Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  Her hands slip­ped and slid over his wet sho­ul­ders, clut­c­hing at them. She thras­hed be­ne­ath him. She des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted him to lay his big, hard body down on top of hers and com­p­le­te the pos­ses­si­on he had be­gun, but he did not. She des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted to fe­el his ma­le­ness aga­inst her fe­mi­ni­nity, and she stra­ined her hips to­ward his, but he re­fu­sed to me­et her.

  He to­re his mo­uth ab­ruptly from hers. Clo­se to we­eping, Re­gi­na met his ga­ze, her na­ils dig­ging in­to the skin of his arms. She felt swol­len, clo­se to bur­s­ting. She writ­hed hel­p­les­sly. The sen­sa­ti­on of the clin­ging wet silk, ad­he­ring to her every cur­ve, ad­ded to her agony.

  "Too fast," he pan­ted. He mo­ved his hands over her bre­asts, as if fa­mi­li­ari­zing him­self with them. Re­gi­na buc­ked be­ne­ath his fin­gers. He thum­bed her nip­ples, his pan­ting har­s­her and lo­uder now, and Re­gi­na whim­pe­red un­con­t­rol­lably. His hands slid down her belly, low and lo­wer still. Re­gi­na ten­sed, sur­p­ri­sed but fil­led with an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on, with ne­ed.

  Sla­de's glan­ce met hers aga­in. He was drip­ping swe­al and out of bre­ath, kne­eling over her, and his ga­ze was so in­ten­se it al­most frig­h­te­ned her. His hands had stop­ped the­ir qu­est just in­c­hes from her. Re­gi­na re­ali­zed, in shock, that she was un­du­la­ting her pel­vis be­ne­ath his palms. Yet even in re­ali­zing what she was do­ing she co­uld not stop her body from its ref­le­xi­ve dan­ce.

  "Ye­ah," he sa­id ho­ar­sely, clo­sing his eyes. A se­cond la­ter his hands we­re bet­we­en her legs, mol­ding her nig­h­t­gown to the de­ep cleft he had dis­co­ve­red the­re. His thumbs ope­ned and ex­p­lo­red her as if the silk was just anot­her la­yer of her skin. Re­gi­na was im­me­di­ately wrac­ked with wa­ves of mind-shat­te­ring ple­asu­re.

  When the spasms di­ed, she be­ca­me awa­re of what he was do­ing. He had pul­led her nig­h­t­gown up to her wa­ist. Now his ba­re palms and na­ked fin­gers slid over her. His bre­ath to­uc­hed her. New sen­sa­ti­ons flur­ri­ed to li­fe wit­hin her. His fin­ger slid in­si­de her, ten­ta­ti­vely. His wild ga­ze jer­ked to hers as she clam­ped aro­und him. Re­gi­na tho­ught that she might die, very so­on.

  "So be­a­uti­ful," Sla­de sa­id ho­ar­sely, lo­we­ring his he­ad.

  Re­gi­na cri­ed out when his ton­gue swept over her. She tri­ed to tell him to stop, then im­me­di­ately for­got abo­ut her obj­ec­ti­ons. If it was pos­sib­le for a man to wor­s­hip a wo­man, then that was what Sla­de was do­ing to her. She be­gan to sha­ke. His ton­gue cir­c­led her de­li­ca­tely, re­len­t­les­sly. She sob­bed and ga­ve in to anot­her ro­und of en­d­less, po­wer­ful ple­asu­re.

  Instantly he ro­se abo­ve her, pul­ling her in­to his arms. The sen­sa­ti­ons had not yet di­ed when Re­gi­na felt his en­gor­ged phal­lus stra­ining aga­inst her thigh. He had shed his dra­wers. He was ra­ining des­pe­ra­te kis­ses all over her fa­ce and fi­nal­ly on her mo­uth.

  "Oh, damn," he gas­ped, me­eting her ga­ze. "I al­re­ady lost it, but it's still gon­na be short, but swe­et."

  Re­gi­na ba­rely he­ard. She did not un­der­s­tand and did not ca­re to. She knew only what she des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted. She jer­ked her hips up to me­et his palm, rub­bing her­self fran­ti­cal­ly aga­inst him.

  'That's not what you want," he told her, and she felt him po­ised to en­ter her, hard and wet. Shud­ders swept thro­ugh him as he kis­sed her aga­in, hard and de­ep. Sud­denly his hands we­re an­c­ho­ring her hips to the flo­or. "I'm sorry."

