by K. L. Kreig
I may not know how long I’ve been sitting here by the traditional marching of seconds and minutes, but it’s been long enough to know the people who pass through this refuge fall into two camps.
Life or death.
Loss or hope.
Defiance or defeat.
I know which camp I’m in.
I am defiance. Defiance is me. If he dies, I’ll know it. I’ll feel our bond break in the very depths of my being. And right now, while my soul feels crushed, it doesn’t feel dead. I know I will feel dry and barren if he leaves me here alone.
So while he fights, so do I. I fight for strength where I’m weak. I fight for hope to replace despair. I fight for us, because if he makes it through this, he will need me by his side more than ever before.
The soft whoosh of the door opening alerts me I’m no longer alone. I hope no one has found me. I can’t stomach any of their faces right now. Not a one.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a frail old woman shuffle past to the small altar in the front. She reaches out a shaky hand and shortly afterward, I hear the distinct friction of a match being lit. I think that tiny piece of wood will disintegrate before she gets the wick of the candle going, but she manages just fine. Once the votive burns, she pivots slowly and is taking a seat in the first pew when she spots me.
She straightens.
I square my shoulders.
We stare soundlessly.
I can read her pain.
I think maybe she can read mine, too.
A glint of a name badge pinned to her blouse catches the light. Volunteer probably. She’s far too old to work here.
Suddenly my eyes burn and itch and blur. I try to stop them. It’s hopeless. For some baffling reason, she’s managed to trigger an avalanche of gut-wrenching loneliness I’m helpless to keep inside anymore.
Then she heads my way.
She’s a stranger yet not. I feel drawn to her for some odd, unexplainable reason. She must feel the same because she sits and slides over until our thighs practically touch.
Still, she looks at me and I at her.
Without a word, she places her hand on top of mine. It’s cool and clammy. I would feel her age by her hands alone, even if my sight didn’t work.
Water zigzags down my cheeks. It drips down my throat, soaking into the neck of my shirt. I can hardly see her now through its endless stream, each big drop pushing the others out of the way to make room for the ones behind them.
She squeezes her fingers against mine. Her simple human touch sends this peace and calm throughout my soul. Then she rasps in a voice more solid than her age would lend, “I know it seems like it, dear, but you’re not alone. You can let go. I’ve got you.”
Then I lose it. Completely fucking lose it. He’s said that to me so many times over the years that I feel as if it’s him sitting here, talking to me, reassuring me through this apparition. Telling me to be strong, not to give up hope. That the time we’ve had together has been far too short and he’s coming back for me.
Some people call it hooey, but I believe in divine intervention. I felt it when I stumbled across Old Man Riley, fated as we were to meet. I felt it when I was moments away from dying in that frigid lake at age eleven. I felt it when he watched over me all these years.
And with my head now resting on an old woman’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably, I feel it now.
I feel him now.
I sink into that security he’s always given me, refusing to believe there is any outcome other than a long life together. The one we’ve always imagined.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I grumble, adjusting the strangulation device circling my neck—aka my tie. I suppose I should get used to it. As a lawyer, I’ve no doubt I’ll be expected to don a suit and tie daily, although I’d much prefer jeans, a Henley, and my beat-up Chukkas.
“Oh stop your bitching.” She pushes my hands away and huffs, taking over the pitiful job I’m doing of massacring this piece of thin, slippery material into some semblance of a knot.
“I mean it, Swan. How did you ever get me to agree to this ridiculous idea?” I know how. She batted those fucking eyelashes. One flutter. That’s all it took. It wasn’t even a flutter, really. It was just a…a look. She’s the honey trap I fall for. Every. Fucking. Time. Without fail.
Mavs stops what she’s doing and looks up at me. Her eyes are wide. Stunningly gorgeous. She’s put on a touch of mascara and dressed her eyelids with a color that’s relatively neutral, but whatever it is makes them shimmer just a bit. A swipe of shiny berry gloss coats her lips. And that’s it. No other makeup cakes her face. Simple. Pure. So understated, yet so her. She’s a complete oxymoron. Sultry, yet innocent. Sweet, yet so fucking wild it makes my head spin.
