by K. L. Kreig
After a deep breath, I exit the car. Gravel crunches under the soles of my sandals until I reach the muffled quiet of the neatly trimmed grass. Only a few more steps and I stop, kneeling on the lawn that’s still slightly damp from the rain earlier this morning. The cold shocks my bare knees but I ignore it.
“Hey, Vi. Hi, Daddy,” I whisper, wiping away the remaining moisture on my face with my free hand. I place the flowery branches on each of their graves, which are side by side, and I gather up the dried ones I brought last time, setting them to the side for now.
We’re far enough back in the enormous cemetery that all I hear are birds chirping and the subtle sound of air passing through the tiny leaves surrounding me. It’s peaceful and quiet.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been by in a while. I’ve been sorta busy.” I pluck a few stray long blades of grass from the edge of Violet’s intricately carved headstone and throw them aside. I trace the musical notes from the beginning of Metallica’s “Fade to Black” etched in the stone, the same as I always do before I sit back on my heels and smile oddly.
Violet played this song all the time. Her own version of it, anyway. My mother hated it whenever she heard it, but my father and I loved the classical spin she put on a heavy metal song. When my mother insisted Violet’s marker bear some sort of musical reference, my father and I exchanged glassy-eyed glances and smiled. He told her it was Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor. To this day, it’s still our secret.
“So, I, ah, met someone,” I stutter, wondering why I started with that of all things. Shaw is a blink in time. A memory. Probably a regret and one of my own making. “He rear-ended me,” I go on. He’s paying me to be his girlfriend. “He’s kind of an arrogant asshole.” Who I can’t stop thinking about one second of the day. “His name is Shaw Mercer.” I pause, trying to think of what to say next. “I…” shit, “I like him anyway.” I think maybe I more than like him.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
How did I let myself get into this position?
“Do you remember when I was ten and had a crush on Tommy Miller?” I was in fifth grade and he was in sixth. He had this longish wavy blond hair that would always fall into his puppy-dog eyes during lunch. He was cute. He knew it and soaked up attention like a sponge. All the girls crushed on him. I wasn’t immune. “And do you remember that day I came home from school devastated because I saw Tommy kissing Karyn Vencezzino on the mouth near the girls’ bathroom when he told me he liked me just the day before?” I stop and take a breath. “Do you remember what you told me, Daddy? You said, ‘It takes a special girl to open a boy’s eyes to what’s right in front of him, Willow. But when he realizes it, he’ll fight to the death for her and only her. Don’t settle until you find that man.’ Violet just told me to kick him in the balls.” I laugh. “But your words were wise.” The next week I saw Tommy Miller kissing two other girls who were not Karyn Vencezzino.
A car approaches. I wait for it to pass, wondering what my father would say about Shaw Mercer. On principle alone, he wouldn’t like him. Had we met under different circumstances, though, had Shaw not been paying me to fool everyone around us, I’m still sure my father would tell me to keep on walking. That Shaw’s not the fighting kind either, just like Tommy Miller. It makes me sad that he’d be right.
Then another thought hits me about that advice my father gave me and the anger I try to bury burns bright once again.
“Why didn’t you fight harder, Daddy?” I ask hoarsely. “Why didn’t you talk to me? Lean on me? Ask me for help? Why did you just give up on us? Momma and I needed you.”
Violet’s death was more of a confusing time for me than anything. She made a bad decision that ended with the price of her life, but my father? His was deliberate. For months, I refused to believe it was suicide. It had to have been some sort of accident. My father had everything to live for. His career. His wife. Me. But his car was parked in the middle of the bridge, door open, keys and wallet inside. There was no evidence of foul play, of anyone else at the scene. No witnesses, no passersby. Just suffocating pain and a glaring reality I didn’t want to believe.
My father took his own life on purpose.
He left me and my momma on purpose.
That’s what hurts the most.
