Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  Instead, he fingers my panties like they’re some fabled creature he’s seeing for the first time.

  “I like these. They stay.” He eyes me challengingly, daring me to argue. Right now, I’m too wound up for disagreements. An evil glint twinkles in his eye as he stares. “Touch yourself.”

  “What? No,” I argue, my face growing warm in an instant.

  “Yes. All things considered, it’s only fair. You’re paying me back, remember? And this is what I want…to watch you come undone.” I shake my head vigorously, as he grabs my wrist and places my hand on my thigh. “I bet you haven’t done this before…pleasured yourself while someone was watching. I think you’ll find it’s kind of invigorating, performing for an audience.” He winks at me, and I’m reminded of that night I walked in on him doing the same thing in my shower. How I was painfully turned on, emboldened and a little bit scandalized. I want him to feel that too.

  “And maybe, if I enjoy the show, you’ll be rewarded with my tongue.”

  I stifle a groan, obsessing over the way said tongue obliterated my world, and then put it back together again. Game. On.

  My hand glides over my thigh, taking its time as I drag my nails across my skin on the way up—mostly for special effect, but I’ll admit, I kind of dig it. I pull my heel up until it touches my ass cheek, my other leg falling loosely to the side so that he has a prime view. My fingers hover just beside my sex, lightly grazing along the creases of my legs, but never quite touching.

  I thought this would be humiliating. It is—in a way. But even more, its empowering knowing I have this effect on him, some form of control.

  His eyes burn hungrily, daring me to continue, begging me to put an end to this prequel. My other hand drifts up my torso, my touch so light, it seems like a feather is ghosting over my skin. I hook my finger over the strap of my bra, tugging so that only one cup is flips down, just one breast free while the other is still barely contained within its own cup. A hiss escapes his clenched teeth.

  “Stop torturing me,” his voice is labored, maybe even bordering on angry.

  And I touch myself upon his request, testing the waters like a sailboat just heading out of port. What begins as painstakingly slow and controlled circles, quickly escalates to a hasty rhythm. I apply more pressure, fighting as my eyelids suffer the urge to drift closed. I don’t want to miss his expressions, his reactions.

  I might be pleasuring myself, but this is more for his pleasure than mine. He wants this, and want nothing more than to make him want me, so badly he can’t control himself anymore. That’s my main mission.

  I throw in a moan for good measure, although it’s not a fake. It’s simply becoming so overwhelming, I don’t have it in me to hold it back. My eyes seek his, satisfied by the glint of greed that’s begun to fill them, before my gaze slides down to him hand, which is clutched in a fist at his side.

  “What are you thinking about?” He grits out.

  Watching me is one thing, knowing my thoughts, my desires, is something else entirely. Yet I can’t contain my answer, my judgment muddled by the climb I’m enduring.

  “You,” I answer honestly.

  “Be more specific.” It’s an order given from a superior to his subordinate. He’s in charge here, and he expects an answer. At the same time, his tone holds a hint of desperation. His hand seeks my ankle, gripping it like he just wants to be touching me. Like he’s eager to watch the show, but also needs a more active part in this.

  “Your mouth. On me. Like the other night.” It’s an answer that sounds more like a plea, and thank fuck he’s in a giving mood. He growls, watching with hooded eyes and two seconds later, his mouth is doing my bidding. His tongue lapping at me like I’m the best things he’s ever tasted, his finger sliding into me and curling at just the right spot. And I’m climbing higher than Mt. Everest, all the way out of the atmosphere and into another realm of reality altogether.

  “Nash. Yes. God. Oh. Fuck.” I’m not coherent in the least when he delivers what’s arguably the best orgasm of my life, and I have no shame at all. Boneless and spent, he pulls my exhausted body to his, cradling me securely as he brushes my hair from my sweaty forehead. One hand grabs my left wrist, and I’m still too blissed out to even think. His thumb brushes comfortingly over my inner-forearm, over and over the same spot before reaching for the light overhead.

