Her head snapped up as if he’d zapped her with a cattle prod. “I can’t.”
Such a quick denial. It hit him as if she’d denied everything they’d done in the last twelve hours. “I’m not asking you to play out the fantasy I made up while you were masturbating,” he said dryly, although the idea did appeal to him. “I’m merely ordering you to spend the day with me.”
He wasn’t a prude by any means. He’d had two lovers before his wife Beth, and though he’d never cheated while he was married, he’d done a lot in the five years since the divorce. A couple of years ago, he’d met a woman who loved it kinky, and she was totally into the club scene. She’d introduced him to it, and for a while he’d been like a kid in a toy store, trying everything. By the time he’d found Bree, his lady friend had moved on, and he was starting to lose his taste for clubs. The sex lacked any sort of emotional connection. But if he went back with Bree now . . .
Against the backdrop of her black hair, Bree’s skin was pale, almost ethereal in the morning light. “I’ll do that scenario if you want me to.”
It sounded as if she’d be happier granting his fantasy, masturbating for a bunch of horny men, than frittering away her day off with him. Then he almost laughed out loud. He sounded like a teenager who’d been tossed aside for the football hunk. Or a wife who had to deal with Sunday sporting events. He was becoming a bit of a pantywaist.
He guessed he’d been silent so long, she felt forced to add, “I have to see my parents.”
So her parents weren’t dead. The information felt almost like a victory. She’d revealed something of her own accord.
He grabbed on to the trophy and said, “I’ll grant you that. We’ll have our day together another time.”
She didn’t smile, didn’t acknowledge, but reiterated what she’d said earlier. “I will do that if you want.”
“What?” He’d make her repeat it, to state her intentions.
She watched him, streamers of sunlight falling across the table between them and reflecting back up to beam on her face. “Masturbate for you. In front of strangers.”
The fantasy set something ablaze inside him, and he’d certainly been hard as a rock while he’d watched her and made up the story. He imagined showing her off, but at the same time holding all the cards. It would be like laying claim to her. And having her accept that claim. It would be as good as having her fall asleep in his arms last night. A first. But this was still the strangest relationship he’d ever had.
“We’re not normal, you and I, are we.” He didn’t ask it as question.
Yet she answered. “No. We’re not.”
“Most men would hate for another man to see their woman.” He found the idea exciting, and his cock was hard again. He wanted her to lay in his arms, to make love with him, spend the night, yet he wouldn’t give up the other things they did, the cuffs, blindfolding her, slapping her ass. Most men wouldn’t like that either, but he wasn’t most men. She wasn’t most women. They sure as hell weren’t normal, but they were fucking good together.
“You want it, don’t you?” she said, fork aloft, the French toast going cold on her plate.
“I want Dickhead to see you’re mine.” Derek, the dickhead bruiser. But really it was every man out there who’d had her, every man who’d touched her and screwed her over.
“I’d like that,” she whispered.
He felt the tightness of need in his chest. If any man had tried to exercise such power over one of his daughters, he’d have beaten the guy to a bloody pulp. But for Bree, for him, this was right. This was some strange step forward for them. “Someday,” he said. It was a promise of so many things to come.
She put her fork down and gave up all pretense of finishing her breakfast. “I don’t know how often I’ll be able to take care of your needs over the next few weeks.”
She’d let him into her house, into her bed, allowed him to spend the night, and now she was backing off again? As if saying she’d do things for him at a sex club was like a bone she’d thrown him before she slammed him down. “Here I was thinking we were mutually meeting each other’s needs.” He heard the acid in his tone.
She stared at her plate, her lips pursed, her hair falling forward to cast a shadow over one side of her face. “I have to move in with my parents over in Saratoga.”
He was an ass for the relief he felt that she wasn’t going beyond his reach. “Is something wrong? Are you having financial problems?” Without question, he would help.
She shook her head, breathed deeply and exhaled, not with a sigh but as if the air fortified her. “My father’s ill.”
Her words sent a chill across his skin. He was always misinterpreting her, but then he knew so little about her that he couldn’t make accurate assessments. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s dying.” She spoke to her plate.
Luke wanted to touch her, hold her hand, give her his warmth, yet in that moment, she was further away than ever. Still, she’d told him, and that meant a measure of closeness. “I’m a phone call away when you need me,” he told her.
For the first time, she looked up at him, her gaze stark, pained. “I don’t want to go, Luke.”
Something trembled inside him. He rose, rounded the table, hunkered down by the side of her chair and put his hand on her thigh. “No one wants to face losing their parents.” He had lost his. He understood.
The next breath Bree took was shaky. “Do you think I’m an awful person?”
“No,” he murmured soothingly. “I don’t.” He suddenly had a glimmer of why she’d called him yesterday. She needed him; he was her panacea, and that touched him deeply. “I’m here, baby.”
She rolled her lips between her teeth, held them a long moment. “What if I call you up in the middle of the night for phone sex?”
“That will be fucking hot.” He had the sense to realize that the phone sex would be less about sex and more about comfort.
“What if I say I need to see you and suck you and nothing else?”
He smiled. “That won’t be a problem.” Though true, he’d made it a problem in the past, wanting more. “Suck me anytime.”
