Burning Tracks (Book Two: Spotlight Series)

by Lilah Suzanne

  Gwen slept okay last night, and Grady did too, as far she was aware, though she has a feeling Grady is now making up for a two-week sleep deficit. “He’s like a Labrador.”

  Nico runs his palm up Grady’s arm, then into his hair. “A golden-doodle.”

  Gwen snorts a laugh. “Totally. I had to practically lie on top of him last night to get him to stay freaking still. So now I need to know, after you tie him up for fun, do you leave him like that or... I mean how else do you keep him still?”

  Predictably, Nico glares. “Anyway,” he says, changing the subject. “Is he—I mean, you spent a lot of time with him. Other than getting into some mischief, is he okay?”

  Mischief. Is that all it was? What felt like rebellion and escape was just a little naughty impish fun? As if that was all they needed, as if it was that easy to shake off the chains and start fresh. Until next Vegas weekend.

  Unless Flora has been uncharacteristically reading tabloids, and believes them. Unless Flora now thinks that Gwen is cheating on her with Clementine, and has already left.

  “Yeah, he’s okay.” Gwen smiles when Grady drools on Nico’s designer dry-clean-only pants. “Are you guys okay?”

  Nico twirls a curl around his index finger. “Yeah. We will be. I think I just needed to freak out a little? Winding your life around someone else’s so completely is a little scary. Particularly when it’s Grady’s life.” He twirls and twirls Grady’s hair, then shakes his head. “I just keep treating him like he’s made of glass because I’m afraid of hurting him. And then I hurt him anyway.”

  Gwen stares down at her puffy tulle-covered lap. She’s all dolled up for a night out she never had in an imaginary life she never really wanted. She’s been holding back, too, treading around Flora as if she really is a fragile, wilting flower, so that one word of concern or disagreement or confession of unhappiness will destroy them both. She’s been holding back because she’s afraid of how Flora will react, but more afraid that the places where Gwen falls short will open a chasm between them that can’t be bridged.

  “I’m not going to be a good mom,” Gwen says to her lap. “I’m not selfless enough. I’m not nurturing. What if my kid has to grow up with a mom who is just as cold and distant and disapproving as mine? That’s all I know.”

  Nico responds with one of his most epic eye-rolls yet. “Oh, please.”

  “Nico, I’m serious. I’m freaking out. I almost—” Had an affair with Clementine Campbell? Did it get that close, did she really go that far? “I almost really fucked up. And I called Flora fifteen times before we got on the plane, so maybe I did really fuck things up and I—” She fluffs her skirt even fluffier. “I was trying so hard not to hurt her and I hurt her anyway.”

  Nico’s face relaxes. He smiles down at Grady and brushes his knuckles along Grady’s jaw. “If he’s taught me anything, it’s that no one is defined by their mistakes. We’re defined by the choices we make after that to try harder. To do better.” He looks at Gwen, sharp and serious. “You are audacious and bright and bawdy and so determined, and I know you like to think of yourself as this punk rock rebel, but honestly…” He cocks his head and smiles. “The fiercest thing about you is the way you love. No way will you be a cold, indifferent mother. That is the opposite of who you are.”

  “Aww, Nico.” She doesn’t care if he stiffens and does the awkward back-pat thing, she launches herself at him and hugs him tight.

  “Okay, okay.” He hesitates, pats her back a few times, and then pulls her closer.

  Smushed between them, Grady says, faintly, “You’re suffocating me.”

  Gwen squeezes even tighter. “Good.”

  She spends the rest of the flight with a sense of weightlessness, aided by the soaring wings of the plane and the wispy white clouds. She goes over the looks and inspirations from Nico’s trip to L.A. and listens to the jaunty, upbeat songs Grady sings not quite under his breath. Weightlessness lasts until the plane touches down with jolt and then screams to a stop. Gwen checks her messages and missed calls right away—six hours on a plane and still not a peep from Flora.

  She blew it. She flirted with disaster, and disaster won. Gwen turns her key in the lock and drags her suitcase in behind her. The downstairs is empty and muted by the somber twilight outside. Cheese doesn’t come to greet her and beg for food. The kitchen doesn’t smell like spices or baked goods. The floors and tabletops are neat and clean and cleared of clutter.