“I caught you at a weak moment?” she offers playfully.
“I’m always weak around you,” I murmur, reaching up to wipe a dark splotch from her front tooth. I let my finger whisper across her cheek before I force it back to my side.
If I’m honest with myself, we both know why I’m here. Besides the fact she’s impossible to deny, it’s simple: to keep other guys out of her pants. And with the curve-hugging baby blue silk she’s sporting, guys are gonna wanna crawl inside that hot spot and get a little taste. It’s not their fault, though. It’s hers. She’s so damn beautiful it’s like descending into your own personal madness because you know you can’t have her. I know. I’ve been in my own personal hell for years with—and without—this woman. And the thing is…she’s clueless about it all. Still.
“Are you sure I look okay?” she asks, shifting her attention to the cleavage hanging precariously out of that sinful dress. A stray chocolate curl slips down, down, down the valley of her tits and disappears inside the flimsy fabric. Fucking fuck of all the fucks. I wonder what she’d think if I threw a sweatshirt over her before we left.
She tries in vain to tug the two pieces closer together, but all she’s succeeding at doing is plumping up her perky tits even more. In my head I groan, trying like hell to keep my erection under control. There will be a helluva a lot of chicken choking going on later in the little boys’ room, that’s for damn sure. It burns my insides knowing I’m not the only one fantasizing about Maverick DeSoto.
Unable to take any more, I grab her hands and shove them to her sides, holding fast. “Stop. You’re…Christ, Mavs.” I pull her into me and rest my forehead to hers. “Those high school chumps will have woodies for days remembering what you look like. You’re every man’s dream. Wet or dry,” I finish on a whisper. What the fuck am I saying? Any dream involving Maverick will be wet. Filthy wet.
“Kael,” she half laughs, half gasps.
“What, Swan? Just callin’ it like it is.”
Her head cocks back, that wide-eyed gaze cutting to me once again. Her expression is unreadable. She blinks those big green doe eyes several times before replying softly, “Thank you.”
“Welcome,” I croak. God, if you’re out there I think I’m gonna need a solid tonight, man. Please do not let me fuck things up with her by mauling her or vomiting how I’m hopelessly in love with her. “We’d better go. We’re already an hour late.”
Her lips curl. Then she gasps that gasp that makes alarm bells go off for normal people, like something’s life or death. Only with Mavs, it’s that she’s remembered something she wants to tell you. Usually unimportant. Scared the ever-living shit out of me the first few times she did that. And when she does it while I’m driving down the road, I think a deer’s gonna jump out in front of us or her appendix just burst. She almost made us crash once with that sudden hitch she does.
“I almost forgot! Your corsage.”
“Oh, hell no.” I snag her hand just in time as she tries to flit away. “It’s bad enough I’m going to your senior prom when I’m of legal drinking age. I am not—ah, ah, ah”—I place a finger against her open mouth, secretly relishing the pillowy feel—“no arguments. I am not wearing a fucking flower wit
h that loose white shit in my lapel until I get married.” I refused a tux, too, opting for a conventional black suit.
“But it’s tradition,” she whines.
“Don’t care, babe. You want me to go with or not?”
The corners of her mouth turn down in a pout. Jesus H. Christ, do I want to kiss that off her, but I know better. I tried that once when she was in fifth grade. I was thirteen. She was ten. It was the one and only time I had my lips on hers. My head was floating in the clouds until the slap that resonated through the woods brought me hard and painfully back to earth. Then she bolted on me faster than a jackrabbit and I didn’t see her again for three days. It took about a dozen times of apologizing before she’d talk to me again. She made me promise I’d never do it again.
I did.
I lied, though.
I will try again, but timing is everything. Getting out of the friend zone is tricky. Push at the wrong time, you lose your best friend for good. And I can’t chance losing Mavs. Ever. I know now is the time to dig deep for patience, not a commitment. As much as I want it to be, with me off at college and starting law school and her leaving for college shortly, now is not the right time for us.