She laughed, choked it off. “I just don’t feel right about anything.”
He soothed her with a hand down her arm. “That’s normal.”
She snorted, a touch of derision mixed with pain. “I am so not normal.”
He wanted to pull her down into his arms and tell her he didn’t care about normal. He didn’t know what stopped him except that she had never wanted coddling from him. He felt like an ass for pushing so hard for what he wanted when she was going through such a painful time. But then she hadn’t given him a clue. “Screw normal,” he offered. “We just decided we’re great at not being normal.”
“Sex with you makes me feel better,” she said, her gaze once again on the table in front of her.
She was trying to explain herself to him. She’d never done that before. She could be seductive and manipulative even as she was submissive. He always had to read between the lines. Now, she was trying to communicate how she felt. They never called what they did making love, but she was acknowledging the importance of what he gave her.
“Sex makes me feel better, too,” he said, as if somehow he was validating her. It was the oddest conversation, saying little, yet holding so much meaning. This was intimacy. “We’ll do quickies at lunch, too.”
She laughed, sniffed. “I should have thought of that.”
“Yes, definitely. You’ll suck me in my office.” There were all sorts of possibilities he hadn’t considered before.
“We could get caught.” She smiled, put her hand on top of his as it rested on her thigh.
He felt her mood rising. “I have a lock on my door.”
She squeezed his hand. “It would be kinkier to do it with the door unlocked.”
Kinkier. And riskier. Yeah. Perfect. She was giving him so much more than she’d ever offered before. More than sex. Fin
ally, here was something he could actually do for her; offer his shoulder, his strength, his comfort. And a little cocksucking, too.
BREE FELT LIKE SHE’D ENTERED A DUNGEON. EVERYTHING WAS SO dark. Her parents’ house had been built in the late sixties. It was a T-shape, with living room, dining room, breakfast nook and kitchen facing the street, and the bedrooms and den along the center part of the T. Though her mother kept the house meticulously clean, dark paneling still covered its walls and the faux-brick kitchen linoleum went too well with the root beer appliances. Bree hated this house, hated its reminders. When would they break down and update, for God’s sake? At least if it was modernized, it wouldn’t carry such a punch every time she walked in the door.
It was only the memory of Luke’s hand on her thigh this morning that kept her from screaming. He didn’t think less of her, didn’t think she was terrible or even selfish. His words made what she had to do the tiniest bit easier.
Lunchtime had come and gone. Now her father was taking a nap. The hospice coordinator had arrived an hour ago; her father hadn’t been well enough to attend the meeting. They weren’t putting him in a facility, but at least he’d agreed to allowing hospice in to help. The middle-aged woman gave Bree and her mom pamphlets on the stages of dying and the support services they offered. They’d arrange for an aide to come in twice a day starting tomorrow, Sunday, to help with her father’s personal care. When the time came, they could order a hospital bed—there was enough space for it by the window in her parents’ bedroom—and any other homecare items they needed. A bed pan, IV, catheter, a tray of drugs by his bedside. Morphine for the pain.
Bree couldn’t take it in. Her father was actually dying.
Once the visit was over, Bree had made her mother a cup of tea. They sat at the table in the breakfast nook. Outside, the sky had grown dark with impending rain, but inside, the heater was pumping stuffy, hot air into the small eating area.
“Here’s what we can do, Mom. Since my commute won’t be as long, I can go into work about nine-thirty, which means we can get Father fed and everything before I go. Then I’ll leave work early, say about two-thirty.” Bree would tell Erin on Monday, but she already knew Erin and Dominic would support whatever was necessary. “You can have one of the respite care volunteers come in for a little while during the day, too.” The volunteer could help with meals or just let her mother get out of the house for a bit. “Plus I can work from here if I need to.”
Her mother wrapped her hands around the mug. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you,” she answered, her voice listless.
She wasn’t old, only sixty-five, yet the last few months had added years to her face. She’d stopped dyeing her hair, and it was now a harsh gray, not even a strand of her original black left. Bree had gotten her height from her mother, but now she was taller. Back stooped, shoulders slumped, her mom seemed to have lost a couple of inches, and the once vibrant blue of her eyes had been washed out of her gaze.
Bree leaned forward to cover her mother’s hands with her own. Sitting across the table reminded her of this morning with Luke, only then he’d been the one offering the comfort, she the one in need. “I’m sorry it took me so long, Mom.”
“I understand, dear.”
They’d never been close. Sometimes Bree wondered what it would be like when her father was gone. Would their relationship finally have a chance to improve?
“I know you don’t want to be here, Brianna. But I’m grateful that you’re doing it for me.”
Brianna. Her full name. Yes, her mom was in distress. God, the screws of guilt. Bree sat back, holding her own mug so her mother wouldn’t see the tension in her hands. “It’s difficult.”
“You won’t leave me alone at night, will you? I don’t want to be all alone in the dark if . . .” Her mom bit her lip. “You know, if something happens.”
Yeah, Bree knew. Her mother didn’t want to be alone when he died. For just a moment, she was pissed as hell that her father had refused to go into a hospice care facility. It would have been so much easier on everyone, him included, especially her mom, but he had said no. He could be such a selfish bastard.
