To Have

by M. L. Pennock

  Looping my arms around his neck, I place a tender kiss on the underside of his jaw while my fingers play lazily with the longer hairs at the back of his head. He smells like Old Spice and cinnamon.

  I love Old Spice and cinnamon.

  I love him.

  “I flew and you caught me,” I whisper sleepily as he makes his way quietly down the hall. “And you didn’t let me fall.”

  The meaning of my words isn’t lost on him. Our argument, my crumbled marriage, my childhood, my everything.

  Somehow, Brian has always been here to catch me.

  Destiny.

  It’s bound to happen.

  “I love you,” I say against his silence.

  “I’ll never not find you, Stella.” He sets me down on my side of the bed and slowly begins peeling my socks off before crawling up my body. “I’ll never let you fall.”

  And his lips are against mine, consuming me hungrily, gently, needing and savoring every moment of contact as we work to shed piece after piece of clothing. The feverish burn building within me is enough to light our way to eternity and back. It burns so hot I wait for the searing pain that never comes, because perfection created from two imperfect people doesn’t hurt. It grows and winds its way around them like morning glory vines in springtime.

  His lips touch my neck, my shoulder, my breasts as he works down my body quietly finding places I’ve forgotten in his absence. His fingers press insistently into my hips as I open for him, feeling the warmth of his breath at the tops of my thighs just before he leans in, placing a kiss on my hip and methodically kissing, worshiping, his way toward my core to bring me to the edge of that cliff and back down again.

  Moaning into my pillow, I feel him climb back up my body and I’m ready. I’m needy. I’m in need of him.

  “Please, Brian,” I say breathlessly, hoping that’s all it will take for him to slide into my waiting body.

  And it is.

  We move together in solidarity, not caring who reaches the stars first. He’s gentle but commanding while I’m insistent and vulnerable as we climb higher and higher.

  Until I feel like I’m falling all over again, only this time he falls with me.

  Brian

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I pull her closer to me in my sleep and feel her curve her body into mine. A perfect fit. It pulls me the rest of the way out of my slumber.

  Placing a kiss at the nape of Stella’s neck, the night before floods my memory and a smile creeps onto my face.

  My imperfect girl.

  “What are you smiling about back there, cowboy?” she asks, sleep still coating her voice. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were thinking naughty things.”

  “Maybe I was. Is that a bad thing?” I laugh into her hair and feel her body tremble as a shiver works its way down her spine.

  She turns toward me, throwing her leg over my hip and pulling me into her. “No, it’s not.”

  My body is responding before her teeth even graze my lip and I thrust my hips up to meet hers, nothing barring my entrance.

  A low moan escapes her throat and I muffle the sound with my mouth, slowly licking along the seam of her lips as she opens up for me.

  The heat of her body envelops me, wrapping around me as she moves to straddle my lap. A look of pure ecstasy graces her features and she presses herself completely onto me.

  “I missed you,” she says leaning down on top of me, steadying herself with her hands on my shoulders, her taut nipples drawing lazy lines on my chest. I lift my hips in response and hear the slightest gasp escape her lips.

  Her body is a livewire.

  Our lovemaking is slow, sensuous and perfect. The longing in her voice replaced by the insistence of her body as she paces herself, building us both up to the moment when there is no turning back and wave after wave pulls us under.

  Her body pulses around mine as a silent cry tries desperately to escape her throat, her eyes shut tightly against the rising sun streaming through the window as an orgasm wracks her body, pulling me the rest of the way under. My back arches, my hips pressed firmly against hers, and I shudder, biting back a pure unadulterated groan as I find my release.

  Stella pulls her legs up, sitting on my hips even as my body begins to go limp within her, and rocks forward to place a kiss to my chest. Laying her head against my heart, Stella sighs. I push her hair off her face and watch her — all her beauty, no make-up skewing the real her, her hair a tangled mess spread across my body — as she holds onto me, our hearts racing to slow down.

