by Sienna Blake
My address on the front is written in black ink and I recognize his neat cursive handwriting straight away. I brush my thumb over the stamp, a stern face of a foreign president, and notice it is postmarked express from Colombia. Another one from Colombia.
I turn the envelope over and catch the whiff of a masculine scent of musk and wood smoke. His scent. Like always there’s no return address. Without caring that I’m still standing in my cramped gray apartment lobby, I touch the envelope to the end of my nose and inhale, breathing him in deeply. My belly clenches as his scent cascades down through my body and pools between my legs.
I shut the mailbox, snatch the mailbox key from the rusted lock and run up the stairs two at a time, my groceries and bag slapping against my hips. I unlock my door and push into my apartment, tripping over the small rise of the doorframe in my haste.
My apartment is a compact studio; a single room with a small kitchen immediately to the right of my front door with a slim kitchen table that doubles as a work bench. An armchair sits alone next to a window, which allows me to sit in the sun when it’s out and read fifty-cent paperbacks from second-hand stores. At the end of the room is a double bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a bedside table. The only other door leads to my compact but usable bathroom. The paint is peeling, there’s a weird musty smell that hangs about if I shut up this place for too long, and I’m on the wrong side of town, but I don’t care. It’s cheap and somewhere to sleep.
My bag of groceries and satchel are dumped and forgotten by the door. I pause long enough to turn the key in the lock and test the door handle, then I flick on the deadbolt that I had installed when I moved in. I turn, leaving the keys swinging in the lock, and go straight to my armchair, a second-hand ratty thing with a suspect stain that I’ve covered with a throw. Not beautiful, but it does the job and it was cheap.
I sit, the letter still in my trembling hand. I take a deep breath as I caress the edges of the rectangle, enjoying this little game of torture I play with myself, seeing how long I can sit here without tearing the envelope apart to get at the secrets within. My insides burn to see the contents. How many hours and minutes and seconds until I see him again?
I run my fingers along the lettering and I can see his hands, thick and strong and rough with a single perfect freckle marking the back of his right index finger, holding a pen and writing these words for me. I hold the envelope up to my nose again and smell him. I run my bottom lip where I imagine his tongue has licked across the lip of the envelope before he sealed it.
Enough. I give in.
I tear into this flimsy outer layer. The shredded envelope flutters to the ground and the note, again on plain white paper, is now in my hand. Like always, written in his handwriting, is a single line.
Midnight Falls. Cabin #11. Monday 4pm.
After searching the internet for Midnight Falls I know that it’s a group of cabins in the mountains of a nearby National Park, close to a nature trail that leads to a waterfall of the same name. It’ll take exactly one hour and seventeen minutes to drive there. The way I drive, I’ll make it in under an hour.
I stand in front of my closet like a solider about to choose armor. Sometimes I feel like I need armor with Caden. Even if I could wear it, it wouldn’t help. That man can strip me bare with his eyes.
Caden hasn’t stopped buying me dresses. Since I realized he wasn’t going to demand I wear any of it or insist that I owe him, I have stopped resisting. His gifts are all designer labels and silk and lace, elegant and lush. All clothes I would have never chosen for myself. Or had the money to buy.
My fingers reach for the emerald dress, the very first one he bought for me but I didn’t wear. I realize I haven’t actually worn it for him. I have had plenty of other dresses to wear.
Yes. This is the one for tonight.
When I put it on, the silk skirt flows over my body like melted chocolate. It makes me gasp as my sensitized skin accepts this little pleasure. The thought that Caden will soon be pulling this dress off me makes me bite my lip.
Damn him. He has infiltrated every corner of my life. He has even turned dressing myself into an act of foreplay. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I don’t bother with jewelry. Apart from a pair of pearl earrings that used to be my mother’s, I don’t own any. I finger my hair, which is sitting in loose waves over my shoulders. The softness of the strands tickles my back where the dress scoops low.
