and it bugged me. After losing Dad, I think I’ve had enough of car crashes.”
Our father had died when his car spun out of control into the path of an oncoming car one winter night. He didn’t even make it to the hospital. I’d been eight when it happened, and Clay had been too young to understand anything more than Daddy wasn’t coming home again.
“So what happened?”
I sighed and leaned my head against the window. “His sister showed up. Charlie said that he wanted to go back to New York because that’s where everything was for him.”
Clay pulled the car over to the curb, turned off the engine, and pinned me with a stare. “Is that exactly what he said?”
“He said it was closer and going for book tours would be easier.”
“And what did you tell him?”
A shrug of my shoulders was the only answer I could give.
“You didn’t say anything, did you?” Clay blew out a breath. “So you’re going to let him get on a plane and leave, then go back to your place and hide yourself away for the rest of your life? Is that what you want?”
I turned to glare at Clay. “Yes!” I shouted.
“Why in the hell would you want that?” he demanded.
“Because it’s easier than….” I lowered my voice. “Than being hurt again.”
Clay dropped back, banging against the headrest. He scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered something under his breath. Then, without looking at me, his voice so soft I could barely hear it, he said, “Life is hurt, Matt. We hurt when Dad died. We hurt when you were assaulted. We hurt when you cut yourself off from your family. We either learn to deal with it or we don’t really live anymore.”
We sat there as I mulled over his words. Clay made sense, but to my mind, I’d had enough hurt to last me my whole life already and couldn’t be sure I had it in me to deal with more.
“Matt?”
“Please take me home,” I whispered as the first raindrops began to fall.
Clay stopped talking. He put the car into gear and drove me home. I got out and closed the door and, without looking back, walked inside. I heard him pull away a few minutes later. I took a seat on the couch and stared out the window at the drizzle that threatened to become more as the night wore on. Somewhere along the way, I guess I drifted off.
Thunder cracked overhead, startling me from sleep. The storm had begun in earnest and the rain poured down, drenching everything. The dark weather mirrored my mood. I glanced over at the clock, surprised to see it had gotten to be almost eight already. Everything—from my head to my feet—ached. Despite the discomfort, I walked through the house several times, touching my items, remembering how they’d all come into my life. The books Charlie had given me had me stopping at the shelf they were on. I ran my fingers over them, tempted to take down book four—Where the Bodies Grow Wild—and immerse myself in a bit of fiction for a while, but all I could think of was the fact that Charlie had left.
That night when I went to bed—a vow on my lips that tomorrow would be better—sleep took forever to come. Instead I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. The storm outside continued to rage, now with high winds adding to the cacophony of the night. The rain pelted the sheet metal roof, sounding like hammer taps. I usually enjoyed storms, but not tonight. All I really wanted was peace and quiet, something I hadn’t really had since meeting Charlie. It would be good that he left. It might take me some time to accept it, but once I had, I’d see it was for the best. That thought in my mind, I finally slept.
Nightmares were common for me. Mr. Jackson had given my mind fodder to generate an apparently endless supply of them. Tonight wasn’t an exception. Normally everything started in my old car. It went as it always did, me driving with him in the passenger seat, but it quickly became the thing that still haunted me. His hands on me, his mouth. This dream started somewhere new. My property. It had always been a sanctuary to me, a place I would be safe. Not this time. He stalked me through the woods, laughing as I bolted in a panic. No matter how quickly I went, his breath was on my neck. He found my screams funny as I cried out for someone to save me.
Then he was there, grabbing me, pulling me against him. I no longer felt the icy fingers; instead warmth surrounded me, shielding me from everything else.
“He can’t hurt you, Matt,” a voice whispered close to my ear. “He won’t ever be able to hurt you again. I promise.”
The noises faded into the background. Mr. Jackson vanished like woodsmoke in a breeze. Everything went silent around me. The only thing that hadn’t changed was being held, almost cradled. Tears stung my eyes at the memories of how much I wanted this after what that bastard did to me. Instead I had sat there for hours, asking myself what I’d done wrong. What had I said or done to make him think I wanted that with him? It took years for that chill to finally dissipate, though every now and again a dream would bring it back full force. At this moment, however, someone held me, told me only Mr. Jackson was at fault.
As I sank into the feelings of love and caring, I finally dared to look up. Honestly, in dreams like this, Clay would be the person I’d usually see. He had tried so hard to protect me when he could, even when we were kids. But when deep-set brown eyes met mine and a crooked smile greeted me….
I woke up shivering, and not from the nightmare. My engorged cock stood tall and proud, begging to be touched. Stroked. Fondled. In my mind I could only see Charlie. His face, that grin, the body that captured my attention. Tentatively I reached down to rub my erection, fully expecting it to wither as it did the last time. When I slid my fingers along the smooth skin, much to my surprise, it got harder.
After spitting into my palm, I wrapped my hand around my dick, relishing the feel that had been denied me for too many years. Long, smooth strokes up and down had me moaning, thrusting up into my hand, and all the while Charlie was on my mind. In my imagination he caressed me reverently, his touch so light as to almost not be there, but I knew it was. He pressed his lips against my neck, nibbling on the skin, bringing up goose bumps, whispering to me how much he wanted to be inside me, how much he needed to taste me.