He didn’t trust me enough to ask for help. He was proud. A man’s man. A protector of both myself and my mother. That’s why to this day I struggle with what he did. A big part of me wonders if my father was crippled not only by the loss of his firstborn but also by watching his beloved wife slowly waste away, forgetting him, forgetting their life together. Feeling as helpless as I was to save her. Sometimes I think he was exactly like me, pretending to be fine while he slowly wasted away on the inside.
Guilt licks at me until my skin nearly blisters. I should have known. I should have done something. Why didn’t I see it?
I could have helped him just like I could have helped Violet. Couldn’t I?
Some days I miss my family so much it’s tough not to drown in the heartache, but I will admit, the last few weeks it’s been a tad easier to breathe, and I don’t want to admit why.
Closing my eyes, I concentrate on why I’m here. It’s getting harder and harder to remember the little things. The pitch of Daddy’s voice. The dulcet ring of Violet’s laughter. The way my father and sister’s arms felt around me, hugging, squeezing. You don’t realize how you take the small stuff for granted until it’s ripped away, leaving a gaping, bleeding hole.
Wrapping my arms around my waist, I let the warm wind blow against my face, pretending they are here, listening. But my mind drifts to places I don’t want it to go. I think about what I’m doing with Shaw and why. Try to justify how it’s not hurting anyone. I think about the two hundred fifty thousand dollars and how he can afford it. Try to rationalize away that it’s for my mother. That if I had another choice, I’d take it. For not the first time, I tell them, “It’s hard, but I’m doing the best I can.”
I’m sure I hear a faintly whispered “I know you are.” Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Regardless, it makes me feel better.
I start updating them about Momma, and several hours later, I finally make my way back to the car, feeling exhausted but lighter. I stayed longer than I intended, but it felt cathartic to be here. I couldn’t make myself leave although I should have spent the afternoon recording. I make a mental note to bring Momma out with me next time. Even if she doesn’t know why she’s here, she usually enjoys the serenity.
Starting the car, I reach into my purse and grab my cell. I have several more missed calls and close to a dozen texts from Shaw. I sigh and decide I’m acting childish. I need to get over whatever this is I’m feeling for him and just do my damn job professionally. I’m done being mad anyway. Mostly.
It would take ten seconds to shoot him a quick text telling him we’re all good before the thirty-minute drive home, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be good enough for him. He’d call me immediately and I’m thirsty and tired and have to use the bathroom. So, I shift the gear to “D” with the intention of calling him when I get home.
When I pull into my driveway, though, I’m surprised to see Shaw’s Rover sitting on the side of the road. With him in it. A quick look at my car clock shows it’s just shortly after four in the afternoon. Huh. I wonder how long he’s been waiting for me.
My stomach starts tumbling with excitement and nerves. I’ve essentially ignored him all day, and he’s come here to track me down. Why? To apologize? Or to make sure I’m going to uphold my end of the bargain? Or maybe it’s to fire me.
By the time I open my door to find out, he’s already halfway to my car.
“Shouldn’t you be at some big important meeting this time of day, Drive By?” I spout with some venom when he reaches me. Guess I was still holding onto the edges of pissiness a bit more than I thought.
“Where the fuck have you been all day?”
Well, guess that answers that. Apologizing isn’t at all what’s
on his mind. Being a fucking asshole is.
My spine straightens like someone just shoved a steel rod up it. “You know, I don’t owe you a play-by-play of my entire daily schedule. I’ve been available every time you’ve needed me, without question. And wasn’t that the ‘deal I signed’?” I shoot back sarcastically.
“Except today,” he mumbles under his breath.
I start to walk away when he grabs my elbow and gently shifts me back. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Can we try this again, please?”
Taking in a lungful of air, I let it go slowly, along with most of my ire. “Do you want to come in?”
“I’d like that. Thanks.”
With every step I take toward the front door, I’m overly aware of him behind me, close to me, watching me. I let us inside, knowing we’re alone since Sierra’s car isn’t in the drive. Walking to the kitchen without looking back, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Do you want something?” I ask, trying to be polite.
