Chasing Peace

by Foxx, Gloria

  “You don’t mean that Sterling.” He crosses to me, leaving the pan and pulling me into his arms. I remain tense and stiff, not deserving his comfort.

  “Of course I mean it. I thought it many times, even prayed it wasn’t true when I first found out about the pregnancy. Mom didn’t realize, but I knew it was Logan’s baby. Then there where the nights Emma didn’t sleep, the problems with Brock. She made my life more difficult.”

  “She made your life more beautiful too.”

  I stand rigid in his arms almost straining away from him, my eyes dry. “How do you know?” I whisper.

  “My brother made my life beautiful too.”

  The tears well. He doesn’t really understand. “But it’s not the same,” I whisper. “You didn’t cause your brother’s death. He made the choice.”

  “Guilt doesn’t always make sense Sterling. I know he refused further treatment, but I also know he decided to die rather than take anything more from me. It’ll always be my fault. He died to protect me.”

  Tears overflowed, leaving trails down my cheeks, dripping off my jaw in big fat splotches. “And she died because I didn’t protect her.” I wilt then, making myself smaller, sinking into his arms.

  He holds me close, his chin resting on my head. “Sooner or later you’ll understand. I know you have to work through it. You have to question every possible option before you truly recognize your innocence. It took me years. In the mean time Sterling, don’t let guilt push people away.”

  He let me cry, his arms warm and supportive.

  “Um. Sterling?”

  “Hmm?” I say, nestled against his chest, my mouth muffled in the curve of his neck.

  “I think the eggs are burned.”

  I can smell it, the acrid char. I look over his shoulder watching smoke curls rise from the eggs. Pulling away, he grabs the pan from the stove and drops it in the sink eggs and all. Bracing his hands against the edge of the sink, his head hangs low, his shoulders hunched.

  Stricken by how wrapped up in my own misery I’d been, I cross the tiny kitchen and wrap my arms around his waist holding tight as I press my cheek into his back.

  “I’m sorry.” I murmur against the softness of his shirt.

  “It’s okay. You know for me it got better when I realized that kidney transplants and bone marrow donations were risky for me too. I was too young to know so my brother understood the risk for me.”

  “But if I answered the phone I might have changed the outcome. I know it’s not rational or reasonable or logical, but I still feel responsible,” I whine, feeling the wetness on his shirt from tears falling down my cheeks like drizzle on a gloomy night.

  I loosen my arms as he turns to face me, tightening them again when he stops moving.

  His palm comes from nowhere to hug my cheek. “Let me tell you what a good friend of mine once told me. It helped a lot.”

  “Okay,” I’m skeptical.

  “You feel guilty because you cared for her and you weren’t there for her, but you can be there for her now. She still needs you.”

  “But she doesn’t need me anymore?” My voice falters, pitching up at the end, making the statement a question.

  “She needs you to understand the innocence of your actions and to forgive yourself. She needs you to be strong and happy and whole because you have more life to live, more people to meet, more children to love. She would want you to experience the peace and joy of love in your life.”

  The bottom fell out of my stomach. The words were so much like my thoughts that dark night with Emma’s stuffed turtle clutched tight to my chest. “She wants me to be happy.” My cheeks quiver as I try to smile, my lips pressed together so I don’t cry out as the tears stream down my cheeks.

  Boston’s arms come around me again, holding tight as I collapse against his chest. My fingers fisted into his tee, my grip inflexible as soundless sobs wrack my body.

  I pull away as my tears ebb. “She’d like you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You make me happy.” I tilt my chin up, meeting his eyes and offering a watery smile, feeling silly and happy and still guilty, but hopeful that time might help.

  “My brother would like you too.” He didn’t have to add the rest. I know he’s telling me that I make him happy too.

  Boston scoops me up, carrying me to the bedroom. I smile thinking about the new memories we’ll make as I kiss along his jaw, my tongue tracing the angle, more rigid and sharply defined than my own. New memories will block out my time in the same room with Brock while standing alongside my memories of Emma.