  A scant se­cond la­ter he was dri­ving him­self in­to her. He was lar­ge, im­pos­sibly lar­ge, but the­re was only a bri­ef mo­ment of pa­in and then she felt all of him, pul­sing in­si­de of her so tight and hot and de­ep. He fro­ze, pan­ting. He kis­sed her neck on­ce. She co­uld not stand it. She dug her na­ils in­to his sho­ul­ders, mo­ving aga­inst him.

  He la­ug­hed, exul­tant. He mo­ved de­eper. He wit­h­d­rew. He slid in­to her the way a pis­tol sli­des in­to a well-oiled hol­s­ter, smo­oth and qu­ick. A blast of ple­asu­re fol­lo­wed. Whi­le he pum­ped him­self in­to her, de­ep, hard, and thick, she wept and cri­ed out and con­t­rac­ted vi­olently aro­und him. This ti­me the ple­asu­re was so in­ten­se that she ne­arly blac­ked out. Then he sho­uted too, and mo­ments la­ter he lay he­avily on top of her, clin­ging to her.

  A mi­nu­te might ha­ve tic­ked by, or an ho­ur. He slid to the flo­or. "Damn," he sa­id grimly, sit­ting up. "Did I hurt you?"

  Re­gi­na had be­en in a min­d­less lim­bo cre­ated by the in­ten­se physi­cal re­le­ase she had ex­pe­ri­en­ced three ti­mes. Slowly she ope­ned her eyes to see him sta­ring in­tently at her. The fe­ve­rish ex­ci­te­ment was still the­re in his eyes. Yet his ex­p­res­si­on was dark and wor­ri­ed. She smi­led. She won­de­red if the bur­s­ting lo­ve she felt in her he­art was the­re in her ga­ze and the­re on her lips. "No," she whis­pe­red. She to­uc­hed his mo­uth with her fin­ger­tip. "Oh, Sla­de," she whis­pe­red. "It was so won­der­ful, you are so won­der­ful."

  He ten­sed.

  "Sla­de," she sa­id aga­in, sit­ting up. His eyes we­re wi­de, wat­c­h­ful. Re­gi­na grip­ped his sho­ul­ders, sta­ring at his han­d­so­me, dark fa­ce, at his be­a­uti­ful mo­uth. She stro­ked her fin­ger over it aga­in. She mur­mu­red his na­me aga­in. She no lon­ger ca­red if he gu­es­sed how she felt.

  He ca­ught her hand. His eyes bla­zed. "This is gon­na be a long night," he sa­id.

  Chapter 16

  iJla­de pa­used at the do­or to lo­ok back at her. He knew that she slept li­ke a rock un­der nor­mal cir­cum­s­tan­ces, so af­ter last night he tho­ught she wo­uldn't stir for many ho­urs yet. He him­self had not slept for a se­cond. Des­pi­te the ex­ha­us­ti­on.

  Grimly he re­ac­hed down for his duf­fel bag and slip­ped thro­ugh the do­or. It hadn't ta­ken him long to pack the few things he had bro­ught ho­me with him, and it had ta­ken him even less ti­me to ma­ke the de­ci­si­on now pro­pel­ling him. He cros­sed the co­ur­t­yard qu­ickly. He wan­ted to le­ave wit­ho­ut an­yo­ne se­e­ing him. He pre­fer­red to le­ave li­ke a co­ward.

  And as he bypas­sed the ho­use he tri­ed not to think. It was ex­ce­edingly dif­fi­cult. In the front co­ur­t­yard he set the duf­fel bag down. The­re was one thing he had to do be­fo­re he left.

  With long stri­des, he be­gan mar­c­hing away from the ho­use, not to­ward the stab­les, but north, to­ward the fa­mily ce­me­tery.

  As he wal­ked, ima­ges from last night rus­hed thro­ugh his mind. He and Re­gi­na, equ­al­ly in­sa­ti­ab­le. He did not want to re­mem­ber. Not now, not ever. He be­gan to swe­at.

