The Crossroads Duet

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Gasping for air at this news, I jumped in my seat when Lane yelled, “Shit!” He banged his hand against the steering wheel. “Jake mentioned something about Shirley when we were fighting, and I completely ignored him.”

  “Jake? I’ve never introduced the two of them . . .”

  Lane cupped his head back in his hands, leaning into the seat as he sighed.

  “Ugh!” Again he slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “We saw her, when we were leaving AJ’s when we got the necklace. The woman in the Buick, I knew she looked familiar. Jake must have pursued it. Little asshole.”

  Leaning forward, I turned and put my hand on Lane’s chest, resting it above his heart. I felt the pounding beat, coming strong and fast through his jacket. “Lane, I didn’t know. You have to know that. I would never do anything to trick you,” I said, sensing he needed to know that, especially after the scam Shirley had pulled on them. They were kids, for God’s sake. They wouldn’t have gone go to jail.

  But she would have.

  My world spun as my emotions unraveled. Self-loathing filled me at the thought that Lane had tried to do something right for me, and it ended up crumbling at his feet. I hated myself for ever trusting Shirley, and at the moment, I despised Jake for not filling me in.

  But I loved Lane, so I said, “Why don’t we call Jake? Maybe he can fill in the blanks.”

  Later that night, after making coffee and sitting around the fire with Lane and Jake hashing out the present muck they waded in, I crawled into bed next to Lane. He was on the left side, his arms behind his head, his chest bare, and I crawled into the crook of his arm and shoulder, running my hand along his stomach.

  As Lane had assumed, Jake had recognized Shirley leaving AJ’s and took it upon himself to find her. A few of the times I’d seen him over the last few months, he’d really been up in Ligonier scoping her out, confronting her and not being able to appropriately put her in her place. He’d wanted to tell Lane in Miami, but Lane had become wholly focused on getting back to me.

  I made slow circle eights on Lane’s abs while I thought about how painful his and Jake’s childhood must have been, and now another scab had been ripped off. Abruptly.

  Shirley had never mentioned any of this to me. She’d probably thought that being able to watch Lane through my eyes—to see him succeed and fall in love—would ease her conscience. Jake had tried to tell her that was bullshit, but she wouldn’t hear it.

  As we lay quietly in bed, sneaking soft touches while we listened to Brooks snoring on the dog bed, I came to terms with losing the second person crucial to my staying sober. Who would be my rock now? I wasn’t strong enough to do it on my own.

  “I’m there for you now, Bess. And you’re a lot stronger than you think,” Lane said, turning to face me as he threaded his hand through mine.

  “Did I say that out loud or are you a mind reader?”

  “The latter. This evening started out about me supporting you, and ended with you taking care of me . . . again. I just want you to know that I’m right by your side, no matter what,” he said before kissing me.

  “I said it out loud.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah.”

  I ran my hand through his dark hair falling on his forehead. Seeing him with his head on my pale pink pillowcase, exposed and vulnerable, did something to my heart. I fell more in love.

  “I love you, Mr. Wrigley.”

  “Lane,” he said with a wry smile, reminding me of when we first met.

  “Why me?”

  “We were always meant to be, Bess. You were the bright yellow in my colorless, bland life.”

  And then he kissed me again, this time not stopping. With his hand traveling south, his fingers found me.

  “Don’t stop,” I said, my breath coming in small pants as he stroked me.

  He put another finger inside me as his thumb teased my sensitive spot, and I concentrated on pulling air in and out of my lungs.

  “I believe you like calling me Mr. Wrigley,” he teased, then nibbled on my neck.

  My fingers dug into his back, scratching their way down to his ass as I called out his name with my orgasm.

  The second his fingers left my body, I wanted something to replace them. Reaching down, I wrapped my hand around his erection, stroking up and down its length, my thumb smoothly grazing over the tip.

  “Bess,” he growled.

  I didn’t answer; instead I straddled his legs and guided him inside me. Exhaling a low moan, I sank all the way down.