“I’m good.” His gaze wanders around, and I know he’s taking in my meager home. Probably comparing it to his. Our whole condo could fit in his living room and kitchen. “I like your place. It’s nice.”
“What do you want, Shaw?” I ask, taking a seat at the table so I can put something—anything—between us.
With the length of time he studies me, I start to get anxious. Maybe he’s here to end things between us after all. Maybe he’s decided he doesn’t want to risk being seen with me. Maybe he’s decided that I’m not worth the hassle.
Sadly, I’m not sure I could blame him, and a part of me doesn’t even want to put up a fight, but then I think of the money I’ll lose and I panic a little.
Clearing his throat, he says, “I’m sorry for last night. It was uncalled for.”
I just stare, searching for the right response. He pulls out a wooden chair and sits, leaning back heavily like he’s tired. Now that I look closer, he does have bags and circles under his baby blues.
Guess he had about the same kind of night I did.
I look away briefly to gather my thoughts. I want to forgive him, but I need some answers first. “Why did you act like that? You were a jackass. You didn’t even let me explain.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I cock my head and give him the look. You know, the one that says I know you’re full of shit.
His smile is self-deprecating. “Okay, fine. I didn’t like the fact that he was a former client of yours. I didn’t like the way he looked at you. I didn’t like that either he seemed intimately familiar with you or he wants to be. I didn’t like his mouth on your hand. I didn’t like his eyes scanning your perfect fucking body. I didn’t like the thoughts I could see running through his mind, blaring like a fucking bullhorn. I didn’t like any of it.”
In other words, a long-winded way to say he was jealous. Hmmm. I have to suppress the happiness that wants to break out on my face like a rash.
“What thoughts were those?”
He leans forward, arms crossed and elbows on the table, anger crowding out his apology. “That he wanted to fuck you.”
I laugh, knowing how untrue that statement is. “Not everyone wants to fuck me.”
“You’re wrong there, Willow,” he says with absolute conviction before easing back. “So very wrong.”
“He’s not a client,” I say quickly, wanting to ease the tension that now hangs as thick as a storm cloud. Shaw sits there, stony, so I continue undaunted. “Bill was the gentleman who shook my hand. I don’t know who the other man was. A friend of his, I suppose. Bill works for Randi, and I can assure you he doesn’t want to fuck me. His tastes lean in the opposite direction.”
He blinks a few times. “Why didn’t you just tell me this last night?”
“Because you pissed me off,” I retort hotly. “Look, I know you don’t approve of what I do, but I don’t need your fucking approval. I have my reasons, and I’m tired of you judging me over something you know nothing about.”
His entire demeanor softens. “I’m not judging you, Willow. I just...” He drops his head back and stares at the ceiling, breathing deeply. When he rights it again, the warm look in his eyes squashes my irritation. “Come here.” He holds out his hand and expects me to obey.
I don’t want to, but something compels me forward. I stand and take it; then I’m between his spread legs, his hands kneading my hips. He’s staring up at me with a plea in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I cave like wet sand under the power of the sea. Running my hands through his short hair, I tell him, “You’re forgiven.”
With a nod and heavy sigh, he pushes back. Rising to his full height, he towers above my short frame, but it surrounds me with a comfort I’ve sorely missed. “I have to go. I have some things to attend to that I pushed.” He sounds as disappointed as I feel.
“Okay,” I agree quietly.
At the door, he weaves his hands through my hair and tips my head to just the right angle so he can lower his mouth to mine and kiss the hell out of me. When he turns to make his way to his car, we’re both breathing heavily and my entire body needs doused with ice water to put out the inferno burning inside.
Only when he drives away do I realize I still have no idea how long he waited for me just so he could apologize. Or why I like that thought so much.
17
Tapping record, I begin. Again.
I open my apartment door expecting Livvy to greet me, but the only thing that does is the scent of vanilla, sultry music, and candlelight. I shut the door, leaving my suitcase by it, and take a few steps inside but freeze at the vision that greets me from the informal dining room.