  Has Flora gone to her sister’s place in Maryland? Her parents in Virginia? Has she seen the tabloids and made up her mind? Are there even any beams left to reach across the gap Gwen made by leaving? Any faith remaining to anchor a bridge? Can they rebuild, if there’s nothing left for Flora to steady herself on?

  Gwen climbs the stairs with not even the cat to keep her company in the independent and unshackled life she thought she wanted—just briefly, but long enough to destroy what she had and took for granted. Gwen pushes open the door, and all her breath leaves her lungs at once.

  “Hi.”

  “You’re here.”

  “It’s seven o’clock on a Sunday night. Where else would I be?” Flora squints at her. There’s a red pen between her teeth and a pile of tests is on the bed in front of her. “I didn’t expect you back until later.”

  Mouth agape, Gwen just looks at her. “I called. Like dozens of times. I thought—god, Flor.”

  Flora’s eyebrows pinch. “Huh.” She searches the bed, moves papers, and lifts the covers. Then she drops to the floor to check under the bed, calling “Ah-hah,” as she emerges with her phone in hand. “It died this morning, and I forgot to charge it.”

  Gwen breathes, in and out, and pinches the bridge of her nose to get a grip on the situation. “I have to tell you some things, but what I say hinges quite a bit on what you already know.”

  Flora sits on the bed, tucks one leg beneath her, and stacks the tests in a neat pile. “Already know about what?”

  “Right.” Gwen climbs onto the bed, crosses her legs Zen-style, and settles the layers of tulle over them. “I wasn’t honest with you about why I went to Vegas.”

  Flora looks up. “Okay...”

  “I was kind of freaking out about the baby and I wanted to get away.”

  Flora sets the pen down, brows knit together, her mouth a straight line. “Okay.”

  “And someone saw me and Clementine and made up a story about us dating.”

  “Okay.” Flora shakes her head and smiles.

  Gwen presses her hands together in front of her chest, takes a deep breath and rattles off, “I drove a Ferrari on a racetrack, and then I rode every roller coaster and thrill ride in Vegas, and I jumped off the top of the Stratosphere, and then I puked in a recycling can, and I feel terrible for the earth, but they are not going to be recycling those bottles anymore, and then I got a tattoo, and then I went to a club and my makeup was probably melted off and my clothes were all wrinkled and I’m sure I smelled funky, but I danced with Clementine, and then I lost track of Grady, and I thought he was at a strip club and then I thought he was joining a convent but he was sad about his Memaw and Nico, so we cuddled and he’s wiggly like a puppy, and his butt is really firm, it was weird and oh, Clementine tried to kiss me.” She breathes out in a gust. Wow, that feels better.

  Flora just blinks, sits and blinks and doesn’t move. “I—that is a lot to take in.”

  “I know. It was a crazy weekend.” Gwen lifts her shoulders, going for affable. “Vegas, you know.”

  Flora brings her braid forward over her shoulder and tugs at the end of it while she mulls everything over. “What was that last one, again?”

  “Oh. Yeah, Grady’s butt is really toned. He must do a thousand squats every morning. Like two ripe honeydew melons.” She makes a squeezing motion with both hands in the air to demonstrate.

  “No. No, no.” Flora closes her eyes, clearly
drawing on her last vestiges of patience. “After that one.”

  Right. The, uh, Clementine thing. Gwen was hoping they could skate on by that one, but no luck. “She tried to kiss me? And maybe more?”

  Flora eyes narrow, her jaw clenches, and her nostrils flare like a bull going for the red cape. “She did what, now?”

  Flora is made almost entirely of sweetness and light, kindness and generosity and compassion. But not completely. No. “It wasn’t just her. I knew she was flirting, I knew there was something there. And I didn’t put to a stop to it.”

  Flora deflates. Anger, confusion, and sadness war for position across her face and body. “Why? Gwen, what has been going on with you lately? And don’t say ‘nothing’ or ‘it’s fine,’ because I know it isn’t. Please stop hiding and running away and avoiding me. Tell me the truth.”

  28

  The truth. She got spooked and, as she has done so often in her life, she dove right off the deep end into black uncharted waters instead of stopping and thinking and being reasonable. The truth has never been difficult for Flora. She would see right through anything else. Does see through anything else.

