Of course, a general was only as good as her commanding officer, and Taylor had an excellent CO in Kate. The two had been practically inseparable, ever since the day Kate had confronted her out on that work detail. From that point on, Taylor had been a different person. She still carried a certain amount of sadness with her, still harbored some of the pain that had weighed her down, but she seemed to have found some amount of happiness. She certainly smiled a lot more, anyway.
Duncan held no illusions that most of the goodness in Taylor’s life came as a direct result of Kate. There was no announcement, no declaration of intent, but everyone knew that Taylor and Kate were together now. They were fairly private about their relationship, but the little things were obvious enough for anyone who cared to notice. The shared smiles, the stolen looks, the whispered words, the way their fingers would brush when they thought no one was looking. Duncan figured it was not that they were trying to hide anything, but instead that they were simply a little confounded by the newness of it all, and they were protective of what they had found together.
If they thought they were being sneaky, however, they had a lot to learn about subterfuge. No one said anything, but everyone knew darn well that Kate was not sleeping in her own room anymore, at least not most nights. He had not asked, and he silenced any such speculation with a stern glare. It was nobody’s business what went on between Taylor and Kate after dark. Not even his.
Chapter Twenty-five
I lie in wait, as still and quiet as possible, despite the tennis racket digging into my backside. I really should have cleared myself a better spot in the tiny broom closet, but it is too late now. I fight the urge to shift as I hear the thump-thump of tiny feet cautiously making their way down the hallway. The children have hushed themselves, trying to sneak up on whatever creepy thing awaits them next. They are about as stealthy as a herd of elephants in a gymnasium, but they try. I stifle a laugh as I picture their tiny faces on the other side of the doorway, eyes bright and wide with wonder and maybe a little bit of fear.
I don’t know what possessed me to suggest the haunted house. Probably just some bad beans I’d had for dinner the night before that put a random dream in my head about a haunted house from long ago. My father took me to one when I was little. I couldn’t have been more than seven or eight at the time. I remember being so excited, walking nervously down plywood hallways, the lights flashing up ahead, spooky sounds filling the air. I was holding my daddy’s hand, and there wasn’t a safer or more wonderful place to be. But then some mummy-like monster had jumped down from heights unseen, brushing my arm on the way down, and I completely freaked out. I was hysterical to the point that they had to turn on all the lights while my dad carried me outside, with me screaming the whole time. I remember the mummy ripped off his mask, turning out just to be a pimply faced teenager. He looked horrified that he had scared me so badly. The poor kid.
I have always regretted my reaction to that haunted house, have always felt in some way I ruined a rare and precious moment with my dad. So the day after I had the dream, I suggested the haunted house. Maybe it was my way of reclaiming that moment in time, or maybe it was about giving this group of children, who’d had their childhoods stolen in incalculable ways, something they weren’t likely to ever have. Or maybe it really was just bad beans.
The children draw ever closer. I guess they are only a few feet away now, and I crack open the door. They don’t see me. They are too focused on the corner around which they expect the next scary beast to come from. I open the door a little wider, preparing to pounce. Two boys are debating in stage whispers who will round the corner first, both of them scared to take the lead but trying hard not to show it. The little princess crosses her arms and sighs, shaking her head in an exaggerated motion at her two fraidy-cat companions.
I chuckle before I can stop myself, and instantly the girl’s eyes are upon me. She makes no sound, more curious than scared. I bring my finger to my lips in the universal sign for shush, and I nod my head toward the two boys. She looks over at them and then back to me, a slow grin beginning to light up her face. She understands my plan, and she likes it. She steps back, giving me room to emerge from the closet undetected. The boys are still arguing over who will go first, completely unaware of the big, scary monster standing directly behind them. I reach out and put my hands on their shoulders. They freeze. Ever so slowly, they turn their heads back toward me, and I whisper.
“Boo.”