“Fine. Be that way,” she says, crossing her arms.
“I will,” I say, crossing my own, easily matching her stubborn.
She smiles. I smile.
She laughs. So do I.
All is good.
Ten minutes later we’re done with pictures and are free to leave. Vivian even let us stand on the edge of her “sitting room” for a few. Mavs purposely tripped so she’d fall onto the pristine carpet. Her mom went wild.
Fucking Vivian and her precious rug. She had that damn rake out faster than I could blink, any thoughts of capturing her youngest daughter’s last prom all but forgotten. It slays me that Maverick hangs on to the bottom rung of her mother’s priority list. Vivian and Richard DeSoto are not bad parents, they just have other priorities that are not their children. When she’s mine, I will worship her like the rare find she is.
“Come on.” I snake my bigger fingers between her small ones and haul her toward the door. Only minutes later, we’re strolling through the double doors of Saint Bernadette’s High my hand possessively at the small of her back.
When we get to the gym, the party is in full swing. The dance floor is packed. People are milling on the outside edges, chatting in small groups. But already, heads are turning. Eyes bug. Tongues wag. Male minds spin with dirty thoughts of what lies beneath her delicious gown and how to get her out of it.
My eyes travel over her, my view from this height spectacular. But holy merciful God. Where’s that fucking favor I asked for earlier, cuz this ain’t it. Her nipples are like goddamn beacons, proudly beading against the fabric of that dick-strangling piece she’s wearing. When she came down the stairs, balancing awkwardly in her fancy shoes, my cock swelled so painfully hard I had to button my suit jacket to conceal the evidence.
My teeth clench and my fingers tighten around her, tucking her closer to me. I have half a mind to throw my coat over her, only I think the buttons would hit right at chest level, drawing even more attention than she’s already garnering. I catch a few horny assholes checking her out and they immediately shift their eyes away. Good. I have a feeling I’ll have a scowl plastered on my face all night long.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, all innocent and so fucking oblivious.
“Nothing,” I grit. My jaw hurts already. “Let’s get something to drink.”
We weave our way through the crowd. My teeth clamp together as I hurl vicious unspoken warnings to all those swinging a stick within a hundred-yard radius. I think everyone’s starting to get the message loud and fucking clear.
She is mine.
She will always be mine.
We stand there with our little plastic cups full of some god-awful sweet punch and take in the cheesily decorated gym. It seems so small and unimportant now than it did when we were trying to make it to boys’ basketball regionals just four short years ago.
“You do this?” I ask, gesturing around to the gold, green, and purple balloons strung together to form an arch around the gym entrance. I spy a photo booth in the corner with various hats, boas, and other crap. My eyes travel over cutouts of masks taped to the wall then to the multicolored beads around her neck someone threw over her head on the way over here. They’ve also joined the boob party, hanging out right in that sweet spot between her mounds. Seems like no one can get enough of them.
Fuuuuuck.
It’s going to be a long-ass night.
She gifts me with a withering look, making me chuckle. “Hell no, I didn’t do this,” she harrumphs. That’s my girl.
“I’m surprised you wanted to come.”
A bare, delicate shoulder lifts and drops. “MaryLou was relentless until I caved. It’s pointless to fight her when she gets like that.”
Said ankle biter waves at us from across the room. She and Larry are in line for the photo booth. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were married with three kids by the time they’re twenty-five. I’m thinking the married part is a novel idea. The kids? I want them, too, but there’s no rush on that account. I need my fill of Mavs first.
Mavs takes a sip of her sugar water, trying to act all nonchalant like. “So…Killian’s back, huh?”
And just like that, my heart sinks like a stone, taking my stomach with it. No…not a stone. A fucking five-ton boulder. The kind that gravity drags down mountains during avalanches. The kind that crushes, killing hopes and dreams, taking lives. Yeah…that kind.
“Yep. Moved back last week.”
“Daddy said he’s going to be working at DSC?”