  Swiping away the duvet with one hand, Boston deposits me on the bed, its king size much more spacious than the futon, which served us well. I cling to his shoulders, my lips finally meeting his.

  As he pulls back, I scoot to my knees, his hand at my nape keeping me close. Our lips remain fastened, nibbling and exploring, still complacent, not yet urgent, but getting there fast.

  He stands beside the bed, my hands sliding under his shirt. Boston’s skin fascinates my fingertips, smooth and hot like soft leather heated by the sun. I drag his shirt upward, my fingers prowling bulging ridges and furrows of lean muscle.

  His tongue lingers at the corner of my mouth, his breath becoming my air. I pull away, dragging in a broken gulp as I struggle to pull his shirt over his shoulders. Boston helps and then tackles mine. He turns it inside out rather than deal with the buttons. The narrow bottom scrapes over my breasts, chafing my nipples through my bra yet making me smile.

  Our mouths open, our tongues coil and twist. My bra, a scrap of black lace, disappears into the night. My fingers battle with his belt. Heat expands in my belly as his fingers flick across my skin working my buckle.

  My arms pull at his shoulders, giving up on the belt. I pant and my nipples tighten as the heat from his skin brands my breasts. Our lips devour our breath mingles. I can’t seem to get close enough. I want to climb inside his skin, or invite him into mine.

  “Uhhh. Boston.” He’s dragging my jeans down over my hips, my thong caught in only one hand, stretching and tugging against me. His fingers splay against my skin, grasping and clasping as he shoves fabric out of his way before dragging me against him. His belt buckle is rough against my belly, his skin searing mine. Moving my legs, I push my pants to my ankles. They’re not off, but it’s enough.

  I hug his hips with my knees, my ankles caught together by my jeans. I expose myself to him, climbing onto him, clinging, feeling the bulge trapped by his jeans and wanting so much more.

  His lips pull away from mine, “Sterling, slow down.” I’m almost frantic with need, pulling against his neck and shoulders, trying to reach his mouth again, and then I’m falling.

  Bouncing on the bed, I’m stunned, my feet still knotted in my pants, my breasts jiggling in recoil to the sudden movement. Focusing, I watch as Boston yanks off his shoes before pulling his legs out of his jeans. Dim light from a small lamp behind me highlights the ridges and planes of his chest and abdomen. His eyes are dark with small flecks of light.

  My eyes skim down his body, taking in every detail, pausing at his boxer briefs, distended by his erection. His cock is hidden from view, yet the ridge defining the engorged length is clearly visible pressed tightly against the cloth of his boxers.

  I extend my legs, my arms reach toward him. I want more. “Come here.” I can feel the moisture between my legs, my folds puffy and inflamed.

  “There’s no need to be greedy,” he whispers, on a hoarse and jagged laugh. “We have all the time in the world.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” I whimper, squirming on the bed and finally pressing my knees together seeking relief.

  Boston captures my feet, stilling my writhing legs. He snags my jeans, jerking them loose. I’m finally free until he seizes one foot, stroking his thumbs hard across the bottom from heel to toe. I moan as the friction makes my body hum and throb in response like the sound of heavy machinery.

  Two can
play at this game. I rest my free foot against his thigh, grinning as I anticipate his reaction.

  “What?” He smiles too, a playful query, one eyebrow raised.

  His grin disappears in a flash of torment as I glide my foot over his cock; the thin fabric of his boxer briefs is barely a barrier. His hips pulse forward, no longer controlled by his mind and his fingers come to a stop, still holding my other foot, tense and arrested, not caressing, but not placid either.

  I luxuriate in the power I wield. This is a first for me, a kind of equity in our relationship that I’d never before experienced. I enjoy it, yet am wary lest I upset the balance. We have the capacity to wound each other, as devastating as that might be.

  My toes reach the elastic on his underwear, my knee flexing with every pulse of his hips. I want to slide my fingers through my folds, feel the slick heat oozing from every groove and crease, but I wait, my engorged lips pouting, anticipation riding me hard.