The boys scream and go tearing down the hallway, back the way they had come and directly into the arms of Dunk, who is standing with his flashlight at the far end of the hallway. The boys bury their faces in Dunk’s arms, peering back at me through their protective shelter. I rip off my mask, and Dunk shines his flashlight on my face, then down at the little princess next to me, who is giggling uncontrollably. Immediately the boys’ fear subsides, replaced with groans as they realize they’ve not only been had, but they’ve been had by a couple of girls.
“Come on, kids,” Dunk says. “Time to join the party.”
Three faces beam up at Dunk, and they race outside for the Halloween bonfire that has been set up in our absence. I follow them outside, laughing to myself. The farm’s other children, who have already gone through the haunted house, are there, stuffing their faces with s’mores. The whole farm has come out for the party. Sam is strumming a wordless tune on Buck’s guitar. Everywhere you look, folks are grouped off in little clusters, laughing, talking. Off to one side, the farm’s teenagers are whispering urgently, and Dunk quickly joins them. I can only imagine what diabolical Halloween fright fest they are cooking up.
I grab a beer from an old washbasin filled with ice and twist off the cap with a satisfying hiss. I have missed that sound. I take a long swig, relishing the feel of the frosty liquid sliding down my throat.
“I heard you scored a little victory for feminism.”
Two arms settle on my hips, Kate’s breath tickling my ear with each word. My heart starts revving beneath my breast, purring like a finely tuned race car engine. I suppress an involuntary shudder. Oh, the effect she has on me.
“Just a little one,” I say, struggling to keep my voice smooth and level. “Gotta instill a little bit of the revolution in the next generation.”
Kate laughs at that, a throaty, delicious laugh that does nothing for my efforts to keep calm. She squeezes my hip and then lets go, sliding up next to me. I am grateful for the move even as I miss the feel of her pressed up behind me. We stand in silence, content to enjoy each other’s company as we watch the party from afar.
“I think the boys are plotting something,” Kate says after a while.
They are still off to one side, whispering conspiratorially.
“I can only imagine what they’re up to.”
“Something wicked, I hope.”
I have to laugh at the naughty grin that lights up her face.
“Dunk said they were planning on telling ghost stories later. Maybe they’re getting their stories straight.”
“Well, I’m going to have to sit next to you. You know, in case I get scared.”
“Like anything could scare you,” I chuckle.
“There are some things.”
I note the change in her voice, so subtle you could have easily missed it. I look at her, questioning. She just smiles, clearly not wanting to discuss it further. I let it go for now, tucking it away for a later time. The night grows colder, the chill beginning to sink into my bones. Once I notice the cold, I can’t keep my body from shivering.
“Come on, let’s go get warm by the fire,” Kate says. She tugs on my shirt sleeve and heads off. I follow, beckoned by both the promise of warmth and the nearness of Kate.
The bonfire has grown crowded, drawing other frigid souls with its toasty glow. We manage to find an open space and squeeze in. Kate presses into my side, and I put my arm around her back, having no choice given the tight space. Not that I mind. Far from it. But Kate and I, through s
ome unspoken agreement, have taken great care over the past few weeks to not make too much of a public spectacle of ourselves, and I am conscious of that even now.
There is no reason for it, really. We are not hiding, neither of us ashamed of what we have become. And yet something is always there, tingling the base of my brain, telling me to take care of this precious, fragile gift I have been given. I don’t really know what Kate thinks of the whole thing, whether she would be happy to call a town meeting and kiss me senseless in front of the whole farm. I get the sense she is following my lead, content to let me work out whatever is holding me back, and I am once again overcome by her tender, patient heart.
Kate snuggles in even closer to me, resting her hand upon my thigh, and so, for this night, I decide to stop worrying and just let the night take hold. If anyone notices, they don’t let on, and I find myself caring less and less, too focused on how perfectly Kate fits into my side, how her hand burns hotter into my skin than the fire, how our breathing seems to meld together into one breath. In and out, in and out.
