by V. H. Luis
“It must be difficult; constantly running away from anything remotely intimidating.”
It’s the dare in his voice that makes me turn my head, not the statement.
“Those are the words of someone who hasn’t gotten what they want.” Even as I’m speaking I know I’m the mouse in this cat and mouse game—I should walk away, but I can’t.
“What do you know about what I want?” He climbs the last step of the porch, his broad shoulders flexed.
Refusing to take the bait, I give him my back. Reaching for the door with my right hand, I’m halted by the strong pull of my left.
Before I can focus, his lips press against mine while his body traps me between him and the door. One of his hands runs over the curve of my waist while the other tangles in the curls of my hair, pulling on the strands and angling me so that he can have free reign. I moan, loving the possessive way he grips my body, and he takes the opportunity to dip his tongue inside my mouth. His taste is divine; it’s a heady mix of wine and passion. The remnants of my resistance melt as I meld against him, moving my hands over his stomach, and resting them on his belt buckle.
He pulls back with a quick nip to my bottom lip and my eyes pop open at the sudden jolt of pleasure-filled pain.
“Say you’ll do the mural,” he commands.
“Do you always get what you want?” I counter, gazing up at him from lowered lashes.
He rubs his cheek against mine so his lips hover over my ear.
“Persistence is a virtue.”
“I thought that was patience.”
He chuckles and I can’t help it, I smile at the sound.
“I’ll have a car pick you up tomorrow at the school. What time?”
“I haven’t agreed to—”
“But you will.” He pulls back, his gaze scorching and confident.
I’d like to attribute my desire to accept his proposition to pure obligation—he did save my life, after all. But no matter how much a person wants to, they can’t lie to themselves. There are a thousand reasons I should decline, the main one being he’s a rich, handsome, demanding man who can bed any woman he wants, and who likely does so indiscriminately. But I’ve tasted him and I’m lost. Playing it safe is no longer a possibility.
My mind comes back online. I have therapy on Monday.
“I have a thing tomorrow that I can’t miss, but I can start on Tuesday after school lets out.”
His body stiffens, giving me the impression he wants to know what I am doing tomorrow, but he lets the matter go. “Tuesday it is then.” Holding onto the porch post as he walks backward down the steps, his voice lowers an octave. “Sleep tight, Evelyn.”
Never has my name sounded more like a poem, than off the lips of the Greek god standing before me.
I will myself out of my daze to utter my own goodbye. “Good night, Adam.”
He turns, making his way back to the Mercedes. Somehow I manage the energy to open the door and lock it behind me as I enter. Unlike every week of my life, I’m no longer wishing for Friday or Saturday, but Tuesday.
Chapter Six
MY NAKED BACK is arched as his hands run across my navel, caressing the skin of my abdomen. My muscles constrict. A chill cascades through my body, but I’m anything but cold.
I’m burning as if the sun is pounding down on me, only I’m not outside. He pulls me against him and our lips meet in a clash of tongues. It’s a tender, yet practiced, kiss. The firm press of his mouth and teasing caress of his tongue makes me groan. I want this.
I’m straddling him, my knees bracketing his firm thighs. I steady myself by placing my hands on his muscular chest. The fine dark hairs on his torso are soft to the touch and I want to run my tongue across his tan skin, savoring every delicious inch.
Leaning down, I’m surprised when he grabs my elbows and spins me. I’m now lying on my back, staring up at those sapphire-blue eyes. He grins and I can’t help it, I shove my body up to meet him, his erection thrusting into my writhing body.
THE jarring noise blasting from the alarm clock startles me awake. My heart is racing and sweat is trailing down my spine. A deep heat throbs between my legs, makes me shift in bed. What the hell was that?
It’s been years since I’ve had a wet dream. What is this man doing to me?
I want to sit and contemplate the events of the last few days, but it’s Monday and the world doesn’t stop spinning even if the chaos of your life has you dizzy. With reluctance, I stand.