  “Come here,” Lane demanded once I was seated on him. When I leaned forward, he took my mouth, sliding his tongue inside while his hand went to my hip, setting the pace at which he wanted me to move.

  It was slow and languid. I pulled up and slid back down with the grace of a ballerina until Lane’s hand held on for better purchase, encouraging me to go faster. With his hand bruising my side, I rode him like a stripper in Vegas.

  Racing to the finish, not concerned when we would make love again because we knew we would—hoped that we would—we both hit our climax quickly, crying out into the night, squeezing out every last emotion of the day from each other.

  As Lane spooned me, I let out a little sigh and said, “I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow, you know.”

  “Okay,” he said easily as he slid his hand down my back, coming around from behind to tease my clit. “Are you sure I can’t convince you otherwise?”

  Bess

  One month later

  It was freezing. Snow whirled everywhere, the sky an angry gray landscape as I waited for Lane to get to my place. He’d just flown in that afternoon, and I almost couldn’t breathe with want.

  And worry.

  And anticipation.

  And lust.

  Finally he’d walked through my door, bundled in his leather jacket and jeans with a wool scarf wound around his neck just so—not from the thrift shop, but Burberry. Although I loved teasing him about his expensive “country” wardrobe, I couldn’t stop staring, or wishing I could rip them off right away. But we had a plan.

  Over the phone last week, he’d agreed with some convincing to go to Pittsburgh on the Friday after Thanksgiving to see Jake. We’d even made a plan to meet my dad for coffee. My dad and I talked more often now, our more regular contact a salve for ancient but still-healing wounds.

  But it was Jake I was most concerned about. He’d planned to be alone for Thanksgiving, insisting he didn’t want to intrude on our first holiday together. I desperately wanted Jake to join us at May’s place for the holiday dinner, but he was licking his wounds. With his past mistakes ripped wide open and oozing into everything in his life, he probably just needed for them to scab over. I hoped for his sake it was soon.

  The clincher on Lane’s giving in to seeing his brother was my agreeing to get a Christmas tree. Since we couldn’t pick it up on the day after Thanksgiving, he was adamant about going the day before.

  Which was why now, instead of getting naked and warm in the sheets, we were cruising down the mountain in my Jeep on a frigid Wednesday night. The church was having a fundraiser, selling trees and wreaths, and it seemed appropriate we go there. The night sky spread out above us as Lane navigated the winding mountain road, the moon low and full with a halo glowing around it. More snow was on the way.

  A meeting was letting out as we parked the car. Stepping out into the night air, Lane squeezed my hand and then went rigid. I looked up to see what was wrong, and saw a small figure with a mass of red hair underneath a hat leaving the building.

  “Come on, we’ll come back,” I said into Lane’s shoulder.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m not letting her take away any more of my life,” he said, pulling me toward the trees on display.

  Scolding myself for wanting to turn around and see if she saw us, I kept walking. Sadly, I couldn’t find compassion in my heart for Shirley, and neither could Lane. Maybe one day.

  Life was better. I’d been going to morning meetings and only
working the lunch shift—another change at Lane’s insistence. He’d made sure I was enjoying myself, finding hobbies, volunteering at the rehab center.

  But I loved this church; it would always have a special place in my heart for giving me sanctuary when I needed it most. And Shirley was part of that for a while, so it hurt when I thought about not being able to forgive her.

  Lane stopped me and pulled me in for a hug. “Let it go. This is our time, and I’m not having her ruin it.”

  He truly was a mind reader.

  I kissed him and whispered, “Love you,” into his shoulder. Then spent the next half hour debating with him over which was the perfect tree.

  Getting the tree home was a pain in the ass, but Lane insisted on tying it to the top of the car and lugging it in on his own. I helped drag it to the corner I’d cleared for it, and set about hanging all kinds of ornaments that had arrived via courier a few days before.

