by Rie Warren
At my nod, he released a deep breath, leading me through the nighttime quiet of the grand space. Stopping short of the balcony, he jerked his head to the windows, toward the river. “My brother always wanted to be a sailor.”
Whoa. What? His brother? What happened to Reardon’s rules of engagement?
“The war memorial in the park, the one we passed, I usually take a moment. On behalf of a grateful nation, it says.”
I suspected emotional warfare from him. More dangerous than the weapon of mass seduction between his legs. “I’ve been around it before.”
The tall solemn statue was a heartbreaking monument to local men and women, the surrounding pergola bearing medallions for every service branch, the bricks of the path dedicated to soldiers lost.
“It’s one of the reasons I live here.” He braced an arm on the window. “I like to be close to the water, close to Ransome.”
“Ransome?”
“My brother. Damn fool kid.” He recited, “In memory of those from Mount Pleasant and Christ Church Parish who gave the ultimate sacrifice for the cause of liberty.” He blinked in surprise when my arms wrapped around him. His hands were heavy on my shoulders. “Too many sacrifices.”
I bit my tongue, cutting off the questions gagging me. Don’t interrogate the man who’s finally offered the first glimpse of his off-limits life.
“I went to the Citadel.”
“You never. A Corps cadet?” I really wasn’t faking shock when I asked, “No Harvard, Princeton, Yale? No Ivy League?”
“Disappointed?” His features lightened with a teasing grin.
I brought his lips to mine. “Not at all.”
His kisses swept my mouth, earlobes and neck, affectionate glances of his lips. “I take it you like a man in uniform.”
“Did you serve?”
“No. I found I don’t take orders well.”
“But Ransome did?”
His smile drained away. “Yes.”
“What brought all this on?”
“You told me about Delilah.”
“So I show you mine, you show me yours?” His context, his sexy come-ons confused me.
His fingers drummed his hips. “I was kind of a jackass earlier, when you asked about my family.”
“Kinda?”
“A big ass.” He conceded.
“This your sneaky way of gettin’ into my pants tonight?”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
Drats.
“Stay, please.”
I recognized the look on his face: he needed a body, a person, comfort.
He sweetened the offer by flashing the good stuff, reaching behind to pull off his shirt. The dusting of dark hair shaded from his chest to a tight line down his stomach.
Perfect gentleman, yeah right.
My hands played over the dense muscles of his pecs and he shuddered. I rubbed my cheek against the warm, solid flesh of his shoulder. “Okay.”
I didn’t want to be alone. Tonight of all nights. Even with my husband snoring beside me, I wouldn’t find solace. “I gotta call Palmer.”
By the time the phone had rung and rung, I hoped the answering machine would do its damn job and pick up.
Then I heard a drawling, “Yeah?”
“It’s me, Palmer. I gotta work tonight.” Quietly telling my husband I wouldn’t be home, I regarded Reardon sitting on the sofa, engrossed by my conversation.
Palmer said, “All nighter, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
He was silent for a moment, likely remembering the date. “‘Course. I’ll see you then.”
After the call ended, I fiddled with my bag and the phone.
Reardon hunched forward and linked his fingers between his knees. He broke the awkward silence. “I should’ve given you some privacy.”
“Yeah, you should’ve. Now shut up and come with me.” Keeping a firm grasp on his tight rear with my hand inside his back pocket, I halted. A sunburst of halls led from the lounge. Where the hell was I goin’ again?
Wasn’t my fault he lived in a gargantuan puzzle of rooms comparable to the acres-long Corn Maze at Boone Hall’s Pumpkin Patch. And where was the Punk’d crew?
Even Temperance wasn’t around to pilot me.
He let me lead him astray. “Lost your way, darlin’?”
Rat Bastard.
It took a few minutes, but finally we reached his bedroom.
In no time at all he’d shucked off his jeans, and Oh heavenly choir! There...he...was.
“What’re you doin’?”
Confident and gorgeous, he stood there, nude and honed and beautiful and... “Getting ready to sleep.”
Sleep, uh huh.
Sinking onto the bed, I crossed myself.
He snickered, and strode to me until he filled my sight with his thighs, his groin, with his cock. Thick, tumescent, long. A slight hook brought the broad red tip to his belly.
“Can you please put some clothes on?” My hoo-ha jumped up and down, trying to get free of the clamped cage of my thighs. I fell back. Only to see the huge-ass mirror above. All the better to see him makin’ love to me.
“You realize you’re always telling me to get dressed?”
“Yeah, baby, and it’s a damn shame because with a body like that…” I’m two seconds from humping your leg.