  “Mmmm.” I close my eyes out of laziness, trying to avoid the light in my eyes, but it’s when he pulls my wrist up higher, pausing suddenly as his body goes rigid, that I realize I’m good and thoroughly fucked. My eyes pop open in an instant, and when I see the look on his face, it affirms my worst fear.

  He knows.

  Emerald eyes search mine for answers, singeing me with probing intensity like he already knows them, seeing straight into my soul and harvesting every secret I’ve ever hidden away. I swallow, my eyes tearing up.

  “Tell me, Lyra. Now.”

  And lord help me, I swore I’d never recount this tale again so long as I live. In fact, I go out of my way to dodge anything that reminds me of it—at all cost. I won’t go anywhere near my family’s stables, avoiding my favorite horse who I’ve had since she was born.

  But its him—he’s the one asking, and for some reason, I give him my truth.

  ~XoXo~

  Lyra

  On the first day I met my sister-in-law and now best friend, Valley, she told me she didn’t believe in love. That it was just a misconception caused by our feelings and other outside influences like timing and compatibility. I disagreed wholeheartedly. Even after everything that had happened to me in the past, I wasn’t giving up on the notion that true love existed, even in the rarest of forms. That a happily ever-after was possible, even in broken friendships. I still believed in the magic of love.

  Then, I gave my trust to the first boy who came along. The first pretending to like me, being nice to me when no one else did. I rewarded him with my virginity, and he returned the favor by bragging of his conquest to the entire school. He also earned fifty dollars. In a way, it was amusing. I’d always heard of girls selling off their virginities to the highest bidder. Apparently, I wasn’t very valuable.

  But I met someone—Marcus, and he made me want to give him my trust, to try again. I slowly began to see everything in a different light. Maybe love wasn’t a burning and all-consuming passion, but a comfortable kinship with someone you admired.

  Or so I’d thought.

  I hear their moans of passion, perfectly synchronized. The vision of his betrayal is burned into my memory. I could paint it from every angle, sculpt the figurines from every complex perspective.

  Disappointment swells through me, riding in on a raging tidal wave, and mostly in myself. This is my fault. I should have known better. I should have paid attention. I should have kept the walls up. But I was stupid, and this is what I deserve. The harsh truth brought to light. I’m the town outcast, the one who wasn’t good enough for her childhood best friend to fight for her, the one whose virginity wasn’t even worth a whole Benjamin. I’m the other woman.

  But worst of all?

  I’m a killer.

  This is it. This is all I’ll amount to. Happily ever afters are for Rapunzel and Belle, not the average girl. Definitely not for the below average one.

  Another moan ricochets through my head. The shuffle of bodies against blankets that have been thrown on the floor for added comfort. The disgusting stench of sex and disloyalty that can still be distinguished several months later.

  Half the time my life is mediocre—nothing overwhelming. I’m content, but not happy. Disappointed, but not sad. Annoyed, but not angry. But this is nothing like that. This is a clusterfuck of every different feeling I’ve ever possessed, all at once. The vice of pain closes around my chest. Pressing. Squeezing. Crushing. Each of my breaths are slow and drawn out, lancing my lungs with each expansion.

  I want it to stop. I’m terrified it won’t. In my mind, a singular word is bouncing around, echoi
ng from one side of my skull to the other and back again. Please, I scream, but I don’t know what I’m even asking for, or who exactly it is I’m asking it of.

  Now a different memory rushes out of the dark confines of my mind to haunt me…I remember the burn of alcohol, the immediate rush of it flowing through me, warming me from the inside out like I’d just swallowed an entire bottle of anti-depressants and they’d taken immediate effect. All the pain, the disappointment of being let down—betrayed—once again by the man who was supposed to love me…it was numbed. Dulled. Muted. I was blissful for the moment.

  On that night, the moon had shone overhead when I jumped on the back of my mare, Midnight, at precisely that hour. It was amusing at the time. I pushed her, digging in my heels and holding tight, whooping and yelling as I recklessly galloped across my family’s shadowy property.

