Lost In Between: Finding Me Duet #1

by K. L. Kreig

  “I knew you were trouble the second I laid eyes on you.”

  “It didn’t keep you away.”

  His finger slides under my chin, and he tips my head back up, giving me no choice but to look upon his gorgeous face once again. “On the contrary, it drew me in.”

  His sincerity hits me deep.

  Now it’s my turn to clear my throat. What we’re doing right now feels too intimate. Having sex is one thing. It’s physical. It’s pleasure. It’s biological, even. I admit I have a hard time keeping emotions separated from the act, especially with Shaw, but I’m trying.

  Flirting with your clothes off, though, treads dangerously into I like you a fucking lot territory. I was already playing in that minefield before; I didn’t need another push. The grenades buried beneath my feet are getting harder and trickier to navigate.

  “I got caught playing with matches once when I was six,” I confess, trying to shift subjects.

  His smile is thin, his face now unreadable. “Oh, so you were a little troublemaker?”

  I shrug. “I was a rebel, what can I say.” Yet I wasn’t, and I don’t know why I claimed otherwise. Between the two of us, my sister played that role. I toed the line, straight and narrow, always the good little girl.

  “Still are, I think.”

  “No,” I say softly, shaking my head. “In fact, I’m pretty damn boring.”

  He makes a low humming noise in the back of his throat before telling me in a soft voice, “I disagree. I think you’re the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met.”

  I bite my lip, my chest feeling too full.

  His eyes bounce between mine, questioning, penetrating. He studies me so long I start to get antsy. What does he see? What does he want to see? What do I want him to see? I’m not sure I know anymore.

  When he fingers my necklace, I try not to tense. He latches my gaze again. “I like this. You wear it a lot.”

  “Yes,” I answer thickly.

  “Is it special?”

  “Yes,” I manage through a clog of emotion.

  I can’t look at him anymore, and I definitely don’t want him asking more questions I won’t answer. I sweep my gaze over his perfectly honed body. I guess being an important executive doesn’t keep him from taking care of himself.

  “I didn’t take you for a tattoo kind of guy.” I trace the ink just under his skin, completely aware I’m switching gears. Again. I need to keep this light, but he keeps bringing the heavy.

  In an even voice, he replies, “It’s my only one.”

  I briefly flit my gaze to his and prod teasingly, “A night of young rebellion?”

  “More like trickery.” He smiles thoughtfully. “I was twenty. Noah wanted to get a tattoo and somehow shamed me into getting one, too. I thought the 3-D in this was cool.”

  I analyze it for a minute. There are two puzzle pieces, gray shading giving them depth. The top piece appears it can be slid into place over the bottom one, which remains empty, but looks as if something is supposed to go in it. A name. A favorite team, maybe. Anything other than blank space. I like it. It’s unique, but it feels... “It seems unfinished,” I murmur.

  “It is. I didn’t know what to fill it with.”

  “For sixteen years, you couldn’t come up with something you love enough to complete your tattoo?”

  He shrugs. Shaw Mercer doesn’t seem like he does anything without meaning or purpose. The fact that he got a relatively meaningless tattoo is surprising.

  A yawn catches me off guard, and I throw a hand over my mouth. “Sorry,” I mumble through closed fingers.

  In a gentle move, he sweeps the back of his hand over my cheek before cupping my nape and pulling me down. His mouth brushes mine on a soft sigh. “Do you want to shut your eyes?” he whispers.

  My heart in my throat, I whisper back, “Maybe for a minute,” while keeping my eyes shut so he can’t see the moisture there at the way his tenderness moved me.

  I lie back down and a comfortable sort of quiet blankets us. The only noise in the vast room is our slow breathing, the crackle of gas flames licking the inside of three stone walls, and the one in my head screaming at me to get The Fuck out of here.

  This feels too good. Too right.

  It’s too much.

  I’m one step closer to hopelessly falling for him. Something I swore I wouldn’t do. I have been unknowingly inching my way toward him this entire time, and what seemed like an impossible chasm of space to cover when we first met is now suddenly only a literal breath away.