  I speak first. “Are you okay, Stell?”

  Lifting her head and crossing her arms on my chest, she rests her chin on the backs of her hands and watches me watching her.

  “I will be,” she replies, the slightest hint of a smile creasing the corners of her mouth. “Getting there.”

  And she closes her eyes before speaking again.

  “We should get up before Britt comes in and finds us like this,” she says, sliding her body off mine to lay her head in the crook of my arm. Pulling the covers up over us, she places another kiss to my jaw, nipping at three days’ worth of stubble. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “I kind of got the impression you’d missed me. I mean ... twice in less than twelve hours is a lot even for us.” Her laughter hits all the soft spots in my soul. I want to wrap her up and keep her in this room the rest of the day. I kiss the top of her head before rolling over onto her still flushed body and I capture her bottom lip between my teeth, pulling it gently. “But you’re right. We need to get up. I need food. Waffles? Bacon? Not crappy coffee from a truck stop? Yes?”

  She laughs again and pushes me away from her to scoot off the other side of the bed in a rush to find sweatpants and a hoodie. I should probably start referring to it as “her hoodie” because heaven knows I’m never getting it back.

  “I’ll race you to the kitchen,” she says with the enthusiasm of a child and walks out of the room while piling her hair high up on her head and securing it with a band.

  I watch her leave from the middle of the bed where she’s left me. I give her a head start knowing she’ll take the long way before I pull myself from beneath the covers, find my boxers and jeans and head out the door.

  ***

  Coffee is brewing and Stella’s already got the waffle iron warming when I walk into the kitchen. The entire scene looks like something out of a movie — the well-oiled inner workings of a Saturday morning. Tommy hands eggs to Stella and Steph sits reading at the counter, her broken leg up on a chair across from her as she reaches down to gingerly scratch the puppy behind his ears. Britt’s standing on a chair with measuring cups and a mixing bowl in front of him on the counter ready to make breakfast.

  “Did we get up late?” I ask walking across the room to kiss Britt on the top of the head. “Good morning, little man. Need help with that?”

  “Nope, I can handle it, Daddy. Mom and I are making waffles,” he says excitedly, dumping flour into the bowl. I look at Stella waiting to see her reaction to Britt’s claim on her, but she’s busy going on about her business.

  “Stell?”

  Without looking my way she says, “Apparently we did, because I got down here and everyone else was in the kitchen starving. If it weren’t for me, we’d be eating cold turkey and mashed potatoes for breakfast.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with cold turkey sandwiches for breakfast, Stella,” Stephanie pipes up without looking up from her book. “It was Tommy’s idea, anyway. I wanted the frozen peanut butter pie, but he told me no and I’m kind of in no condition to fight him to the death for peanut butter pie.”

  I catch Steph shooting a glare in Tommy’s direction as he sticks his tongue out at her.

  “Once you’re all healed up, then you can fight me, Princess.”

  She huffs out a laugh and goes back to reading. I catch Stella’s eye and give her a look of my own as I walk over to her.

  “And the other thing?” I say qu
ietly, hoping she understands the question so I don’t have to make a big deal out of it.

  Leaning into me, she whispers, “Our son,” she glances in Britt’s direction, “told me you told him he had to talk to me about that. We talked. It’s settled. Maybe we should also set a date soon since everyone knows.”

  She says the last part with a questioning tone.

  “My dad, your dad, our moms ... they all talk. They all have big mouths,” I respond, shrugging my shoulders.

  She laughs.

  “They never could keep secrets between the four of them,” she says pouring mugs of fresh coffee. “I still don’t know how it is we didn’t keep in touch all those years if they’ve been talking since you guys moved. How does that happen?”

  Quiet falls on the room, save for the scraping of a spoon against the mixing bowl, and it seems we’re all wondering the same thing.

  “Sometimes, shit happens and we don’t have an answer for it.” Tommy’s words break the silence. “But, isn’t it better this way?”