Twenty minutes later I’m dressed and as ready as I’ll ever be for the day ahead. I feed and pet my cat, Felix, who is starved for attention. “See you later, little guy.”
Walking to work, Adam Black invades my thoughts, much in the same way he’s invaded my dreams. The man is an interesting blend of contrasts. He’s a detached real-estate mogul who radiates magnetism, while he still keeps you at a distance with practiced indifference. I don’t know how to read him. Then there’s the memory of that kiss—that remarkable, world-shattering kiss.
Why would he kiss me? Why was he so adamant that I paint him a mural?
The school day drags on. Tina tries to pry information out of me at lunch, but I’m tight-lipped. I don’t want her interfering.
The bell signaling the end of sixth period reverberates through the room. The children scatter and I let out a long sigh of relief.
I begin the thirty-minute trek to Dr. Karena Davis’s office, who I’ve been meeting with since the incident three years ago. I hate therapists. They ask invasive questions and stir up emotions you’ve long since bottled. They break down the barriers you forge and then leave you wondering why you can’t deal with the fallout.
I greet the receptionist as I write my name on the clipboard, and in minutes I’m called in.
Dr. Davis looks lovely. She always does. Her black hair is pulled into a ponytail and her skin a hint of bronze, as if she tanned over the weekend.
“Evelyn, it’s so nice to see you.” Her voice is warm and welcoming. I’m always suspicious when people sound like that.
“Dr. Davis, it’s nice to see you as well.” I smile, because what else can I do?
“Call me Karena,” she insists. She always insists.
That’s never going to happen. Some people are able to forge friendships with their therapists. I’m not one of those people. Dismissing the thought, I sit and make myself comfortable.
“Anything in particular you would like to discuss today? How are you doing?”
Do I sincerely want to spill my guts to this woman who so often makes me feel like a pebble lost in the chasm of an evolving galaxy? Peering toward the floor, I sigh. Yes, I do, because though I hate talking to anyone about my feelings, I recognize bottling them up compounds the pressure—and I’ve never been any good under pressure.
“I was in a bank holdup this past Friday. This man grabbed me and pushed a gun against my throat.” I frown. My hand rubs against my neck as memories of the encounter rush through my head. “I thought I was going to die.”
My tone is plain and void of emotion. This apathetic attitude is what scares my mother and Tina. It scares me too.
Dr. Davis seems surprised. She probably wants to ask why I didn’t call her emergency line for help. Of course, someone like me would need the emergency line. She settles on her favorite alternative—asking probing questions.
“How did that make you feel, to be in a situation where you don’t have control?”
What a ridiculous question. Like shit, of course.
“I’m not scared of dying. There was a time when I welcomed the idea, and I rarely have control. In the chaos of the moment I was scared because the situation was new. Different things, new things, they scare the hell out of me.”
I pause as a thought comes to my head.
“You know, when it was happening I was worried about my cat. I thought that if I died no one would be around to feed him. That’s pathetic, isn’t it? I don’t have a fucking life.” A bitter laugh escapes my li
ps.
“We have the experiences we want, Evelyn. You haven’t been ready to go out and involve yourself in new things. For the last few years you’ve played it safe. Which is fine, but maybe now you’re craving something more adventurous.”
“Like going on a date with a stranger?”
She stares at me in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I met a man at the bank. He’s…” I pause, trying to organize my thoughts. “I don’t think there’s a word that can describe him. He knows about art. He’s charming, intimidating, demanding, and handsome.”
Dr. Davis laughs. “He sounds interesting. You’ve spent time with him, after the incident in the bank?”
I recount in detail the events of the last few days. As Dr. Davis listens, her gaze is annoyingly impassive.
“Do you want to pursue a relationship with this man?”
I answer the question without even thinking, surprising myself. “Yes.”
“Why?” She shoots out quickly. “After years of avoiding experiences like this, why are you suddenly willing to try? What’s changed?”