  How did this happen?

  I need to leave. Put some distance between us. Get some perspective, but exhaustion trumps my need for protection.

  Unable to get my limbs to obey my pleas to get dressed and get the hell out of Dodge before it’s too late, I peacefully drift off in Shaw’s arms to the rhythmic beat of his heart and the pungent scent of wild sex hanging in the air around us like a fog, knowing clarity won’t come like this.

  Obscurity is all that’s ever found in a fogged mirror.

  23

  Willow’s scent clings to me as if it’s sunk into my very pores. I take it in with every breath. It’s intoxicating, even twelve hours later.

  I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why my night with her was different from my nights spent with anyone else. Why do I have this unholy connection with her? Why can’t I stop thinking about her? Why is her vulnerability endearing? Why did I think fucking her would douse this need burning out of control inside me?

  It didn’t.

  If anything, it threw gasoline on the fucker.

  She was right, though she was flippant when she said it. Sex with her was life altering.

  Now all I can think of is her taste, her sounds, her pussy.

  Jesus.

  Her pussy.

  Snug and hot, it squeezed me like a goddamn vise, molding to me like it was fucking custom made. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was a virgin as tight as she was. I fucked her twice more after I took her the first time. Once over the chair, as promised, after her little nap, and once against the wall leading to my bedroom. I couldn’t even make it to my bed before I had to be inside her again. But she didn’t seem to mind. She was as delirious for me as I was for her.

  With her tucked to my side, we fell asleep right before midnight. Around two, she woke me and said she was going home. I wanted her to stay in my bed, her soft curves pressed against me. I wanted to wake her with my mouth and be buried inside her before breakfast. As much as I loved being inside of her, I enjoyed her in my arms equally. She felt good beside me.

  I’d had one of the best nights I could remember with a woman, and I didn’t want to let her leave, especially in the middle of the night. But when she pointed out spending the night would confuse things between us, how could I argue? She was right, though it didn’t lessen the sting. I’m always the one to leave or to delicately show a woman to the door, so this role reversal was a little shocking. I didn’t like it.

  Now, like some starry-eyed prepubescent teen, I’ve been checking my phone repeatedly to see if she’ll make contact. But why would she? This is a business arrangement that I went and flipped on its side. Changed the rules. Of course she won’t reach out to me, even if she wants to, because we are not a couple. We are business partners who just happened to fuck each other’s brains out last night. That’s all.

  Why is that no longer enough?

  Why am I craving more? Of everything?

  Why is the clock my worst fucking enemy right now, ticking off the minutes we have left together at blinding speed?

  I check my phone again.

  Nothing, dammit.

  “Hey, Shawshank,” my little sister’s chipper voice calls from behind.

  “You’re late,” I scold, setting my cell on the table when Annabelle takes a seat beside me. Just in case my “girlfriend” calls. Sap.

  “Jesus, who pissed in your Cheerios?” She throws a bag as big as a fucking grocery ca
rt onto the floor along with her rain-soaked umbrella.

  Switching gears from Willow, I take my sister in, carefully looking her over as I do every time I see her. Searching for the subtle clues that drug addicts think they can hide but can’t. Agitation, overexcitement, dilated pupils, shaky hands, weight loss, excessive sniffling.

  She’s wearing a bouncy pink skirt, black combat boots, and a black Lion King tee that says “I’m Surrounded by Idiots.” Other than the fact she has her long hair thrown up in a messy bun and she’s donning thick black fashion glasses that make her look younger today, she seems fine.

  “I haven’t eaten Cheerios since I was seven years old, Bluebelle.”

  “Ah, that’s right. You gave that up in favor of Fiber One, Excel spreadsheets, and pocket protectors for top-brass balls training.”

  I shake my head at her clueless concept of what it is I do. Before I can reply, the waitress returns and takes our lunch order. She orders a burger and fries, which is a good sign. Now I will make sure she eats it.