  Stella and I look at each other, smile, and respond simultaneously, “Yeah, it is.”

  “They even say things at the same time,” Steph mumbles to no one in particular. “It’s so cute I almost want to vomit.”

  We all turn to look at her and then fill the kitchen with laughter the moment she realizes she spoke out loud. Covering her face, Steph starts apologizing but Stella walks over and gives her a hug.

  “Oh, poor Stephie, I’m so sorry we’re too adorable for you to handle. Just remember, you and I finish each other’s sentences. I mean, ew, how gross that we’d do that,” Stella teases, winking at her sister.

  “Ugh, okay I get it. Get off me. You’re such a jerk.” Steph pushes at Stella’s arm and buries her nose in her book again.

  Stella goes back to helping Britt with the waffles while Tommy and I talk a little more about the coffee shop, picking up a conversation we left off last night when I realized Stella had been missing for a while.

  A knock sounds on the front door and is just barely audible above the conversations and cooking. Steph’s the first to hear it and maneuvers herself out of her chair and up onto crutches before the rest of us realize what she’s doing.

  Tommy tries to tell her to sit back down and he’ll get the door, but Steph’s obstinate attitude is firmly in place, so he backs off with his hands up.

  “Please, southern charmer, slow your roll. I can handle answering the door,” she bites out before swinging her way through the dining room.

  “Who pissed in her Cheerios?” Tommy says, baffled at Steph’s sour mood toward him, as he returns to the counter.

  “She’s just really independent. Since getting home yesterday she’s hardly let me do anything for her other than help her off the couch.” Stella’s voice is confident, but her eyes are sad. Despite our bedroom antics, the weight of worry about her sister is resting fully on her shoulders, pushing down more and more as the morning progresses. “She’ll come around.”

  A muffled yell rips through the kitchen and Stella calls out to Steph as she bolts from the room.

  Stephanie is standing with the door wide open when Stella and I get to the front of the house, a uniformed police officer I vaguely recognize and Chief Davis Frank standing just inside.

  “Stephanie, look at me,” Davis is saying when we approach them. He reaches out to touch her shoulders and she grabs him around the waist pulling him to her.

  Confused, Stella and I watch as it all unfolds, as tears stream down Steph’s cheeks and the other officer fidgets with his jacket zipper.

  “Are you sure? Please, Davis, please tell me this is real?” Steph’s frantic yelling reaches into my heart and squeezes tight as she pleads and begs for information. “Please? Max? Is he telling me the truth?”

  Her wild eyes pin him in his place and Max blanches, the color draining from his face.

  “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am. Chief wouldn’t lie about something like that. We will need you to identify him though, but just through photos, if you’re able to. I’m so sorry we have to do this to you after all you’ve already been though. It’s a formality so we can proceed and close the case.”

  His brown eyes are wide, waiting for a response from Steph. She nods, quickly and silently, giving Max the confirmation he needs for him to complete his job.

  “What the hell happened?” Looking from Steph to Max and back again, Stella finally reacts. “Davis, does this have to do with Darren?”

  The chief’s been quiet, more father than police officer, but it’s a hiccup in his demeanor. Turning to face Stella, he nods.

  “He’s dead,” Davis says, glancing at Max. “State Police tracked him down in a cottage by the lake and when they went in, he opened fire on them. No one else was hurt, but it looked like he’d been prepared to hide out for a while.”

  Stephanie looks like she’s ready to pass out, so I nudge Stella and tell her quietly to get her sister to the living room.

  “Why don’t you gentlemen come on in,” I say. “We’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on and it’s cold out there.”

  Max and Davis follow me to the kitchen where Tommy’s taken over the waffle making and Britt’s disappeared with Whiskey Sour in tow, I’m sure.

  “T, this is Chief of Police Davis Frank and Officer Max ... sorry, man, I don’t know your last name. How do you gentlemen take your coffee?”