  There were so many of them—shiny metallic lemons, fake dog bones with ribbons twisted around them, Labradors wearing Santa hats, plastic palm trees, and a billion sparkly balls of all shapes and sizes and colors.

  Bess

  Two weeks later

  Snow was coming down heavy again, sticking to any surface it found. Drifts of it had piled up on my porch, nearly blocking my front door, so I had to dig a passage for Brooks to get down to the yard so he could do his business. It was even deeper in the yard and he loved it, his tail wagging, brown eyes shining as he jumped and bounced through the drifts.

  My man, Brooks Bailey. His life would be changing after the New Year. We were moving for a few months to Florida, a decision I’d made the Sunday after Thanksgiving, but still needed to get used to. It wasn’t final, I wasn’t selling my place, just trying out something new for a while. With Lane.

  I wondered how Brooks would like the sand and warmth and constant sunshine, not to mention the noise and crowds. It was quite different from what he was used to here. It would be a big adjustment for him, and if I were honest, for me too.

  Huddled on my porch with a scarf wrapped tightly around my neck, the wind blowing wet snow on my cheeks, I called for Brooks. He was whooping it up, his paws cutting through the fluffy powder, throwing it high in the air until it came fluttering down on his head.

  “Brooks, come on, baby,” I yelled, and he came padding back to me. We walked through the door, and being the good boy he was, he shook off the snow while standing right on the towel I had laid out. And then he went and drank from the bottom of the Christmas tree.

  We’d never had one before in this house. My dad and I always had a cheap artificial tree when I was growing up—typically a tiny thing on the table with gaudy white tinsel and lights that never worked quite right.

  But there was nothing insignificant about the one that I had now. It stood regally in the corner by the window, holding its star up high, shimmering in all its glory. Thanks to Lane. Now those silver and red balls were shaking and shimmering in the light as Brooks turned around, his tail swishing against the tree.

  Shivering, I put on the tea kettle just as my phone rang.

  “Hello?” I said, not recognizing the number.

  “Bess, it’s James. How you doing, doll face?”

  “Hey, James! Happy holidays!” I said, leaning my hip into the counter.

  “Same to you, my love.”

  “So, what’s up?” I said, waiting for the water to boil.

  “Just checking in, saying hi. Are you all ready for the move?”

  “James . . . spill!”

  We’d become close since my last visit to Miami. Lane and I had gone to a Halloween party at the Dylan—I was trying to venture out—except it was way too wild and crazy for me. We left early, and James grabbed us a quiet table in the back of the restaurant where we shared coffee and dessert. When we were waiting for the car, James came to check on me, and I learned that he was in the program. He noticed my apprehension at being around all the craziness and nonstop partygoers, and recognized my nervousness for what it was.

  The next day, I had a few hours while Lane went to the office, so I met James for a coffee at the News Café. Sitting outside, watching all the beach babes work out in the sand, we shared stories. A few days later, he took me to a local meeting and introduced me to a few others in recovery in the area. And we had stayed in touch, chatting about my move.

  His newfound warmness toward me did not go unnoticed by Mr. Wrigley, but they set down their swords when it came to me.

  James came clean, his voice interrupting my thoughts. “Ugh, love. Lane told me to check in on you while he’s back in Madrid with the time difference.”

  I laughed as I pulled the whistling teakettle off the heat and filled a mug with steaming water. “Of course he did. I’m fine. The snow is coming down and I’m making tea.”

  “Life in the fast lane. So, what happened over Thanksgiving? You never told me. Did Lane and that hunk of a brother mend fences? How was your dad?”

  I let out a sigh as I rubbed a hand across my temple, massaging away the headache about to come on. “Jake and Lane weren’t great. They’re at odds over the best way to leave everything in the past. Jake wants a sit-down with Shirley; he wants to hear her voice out loud her regret and guilt. Lane doesn’t want to see her ever again. As for my dad, he and I are in an okay place. He feels bad about my childhood and is open to trying to reconnect slowly. And he understands it has to be on my terms.”