  “I’m having second thoughts,” Gwen says to the ruffles of her skirt.

  Flora shifts on the bed. Cheese glares, upended from her comfortable spot next to Flora’s legs. Flora blinks and blinks and inhales. “About—about me or the baby? Or?”

  Gwen shakes her head. “No, Flor—about me. If I can do this. All I’ve ever wanted is to be creative and successful and to make you happy, and I don’t know how to deal with adding more to that. I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Gwen,” Flora says, tugging at her braid. Her eyes dart as she takes in Gwen’s confession. “I want you to really think about this. Do you have feelings for her?”

  Gwen doesn’t need to think. “No.”

  “Because I would rather you tell me than just—”

  “Flora, no.” Clementine is fun and feisty and beautiful, but it was never her, not really. She was just a convenient, indulgent, glamorous escape. “I don’t; I promise.”

  Flora nods, round dark eyes fixed on Gwen’s. “Okay, I believe you.” There’s a hush, only the distant background noise of suburban life carrying on: the rustle of leaves, dogs barking several doors down, car doors closing, children yelling and laughing, garage doors cranking open and closed. “I know you’re freaking out. You’ve been freaking out since we signed the deed to this place. No one is holding you captive here, Gwen. I am not your warden.”

  Is that how she’s been making Flora feel? As if Gwen is only here until she can escape in the dead of night as soon as she gets the chance? “I know,” Gwen says, moving closer on the bed, hooking her pinkie over Flora’s. “I do want to be here, I—you know how I get. It’s like I have to do something the wrong way first and then I can do it right. I went off course a little. I’m sorry.”

  Flora huffs, “G, you don’t have to apologize for freaking out; I’m freaking out too.”

  “Really?” She’s so steady and steadfast, so sure. Gwen hasn’t stopped to remember that below the stillness can be churning chaos; Flora just keeps it quieter than she does.

  “Yes, really.” Flora drops back against the headboard. “We’re having a child. That is terrifying. I worry that I can’t do it, too, you know. That I’ll be overwhelmed, juggling too much and dropping the ball on everything. And then I think,” Flora says as she flips her hand over to lace their fingers together, “thank god I have Gwen, who grabs life by the balls and gives it a squeeze just for fun.” Gwen smirks and tightens her hold on Flora’s hand.

  “Because I know you’ll step in when I get overwhelmed. I know that you’ll stop me from being a total softie pushover,” Flora continues. “That you’re my partner in this and that we can do anything together. And I know that you’ll love this baby with a fire and fierce determination. There’s no one else I want to do this with.” Gwen tugs Flora’s wrists until they move to cup her neck and skull, their foreheads lean together, and Flora whispers, millimeters from her lips, “We’re a team. A damn good one.”

  “Everything is going to change,” Gwen says softly, her lips brushing Flora’s.

  “Yes.” Flora’s lips curl against hers. “And I can’t wait for our next adventure.”

  They stay just like that for several comforting breaths, with everything out in the open, honest and connecting and feeling a palpable relief. Then Gwen opens her eyes and means to say something about how much she loves Flora or how lucky she feels or how perfectly matched they are, only Flora is wearing a tight ribbed tank top and the generous swell of her cleavage is just right there.

  “So you wanna, you know. Make up.” Gwen glances up, then back down, then back up. Lifts her eyebrows a few times just to be sure Flora gets the memo.

  “You have such a one-track mind.”

  “Is that a—oh.” She’s flipped suddenly to her back. Flora’s hands are now tight on Gwen’s wrists, and she hovers over her. Gwen swallows and asks, “Are you, uh, feeling okay, then?” She hasn’t even asked about Flora’s morning sickness and exhaustion and sore, tender breasts.

  “Yeah, I feel great, strangely enough. Like it’s gone away?” It is strange, or maybe Flora has adjusted to the changes in her body, but Gwen can’t think about that for long, because Flora’s lips drag up her throat and she asks huskily, “Should I remind you who you belong to now?”

  Gwen shivers and flexes her pinned-down hands. Flora is so rarely possessive or jealous. Their faith in each other is a point of pride for them both, but, god, if it isn’t working for her right now. “Yes,” Gwen hisses.