I put on the barest slick of mascara then glide on red lipstick. I imagine how sexy the red would look leaving rings around his cock. I can only imagine it. I still haven’t seen him naked.
Rule number three: I can’t see him naked.
Finally I dab a simple lavender perfume on my wrists. With one last gratifying look in the mirror, I grab my small overnight bag, a small envelope, and lock up.
I get in my second-hand car, parked out on the street. It’s a non-descript white sedan, pre-owned but solid and reliable. This is exactly what I need when I have to hit the road and never come back. I keep a stash of cash under a slip in the floor carpet under the passenger’s seat just in case.
I drop the bag on the passenger seat floor. I place the envelope on the seat, my fingers lingering on the edge before I turn on the ignition and pull away from the curb.
I have almost three hours to get to the cabin, but I have one thing I need to do before I get there. I set my GPS to Navajo Valley.
Navajo Valley is another large city in this state. It’s about two hours out of my way but I was going to make this journey anyway. My eyes are peeled when I enter the outskirts. I have never been here and I’ll never come back after this.
I choose a quiet suburban street to roll down slowly. The houses are quiet and with my window down I can hear dogs barking. I spot what I’m after across the street. My heart skitters a little, but I force myself to keep going until I reach the next intersection. I hook into a U-turn and go back the way I came. I pull up to the slightly dented postbox.
I reach over to the passenger seat and pick up the envelope. On the front is an address that I know well. I lived there for two years before I was forced to start running. Seeing it fills me with memories of warm cashmere hugs that smelled of baby powder laundry soap, the sound of poetry being spoken out loud, and the scent of pumpkin pie and rosemary potatoes. A stab of longing fills me as the faces of my grandparents float into my mind, the two people who raised me. The two people I failed the most.
I’m sure they hate me. I’m sure they hate that I still send them cards. Just to let them know I’m alive. Just so I can feel some sort of connection with them. I can’t stop. Just knowing that these written words connect us by an invisible thread makes me feel better. And I’m selfish.
Inside there’s a card with a poem by Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both… Frost is one of my grandfather’s favorite poets. He used to read poems to me at night in bed when I couldn’t sleep. Which happened often in the months after my parents died.
I sometimes find myself wandering stores for greeting cards and I collect the ones with poems on them. Is it sad that the only way I can speak to my only living family is by using words written by people long dead?
Other than the poem the card is blank. No “Dear Grandma and Grandpa”. No “I miss you” or “I’m sorry” even though I feel these things. I haven’t signed it. I didn’t even write their names on the front and I didn’t write a return address on the back of the card. They’ll know it’s from me. I didn’t lick the stamp so no one can get my DNA. I’m paranoid, but it has kept me alive so far.
I get out of my car. I crush the envelope against my chest in a hug, just for a moment. Then I slip the envelope and my love through the dark slit on the postbox and imagine it now flying through the ether towards them. When I hear the soft thud of the envelope hitting the bottom I force myself to cut these feelings off. With all my insides walled up again, I slip back into my car, noticing a small g
ap in the blinds of the house closest to me has just flicked closed. Someone noticed me. Shit. I need to go. I try to stamp down the rising paranoia and pull away from the curb as fast as I can.
As I drive along the tree-lined mountain road nearing Midnight Falls the low buzzing in my core starts to rattle with anticipation. This need I have for Caden Thaine is like a phoenix in my body. Arising again and again from the ashes, no matter how many times I am consumed by him. What he gives me is more than sexual, more than physical… there is an exquisite alchemy to the joining of our bodies and our souls. When we are together we absolve each other of our sins and we fill in each other’s missing pieces to become whole. Without him I am broken pieces. With him I remember that I am worthy.
I eye the sign for Midnight Falls and turn off the gravel road onto a slim dirt path through trees. I wonder if Caden is already there. I wonder what he was doing before he came to see me. I try to imagine what he ate for breakfast. Did he read the morning paper while he ate? Then I let myself wonder what it would be like to wash up breakfast dishes next to him.