He’d be on his knees and lower his face to my crotch to lap at my balls, then up my shaft until his tongue swirled around the head, and then he’d bob up and down as he worked to take me all the way to the base. He would press his fingers against my pucker, and I’d spread my legs for him, allow him to touch where no one else had ever gotten close.
“Matt,” he’d whisper, his voice husky.
I orgasmed so hard it splattered on the headboard and seemed like there would be no end to it. My body rocked from the sensations, and I cried out Charlie’s name as all the pent-up emotions rolled through me. When it finally subsided, I could feel the cooling liquid sliding down my stomach and onto the bed.
The overwhelming sense of relief brought tears of joy to my eyes. I’d had my first orgasm in thirteen years. Then reality hit me square in the face: the person who’d been responsible for it had left and gone to New York to start his life over again.
And I’d let him go.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN MORNING broke, I had no desire to get out of bed. The dried residue on my stomach reminded me that last night I’d had an orgasm. A knock-down, drag-out, oh my God, what the fuck orgasm. It had been the highlight of my night, obviously. But now sunshine peeked into my windows, and I needed to get up and move. So much to do today. There were wild brook trout to catch that would stock one of my freezers for the upcoming winter, seeds to be collected so that next year I could have sunflowers again, canning to do so the vegetables I harvested would help feed me through the long winter ahead. And a man I never got the chance to talk to would need me to start missing him
now, because he’d be in New York soon.
A quick shower and a round of touching the items in my house, because I needed the grounding, and maybe there was a chance I could face the day. The air was cool, and a foggy mist had settled over the area. Chances were good that it would burn off by late morning, but there had been days it stuck around because of the higher elevation. Today needed to not be one of those. I had to keep busy, occupy my mind as much as possible. Any distraction would give me time to think, and I definitely didn’t need that.
The stream would be my first destination. Having it on the property was one of the reasons this plot of land suited my needs perfectly. Fed by the lake in Ash Hills, there would be smallmouth bass, brook trout, and whitefish at various times throughout the year, and my love of fish made it ideal for me. After collecting my equipment, I hiked down to the closest point and spent the next ninety minutes doing my best to bring home some good eats.
Making my way back to the house with a stringer that held eight fish, I stupidly checked my watch. It said 9:46 a.m., and that caused an ache in my chest, because today at ten, there would be no Charlie. No greeting from over the fence or requests for lemonade. Today would be peaceful and quiet, the way it always had been. I swallowed down the lump in my throat, wondering why that didn’t hold the appeal it always had.
After entering the house, I stored the fish in the refrigerator to be dealt with as the sun started to set. That would allow me to work in the yard while enough light let me see clearly.
The sunflowers were my next stop. I gathered all the seeds I could, separating them into three piles. One pile would be used to plant next year, one would be roasted, because they were delicious, and the last—and largest—pile would be used for my birds to help them survive, should the winter turn exceptionally harsh. As the last flower came down and I shucked the seeds, I heard a strange noise from down the road. To my ears it almost sounded as though someone was… grunting. I stood a few more moments, until I saw a sight that had me almost crying.
“Your lemonade fresh?” Charlie asked, his voice pitched low enough that it sent shivers up my spine.
Teresa stood behind the wheelchair, pushing for all she was worth. Her face was beet red, her breathing labored. But the only thing I truly saw was Charlie. He quirked an eyebrow at me, and I sputtered to answer.
“Yes. Well, no. I mean, I made some the day you… that day. But I have a pitcher.”
Teresa stopped outside my gate. “I could really go for a glass,” she panted. “This bastard is heavy.”
Charlie turned and looked at her. “Why don’t you go back to your truck? I’ll call you when we’re done here.”
She stood, hands on her hips, and glared at him. “You’re kidding,” she huffed. “I just pushed you up a freaking hill the size of Everest. Don’t I get to catch my breath first?”
“Teresa,” Charlie said softly.
“No, I—she can…,” I stuttered.
“She’ll be okay, Matt.” He looked up at Teresa. “Please.”
She snorted. “Fine.” Then she turned on her heel and stormed away.
“May I come in?” Charlie asked.
I rushed to the gate and pulled it open for him. He wheeled himself in, though rather unsteadily. “Your sister is upset,” I mentioned.
“She’ll get over it,” he insisted, rolling up to the stairs on the porch. “I’m more concerned about you.”
He sounded unhappy. When I got to where he sat and saw his crinkled brow and stormy eyes, there could be no doubt. He was livid. Before I could say anything, he pointed his finger at me. His hands were shaking, and he narrowed his gaze.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded. “You come to my hospital room, hug me, and then you bolt without even telling me why.”
His skin had gone nearly purple in his rage, and I took a few steps back, suddenly grateful for the fact that he had come in a wheelchair and the stairs were nearby.
“Matt,” he snarled. “I asked you a question.”
“You were leaving,” I answered, my voice trembling. “I didn’t see the point in waiting.”
“No, that’s not it.” He leaned forward and pinned me with a glare like I’d never seen before. He studied my face; then, when it seemed he’d gotten the answer he wanted, he sat back again.
