Return (Coming Home #1)

by Meli Raine

  “I have missed you so much,” he says, stroking my cheek. His fingers take a long, loose piece of my hair and tuck it behind one ear. Then he dips down and nuzzles me, his teeth nipping my earlobe.

  That sound. I make that sound again.

  “Surrender to it, Carrie,” he says, encouraging me. My body melts against him, my sex warm and wet now, wanting more. The ache deep inside unfurls like a ribbon. It stretches out as a sharp wind appears to carry it on the breeze, unrolling with abandon. Mark’s tongue strokes my teeth, savoring my taste. The warm wetness of his attentions makes my body shiver with anticipation.

  I’m lost, hopelessly falling through a place where all I can do is trust. His palms caress my back, my hips, then slope down to take in my ass. The heat of his skin is like a cure for an illness I didn’t know I had. We are fire and ice, love and hate, lust and fear. We are everything and nothing, me and Mark.

  We are now.

  His arms lift me up and God help me, I wrap my legs around him. I need to be closer to him. I’m throbbing, pulsing under his touch. His mouth turns urgent, eager and bold. He’s taking from me, demanding my submission as our slick tongues dance with a kind of fevered hunger that makes everything else seem so unimportant.

  He’s over me on my bed, his body hovering as his mouth rakes over mine, his lips on my neck, my hands all over his back, his ass, his body. The worn cloth of his shirt feels like silk under my heightened senses, my fingertips as tender as can be. He steals more kisses, incites more sighs, uses his hands to tell me all the ways he owns me, and soon I’m writhing with the agony of needing him in me.

  I need to give over to Mark. I need to lose myself so deeply in someone else that I forget who I am.

  The heat of his breath against my bare breast feels like some eternal force of nature has taken up residence between us. His mouth dips down and he sucks, slow and teasing, his tongue making electricity zing through me. His hands run up my belly, under my shirt, and find my other breast, my hair, my neck.

  I can’t stop kissing him, can’t stop pressing my hips up in silent invitation. Mark gives me a look of such raw desire that I nearly climax on the spot, my sex blooming with wetness, readying for him.

  And then his groin buzzes.

  I lift my hips so high it catches him by surprise and he falls off the bed onto the floor, scrambling to shove his hand in his pocket to find his phone.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” he groans, reading the glowing screen.

  “You’re on duty?” I gasp.

  “Something like that.” I swear he mutters the word chase. Must be some kind of car chase going on involving the police department.

  This reminds me of the time my dad walked in on us in the family room, making out and hot and sweaty, Mark’s fingers smelling like my musk, our faces flushed with embarrassment. I was so close to giving over my maidenhood. Dad had turned bright red and left.

  I’m not that girl now. Still a virgin, but not the halting innocent from three years ago.

  But this still isn’t right. Just because you want something so badly your whole body vibrates as if it lives in its own frequency doesn’t mean you give in to it.

  Sometimes doing what is right competes with doing what feels right.

  Mark shoves the phone back in his pocket and climbs back on the bed, above me, kissing my collarbone.

  Breaking away from him, I look down. A long, slow sigh of air forces its way through me, like a balloon deflating. My mind is racing, my body is one hot electric wire, and I can’t stop thinking about being naked with him, skin-to-skin.

  Heat to enormous heat.

  “I thought you came here just to talk,” I say evenly, standing. He doesn’t stop me. I walk five steps to my kitchen, reaching for a glass and turning on the faucet. My skin hums.

  As the glass fills, my eyes flick over the empty pizza boxes and the trash. Mine and Amy’s empty pints of ice cream sit on their sides.

  Amy was here minutes ago.

  How can time collapse like that?

  “I’ll go,” he says, his eyes clearing suddenly. The dark, intense look of desire drains out of them like he can do it at will.

  No! No! screams a voice inside me. But I don’t open my mouth. My lips are buzzing with our kisses. Taut nipples tease me as they push out toward him, wanting more. Rational, practical Carrie needs to step up to the plate right now.