Of course, things are better the way they are, aren’t they? Maybe, if we could see each other like two normal people, the excitement would die and we would become like every other couple, sharing the vapidness of our lives; the laundry and shopping for groceries and brushing our teeth next to each other.
As I spy the first of the cabins up ahead, I try to shut this line of thinking off. It doesn’t help to be this curious. If I wanted to know who he really was then it would only be fair that I would have to reveal who I am… who I was. And I’m not about to do that. Although a part of me yearns to tell him. A part of me is dying to take that next step and reveal the truth to him. Most of me is terrified that he won’t hesitate to run.
Cabin number 11 is the furthest cabin along this private road. A single white sedan is parked out front. A rush goes through me. Caden is here. I park next to it and check myself in the mirror before I get out. The air here is fresh and it feels cool against my bare forearms. Through the thick trees that surround us I can hear the distant rush of water. I eye the sedan briefly as I pass it on my way to the front door of the cabin. It’s a rental. Of course. If he doesn’t bring his motorbike he always drives a rental.
The door opens and all my previous thoughts are lost to the wind when I see him. Caden leans against the doorframe taking up most of its space with his sheer size. He wears fitted cream pants, topping them off with a black button-up shirt. He looks so damn good it makes my mouth water.
He reaches for me and pulls me inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
The inside of the cabin is decorated in wood and cream with splashes of gold and green, I suppose to represent the forest outside. Apart from a separate toilet the cabin is all one room separated into areas – living, dining, bedroom – by a slight shift in the floor height.
Caden takes my bag off me and places it on the low rattan seat at the foot of the bed. I eye the bed. It looks so soft, piled up with so many pillows that I could sink into it. Perhaps I will later. When I look back to Caden, his eyes are roaming all over me and I feel I may as well be naked already. He growls from deep in his throat. I really, really like it when he does that.
“You wore the first dress. I think it’s my favorite dress,” he says, stepping closer to me and gazing at me as if I am the most precious thing he has ever seen. I feel it. When he looks at me I feel precious.
“You said that about the last dress.”
“Hmmm,” rumbles from his throat. His eyes become unfocused. “The red dress that clung to you here and dropped so obligingly at the back.” He wraps his fingers firmly around my neck to replicate the dress’s halter neck. He traces his other hand down the length of my spine to where the dress sat to expose the small of my back. I shiver and press my throat into his palm, making my lower belly clench.
He pulls me to him by the neck. He growls in his throat as he inhales into my hair then runs his nose along my shoulder and up to my ear. It is animalistic and possessive and the knowledge he is breathing me in makes my legs tremble. I run my hands through his hair, one of the few places I am allowed to touch him. His hair is soft through my fingers and smells fresh like shampoo.
I tilt my head to kiss him but stop when he says, “Do you know what makes me sad?”
I pull back expecting a joke, but I see his brows pressing down upon his eyes that match my dress.
I frown. “What is it?”
He continues to stare at me, forlorn.
“You can tell me, Caden,” I urge.
His mouth parts. My heart thumps and I wonder what he is about to reveal to me. I am so desperate for any information on who Caden is. What makes him happy? What makes him sad? If I could reach inside his mind and scoop out all his secrets I would. I would love them and cherish them because they are part of him. No matter what they are.
I wonder, would he do the same if he knew my secrets?
“It makes me sad… that I can’t look at all of you and kiss you at the same time.”
I giggle. Me. Giggle. Like, an actual giggle. And not because I want to get my own way. He is being silly and gorgeous and I love it. Damn him. Look what he does to me.
He maintains his seriously distressed look. “Don’t laugh at me. This is a very serious problem. My eyes and mouth are jealous of each other.”
“Aw, no. Don’t be sad.” I brush his lip with my thumbs in order to tug them up into a smile. “They can share me.”