Fuck. Me. My cock jumps.
A completely nude and blindfolded Livvy is spread out on my table. Her hands are crossed at the wrists and placed gracefully above her head, one slender ankle positioned delicately over the other. Her back is slightly arched, her glossy red lips parted like she’s already in the throes of ecstasy, and the shadows from the candles surrounding her dance like entwined lovers over her flushed skin. Two flutes of bubbling champagne sit at the head of the table, waiting to be enjoyed.
I stand there for what seems like an eternity drinking her in. She’s so goddamned beautiful I’m struggling to breathe. Every man’s fantasy come to life, but she’s all mine. She’s my everything.
My life.
My breath.
My very fucking sustenance.
My cock has never been so hard.
“Christ, Livvy. You’re a goddess,” I finally manage to murmur as I walk the length of the table and slowly, deliberately drag a finger lightly from her toes all the way to her fingertips. Her breath hitches, and I watch as goose bumps break out along the path I’ve taken. I walk around the other side, repeating the same process, this time edging closer to the parts of her I want my hands and mouth on most.
“Fuck it, I give up,” I grimace, chucking my headphones onto the desk. I’ve reread this section of Forsaking Gray six times already this morning, scrapping every single recording. Narrating a book from the male point of view can be challenging, but I tend to do my best work in the morning when my vocal cords are still low and scratchy. It’s the same time I usually read the very sensual or explicit sex scenes, because my voice is sultrier before it gets completely warmed up. This morning was supposed to kill two birds with one stone, except I think I mutilated them both instead.
Today I could have risen at the ass crack of dawn and it still wouldn’t have mattered. I need to be these characters when I read them. I immerse myself into their skin, their lives, their highs and lows until I believe I am them, but today the only zone I was in was the danger one.
He is all I can think about.
With every word, I pictured myself in this heroine’s place and Shaw in the hero’s.
I was Livvy. Shaw was Gray.
I was on his table.
I was his sacrifice.
I was his.
And
I am a fucking idiot. None of that can happen. The sex part, maybe. Hell, who am I kidding? There’s no maybe about it.
I think over the last few days and how my barriers are rapidly collapsing, piece-by-piece. And it isn’t his bossy, sexually explicit words that get me. It’s his heartfelt ones.
It was his sincere apology for being a dick. It was his jealousy. It was how he was with his family. It’s the weight of his gaze that I feel on me when I’m not looking at him. It’s his attentiveness, even if it is a guise. It’s all that and so much more I don’t understand. Underneath his controlling, pushy, sometimes maddening exterior, Shaw is a compassionate, loving man. He loves his family deeply, and if I didn’t fully understand why he was doing this before, I do after meeting them.
He’s physically attractive, but his benevolence is what actually makes him irresistible. He’s the entire package every woman dreams about unwrapping, calling theirs, treasuring for life.
The next time I see Shaw Mercer, there is no way I’ll be able to resist him. So fine, sex will happen, but an unwelcome part of me can’t help but yearn for something more. Something beyond physical pleasure. The love that these two fictional characters felt was real and palpable. It jumped off the page and sucked you in. Hell, it even made me believe in second chances for the broken.
I want to be someone’s life.
I want to be their breath.
I want to be their very fucking sustenance.
But I’m not sure that will ever happen for me.
People can’t love you if you don’t let them, Willow.
To this day, four years later, my fiancé’s words still ring true. I don’t deny I’m fucked up. I am. I know it. I fully understand the trials I’ve endured in my life have left an indelible imprint on me. Closed me off to meaningful relationships full of depth and trust.
I don’t push people away, per se, but I also don’t invite them inside. And while keeping others on the fringes may seem easy, it’s not. Trust me. It’s exhausting. I’m not proud of it. But it took me a long time to figure out that I didn’t know who I was. I lost myself by being what everyone else needed me to be, and how can you let someone in if you don’t know who the hell you are yourself?