  Looking up, I find Boston’s eyes slanted toward me, but glazed and unseeing, his eyelids heavy and viscous, drooping like softened chocolate. His lips flush with the rapid pulse of blood are parted, poised in the act of taking air.

  As I slide my foot in the other direction, Boston’s control snaps. He drops my foot, yanking his underwear down. His cock jerks free before rebounding, tall and proud.

  “I hope you’re ready.”

  “What took you so long?” I taunt with a half smile hovering around my mouth as my control escapes my grasp.

  Boston climbs over me, kissing my belly, flicking his tongue at my nipples and finally coming into position, fast, but neither of us can wait. Wrapping my fingers around his cock, I feel like I have hold of a panther. He’s hot and hard, coiled with strength, yet somehow luxurious. Boston groans as I position his cock at my entrance, our urgency wiping out our need for anything more than coming together as one.

  He surges forward and I jolt, my hand still in place, bumping myself intimately.

  Unwrapping my fingers and pulling away, I purr as my fingers stroke through my folds, slicking alongside my clit, but not quite touching. I think to go back, intent on my goal. Boston glides forward, distracting me until I feel him seated deep within, his pelvis bumping mine, his pubic hair scouring me.

  “Mmmmm,” I hum, wiggling a bit. Instead of bracing himself over me, Boston settles full on top, his lips teasing my temple and brow. His hands stroke down my sides, resting at my hips, his fingers kneading. Moisture builds in the heat between us, making our skin slick where it meets at thigh, hip, belly and chest.

  He moves, a pulse, barely a whisper of a beat. His hips flex. I pull my knees up, hooking my ankles behind him, making room to respond in kind, my hips fluttering, and rising to meet him. Our bodies quiet, our breathing hushed, our hips move in a rhythm as old and as scorching as fire.

  Moments become eternity as we stroke together. Boston’s hips flex toward me and I tilt to him.

  His hips flex away and I tilt back. I move faster, pushing him to hurry. He’s inexorable, his cock scraping the top of my channel, his shaft plowing through my folds with every exacting movement.

  Breathing is a chore that seems unnecessary, yet it continues shallow huffs with every stroke.

  His chest slides against my nipples as my hands on his back seek to urge him on. His breath gusts across my forehead, ragged yet controlled, timed to his rhythm. My body slick with sweat and urgency needs more, more speed, more force, more drive, more Boston. Still he holds back as I dangle on a fraying thread, surging and spinning, tense and hesitant.

  When the thread can take no more, it breaks and I spiral out of control, falling into nothingness, expanding into the space around me, contracting into myself. I am rage and calm, a roar and a whisper.

  Through the haze I feel Boston’s hands at my hips, his fingers pulling at me, prodding me on. I tilt my hips, the relief short-lived, my nerve endings screaming in pleasure and agony as swells of sensation crash into me, relentless, rolling and overtaking me.

  Air rushes into my lungs, no longer compressed by the waves, wait, no longer compressed by Boston. He has moved. We’ve rolled across the bed, ending with me on top. Disoriented, I try to sit, almost tumbling, my hands landing on his chest in support.

  His hips bounce and might have unseated me, except he’s still hard within me. I can feel him as my muscles clench and throb in titillating agony. I shake the hair from my face as Boston’s fingers clamp onto my hips, lifting me and then letting go before lifting me again. I slam down onto him, my body sizzling with thousands of tiny tremors. Tucking my feet under my butt, I lift myself this time

  “Yes,” he groans as I drop. “That’s it.”

  Settling into a cadence, heat licks at my skin, flame pools low in my belly. I’m fragmented, buffeted by hot winds, in control, yet not as I begin to wander, losing focus. Boston’s hips rise to meet me, pounding me from below, blasting me as I slam down on him. We’re frantic, urgent with a pervasive need.

  Our motions jerky and reckless, we ignite, meeting this challenge together, dissolving into cinder, our energy pouring into one another.

  I collapse, falling into Boston, going limp as I drift, floating on storm clouds with thunder roaring in my ears and lighting sending the occasional jag through my slack and flaccid body. I jerk with overwhelming sensation. I can feel him pulse where he impales me, my muscles clenching in response. We throb together, floating on a tide of sensation until the rawness calms and our bodies are our own again.