  She takes a sip of the Mountain Dew I ordered her. She’s addicted to that swill. Better that than coke. And by coke I don’t mean Pepsi’s most hated rival. “So, who’s this latest bed warmer of yours Linc was babbling ’bout?” she asks sarcastically after swallowing.

  This is the thing I love and hate with equal fervor about my baby sister. She’s the same on the outside as she is on the inside, but she has less than zero control of her running mouth.

  “Have some fucking respect, Annabelle.”

  “What?” She doesn’t bother to feign contrition.

  I’m unfairly angry over her trite comment. Rotating women in and out of my bed is what I do, and I plan to do nothing different with Willow. Why, then, does the truth burn like a hot poker to my side?

  Because your little Goldilocks deserves more than that. More than you.

  And why are you calling her yours?

  “What? Well, the what, you insolent brat, is that you haven’t even met her because you didn’t bother to show up to dinner. So you certainly don’t get to say a disparaging word about a woman you don’t know. She is far more than someone to warm my bed, and you will treat her with nothing less than respect. Understand?”

  Her eyes bug in shock. I put up with a lot of shit from my little sister. Her temper tantrums, her wallowing, her lying, her self-destructive behavior. But I will not put up with her saying a goddamn bad word about Willow. Line drawn.

  Her blood-red painted lips split. “He was right.”

  “Who was right? What the fuck are you going on about now?”

  “Linc was right. You like her, like her. This new,” she pauses, choosing her words carefully, “woman.”

  “Willow. Her name is Willow,” I say. More and more I understand what Willow means about the power of a name. Having Annabelle refer to her as just “a woman” is demeaning to Willow. She’s not just a woman.

  “Riiight. Willow. Cool name.”

  She eyes me carefully, but I give nothing away. I didn’t ask Annabelle to lunch to talk about Willow. I’m already confused enough about her without having to justify or define my relationship. I saw things swimming in her eyes last night I know she didn’t want me to see. I wonder what was in mine?

  I didn’t want to process it last night, and I don’t want to in the light of day, either.

  “So, how’s school?”

  “Classic deflection. Nice.”

  I sigh heavily. “I have a meeting in forty-five minutes, Bluebelle. Let’s not waste it taking potshots at each other.”

  “Fine,” she replies dryly. “But I want to meet this mystery woman who has you all protective and tied in knots. I don’t think I’ve ever seen blinding stars in your eyes when you’ve talked about one of your trysts before.”

  “Annabelle,” I growl.

  I don’t have stars in my eyes. Do I?

  “Fine, fine.” She throws her hands up, narrowly missing the waitress now trying to set our lunch on the table. After popping a few fries in her mouth, she gives me the update I wanted to hear. “It’s going good. Organic chem is kicking my ass, but other than that, pretty good.”

  “Why the hell are you taking organic chem if you’re a music major?”

  She shrugs a shoulder. “I wanted a challenge. It’s an elective.”

  This is the other thing I may not have mentioned about Bluebelle. She’s brilliant. Like off-the-charts genius, so when she says she’s struggling in a class, what she really means is she missed a point or two on a test. At twenty-one she already has her degree in secondary education; then she decided she wanted to be a music teacher. All this right in the middle of rehab. This is why I could never work out her drug addiction. She’s smarter than that, but I guess even smart people fall victim to its pain-numbing allure.

  “And everything else is going fine then?” I prod, watching her response carefully.

  She takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly before turning her sharp eyes on me. “Shaw, just ask me what you want to know, and stop beating around the fucking bush. No, I’m not using again. No, I’m not back with Eddie. No, I haven’t fallen back in with my old friends. No, I don’t want to slit my wrists. Yes, I’m going to counseling. Yes, I still talk to my sponsor daily, sometimes more, and yes, I’m happy. Does that about cover it?”

  “Annabelle—”

  “Look, I get it. I was a hot mess there for a while. I fucked up. A lot. I put you, Mom and Dad, and everyone through hell. But I’m better now. I swear. I’m not saying every day is easy, and I’m not saying I never think about doing a line because that would be a lie and you’d see through that bullshit. But I have my life back on track. I call Cal when I need him. I’m clean, and I work hard every day to stay that way. Satisfied?”