All I can think about is lifting her chin and kissing her with all of the passion I can muster. I remember with shocking intensity the way her lips feel pressed against mine, how when we kiss her mouth opens so sweetly to welcome me, the soft moans that come unbidden from her throat. We have spent many nights over the last few weeks like that, kissing and touching until we are too exhausted to do anything more than fall asleep wrapped up in each other’s arms.
We have slept together nearly every night, but we have not made love. It isn’t for lack of desire on either of our parts. She whispers things in my ear at night. Sweet things. Delicious things. Words that make my heart race and my head spin, make my blood thrum in my veins and my fists clench the bedsheets. Images thunder through my brain, how she looks up at me late at night, her skin glowing beneath the moon’s gentle light seeping in through my window, her hair spread out like fire against my pillow. I can feel her soft skin beneath my fingers, impossibly soft, like the finest Egyptian cotton. Her moans fill my ears, stealing my breath.
No, it is certainly not a lack of desire that keeps me from making love to her. And it is me holding us back, of that much I am sure. But something always holds me back, something I do not understand beyond the knowledge I am afraid. Maybe it’s the fear I do not deserve her. Maybe it’s the fear I cannot make her happy. Maybe it’s the fear of opening myself so completely, and of that one last wall around my heart falling forever.
As with how we act in public, Kate seems to be content to follow my lead here, too. I pull back, and she eases up, snuggling into my side and sighing contentedly. I want to tell her, want to explain that it’s not her, that I want her so desperately I can barely breathe. But she shushes me before I can speak and holds me tighter, telling me it is okay without uttering a word. Most nights, it is enough to soothe me, to ease the worrying that accompanies my nameless fears, but then, a week ago, it wasn’t. We lay in my bed, trying to slow our breath. She exhaled her sigh and nestled in closer, and all I could think was she would misunderstand, mistake my pulling back for rejection, and once again, I was letting her down. I should have known better.
“Stop,” she whispers. “You stop that right now.”
“Stop what?” I croak.
“Whatever masochistic, self-defeatist absurdity you’re flagellating yourself with.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You certainly have a way with words.”
“It’s a gift.”
“I just…worry.”
“About everything. Yes, I know.”
“Stop that.”
She says nothing, but I feel her lips curl into a smile against my shoulder. She can really be a smart-ass sometimes. Just one of many things I adore about her.
“You know it’s not you, right?”
“I know.”
“I want you.”
“I know. I want you, too.”
“I want you so much. You drive me absolutely out of my mind sometimes. I mean completely, stark-raving around-the-bend nuts, with your perfect skin and sparkling eyes and your swaying hips, and all I can think about is peeling off your shirt and—”
“I know, baby. I feel it every time you look at me.”
I find her eyes in the darkness. “Then why is it when we’re alone like this, and I have you in my arms and my heart is pounding, something always stops me.”
A delicate hand reaches up to stroke my cheek.
“You’re scared.”
“Yeah, but of what? I keep trying to figure it out, but every time I get close it dances out of reach, like a dream.”
She kisses my cheek, then snuggles back into my side. “You’ll figure it out.”
“When?” I ask, my voice carrying more than a hint of a whine. She chuckles at that.
“When you’re ready, baby. It’ll happen. I’m not worried.”
“This must be driving you crazy.”
“I will admit to a certain amount of…frustration.” She laughs.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to be so dysfunctional.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she says, placing a delicate kiss on my neck, and then another. “I have no doubt that when we do finally make love, it’s going to have been worth the wait.”
That makes me smile. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” she moans, sending a bolt of electricity right down my spine. She leans in closer, her breath tickling my ear. “We’re talking fireworks.”
Kate’s fingers knead my thigh, snapping me back to the present. It is an easy gesture of intimacy, and yet it inflames my senses and ignites my blood. I want nothing more in this moment than to feel her with nothing between us, skin against skin, to take her back to my room and spend the whole night worshipping her. The air rushes out of me with the want of it, and I breathe in deeply to replenish what I have lost. She must feel the change in me because she looks up at me. I do not know what exactly she sees, but she gasps, her eyes darkening in a way I know well. Her hand tightens on my thigh, and I feel her body humming against me. She knows exactly what I am thinking, what I am feeling, and by the grace of God, she feels the same. A slow, sensual grin overtakes her, and I nearly come apart.