  The ce­me­tery was just over the hill, ten mi­nu­tes on fo­ot from the ho­use. The fa­mily pat­ri­arch, Ale­j­an­d­ro De­lan­za, was bu­ri­ed the­re-the man who had star­ted it all when he had re­ce­ived the ori­gi­nal land grant from the Me­xi­can go­ver­nor. Be­si­de him was his first and only wi­fe, Sla­de's gran­d­mot­her, De­lo­res. They had had a son be­fo­re Rick who had di­ed in in­fancy, and Ja­ime's gra­ve was the ol­dest in the lot. Rick had one ot­her brot­her bu­ri­ed the­re as well, the vic­tim of a tra­gic sta­ge­co­ach ac­ci­dent whi­le in the pri­me of his li­fe. Se­bas­ti­an's wi­fe had re­tur­ned back east to her fa­mily and had sub­se­qu­ently re­mar­ri­ed. Sla­de's gran­d­pa­rents had just the three boys, no girls, and Rick had kept up the fa­mily tra­di­ti­on. And as Ale­j­an­d­ro's ol­dest son had pre­ce­ded him in­to the gra­ve, so too had James pre­ce­ded Rick.

  A whi­te­was­hed split-ra­il fen­ce had be­en put up in re­cent ye­ars, cor­do­ning off the area. As Sla­de ap­pro­ac­hed, his eyes went in­s­tantly to his brot­her's gra­ve. He en­te­red thro­ugh the g
a­te, his steps slo­wing.

  Mo­re ima­ges tum­b­led thro­ugh his mind. Re­gi­na had be­en in every po­si­ti­on he co­uld think of, and the­re had be­en so many that the ima­ges we­re blur­red and frag­men­ted. He was than­k­ful for that one small fa­vor. His sto­mach ro­iled, not for the first ti­me.

  A mar­ri­age in na­me only. What a joke.

  He stop­ped in front of his brot­her's gra­ve. So­me­one had put fresh flo­wers the­re the day be­fo­re, whi­te and oran­ge ro­ses cut from the bus­hes gro­wing in the co­ur­t­yard. Josep­hi­ne, he tho­ught. It was be­co­ming dif­fi­cult to bre­at­he.

  The he­ad­s­to­ne was whi­te mar­b­le, and it was ob­s­ce­nely cle­an and new in com­pa­ri­son to the rest of the ti­me­worn, wind-ero­ded sto­nes in the ce­me­tery. He sta­red at the in­s­c­rip­ti­on. JAMES WARD DE­LAN­ZA, A NOB­LE, LO­VING SON. 1873-1899.

  The words we­re blur­ring-or was it his vi­si­on? God, the in­s­c­rip­ti­on sa­id not­hing, yet it sa­id ever­y­t­hing. James had di­ed so un­fa­irly in the pri­me of yo­ung man­ho­od. James had be­en nob­le, so god­dam­ned nob­le, and he had be­en lo­ving, not just a lo­ving son, but a lo­ving brot­her, a lo­ving man.

  Whi­le he, Sla­de, was a bas­tard and a tra­itor.

  "J­ames," he sud­denly cri­ed alo­ud. "I ne­ver in­ten­ded to con­sum­ma­te the mar­ri­age, I ne­ver did!"

  But reg­ret was use­less. He had a sec­ret. The sec­ret was that he had spent the past ten ye­ars li­ving the most ho­no­rab­le and nob­le li­fe that he co­uld-to pro­ve to an­yo­ne who ca­red to see that his fat­her's as­ses­sment of him was wrong. To pro­ve to him­self that Rick was wrong. Yet now his li­fe up un­til this mo­ment was ir­re­le­vant. Last night had ex­po­sed the re­al truth. Last night he had ex­po­sed him­self. He was a fra­ud. He was not ho­no­rab­le, he had ne­ver be­en ho­no­rab­le, the past was a pre­ten­se. James was the one in the De­lan­za fa­mily with all the ho­nor.

  He, Sla­de, was a sel­fish bas­tard, as Rick had po­in­ted out so of­ten. She saw him as a nob­le he­ro. It was not even la­ug­hab­le. How na­ive she was.

  God, how co­uld he ha­ve ma­de lo­ve to her li­ke that? How co­uld he ha­ve for­got­ten, even for a se­cond, that this wo­man had be­en James's fi­an­c­йe, that he had lo­ved her?

  "I'm sorry," he cri­ed. "James, I'm so sorry!" But even as he cal­led out to his brot­her he was a tra­itor. For his he­ad fil­led with its own chal­len­ging ref­ra­in. But I lo­ve her too.