  Chapter 25

  I drop my phone in disgust after checking for about the hundredth time. Why am I even here? Why did I think circumstances might change? Of course my mother’s late. She has never valued another person’s time. I wonder why I ever let myself believe this time might be different. Of course there’s always the possibility she won’t show. I know my mother. I’ve dealt with this for years.

  Looking around the old-fashioned, greasy and nearly-full diner, I see a whole lot of people who look like they’ve no where to go. This is not my idea of a comfortable place to enjoy coffee. It screams of desperation.

  My mother picked it. She wants to meet and I’m hoping to convince her to come to the trial, although I know it might be better if I don’t ask. She’s been clean since Emma died. At least I think she’s been clean. I’ve never seen her sober this long without being in jail where she didn’t have any other option.

  Checking my phone one last time and just about ready to call it quits I see her heading my way. My heart jumps. She hasn’t let me down. Maybe things will be different now. As she wends her way through the others seated at tables much like my own, I see she has coffee, two cups. While I’d like to think one is for me, I’m pretty sure they’re both for her. When she doesn’t drink booze, she drinks coffee. It’s like the coffee is a substitute drug. Fortunately I got my own.

  She looks good. She’s not drunk or hung-over, which in my mother’s case is another word for still drunk, but not quite drunk enough. Don’t get me wrong. I know that alcoholism is a disease. I still love my mother and I understand. Telling an alcoholic not to drink is like telling a schizophrenic the voices aren’t real. I know it’s much more complicated than that, but I’m the one who has to live with it. I’m the one chronically disappointed. I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces.

  Every time she’s arrested, she acts like the victim. It’s as if I have to jump, cleaning up after her so she doesn’t lose everything yet again. She doesn’t even see that I’m a victim too, that she makes me a victim every time she drinks and especially when she drinks and drives.

  “Hi Sterling. You look good, happy.”

  “You look good too mom.” Her skin is smooth and clear rather than flaky. She looks older than forty, but healthy. It’s a good sign.

  “How’s school?”

  “I’m doing fine. I’ve taken time off for the trial and I’ve done my work and two tests in advance so I won’t miss much.”

  “You’ll still miss
out. I’ve learned the hard way. You can’t make up for lost time.”

  “Class work will be fine and some of my best friends will be at the trial so I’ll be okay.”

  She looks at her coffee cups. I’m right even when I don’t want to be. They’re both for her. I’d like my mother to surprise me sometime, and then she does.

  “I’ll be at the trial tomorrow.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. I should expect her to be there, but I’ve learned to expect nothing from my mother beyond disappointment.

  “That’s great mom. Emma really needs all the support we can give her.”

  “I’m here to support you Sterling. Emma doesn’t need me. She’s never needed me. She had you.”

  “Oh mom, of course she needed you. I filled in, but I’m not her mother. I could only do so much.”

  “Thanks Sterling. That’s nice of you. I know I’ve let you down. I know I haven’t been there.”

  “Thanks mom.” I smile, feeling a small bubble of warmth growing in my chest. It’s only a small froth of effervescence. There’s still time for disappointment, but for now, I know she wants to make an effort.

  “I want to apologize too,” she continues

  “That’s okay mom. I know alcoholism has its claws in you. I know you mean well, but you can’t always control your decisions, your actions.”

  “Still, I’m sorry I’ve let you down. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. We had some good times, but I know I missed out on so many more.”

  “I had Lyla.”

  “And Emma had you. I thank God for that.”

  “But in the end I let her down mom.”

  “No you didn’t Sterling. That’s all on me.” She pounded her chest with a fist as if raging against the truth might make everything better. “I abandoned her that night, because I couldn’t handle having a baby. I couldn’t handle that she’d grown to a toddler and I never saw it.”

  “I sent you photos mom.”

  “Yes and I cherished them, but they showed the result of who she’d become, not the process of getting there.”