  No-holds-barred Carrie is dangerously close to doing something she’ll regret.

  Mark clears his throat and tilts his head, giving me a confident smile. “Thank you.” He opens his arms for a hug, and I square my shoulders, standing in place.

  This I can manage, though. The step into his arms is like crossing a threshold. He is warm and spicy, like the smell of woodsmoke and comfort. Moments ago passion ruled, but right now we’re just friends.

  Right?

  We both linger in the embrace, and my mind races. What does this mean? Too many secrets and lies separate us. He doesn’t know what Dad told me. I don’t know what the District Attorney told him. A huge drug conviction and a death separate us, too.

  And yet my choice has brought us closer. I chose to interview for the job. Chose to move back.

  Chose to let him in. Practically begged him to kiss me.

  All of that swirls in my mind as he plants his lips on the top of my head for a gentle kiss. Without a word Mark steps out into the inky night. He pauses, staring at my door.

  “Hang on,” he says, jogging to Brian’s tool shed. I hear the sound of metal on metal and wonder what on earth he’s doing.

  He comes back with a bike lock. The green ropy kind with two loops at either end, plus a padlock.

  “Here. This is the lock I use for my bike. It’ll hold you through the night. The combination is my birthdate.”

  Click.

  He locks me in.

  As he jogs off, I realize the numbers came to me in a flash. They’re embedded in me.

  He disappears into the dark within three steps and I’m left to go to bed and face my dreams.

  Dreams of a man I can still taste.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Day two at work and no Claudia by lunch time. Whew. Not that I’m afraid of her. She’s not exactly the type to inspire fear. Disgust? Sure. But fear is too strong an emotion.

  While the information technology folks set me up with all my different permissions to access the different systems for accounting, student records, and office supply orders, I play with my email.

  My signature line reads:

  Carrie Myerson

  Project Coordinator

  Dean of Arts & Sciences

  IT told me to set it up that way. I notice as I read the emails that start to trickle in that everyone else has initials after their name. B.A. or B.S. for the administrative workers, like me. M.A. or M.S. for the higher-level administrators. Ph.D. and M.D. and J.D. for professors and deans.

  The president of the university, J. Roth Murchison, has a D.Phil and an SJD, whatever that means. Something about graduating from Oxford University in Britain for the D.Phil and Harvard Law School for the SJD. Someday I’ll know what that means, though.

  Meanwhile, I need my little B.A. Two more years. Just two more years.

  So far, my only contact with Dean Landau has been through email today. He left me a long list of places to schedule meetings and luncheons, and some receipts to file for reimbursement. The person who used to work at this job, Carol, left me an enormous binder of instructions.

  I don’t need to figure anything out, because Carol is a goddess. Everything is color-coded tabs and printed details. She left me copies of every form you could imagine, with specific steps for how to complete everything.

  I find the expense reimbursement form, make a copy, complete it for the dean, and make another copy for our office’s records. Then I check Carol’s handbook and send it to Accounts Payable.

  Done. I own this job.

  I got this.

  Dean
Landau told me in one of his emails to feel free to take time to hand-deliver paperwork I would normally send through inter-office mail, so I can meet people. Match faces to names. Snatching the expense form out of the mail box, I decide to walk it over. Might as well meet whoever processes the expense reports.

  This is boring already. I like boring. Boring feels great. As I walk out of the building’s doors and into the bright sunshine, I smile. My sunglasses slide on and I’m walking. A quick glance to the grass to watch out for stray football games. None. Coast is clear.

  I’m getting paid to walk freely between the buildings in the late-August sunshine.

  Now this is the life. Not sitting in front of a three-hundred-per-hour check processing computer for eight hours every night, back hurting, body out of sync because of midnight shift. I work eight to five with an hour lunch. I earn vacation time. Yates University pays my health and dental insurance.

  I even have a retirement account.

  And those golden tuition benefits. After I drop off the form at Accounts Payable, I’ll wander over to Human Resources to see if I can take classes in a couple weeks. My smile widens.

  I’ve made the right decision coming here.

  Mark be damned.