I open my mouth to respond, but I honestly have nothing to say. Fortunately, Dr. Davis interjects.
“It’s natural to forge a relationship with someone who has shared a similar experience, especially when that person has rescued you from a difficult situation, though you shouldn’t rush into anything.”
I want to protest, because I can’t stand her practicality. “What if I don’t want to take it slow? What if I want to be reckless?”
Her eyes narrow and she nods. “Again, Evelyn… Why?”
“Because he makes me feel!” I half yell in exasperation. “He makes me excited, hopeful, and scared all at once.” I pump my open palms back and forth from my chest in a beating motion as my muscles constrict. “He makes me believe that everything I’ve always found out of my reach is attainable.”
The melodic bells of Dr. Davis’s cell phone alarm signal the end of the session. “Disregard that. Let’s keep going,” she says impatiently.
Ignoring her, I get up and grab my purse. “I need to go.”
“Reckless can be dangerous,” she asserts. “You spent years doing reckless things like cutting yourself, which culminated in—”
“I haven’t done anything like that in a long time,” I say sternly. “Most of my scars are so faint they’re unrecognizable, except for the ones at my wrists. And I didn’t try to…” my voice shrinks into a whisper, “…kill myself because of my need to cut. The two things are separate.”
Dr. Davis’s chest rises as she inhales, and her eyes hold a softness that’s perplexing. I don’t know if she’s upset, confused, happy, or concerned.
My father used to joke that heaven was a huge assembly line where angels would offer everyone who was yet to be born the skills they would need. He would smile at me and recount how when my soul finally reached the emotional intelligence aisle, the blushing angel attending the counter regretfully informed me they were all out. Therefore, I was sent down to Earth…incomplete. The joke used to make me sad because it made me think that my dad, someone who had many flaws of his own, found me lacking. And yet, maybe he was right. Maybe that’s why I always have a hard time determining people’s feelings… Maybe that’s why often, I can’t determine my own.
Suddenly, I feel like a small child. My insecurities are looming over me like shadows I can’t escape. I’m scared of what the next few days will bring, and I don’t want to go home to an empty house. I submit to impulse and hug Dr. Davis.
She returns the embrace, squeezing me tight. “If getting to know him is what you want, then I support your decision. All I ask is that you’re careful. And if you find yourself unable to cope, don’t forget I’m here. You have my number, use it.”
I smile and nod even though we both know no matter what, I won’t call.
As I exit the office, my phone vibrates against my hip. Adam has sent me a text message.
TOMORROW PARKER WILL PICK YOU UP AFTER WORK.
WHAT TIME SHOULD HE BE THERE?
His text message is void of any emotion. It’s professional and to the point. I try my best to sound equally as impassive.
FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON WILL WORK.
Seconds later my phone is again vibrating.
WHAT IS YOUR PREFERENCE IN REGARDS TO PAINT BRANDS?
The fact he’s considerate enough to ask makes me smile. I respond and then it’s radio-silence. The moment I think he’s not going to say anything, the phone vibrates.
PERFECT. WHATEVER YOU DECIDE TO PAINT,
IT WILL BE BEAUTIFUL.
The compliment makes me smile. For a few minutes I’m at a loss on how to reply. I want to say something witty but I’m drawing a blank. I settle on something simple.
YOUR FAITH IN ME IS REASSURING.
I’LL TRY NOT TO LET YOU DOWN.
Almost instantly I get a response.
YOU LET ME DOWN? NOT LIKELY.
HAVE A PLEASANT NIGHT.
I practically skip all the way home. After a quick shower I flop on the bed, exhausted. When my eyes close the welcome sight of Adam Black floods my head. For once, being in my pitch-black room isn’t frightening. My breathing slows and the sweet taste of his kisses dominate my dreams.
IT’S a sunny Tuesday afternoon. The day thus far has been wonderful. The kids have been sweet and imaginative with their creations. Tina catches me as I’m leaving work.