The spell is broken by Dunk plopping down next to me in a space I hadn’t even noticed had become empty.
“Hey guys, watcha’ doing?” he asks innocently. I turn to glare at him, both for interrupting and for what I assume is sarcasm, but soon realize he hasn’t a clue. My brain is still having trouble processing the abrupt change in focus. Kate is quicker to recover and pats my thigh lightly before turning to Dunk.
“What have you and the boys been plotting all night, Duncan?”
“Nothing,” Dunk says with all the innocence of the devil on holiday.
“Mmm-hmm, right.”
“Just a little Halloween fun,” Dunk backpedals. “Scout’s honor.”
“Of course.”
My brain finally awakens from its stupor enough to join in the conversation.
“I think it’s about time for some ghost stories, don’t you?” I am incredibly grateful my voice isn’t squeaking like a prepubescent boy’s.
Dunk doesn’t respond verbally, but the big old grin on his face tells me all I need to know. The party turns to the telling of tall tales designed to delight and frighten. Some have more of a gift for it than others. Buck, of course, is a natural, using his deep baritone to full effect. Margie is pretty good as well, telling the story of the two teenagers down on Lover’s Lane who are stalked by the man with a meat hook for a hand. She looks pointedly at the teenage boys around the fire, who are of course oblivious to the clear warning about what happens to kids who have sex in the backs of Buicks.
The big, devious plotting the boys had been doing turns out to be in preparation of their own frightening tale, the story of the babysitter who gets a series of menacing phone calls only to find out the calls are coming from inside the house. Rather than just tell the story, the boys have dec
ided to enact it, with Sam playing the role of the courageous-but-ultimately-doomed babysitter, complete with mini-skirt and long blond hair.
All the while, I am intrinsically aware of Kate sitting next to me, her body still pressed up against mine, though less intensely than before. I only half focus on the stories being told, too attuned to my still-humming blood to pay full attention to anything else. Her hand strokes my knee lightly, a touch that is designed more for comfort than arousal, although the effect is definitely the latter. Kate seems completely focused on the storytelling, and I have no indication whether she, like me, is still thinking about...before. It is not until later, when the stories are all told and the fire extinguished, that I know any different.
After saying a few good nights and giving Dunk a pat on the back for a job well-done, I turn back to Kate. The look she gives me nearly makes my legs give out. It always seemed corny when it happened in the movies, but here I am, my knees feeling like they are made of Silly Putty. She doesn’t say a word, just reaches out her hand, waiting for me to take it. She leads me back to my room, the only sounds the rushing of blood in my ears and my labored breathing. I am a total wreck, completely unhinged, yet she is as calm as the sea after a storm.
She enters the room ahead of me, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. I follow, unable to do anything else nor wanting to, closing the door behind me with a soft click. I lean back against the door, trying to gather myself. She has cast a spell on me, and I am powerless against it. She stands in front of my bed, watching me, her eyes softening. Her hands go to the hem of her shirt, and she lifts it up and over, dropping it carelessly to the ground. My breathing hitches. I am overwhelmed by the gesture, by my desire, by my fear. She seems to understand. Yet one more thing for which I am grateful this night.
She approaches me slowly, her fingers sliding between mine. She kisses one corner of my mouth, then the other. So soft. She walks backward toward the bed, and my feet follow. I am caught in her orbit, helplessly drawn to her by a force both awesome and terrifying. She kisses me again, this time her lips meshing perfectly with mine, and I am lost. My hands lift to her face, tangling in her hair as our lips brush again and again. Her tongue flicks mine teasingly, a silent invitation, and I hear myself groan. Her mouth is a haven, warm and wet, welcoming me home. Her hands are at my waist, gripping me, pulling me closer.
After the Fall Page 18