  Accounts Payable is in a brick building on the other side of campus, right next to an enormous building shaped like half a football coming out of the ground. Facilities. I remember it well. That’s where Dad worked. I can see the old bar in the distance, not far from the Facilities Department.

  Now it’s The Coffee Freak.

  Everything has changed.

  No one is in to meet me at the Accounts Payable office. A small sign taped to the door says they’re out to lunch. I slide the envelope in their incoming mail slot and feel a bit foolish. Ah, well. I’ll just head over to Human Resources now.

  My eyes adjust to the bright day and I pause to take it all in. I’m doing my job. No one is at my office yelling at me to move faster. Supervisors don’t pull me aside to tell me my hourly rate of production slipped eleven percent, so the rest of the week has to be at peak. Blinking fluorescent lights at three a.m. aren’t my only companions during my fifteen minute scheduled breaks.

  People get paid to work jobs like mine. It’s a revelation. My red cotton shirt and grey slacks feel womanly. Professional and organized. I’m really on my way.

  As if in agreement, a flock of starlings floats out of a large, green bush and flies away, chirping happily. I begin to walk to HR and am humming to myself, arms swinging, mind blank when I hear a shout.

  “Carrie!” It’s Eric, jogging up behind me, carrying a beat-up old leather satchel. He’s wearing glasses and a green polo shirt that suits him well. When I’d known him as my TA he was so thin. Gaunt. Pale and hollow. The man smiling at me now definitely is the picture of health, tanned and athletic.

  I wonder what changed. Whatever it was, it’s a good change.

  He’s handsome.

  Mark, a voice inside me barks, the word like a thunderclap. I start to argue back and feel like an idiot as I open my mouth and Eric looks at me. He’s expecting me to talk to him.

  Not to the stupid voice in my head.

  “Eric! You look great!” The words come out and wow. Could I get any stupider? Damn.

  His eyes widen and he grins back. “You do too, Carrie. How’s the new job treating you?” Lost in his delicious Irish accent, I realize I’m headed in the wrong direction. Human Resources is to the left of us. I pivot, and he follows.

  “Fine. Just delivering paperwork and visiting HR today,” I say. His eyes take me in and I know that look. Mark gave me the same look last night.

  It’s a decidedly wolfish look. I blush, matching my shirt. Eric? Eric always seemed interested, but...

  I was never interested back.

  “You want to catch a cup of coffee or tea before you go into the paperwork jungle and don’t emerge?” he asks. Eric’s voice is strong, but I can see he’s nervous.

  “Sure!” I chirp. It sounds a little too overeager. Great. I’ve turned into an excited chipmunk. How did I go from kissing Mark twelve hours ago to having coffee with Eric?

  The same way I got to Accounts Payable. One step at a time.

  Eric points to a tiny building with a hobbit-like door. I’m short, but I have to bend down. Eric’s not nearly as tall as Mark, but he’s still taller than me, so his shoulders slump as I follow him. The room is dark and I start to feel uneasy. Where the heck is he taking me?

  A huge cloud of dark-roasted coffee assaults my nose. Inhaling deeply, I smile as my eyes adjust. Ah. Something new on campus. Yates didn’t have this place when I was here. The coffee shop is tiny, with only eight tables and a short counter. Coffee, tea, and plastic-wrapped biscotti seems to be all they sell.

  “What’s your poison?” Eric asks as we walk to the counter, which is a huge slab of some kind of tree, polished and varnished to a high shine. Rings as thick as my thumb show through the wood. It is gorgeous.

  “Mocha latte with cinnamon,” I say as I dig through my pockets. My cash reserves are low, but I can manage the four dollar coffee. This one, at least. I can’t do this every day until the paychecks start rolling in.

  He holds out his hand in protest. “My treat.”

  That gives me pause. The Eric I knew from three years ago didn’t have two nickels to rub together. People don’t “treat” each other when they’re broke. They complain and borrow and lend, but they don’t do what he’s doing.

  Suddenly this feels like a date.

  And a part of me doesn’t mind.