  He was ag­hast. It was not true. If he lo­ved James, it co­uld not be true. Last night he had used the wo­man, not­hing mo­re.

  But it had not felt che­ap. He had not felt che­ated. Only now did he fe­el che­ated.

  He grip­ped the he­ad­s­to­ne, for­cing James to the fo­ref­ront of his mind. He had co­me he­re to ask for for­gi­ve­ness. He had co­me he­re to beg for­gi­ve­ness. He had not co­me he­re to del­ve in­si­de his he­art, to bet­ray James on­ce aga­in.

  "J­ames," he cri­ed, his fa­ce up­tur­ned. "I'm sorry!" He clo­sed his eyes, lis­te­ning to the mor­ning's first bir­d­song. The­re was no an­s­wer from the gra­ve. But had he re­al­ly ex­pec­ted one? And how co­uld the­re be one?

  For his apo­logy was not one hun­d­red per­cent sin­ce­re, the stub­born re­bel in him kept thin­king that he had a right, too. That she was now his wi­fe, that James was de­ad-de­ad, dam­mit, and that he ne­eded her just a lit­tle too.

  But he was stron­ger than he had ever tho­ught. He for­ced him­self to stand tall. He wo­uld fight the part of him that con­ti­nu­ed to bet­ray James, and he wo­uld win. He had to win. He co­uld not li­ve with him­self if he didn't.

  "I pro­mi­se," he ma­na­ged harshly, ho­ping James co­uld he­ar, "I pro­mi­se… ne­ver aga­in. It was a mis­ta­ke. It won't hap­pen ever aga­in. She do­esn't me­an an­y­t­hing to me. I swe­ar it."

  Sla­de wa­ited. James did not ma­te­ri­ali­ze. The­re was no res­pon­se, no an­s­wer, no for­gi­ve­ness. The­re was not even a sign that James might be pre­sent, and that he might be for­gi­ving. And it was stu­pid to be ex­pec­ting him to ap­pe­ar, be­ca­use James was de­ad. Sto­ne-cold de­ad. Ghosts we­re for chil­d­ren, not men. Sla­de re­ali­zed that the­re we­re te­ars on his che­eks.

  He co­ve­red his fa­ce with his hands. So­me­how he wo­uld get past this. James was de­ad, ir­re­vo­cably de­ad, and the­re was not go­ing to be any for­gi­ve­ness from that qu­ar­ter. May­be, if he we­re lucky, one day he co­uld for­gi­ve him­self.

  He qu­ickly tur­ned his back on the cold gle­aming he­ad­s­to­ne. It was ti­me to le­ave. Not just the gra­ve­yard, but Mi­ra­mar, and her. He had pro­ved how we­ak he was, the­re was no way in hell he co­uld stay he­re with her now. If he had fal­len on­ce, he wo­uld do so aga­in. The­re might even co­me a hor­rib­le ti­me when he did not reg­ret be­ing with her. He didn't da­re stay.

  He wal­ked mo­re slowly back to the ho­use and cres­ted the hill. The spraw­ling ado­be ha­ci­en­da ca­me in­to vi­ew. He fal­te­red. Stan­ding the­re by the ga­te and his duf­fel bag was his fat­her.

  Sla­de re­co­ve­red. He as­su­med an in­s­c­ru­tab­le ex­p­res­si­on. He did not ne­ed this, not now. He ho­ped his eyes we­re not red. He con­ti­nu­ed on un­til he had re­ac­hed the co­ur­t­yard en­t­ran­ce.

  "Whe­re in hell are you go­ing?" Rick de­man­ded.

  "What the hell is this?" He jab­bed a fin­ger at the bag.

  "I'm le­aving."

  "Be­ca­use of her?"

  Sla­de was en­ra­ged-be­ca­use it was the truth. "My re­asons are no­ne of yo­ur damn bu­si­ness."

  "Why the hell not? I'm yo­ur fat­her, aren't I?"

  For a mo­ment he did not spe­ak. "You lost the right to call yo­ur­self my fat­her a long ti­me ago."

  Rick grit­ted, "May­be you lost the right to call yo­ur­self my son, run­nin' out on me the way you did!"

  Sla­de was re­min­ded of the night he had run away a de­ca­de ago. For a bri­ef in­s­tant he had an in­k­ling that his fat­her had felt bet­ra­yed by that night, but then he knew it was his ima­gi­na­ti­on-or a re­ver­si­on to a child's wis­h­ful thin­king. "Bla­me me, go ahe­ad. You ne­ver do any wrong, do you?"