  “That’s good,” James said. “And you know Lane is nuts when it comes to you. That’s why he has me checking on you . . . duh! He’ll follow your lead with Jake, my love, you just watch. More important than all of that, are you ready to escape that shitty snow and come and live by me? Sand and surf twenty-four/seven?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll love the weather, but I’ll miss my house . . . and work. I still don’t know what I’m going to do down there, and it’s worrying me. Do not repeat that to Lane,” I warned him as I dipped my tea bag in my mug, letting the cranberry color seep out into the hot water.

  “Well, that’s the other reason why I’m calling. Lacey left, she’s the other girl who helped at the desk, and since you have hotel hospitality experience and a marketing degree, doll, I recommended you. And management went for it.”

  Walking away from my tea, I began to pace my small kitchen with the phone tucked into the crook of my neck. “James! This reeks of Lane’s doing!”

  “Maybe a little,” he said with a hint of a whine. “He did mention that you needed something. He knew you were obsessing over working, but this was all me. Think of how much fun we’ll have, making fun of people the way I used to make fun of Lane!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. James did give Lane a healthy dose of banter, especially now that Lane had apparently settled down. It should bother me more—that playboy past—but I figured I got the real Lane. All of him, and that was way better.

  As for the job, other than Camper and Jake, I didn’t have many friends my age. Now I had James, and I could truly be myself around him. It was the perfect opportunity, and even though I was sure Lane had way more to do it with than James had let on, I said, “Okay! What do I need to do?”

  Later that night I woke to something tickling my cheek. My breath caught in my throat as I was about to scream when I heard, “Shh, Bess, it’s me,” in the gravelly voice I loved.

  I sat up in bed, my heart racing despite realizing Lane was the intruder. No wonder Brooks didn’t bark.

  “Hey,” I said, swiping the hair off my face.

  The bed dipped as he sat down next to me in the darkness, kissing his way up my cheek to my ear, where he nibbled on the lobe. “Hey, I missed you,” he whispered.

  “What are you doing here?” I reached around to his back, pinching him, making sure I wasn’t dreaming.

  “Ouch! I finished early and jumped on a flight.”

  His breath lingered over my lips. He was waiting to see if I needed to say anything else before
he kissed me.

  I didn’t.

  Pulling him down the rest of the way, I grabbed his hair and kissed the hell out of Lane Wrigley.

  He didn’t let me stay in control for long. After a toe-curling kiss, he stood up and quickly got rid of his clothes, his erection springing to life in front of me.

  “Why, hello there,” I joked from the bed, and started to pull my tank off and shimmy out of my boy shorts.

  “Have some mercy,” Lane said, setting a knee down on the bed. “I just flew back on an international flight and then drove another ninety minutes in the snow and sleet with a raging hard-on.”

  “Did you now?” I teased as he crawled over to me, whipping the blanket off me in one swoop.

  “Lane! I’m cold,” I said, laughing through my words.

  “Not for long, love,” was all he said before his face was between my legs, his tongue running a familiar path. And then he went back to teasing me, planting a path of kisses along my inner thigh, his breath barely coasting over where I wanted his mouth.

  “Please,” I pleaded.

  He didn’t make me beg. His tongue homed in on that special place, his finger dipped deep inside me, and I came apart. My body burst into flames, my heart beating too fast. Love and contentment ran through my veins, emotions I never thought I would feel like a normal woman, but I was.

  “Want inside you,” he said, bringing me out of my orgasm-induced haze.

  “Mmm, me too,” I murmured.

  And then he was. To the hilt, before he pulled all the way out and slid back in again. He tortured both of us like this for a while. In and out, long and languid, his dick hitting every single nerve along my walls, our mouths staying together while our hips did a sensual dance.

  “More,” I whispered.

  “More what,” he asked as he slid all the way out, torturing me.

  “You. Deep. Faster. Please, Lane,” I said, giving in, saying what I wanted and couldn’t wait for.