  One minute I was riding Midnight, enjoying the thrill. The next, I was sailing through the air. I don’t remember hitting the ground, just coming to and gasping, my stomach cramping as if a knife were slashing through my gut.

  I still picture the doctor’s face as he delivered the news, how I thought he was lying to me, thought he’d mixed up my file with another patients… because how could I not know? A woman is supposed to know. I killed someone innocent. I took away their chance at life, at love.

  Me.

  I’m to blame. I got shitfaced, jumped on my horse, and then fell off because I was being careless and stupid. They said I was lucky I didn’t have any injuries besides some bruising. I wanted to laugh in their face. If given a choice, I would have taken the injury any day if it meant not having to live with this knowledge.

  I glance at papers scattered on the ground beside me, too far away to make out the words from here, but I know them by heart. I asked the doctor to have testing done, I wanted to know the sex. Not to help me cope. Not to help me grieve, but because I failed my first child. I owed it to him or her to acknowledge my fuck up. Knowing my child’s gender, meant I could give them a name. In my delirious state, the thought of naming my child made me feel like my actions would be atoned in some strange way. Everyone tried to talk me out of it—the doctor, my family—but I wouldn’t hear of it. I forked out the expense and had the tests done.

  And now I know.

  A son. I. Killed. My. Son. Gone or not, a son deserves to be named, and his name was Vega—the largest star in the constellation Lyra. He’ll forever be a part of me.

  Unfortunately, naming him doesn’t atone for shit.

  My eyes burn, and I blink repeatedly, willing the tears to come. Hoping that when they leak out, this tumultuous storm of emotions brewing inside my soul will spill out too. I can’t hold it inside, can’t keep it locked in anymore. It’s too much. Too much pain. Too much disappointment. Too much anguish. Too. Much. Everything.

  I squint, straining my eyes forcefully, thinking it might push the tears out. I’m desperate for the release I know crying will bring. Only my tears never come. I’m a balloon about to burst. A ticking time bomb ready to detonate. I’m terrified of the explosion, but more terrified it will never come.

  I lean my head back, resting it against the cool surface of the tub’s ledge. As I do, the light of the sun streaming in through the bathroom window glints off of something to my right. I turn slightly, noticing the razor blade I left in here the other day when I was trying to remove the sticker off my new vanity. Before I can think much of it, I lurch forward and grab ahold of it, settling back into my wishfully-leisure position in one quick move.

  I try to think of something else. Something. Anything. Nothing is working. Nothing is soothing. Nothing is stopping the pain. Not even the continual rumble of water on water flowing from the faucet and falling to my bath. I feel like I might vomit. My heart feels like it’s missing. Maybe it’s just dead. Maybe my chest is just an empty cavity. Make it stop, fuck! I can’t even focus on any of my loved one’s faces. Nothing is tethering me to this world in this moment. There’s nothing making me want to stay.

  But the agony is making me frantic to go. I can’t take it. Make it stop! I watch everything in slow-motion, each agonizingly elongated movement I make as I grasp the razorblade between my thumb and index finger, just like I would one of my paintbrushes, and I drag the edge over the canvas of my skin. Strokes of red appear, crimson and vibrant and beautiful. A shade I’d rather enjoy using in one of my paintings. The rich color dribbles down my arm, collecting on the underside before it drips into the water, muddying up the vibrancy to a duller, uglier hue. But some of the pain drips out with it. I create another beautiful stroke, ensuring another avenue for its escape.

  Satisfied, I draw my legs up to my chest, the water splashing out the sides of the tub and splattering onto the tile floor. Better. Much better. Manageable, but…I sigh. My eyes flutter shut. I hear the water more clearly, calming me as it continues to splatter against the tiles below, like rocks beneath a waterfall. Deceptively peaceful.

  Yet, in the back of my mind, I acknowledge something that causes fear to trickle slowly down my spine—I’m making a mess, but I won’t be around to clean it up.