His weight dented the mattress. Covers shuffled. “Getting in?”
“Depends. You got anything on?”
He grinned.
Ah, he was wearin’ a smile, nothin’ else.
I released the bow on my halter.
Reardon pressed to his elbows, interest duly piqued, and noted.
Holding the top to my tits, I lowered my skirt with a sexy swivel.
“What are you doing?” He smothered one of the dozen pillows over his lap.
“Gettin’ ready to sleep.” I fluttered my eyelashes, let go of my top.
“I thought you might like to change in the bathroom.”
I let down my hair, the saffron lengths swinging to my shoulders. “Really?”
He was confused. “No. Yes?”
Oh so flustered.
Lifting my breasts, I flirted, “Too bad.”
His gaze seesawed between my nipples clouded by lace, my legs and my mouth.
“Nice, right? I special ordered this sexy sumbitch because you just can’t get a strapless teddy any old place.”
He wasn’t even listening.
Sauntering to the bed, all my curves showing in the naughty confection, high cut on the hip, sheer along my sides, frail webbing over my breasts and the inset between my legs.
“Get in,” came his rough response, about thirty seconds late.
My fingers trailed up his legs over the cover. I weighed his sacs in my palm, tripping my fingers along his shaft. “Y’all don’t seem tired.”
Aroused agony carving his features, he swiftly changed our positions. His arms tightened around me as he covered us in blankets. “Just want to hold you.”
I snuggled back, sniggering when he groaned. “Sure about that?”
“Go to sleep, Shay.”
I slipped my hands into his, one at my hip, one between my breasts. “G’night, baby.”
In my dreams, I was orbited by warmth, sheltered by contentment.
* * * *
Pulling a ridiculously fluffy feather pillow over my head when the sun burned behind my eyelids, I shuttled under the sheets.
A firm hand lowered the blankets down my back.
My hips rose at the teasing trail of a fingertip against my ass and beyond.
I cranked an eye open–taking measure of my drool quotient–before rolling over.
Showered, suited, and waiting to be mussed up, Reardon spread his hands over my breasts. Stretching, I chased his caress.
He removed his fingers, and I collapsed like a snapped-back rubber band. “Tease.”
The beautiful man sat back and smirked
at me.
“And you’re a mornin’ person to boot,” I insulted, much to his amusement.
His palms beside my head, he leaned down to suckle my mouth. “Mornin’, darlin’. I have to go.”
Mmm, Reardon, in a summer suit, tie crisply knotted, handkerchief perfectly folded in his breast pocket, shiny gold watch peeking from fancy cuffs.
As his mouth neared mine again, I bolted into his arms, fisting the fabric at his shoulders. Kissing him like a starving woman, I wound my tongue around his until he grabbed my hair and held me still.
“I really have to go.”
“You really have to go.” I nibbled the triangle of skin at the base of his throat.
Retreating, he tugged his trousers with one hand and ran the other through his hair.
I bit my lip.
He returned for a quick nip.
“I’m going.”
“Uh huh.”
He backed to the doorway. “Right now.”
“See ya, then.” I kicked off the sheets, exhibiting myself.
“Evil woman.”
“Kinda.”
“Temp has breakfast waiting for you. And I want to see you Wednesday.” Pivoting one last time, he took a gander at my goods. “Sunscreen. You’ll need sunscreen to protect your body.” He couldn’t drag his eyes from my display.
Good mornin’ indeed.
Good morning, hmm, hang on. “Wait! What’d you do about your morning wood?”
His scandalous laughter echoed away.
Shitty shit shit. For sure, Temperance heard me. Suddenly the prospect of facing her over breakfast was as appealing as standing before a firing squad.
When I entered the kitchen, I flushed from my chest to the roots of my hair, muttering, “G’mornin’.”
“Miss Shay, I’ve set the dining room for you.” Temperance was perky and pretty and her shoulders shook with silent laughter. I narrowed my eyes at her back. She had an all access pass to Reardon’s bedroom, and she didn’t check the cushions for loose change or alphabetize his magazines.
She poured me a cup of coffee, summarily ignoring the fact I was also her employer’s employee, but I was hired for a completely different service.
I took back all my bratty thoughts and said, “Thank you.” I perched on the stool. “May I have breakfast in here? I mean, not like I’m the First Lady or anything. I’d feel pretty weird bein’ waited on.”
“Of course, dear, I’d like the company.”
A plate of eggs and bacon and toast in front of me, I scarfed it down like it was my last meal. Forget about the firing squad, I wanted to lay into her like the Spanish Inquisition, but I couldn’t.