  "I didn't say that." Rick jab­bed his fin­ger at the bag aga­in. '’You run­nin' out on me?"

  "Ye­ah."

  "You run­nin' out on me aga­in?"

  That night, ten ye­ars ago, Rick had let him go wit­ho­ut any pro­test. But he had not be­en the he­ir then, just the pa­in-in-the-ass se­cond son. His sto­mach clen­c­hed up, ac­hing. A kind of dre­ad-fil­led an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on crept over him, un­wel­co­me. It al­most se­emed as if Rick was up­set. "If you want to lo­ok at it that way."

  "How the hell el­se am I sup­po­sed to lo­ok at it?"

  Sla­de shrug­ged as if non­c­ha­lant.

  "You're not ta­king her with you!"

  Sla­de tri­ed to la­ugh. "Be­li­eve me, old man, she's all yo­urs." It sho­uldn't hurt-he knew Rick, knew his old man co­uldn't ca­re less abo­ut him-but it did. It hurt mo­re than it had ever hurt be­fo­re, un­do­ub­tedly be­ca­use he'd let too many fe­elings out al­re­ady this mor­ning and his he­art was still ble­eding. "You've got it all now," he sa­id harshly. "That sho­uld ma­ke you happy. You've got Mi­ra­mar and you've got yo­ur he­iress. I'm thro­ugh with her and I'm thro­ugh with you."

  "You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" Rick sa­id.

  "I think you've sa­id that on­ce or twi­ce be­fo­re. And I know eno­ugh to ta­ke you li­te­ral­ly. You know what? Le­ave my mot­her out of it."

  "Li­ke hell I will," Rick sho­uted. "She left me wit­ho­ut thin­king twi­ce. You are just li­ke her."

  Sla­de was equ­al­ly fu­ri­o­us. He wan­ted to ex­p­l
o­de, he wan­ted to in­f­lict pa­in. Li­ke a wo­un­ded ani­mal, he las­hed out. "We both had you in com­mon, didn't we? You dro­ve her away, didn't you? She didn't le­ave you, you dro­ve her away!"

  Rick went whi­te.

  Sla­de mo­ved in for the kill. "But you don't ha­ve that po­wer over me. Not an­y­mo­re, not now. On­ce you dro­ve me away. Now I'm le­aving only be­ca­use I want to."

  Rick re­co­ve­red. His dark-blue eyes, so li­ke Sla­de's, held the sa­me ra­ge, and the sa­me an­gu­ish. "Go­od! Le­ave! You think I'm gon­na fuss over it? You think I want you to stay? You think I ne­ed you?" He la­ug­hed harshly. "Li­ke hell!"

  Sla­de pic­ked up his bag.

  "You wo­uld only bring this pla­ce down over our he­ads with yo­ur damn-fo­ol ide­as," Rick sho­uted as Sla­de wal­ked away.

  Sla­de didn't an­s­wer.

  Rick scre­amed, "Be­si­des, I got her now, damn you! I don't ne­ed you, boy, and I ne­ver will!"

  Sla­de flin­c­hed, but kept wal­king. He co­uldn't re­ma­in im­pas­si­ve, not in­si­de, whe­re it co­un­ted. His he­art was hur­ting as if so­me­one was twis­ting a kni­fe in the­re, hard. Yet his stri­des we­re ste­ady.

  When he was at the en­t­ran­ce, Rick sa­id, his vo­ice sud­denly too high, "When are you co­min' back?"

  Sla­de didn't an­s­wer. The an­s­wer was that he was ne­ver co­ming back, anot­her cru­el twist of the bla­de. Le­aving Mi­ra­mar fo­re­ver was just as hard as ever­y­t­hing el­se.

  "You al­ways co­me back," Rick cal­led out as if he un­der­s­to­od what Sla­de's si­len­ce me­ant.

  Sla­de didn't res­pond. And be­ca­use it was the last ti­me, he wan­ted to lo­ok back. But he didn't. And even tho­ugh his mind was ma­de up, even tho­ugh he was mo­ving away from the ho­use with len­g­t­he­ning stri­des, in­si­de he was wa­iting, wa­iting for a pro­test, a last pro­test, any pro­test-only it didn't co­me.