  Everyone shakes hands and conversation starts to flow, the usual “how you doing?” moves into questions about how long Tommy’s staying in New York, how we knew the girls, and talk of the girls leads to talk of Steph’s injuries.

  “You and Stella knew she was in danger and didn’t do anything?” Tommy’s incensed tone catches me off-guard.

  “We didn’t do ‘nothing,’ Tom. Stella and Chief had talked, we’d all been keeping tabs on Steph, she was letting us know where she was and what she was up to if not with Stell. The poor girl practically had herself on house arrest.” I feel like I need to lay it all out for him, like we should have had a damn schedule and clocked in and out. “Steph’s stubborn, Tommy. She’s not stupid. This guy was waiting for an opportunity.”

  Max nods his head in agreement, a solemn look on his face like he understands the situation completely, but not from a cop perspective.

  “The point is, though, his body is in the county coroner’s refrigerator and he can’t hurt her or anyone else again,” Davis says, shooting a look in Max’s direction that makes me feel like we don’t know the entire story. Somehow all the pieces haven’t fallen into place.

  We all lift our coffee mugs simultaneously, sip, and place them back on the counter as though we’ve all just come to some misguided understanding that the world is a much better place without Darren Judson here to harm another woman.

  Stella

  Chapter Thirty

  I get Steph settled on the couch and kneel on the floor in front of her.

  Watching her face, I wait for her to get her bearings before asking, “You okay?”

  Her eyes flit up to meet mine and there’s an irrevocable sadness in them.

  “I think so? At least this way he can’t make bail and come after me again, right? He can’t kill me now instead of just breaking my leg?”

  Swallowing hard, she starts fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.

  “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. It was like he was so many people all in one body, one brain, that I want to cry over the death of the nice guy who bought me flowers ... but I want to spit on the corpse of the one who did this,” she says motioning to her bruised face and broken limb.

  “I think that’s normal, Stephie. Want me to call Mom and Dad so they can come over?”

  Strength in numbers, right? I can’t walk this road with her alone, I say to myself.

  She nods and I pull my phone from the pocket in my sweatshirt to call Mom as the front door opens and she walks in unannounced, Dad trailing right behind her.

  “Stella? S
teph?” Mom calls out as she wanders into the living room, dropping to the floor beside me and gathering us up like little children. We’re huddled together, our mother kissing our heads, trying still after more than thirty years of parenting to heal wounds with affection, because that’s what parents do. They kiss away the hurt.

  Breaking free from her embrace, I glance at Dad and nod. “Brian, Tommy, Davis, and Max are in the kitchen, Dad. Go get coffee. You look like you need it.”

  He walks over and kisses Steph and I each on the top of the head, tears in his eyes, and then quietly walks to the kitchen where I hear a cacophony of male voices.

  The rumbling of baritones in the other room, the sedate breathing beside me as my mom curls up on the couch beside my sister to soothe the ache ... they mingle and breathe more life into this home, more life than lasagna night and Thanksgiving together.

  “Shit happens, Steph. Shit just happens,” Mom says to her. So much truth in one simple statement.

  “Darren was shit. Now he’s dead,” Steph says and swallows a sob. Lowering her voice and closing her eyes, she adds, “Is it wrong for me to be happy he’s dead?”

  Mom and I look at one another, a thousand conversations passing between us in the silence, and we know this is the beginning. The hurt and harm has only just begun and it goes way beyond the physical — the bruises, scars, and broken bones — to a place where Steph can bury it away, allowing it to fester.

  “I don’t think it’s wrong to feel that way at all, not after what he did to you physically,” I say breaking eye contact with Mom. “Definitely not after the emotional and psychological upheaval he’s put you through. Hopefully, his end is your new beginning. It’s closure. I’ll go with you when you’re ready to spit on his grave.”

  “Stella!” My mother sits forward on the sofa and scolds me, but it’s the tone of her voice that tells me it’s okay. I know that tone. It’s the one that says “don’t let your father hear you talk like that, but I agree with you a hundred percent and call shotgun.”