He closes his lips over mine, possessing them, and his hands start to roam across my body. They tug and brush against the silk of this dress, making my skin tingle. I make all sorts of uncensored noises in my throat. Our kiss deepens and my head gets dizzy. It has been almost two weeks since the last time we saw each other and I’m desperate for him.
So much of me is aching. I ache to run my hands across his chest and his stomach. I ache to unbutton his shirt and push it off his hard shoulders. I ache to tangle my fingers in his dark chest hair that I only glimpse peeking out from his shirt. I ache to have him naked and laid out under me. But the rules…
Screw the rules.
My hands slide down his face and neck to his top button.
His hands cut off my access to his chest as he grabs my wrists. He pulls back from my lips and I whimper. He shows me my own hands and tuts at me like a master would show a naughty puppy a chewed up toy. “You know you can’t do that.”
A flash of defiance shoots through me. “Why not?”
“Rule number two, I can touch you but–”
“I can’t touch you.” I know the stupid rule. I have been dying slowly from this stupid rule.
“So why do you–”
“Why can’t I touch you?”
“It’s just what I need. You know this.”
“What about what I need, Caden?” Anger causes my stomach to tighten. I yank my arms from him and he lets me go. I spin and stride over to one side of the cabin. It only takes a few words and a few steps for the distance between us to feel like a canyon. I hear him sigh and drop down onto the bed.
I stand my ground. I stare out the glass door that leads to the balcony. Beyond I can see nothing but forest leaves. It’s stunning out here. And peaceful. Yet a silent storm rages between us.
This is stupid. We shouldn’t be fighting, we should be loving each other. Who knows when we will get to see each other again? But he should be the one to apologize, shouldn’t he?
The seconds tick past and I don’t hear him walk to me. I turn my head and take a peek at him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, torso bent over so that his forehead rests in his fingers. His eyes are closed, but I can tell by the creases across his face he’s in pain.
I shouldn’t have tried to break his rules. I should have just left it alone like he leaves my secrets alone.
Where I once would have been grateful for this privacy, now I rage against it. I realize, I want to tell him my secrets. I want us to tell each other ou
r secrets. I want to close this last gap in our fractured intimacy. I want him to love me – all of me. I want to love all of him. We just need to take that last leap of faith…
I turn and walk slowly towards him. I can see by the way his shoulders hitch that he hears my footfalls and the swishing of my dress. He doesn’t take his face from his hands.
I stand in front of him. “I don’t want to fight.” I test the waters by reaching for his hands. I feel hope when he lets me slip my fingers through his. We’ll be okay. When he lifts his face to look at me, his features are etched with weariness. We’ll be okay, won’t we? “I don’t want to waste what little time we have together. Can we start tonight over? Please?”
His features don’t change. He stares at me, his green eyes hardened. “You’re starting to resent me for my rules.”
I war internally for a split second whether to lie to him. I decide not to. I nod slightly. “I just want to touch you so badly.”
His features turn fierce and he yanks me forward with his hands on my hips so that I stand between his knees, his face pressed into my breasts. His fingers tighten into fists, crushing my dress material between them. I hold my hands up in the air, not sure where to place them.
His voice rumbles through my heart as he talks against my chest. “Don’t you think I want so desperately for you to touch me, too? I dream about it. When I’m asleep and when I’m awake, it’s all I dream about.”
“Then why…?” I stop talking. It’s a question that can’t be answered. Whatever the reason, Caden isn’t willing to expose it to me and I must respect his need for silence. I sigh. I lower my hands on his head and run my fingers through his hair. “Will… will you ever tell me why?”
Caden doesn’t answer. Suddenly his fists clutch my hips and he pushes me away so I stand at arm’s length. My stomach pains as if someone is wringing it in their hands. He doesn’t meet my eye. I try to catch his eye, but he won’t look at me. He won’t look at me.