“I won’t leave you alone at night.” God, what if she needed Luke? What if she had to see him or go crazy? Did the volunteers come in when you needed to see your master?
“I love you, Bree.”
She wanted to say the words, too, but her brain wouldn’t form them and her lips couldn’t say them. “We’ll get through this, Mom.”
They lapsed into their own thoughts. The house was so quiet. Usually her father was calling for this, that, or the other. He’d always been a big presence. Though not a tall man, he’d been stocky and thickly built. Older than her mother by five years, he’d made his living as a car mechanic. He’d had his own shop until a few years ago when his customer base dropped off. He’d blamed the failure on the new-fangled electronics on cars, but he wasn’t a man who easily changed his ways. That’s when he’d gone downhill, when he didn’t have his work anymore. The cancer seemed like a byproduct of his disappointment in what life had left him with. The only good thing to be said was that he’d made sure there was enough in savings for her mother to live decently once he was gone.
“Did you hear that?” her mother said, jumping to her feet, knocking her mug over, and rushing out of the breakfast nook. A milky tea stain spilled across the lacy tablecloth, but she hadn’t even noticed in her haste.
That’s how Bree had grown up, exactly like her mother, jumping whenever her father demanded something.
She wondered if she and her mom would still be jumping long after the bastard was dead.
6
BREE LAID A FEW NAPKINS OVER THE MESS, SOPPING UP THE WORST, then followed her mother down the hall. She hadn’t heard a thing, but her mom was hypersensitive. She passed the den, then her old room, the bathroom she’d used, and the spare room her mom kept for sewing. Her parents’ bedroom was at the end of the hall.
Pretty lace curtains covered the big window facing the large back garden, where the grass was green and overgrown with the recent rains. Her dollhouse stood in the corner by the back fence, though it wasn’t really a dollhouse. As a child, she’d been able to stand fully upright in it. Her father had built it for her eighth birthday. Its shingles were pink, lemon yellow scallops edging the roof and window like a gingerbread house. The bottom of the yellow siding was painted with a border of pink and red flowers, the colors still bright as if it had been touched up in the recent past. As if her father had been out there taking care of it.
Bree clenched her hands into fists and turned away from the sight. The sky had turned cloudy, casting shadows across the bedroom’s worn beige carpet. The room’s air was stale with bad breath, medicines, and the scent of a body that hadn’t been washed well.
A small wheeled canister of oxygen sat beside the bed, but her father hadn’t been using it while he was napping. He didn’t need the oxygen all the time, only when he’d exerted himself with too much activity, like now, as her mother struggled to pull him up from the queen-size mattress, straining with two hands on his arm.
“I gotta pee,” he said in a longtime smoker’s gravel, phlegm bubbling in his throat as he breathed heavily.
“I’ll help you, dear,” her mom was saying, but he batted her aside, muttering curses. “He’s not himself,” she told Bree.
Not himself? The lung cancer was starving his brain of oxygen, and his mind was definitely going. Last weekend when she was leaving, he’d asked her where she lived. But this, the belligerence, was exactly like him.
Bree went to his other side, grabbing his arm, and together, she and her mom pulled him to his feet.
“Goddamn, see what I have to put up with,” he groused, steadying himself with his hand on Bree’s forearm.
See what her mother had to put up with. The oxygen deprivation was like Alzheimer’s, bringing out his mean streak. What was already there got exaggerated.
“The mattress
is too low,” she told her mom. “We need to have hospice bring in the hospital bed so it’s easier to get him in and out of it.”
“I don’t need no fucking hospital bed.”
Bree ignored him. “Come on, you have to walk. We can’t carry you.” She tugged gently on his arm, and with her mom steadying him on the other side, they shuffled over the carpet.
He stumbled on the rug leading into the master bathroom, and Bree almost lost her grip on him.
“Goddamn,” he said again. “I’m gonna piss myself if you don’t get me there.”
Her mother tsked. “You’re doing beautifully, dear, just a few more steps.”
Dear. Bree felt an irrational anger at her mother’s tone, as if she were talking to a petulant child, not a man who had so often treated her like dirt.
The bathroom was small, but the tub was huge, taking up a good portion, and Bree ended up sidling him closer to the toilet, her mother having to step back.
“You have to unzip him, dear.”
Why do I have to do it?
Bree wondered how her mother had managed to dress him this morning, every morning. She hadn’t realized how weak he’d grown. Just last weekend, he’d still been walking under his own steam. But there was no time for guilt or blame. Or anything else. Letting him lean slightly against her body to keep him steady, she unzipped his pants, feeling queasy with the chore.
“You have to take it out, Father.”
He fumbled, and there it was. Like a worm. Swallowing back the bile that had suddenly risen in her throat, she closed her eyes to let him do his business.
“Bree” her mother shrieked, “he’s getting it all over.”
He was peeing on the bathmat, the seat, the tank, even the little row of flowered plates her mother had hung above the toilet. It was everywhere.
“Bree, you have to hold it.”
Please don’t make me, Daddy.
What Happens After Dark Page 5