That hopeful thread in her voice makes my skin tighten to the point of itching. I slide a finger between the collar of my shirt and my throat. I tug, loosening up the fucker so I can breathe. “Yep,” I answer tightly.
Maverick’s obsession with Killian has only seemed to grow instead of wane. And, dammit, so has his. Which is exactly why I’m here this summer, interning for DeSoto Construction. I want to be back in this town like I want to spend time in my jockstrap after a five-mile run, but Killian’s move thwarted that. And Maverick’s here until the fall when she starts college. And there is no fucking way I’m leaving the two of them alone, unguarded all summer long. Not gonna happen.
“Hey, Maverick,” someone with a deep voice booms from behind. I spin around and come face-to-face with Bruce Chutney, otherwise known as One Nut Chut. Bruce comes from a long line of farmers and he made the ball-busting (literally) mistake of stepping over a PTO (power take-off) while it was running. Any farmer will tell you that’s a big no-no. He’s lucky he’s not dead instead of just getting one nut chopped off in the incident when the leg of his jeans got caught in the rotator and sucked him in. Story goes, he held on for dear life for nearly three hours until his dad got worried and came to check on him.
“Hi Bruce,” Mavs answers sweetly.
“You, uh…you wanna maybe, uh…” Chut’s gaze sweeps to mine briefly, then back to Mavs as if I don’t exist. As if I’m not here as her date. And why would he think I am? Everyone in town knows how tight we are. As friends. As just fucking friends. “Uh, dance with me later?” he finishes stuttering. Looks like dickhead lost more than his left nut in that accident. Like his ability to interact with the opposite sex without wetting his pants.
“Sorry,” I pipe in just as Mavs is getting ready to respond. Probably accept. “Her dance card is full for the night.”
A tiny gasp escapes from Mavs’s throat when I yank her into me and wrap a strong arm around her waist. Then I feel her blaze lighting up the right side of my face as I continue to stare at One Nut, who hasn’t quite gotten the clue yet.
Thank God I’m here tonight. They may be able to look, but I’ll break their fucking fingers off if they even so much as think of touching. Not even a dance. She’s mine. All night long. I don’t get her to myself very ofte
n, so I’m going to make the most of it when I do.
“Oh, yeah. Uh, okay. Sure. I’ll, uh…I’ll see you around then.” Christ, I almost feel sorry for the poor dude. Almost.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, Mavs turns on me. “What the hell was that?”
“What?”
“What? ‘Her dance card is full for the night.’” She drops her voice low, doing a horrible impression of me while air quoting what I just said.
“I don’t sound like that,” I tease, trying my damnedest not to swoop down and take her lips in a punishing kiss, showing every fucking asshole here that she is already spoken for. Showing her she’s already spoken for. And not by Killian.
Patience, Shepard.
“You don’t sound like what? Like a possessive, jealous boyfriend?”
My molars clamp together. Every word of that statement is true except the last. The one I want most. The title I fear I’ll never have. It’s hard to keep my tone light when I’m seething inside, but I manage. “I was doing you a favor, Swan.”
“A favor?” She doesn’t ask as much as she challenges me to expand. So I do.
“Yeah, a favor. I could just envision it now.” I wipe my hand across the empty space in front of us, conjuring up an image for her. “You dance with that poor schmuck and he’ll fall in love with you.” True. “He’ll court you. Then you’ll fall in love with him.” Like fucking hell. “And soon, after the two of you are married,” over my dead, lifeless body, “you’ll find out not only did he lose one testicle in that accident, but the swimmers in the other are floating in a dead pool.” That part could be true. “Aka, no little miniature One Nuts running around the farm.”
As I paint this picture of what her life would be like with One Nut Chut, her smile grows wider and wider. By the end of my elaborate fairy tale, she’s laughing so hard I see tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“See? Favor.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” Still laughing.
Just then, Lifehouse’s “You and Me” starts filtering through the speakers. I don’t ask, I just drag Mavs to the dance floor and tuck her into me as I start swaying us to the music. She stiffens for only a second before relaxing, muscle by muscle, until she’s pressed fully against me.