  As if to taunt me of my shortcomings, my downfalls and idiocies, my loved ones faces assault me one by one and then in all together in an ethereal collage. Will this hurt them? Will my pain end, evaporate and cease to exist? Or am I simply transferring the burden over to them, taking the coward’s way out? Panic surges through me, stronger than any other emotion I’ve been combating. That, and the sudden will to stay. To fight. Only it’s too late. I hear them all now. My strong-willed brother is broken, demanding to know why. Valley is sobbing, begging me to stay. My father is just yelling my name over and over again in panic.

  And after all my loved ones have come to beg and reprimand me for this choice I’ve made, one final visitor comes to haunt me. His handsome face is angry, his green eyes burning with a fiery intensity to match. His full lips open in a soundless shout. Funny after all these years he comes to me now…another beautiful deception no doubt riding on the coattails of Death himself. Death is a deceitful bastard, throwing out more tricks than a street magician, and I’m no fool to this final charade. It’s not like he’d ever care anyway…

  ~XoXo~

  Nash

  “So, you see…I’m too reckless. I’m a killer. I don’t deserve kids, don’t deserve a family,” her defeated voice cracks, her body curling in on itself like she wants to disappear. I pull her closer, because if she’s going to disappear, it’s going to be because my heart opens up and swallows her whole, keeping her with me forever.

  I wish I could take away her pain. I wish I could absorb it all, locking it deep inside me and shielding her from it forever. I wouldn’t hesitate if it were a possibility, even if doing so killed me.

  I tip her chin up, forcing her to look me in the eye. Even then, she cuts her eyes to the side, glancing into the darkness.

  “Look at me, Stars,” I coax.

  It doesn’t work.

  So, I try again, but this time more forcefully.

  “I said look at me.”

  This time she does.

  “There’s a lot of things you don’t deserve. You don’t deserve to endure what you have from most everyone in town, and over something you have no control over. But it’s made you stronger, fiercer. And you didn’t deserve to lose your baby, but one day, you will have another one, and you’re going to be the most loving, and caring mom. And you didn’t deserve those asshole boyfriends you’ve had in the past—you deserved far, far better. You didn’t deserve their love, because you deserve someone who’ll love you more…Love you fully—completely. Like you’re the entire universe compressed into one smokin’ hot, beautiful, perfect girl.”

  Her lips quirk almost imperceptibly, but it’s just for my humor rather than her amusement.

  She snorts.

  “As if I’ll ever be somebody’s entire universe,” she mocks with a sneer.

  Her attitude rips my heart to shreds, because her ou
tlook is so hopeless.

  She’s so many wonderful things, so many perfections and imperfections expertly blended into one interesting, intriguing, goddess of a woman.

  And she doesn’t even know.

  I’ll never be somebody’s universe, she says.

  Oh, Stars. You already are.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nash

  Aunt Marlowe pours me some more coffee, even though I didn’t ask for it, before taking her seat next to Uncle Randall at the end of the table. Glancing at the clock, her lips twist in annoyance, almost as if she’s expecting someone. She absolutely hates when people aren’t cordial, says it’s the rudest thing a person can do, and usually carries on without them. Aunt Marlowe is one of those who expects people to be at least ten minutes early, which is probably why I’m that way. But who could she have invited to our weekly Sunday brunch? It’s always limited to family only.

  After a long and exaggerated sigh that seems to echo through the enclosed breakfast room, she makes a show of saying grace. I’m still not sure why seeing as we used to do it before every meal back when my parents were still alive, thanking the “good lord” for our family and friends in addition to the nourishment for our bodies. Look where that got us. We told him thanks every single time we ate, without fail, yet he still took them away.

  I’m respectful enough to bow my head anyway.

  When we finally dig in, I shovel forkfuls of the delicious breakfast casserole into my mouth, feeling the tick of the clock. It’ll be any moment now. The town gossip will commence as if it were something deserving of national new coverage, and this time, I have this nagging intuition I know what the topic-of-choice will be. I’m seven bites in when Aunt Marlowe clears her throat, alerting everyone it has begun.