  Flora’s lips barely brush the line of Gwen’s jaw, her ear, the exposed sides of her collarbones beneath the skimpy leather halter top, and finally Gwen’s mouth, just a tease of pressure and then gone, moving over to breathe in Gwen’s ear, “I don’t care who Clementine Campbell is. She can want you, but she can’t have you.” A bite to Gwen’s earlobe and Gwen wriggles and whines. “You’re mine.”

  Gwen thrashes her head to get at Flora’s mouth with her own, but Flora has moved away and is now leaning back and looking down, biting her lip shyly. “That was too much, right? Is this weird? This is weird.”

  She is seriously so cute. Gwen surges up as much as she can with Flora still holding her down, more tentatively now, and reassures her with a hard, off-center, eager kiss. “Not weird. So hot.”

  Flora flashes a grin that’s far too angelic for the heat building low in Gwen’s belly. Flora leans down for a peck, says, “Okay then,” and then puts more pressure on Gwen’s wrists. She drags tongue and teeth back down the stretched skin on Gwen’s throat, her shoulders and stomach, and then moves to her sides.

  “Can I?” Flora says, touching Gwen’s side with the new tattoo, the petals of the violet etched there hidden under her shirt, just the green stem poking out from beneath the fabric.

  “Yeah. It’s still healing, though.” It’s still flaky and crusty, though the care sheet assures her this is normal.

  Flora plucks at the hem of the halter set snug against Gwen’s sternum, and together they untie it and lift it away. Gwen’s nipples stand stiff and hard, but Flora bypasses them, settles across Gwen’s hips and skims fingertips up her ribs. She traces around the flower petals, her touch so gentle and soft that Gwen breaks out in goosebumps across her bared chest.

  “Beautiful,” Flora says.

  “You like it?”

  Flora scans Gwen’s chest, her face, and smiles. “I do.” Then her jaw sets, a wicked look appears in her eyes, and she says, “Now where were we?”

  Flora shifts to the side, keeping a hand flat on Gwen’s bare stomach; her hips and legs press Gwen’s lower half into the mattress. Flora shoves her thigh between Gwen’s, and Gwen instantly clamps her legs tight, rubbing against her in a slow build of arousal. Flora makes a teasing path around one of G
wen’s breasts; her parted lips drag around and under, dot kiss after kiss in the space between, then move on to the other side.

  She blows a cool stream of air on one nipple, then the other. Gwen grunts and grinds against Flora’s leg, but doesn’t voice a single demand. This is Flora’s show, and Gwen wants to let her run it.

  She moves up to kiss Gwen with a promising flick of her tongue. When she bites down on Gwen’s bottom lip, Gwen whimpers; she drags her sharp teeth down Gwen’s neck, and Gwen arches and gasps; she sucks a nipple into her mouth, takes it between her teeth, and flicks the tip of her tongue against it. The frantic push of Gwen’s hips with too much fabric in the way isn’t nearly enough to relieve the ache.

  Gwen only has one hand free. The other is held captive beneath Flora’s shoulders; she can’t do much more than wriggle some space to shove her own hand under the waistband of her fluffy skirt. Flora catches her wrist just as she gets two fingertips into her own underwear.

  “Don’t,” Flora commands.

  “Okay,” Gwen agrees easily, and moves Flora’s hand down instead.

  She pulls it away with a laugh. “Relax, G. I’ve got you.”

  She does, Gwen knows. She always has. So Gwen tucks her hand behind her head and trusts that Flora will get her there.

  Flora shifts again, moving her thigh away and pushing Gwen’s legs wide. The ridiculous tulle skirt is bunched up in a heap of ruffles and completely in the way, but Flora doesn’t take it off. She ducks back to Gwen’s breast, cupping and squeezing, and sucks hard on her nipple, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through Gwen’s body with each sharp clamp of teeth. Gwen thinks she might come just from this, eventually, with pulse after pulse of wet heat between her legs pulling arousal so tight she could snap like a bowstring.

  Then Flora finally flips the layers of tulle up and slips Gwen’s underwear off, pushes two fingers inside, and bends to take Gwen’s clit into her mouth. She licks and sucks and pushes her fingers in relentlessly, until Gwen’s body arches up off the bed, her breath catches in her lungs, her skirt flips down over Flora’s head, and pleasure shatters through her in waves.