  A million answers fight with each other to come out of my mouth, but as I smooth the hem of my shirt with nervous hands I look at him. “Thank you,” I say, as genuinely as I can. “I’ll buy the next time.”

  All he does is crook an eyebrow, but it tells me everything he’s thinking. I am not sure I’m thinking the same thoughts.

  But I might be thinking some of the same thoughts. My tongue is twisted and I don’t know what to say, so I start looking around the room.

  Student art covers the shabby brick walls. Half the mortar between the bricks has rubbed away. The sofas, if you can call them that, look like rejects from the student center. From, say, seventy years ago. Torn and stained, at least they’re a place to sit. At your own risk.

  A chess set, a game of Sorry! and Mastermind are scattered across a gouged coffee table. Eric gets our drinks and he nods toward a two-seater. We take it and settle in, my eyes still wandering.

  “What was this before it became a coffee shop?”

  “The vet school slaughterhouse.”

  That makes me choke. The steaming coffee-milk I tried to carefully sip goes shooting down my throat, some up my nose. It burns.

  Gasping, I stand. The cup tips. Eric saves it before I pour sixteen ounces of scalding liquid on us. The burning pain in my nose fades quickly, leaving the back of my throat raw.

  I feel like a fool.

  “You okay? Do you want cold water?” Eric sets my paper cup of hot latte down gingerly, his eyebrows knitted with concern.

  All I can do is nod.

  He rushes off and returns in seconds, a tiny juice glass full of water. I drink it greedily. It helps.

  “Thanks,” I rasp.

  “I didn’t know veterinary school slaughterhouses were so upsetting,” he jokes. But his eyes are still worried.

  “Caught me off-guard,” I croak. The air shifts, and all my nervousness goes away. This is just Eric. Sure, he’s a professor now, and I’m not his student. But there’s nothing there. He’s a nice guy, I’m a friendly person, and we’re just having a cup of coffee as colleagues.

  That reminds me. “Did Carol ever work with your department? Are there procedures I need to know about?”

  His face changes, and then goes back to neutral quickly. I’ve said something to upset him, but I don’t know what. And then he says, “I wouldn’t know. I’m an assistant professor, so I don’t deal with administrative affair
s.” His eyes glance over mine, like he’s making a show of being polite.

  The air has chilled quite fast between us.

  I try to change the subject, waving my hand. “No big deal. I’m sure your department admin can tell me. So how did you become a big professor?” I ask, leaning forward to reach for my coffee.

  “You need training wheels for that?” he jokes, eyeing my hand warily.

  I know he’s kidding, but there’s a needle in his words. “It’ll be fine. Besides, if I dump it in your lap, plastic surgery can do wonders for burns these days.”

  His turn to choke, but the look he gives me isn’t one of shared laughter.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You’ve changed,” he says, looking down at the table, his fingers tracing a long, carved “C” in the wood.

  He is pissed, and trying to hide it. A plume of fear spreads through me. The tiny room closes in. All my confidence disappears. A cloud of shame hovers over me. Everything that felt just right now is terribly wrong. Who do I think I am, joking and feeling good? Like I have a right to think I am like everyone else.

  “I have?”

  “Huh,” he says, then takes an angry gulp of coffee. “Let’s talk about something other than scorching my balls, Carrie.” My name sounds like he’s spitting it, and he won’t look at me.

  I don’t know what to say. All I can process is my pounding heart and the bare-naked feeling I have. Like my skin is turned inside out and everyone is staring at me. It’s the same feeling I had after Dad’s arrest whenever I set foot on campus, or went to the grocery store. People knew something was wrong with me. They just knew.

  Eric makes me feel this way right now.

  “How about your job? Working out fine with Dean Landau?” At the sound of my boss’s name, I blink, my trance ended. Shame floats away slowly, reluctantly, but I can will it to leave.

  It does. Barely.

  “Fine,” I answer in a measured tone.

  “No problems?” He eyes me with a skeptical glance.

  “It’s only day two. Ask again in a few months.”