“So, where exactly are you going?” She eyes me accusingly.
“Why do you ask?”
“I read your text messages during lunch,” she blurts out. “You’re going to his house!”
The anger in her voice startles me. She’s my best friend and I love her like a sister, but her unsolicited interference in my life needs to stop.
“Are you serious? You went through my phone? You had no right.” I head for the door though before I can clear it, she blocks my path.
“I shouldn’t have gone through your phone,” she says, attempting to appease me. “But I knew something was going on with you. And I’m worried—”
“That’s why I lied about going out with Adam. Why I kept it from you that I was going to his house today. For the last few years you’ve been more of a nagging second mother than a friend and I can’t stand it anymore. You’re so busy making sure I don’t make another mistake you make it impossible for me to talk to you.”
She finches, her face appearing pained.
Shit. I believe every word I’ve said, but I hate hurting her.
“Tina…” I want to push her away, because it’s easier to put distance between us and yet I know doing so after all the years she’s stood by my side, would be unfair. “This isn’t the friendship I want to have with you.”
“What do you mean?” The sheen of her eyes, makes me hesitate, so she persists. “We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember.”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “But friends don’t discourage, they encourage.”
“I’ve never wanted to discourage you.” She has a hard time getting the word out.
“I didn’t tell you because I thought you would be against me talking to him, seeing him, and…” My voice trails off.
“And you like him,” she whispers.
I’m surprised by her innocent statement, because it’s reminiscent of something a teenage girl would say. Did my actions years ago freeze our relationship? Can anything thaw the ice? Will we ever get to the point where Tina doesn’t feel the need to vet my actions?
“Yeah,” I say honestly, “I like him.”
“I just…” She stares at me, her eyes raw with emotion. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I laugh, to Tina’s shock.
“I probably will, but is that so bad? Feeling pain has to be better than living my life in a bubble, too scared of taking chances.”
Dr. Davis is right. I’ve spent the last three years afraid to live. I don’t want to wake up one morning and realize my life slipped
away. I want to do it all. I want to own every day, every second.
I narrow my eyes, trying to hold back the tears I had no idea were building.
“I’m sorry.” Tina’s says tightly. Apologizing has never come easy to her. “I had no right to look through your phone.”
“No, you didn’t.” I rub my arms, hugging myself as I try to ease the tension in my muscles. “But I’m sure me lying didn’t make the situation easy for you.”
We’re quiet for a long minute. I check the clock. It’s five minutes past four, and I’m late, as usual.
“I have to go.”
Before I can walk out of the classroom Tina calls out, “It’s weird, between us.”
I hate that she’s right, so I spend five minutes I don’t have telling her about my date with Adam. The intimacy is forced, and I’m worried our friendship won’t recover from the obvious shift in power my recent actions have provoked, but if I don’t trust her to rise to the occasion, if she doesn’t trust me to manage my moods, we can’t move forward.
THERE’S a black Escalade parked by the curb. A stoic man in a black suit is standing next to it. Wearing a sheepish smile, I wave.
“Miss Snowe,” he says politely, though his face is stern. He opens the back door and ushers me inside.
“Thank you,” I murmur softly because, like Adam, he’s intimidating. “Your name is Parker, correct?”
“Yes.” His one syllable is crisp and clear.
He’s not much of a conversationalist. Drumming my fingertips against the soft leather seat, I try provoking him into some light small talk.
“Have you been working for Mr. Black long?”
“Long enough to know I shouldn’t answer that question.” His tone and posture is rigid, though his lips quirk in a smile.
“He’s that much of a tyrant?” I say it jokingly, but as my mother has always asserted, there’s truth in jests.
Parker shifts in the seat as he drives. “No.”
Oh, joy, we’re back to one syllable remarks. I nod, and we travel the rest of the way in silence. Fortunately, the drive is short. We pull up to a familiar building. Everyone knows it by the impressive water fountain—Eden Beach.