It struck me at that moment. He wasn’t angry. He’d been afraid.
“I saw your face before you left. You were terrified. Do you know how that made me feel? You ran out, and my sister and two nurses had to hold me down to keep me from following you. I demanded she go and bring you back, because I needed to know why you were upset. She said you got on the elevator and she couldn’t catch you.”
He was still afraid. He gripped the chair, his knuckles white. His body shook, and his eyes were wet with unshed tears. What I had thought to be anger hadn’t been that at all. He was worried about me.
“I tried calling, but you wouldn’t answer.” His breath was coming heavy now. “When I talked to Clay, he said he’d dropped you off at home, so at least I knew you were safe. You have no idea what thoughts were going through my head.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“Why did you leave?” he asked, his voice breaking.
Needing to put more distance between us, I backed up onto the first step.
“This is why Teresa needed to bring me. I knew if you saw us coming, you’d hide.” Now the hurt in his voice came through loud and clear. “It’s what you do, isn’t it? Run when you’re afraid?”
“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me!” I shouted. “You should just go ahead and go back to New York, like you were planning. It’s not like you….” I stopped, knowing what the next words out of my mouth were about to be, knowing they could never be taken back.
“Go on. Not like I what? Don’t hold back. Finish what you were going to say,” he challenged.
To say I withered under his onslaught was an understatement. I glanced nervously at the door behind me.
“Planning to run again? Not like it would be the first time, is it?”
Okay, now he’d moved into the angry territory. He rolled a little closer but never stopped staring. “Why do you run, Matt? Just tell me that. Am I that scary? Are you afraid of me? Have I done something to you? What is it? If you want me to leave, at least tell me why. I know something’s wrong. It’s why I asked Teresa to go. I don’t want to see that look on your face, the one where you’re going to bolt.”
The moment of truth had arrived. I fixed my gaze on a point beyond him, looking instead at the tall trees that dotted the landscape.
“I don’t want you to go,” I whispered. “That’s why I came to the hospital. I wanted you to stay. With me, I mean. I wanted to take care of you until you were better because….” I swallowed. “Because I like you, and I knew that if you left, I would never see you again.”
He gave me a sad smile. “Was that so hard? I never wanted to go, but it didn’t seem like there was much here for me. And the thing I wanted most didn’t seem to be all that into me. For the record, I like you too. Why do you think I continue to jog up here? Or why I brought you the books? They were my excuses to come and see you.”
He liked me? My heart danced the Cha-Cha Slide, thumping and jumping. Closing the distance between us, I stood and looked down at him. He reached out with his right hand and wrapped my fingers in his, giving them a light squeeze.
“You’re a hard man to get through to. I thought I dropped enough subtle hints, but when they didn’t work, I went for a few not-so-subtle ones, but you just didn’t seem to get it. So I thought maybe I misread the signs and you weren’t into me at all.”
I peered down at our joined hands.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
To be honest, I hadn’t known I was. “Not sure. Because you’re here? You were supposed to leave.”
“Do you really think I could have left without seeing you?”
I gave a shoulder shru
g. “You don’t know me, so why should you stay?”
“I don’t…. Really? Is that what you think? Your name is Matt Bowers. Your brother is the sheriff, though I get the feeling you don’t see much of each other. You like detective novels that were written by a very cool author. Those gray eyes twinkle like gems, and you have the rarest, most beautiful smile I think I’ve ever seen.”
I cocked my head. “What do you mean rarest?”
He grinned at me, and I realized he still hadn’t let go of my hand. “You don’t smile often, so when you do, it’s a rare gift. Whoever gets it is very lucky.”
Butterfly wings tickled my insides, and my cheeks heated.
“Yes, that smile,” he teased. “It’s like the Mona Lisa. Impish, yet sweet.”
“Stop,” I scolded him, as embarrassment caused my cheeks to burn.
“You know you like it. It’s written all over your face.”
He couldn’t know how much I liked it. No one had ever complimented me like this, and without a frame of reference, I had no idea how to handle it.
“So…. Were you serious about me staying with you until I’m healed up?”
He had a hopeful expression, and I couldn’t come up with a reason to say no. Not that I wanted to. “Yes, please.”
“Okay. I’d like that. I know it’s short notice, so is there anything you need?”
“What about your sister?”
He waggled his brows. “You need my sister?”
I stepped back, horrified at what he’d taken my comment to mean. “What? No!”
It took me several moments to catch on to his joke. Charlie’s laugh was rich and sent an electric current through my body.
“No, there isn’t anything. I have plenty of food.”
“Tell me you have lemons?” he pleaded.
“Charlie, would you like a glass of lemonade?” I offered.
“Yes, please. I thought about it all day yesterday. My mouth is puckering already.”
The idea of his mouth puckering had me wondering what it would be like to kiss him, to meld our mouths together. I’d heard guys in gym talking about sex, about kissing girls, and I’d always wanted to kiss someone. Not like Mr. Jackson had done. I didn’t want to count that as my first kiss. It should be from someone who looked at me the way Charlie was at that moment. It was almost enough to make me believe that maybe I was special.
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