  I nod my head slowly, swallowing hard. This is the first time she’s acknowledged the sheer hell she put us all through. It’s progress. Reaching over I grab her hand. “I just want what’s best for you. I love you, Annabelle. I’d do anything for you.” I am doing everything for you.

  Her demeanor softens. “What’s best for you isn’t what’s best for me, though.”

  My voice hardens. “I’ve never pushed any agenda on you, Annabelle. I’m your number one supporter.”

  “I know you are.”

  “And so are Mom and Dad,” I add. I didn’t miss her unspoken words.

  She shakes her head. “No, they’re not. They expect perfect little children with perfect little lives and perfect little jobs that fit neatly into their perfect little political world. Illusions of perfection are all they care about.”

  “We’re all a light year away from perfection. You’re being unfair.”

  “I’m not, Shaw. You can’t see it because you’re the son they revolve around. And yes, that’s spelled S-O-N, not S-U-N. You’re rich, you’re successful, and you’re half a step away from God status.”

  I huff. “That’s the furthest fucking thing from the truth.”

  “Believe what you want, but all I ever heard about when I was growing up was Shaw this and Shaw that. You’re the golden boy, and the rest of us are a pukey, dingy yellow in comparison. I know Linc always felt ostracized and Gemma is neutral, I guess. I felt like a nuisance at best and unwanted at worst.”

  Is that true?

  I open my mouth to object, but stop. Annabelle was just three when I graduated from high school and moved out. I was home a lot, but I never lived there again. How can I say what went on in that house, day in and day out, when I wasn’t witness to it?

  Did my parents make my baby sister feel unworthy, perhaps unintentionally?

  “Have you talked to them about this? Linc and Gemma?”

  She holds my stare too long, and I can’t help the pang of hurt I feel when she answers, “Yes.”

  Shit. “Is this why…” I swallow hard. “Is this…?” I can’t even voice what I’m thinking. Am I the reason my baby sister felt the need to act out and numb her pain with drugs? Because she felt like she
could never live up to me? Is that why she didn’t feel she could talk to me about this before now? The thought makes me nauseous.

  “Shaw, no.” Now she grabs my hand. It’s clammy and might be shaking a little. “I made my own decisions. I’m not blaming you or even Mom or Dad. Maybe at the time I did, but I realize now it was my own inadequacies and insecurities that drove me to drugs. It was never you. Please don’t think that.”

  This is the frankest conversation I’ve ever had with Annabelle. I should be happy that she’s finally opened up, but all I feel right now is crushing guilt. I wasn’t there when she needed me. I should have been around more when she was growing up. I should have done a better job at making her feel wanted, special, at embracing her uniqueness instead of making her feel like she needed to live up to…me. Hell, I’m not even that great. She’s fascinating. She’s smart and funny and brash and always true to herself. Sometimes I envy her.

  I pull her to me, clinging, uncaring if I’m making a scene. I want to take all her sadness into me and leave her with nothing but happiness and joy and promises of a bright future. “I’m sorry,” I whisper hoarsely. My eyes burn, and I’m five seconds away from handing over my man card in a very public place.

  “Stop it. You have nothing to be sorry for. If anyone should be sorry, it’s me. You’re the very best big brother I could have ever asked for, and honestly, Shaw, if not for you, I’m not sure I’d be sitting here right now, clean and sober. You saved me on more than one occasion. Hell, if not for you and Noah, I’d probably be in jail.”

  Too true.

  “I love you, Bluebelle.”

  “I love you, too, Shawshank.”

  “I’d do anything for you.”

  “I know that.”

  “I wish you’d try harder with Mom and Dad. Regardless of what happened growing up, I do know they love you. Unconditionally,” I tell her softly. I know the time is right to say this. I’ve learned I have to choose my moments with Annabelle carefully. This is the right one.