Turns out I didn’t have to. The lovely woman pulled a stool next to mine, and concentrated on dunking her teabag. “You know, I never interfere, but Mr. Boone likes you.”
Shuh, he liked my tits.
She shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking.” Good God, I freakin’ hoped not. “I’ve been with him a long time, and he’s never acted like this with–” Temp looked down.
I raised an eyebrow. “One of his other hired mistresses?”
“No matter what he tells you, you’re not simply his mistress.”
“That’s not what he said.”
“Hogwash.”
What she really meant was bullshit.
“Reardon says a lot of tosh.”
She was right. The posh boss did say a lot of tosh.
“It’s what he does that’s important.”
Great, now I needed a decoder for him? I was just beginning to understand myself; how the hell was I going to figure out the suave, silent suit? Temp was only trying to shed light on the situation, but with my departure looming, I was busy compartmentalizing my own shit in preparation for a day I truly didn’t want to reckon with.
The scars in my body, the scars on my heart, time tolled by Delilah’s absence, all added up to this day. On my way back to Snee Farm subdivision, reality sucker-punched me. The devastation I’d staved off–using Reardon as a buffer–pummeled me by the time I stumbled into the house. Stifling as a silent, closed box.
A casket.
It felt like I hadn’t been here for weeks.
It felt small and cheap, not simply because our house was small and cheap.
Maybe it was me, this small, cheap, paid-for thing.
The house stood empty.
No baby’s cries.
No lovers’ murmurs.
Only a small plant pot sat on the kitchen table. One that hadn’t been there before. Blue hydrangeas and a note.
For you, for Delilah’s garden.
Palmer
June 28th. My personal 9-11. The day we were demolished. The day Delilah died. My lost baby, my lost womanhood, my marriage, my dreams of happiness with Palmer. The tragedy that had defined my life, before and after.
I didn’t know how long it took me to pick myself off the floor, where I’d folded like the note crumpled in my hand.
The flowers and the note were the most beautiful thing Palmer had done for me.
I dialed the phone and barely choked out, “I got the flowers, Palmer.”
After a few starts and stops, he asked, “See you tonight?”
“Yeah. I love you.” Because I did, I had, I always would. I just wasn’t in love with him anymore. An unbearable idea made tears fall harder–at least we wouldn’t be one of those couples who stayed together for the kids.
“I know that.” His usual brusque response made me sniffle. His somber, “I love you too,” made me smile sadly.
Hanging up, I fondled the frothy petals of the plant and pondered where to put it. I massaged my flat tummy, the phantom kick hitting me again.
I talked to Momma and cried, talked to Augie and laughed a little when he tried to cheer me up. Both calls hurt.
I couldn’t stay there all day on my own. In a fog, I found myself at The Drugstore.
“Okay now, chile.” Addy soothed me with her big hands. “’S a bad, bad day, yes it is.” She dried my face with her apron, which was tied over a gruesomely flowered housedress. Straightening me out, she pushed me to a seat at the counter, her flip-flops squeaking on her way to the range.
A plate skated toward me. Good old greasy grilled cheese.
“Y’all eat up now,” she demanded, sure in her southern woman’s gospel that home cooking was the cure for all heartaches. That, and crying it out. She shoved a stack of napkins at me.
The lunch crowd gathered. Addy took orders, talked smack, and traded jokes.
I couldn’t handle all those people, so I started for the door. A swish behind me alerted me to Addy with her broom and her scripture. “Nothin’ wrong with you at all, Miss Shay. Y’all remember that.”
My hands hardly fitting around her waist, I hugged her, and the broom.
When I pulled from her bosom, she clasped me harder. “You got plans tomorrow?”
Oh, I knew where this was going.
“It’s stock day.”
Because stocking shelves with her at my back, bellowin’ into her mic, was ten tons of fun.
“I got nothin’ better to do.” Good honest work.
* * * *
Wednesday brought a raging case of tinnitus–care of Addy and her amplified voice–and more unbearable grief care of the night I’d spent with Palmer commemorating Delilah’s death.
We’d sat in the garden amidst flaring citronella torches, still as the marble statue of mother and child we’d placed for our daughter. For hours, we’d huddled next to one another, hands linked, barely whispering. In the end, I’d dried his face with the backs of my fingers, and he’d handed me his handkerchief. We’d gone to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, and for once our hands bridged the divide our hearts no longer could.
I brightened during the short drive to Reardon’s place. I think I glowed when I spied him leaning against a jacked up Z71 Chevy. Damn if that right there wasn’t a badass country boy truck. Black with tinted windows, it spo
rted a huge CB aerial that on a lesser vehicle owned by a lesser man would’ve been blatant overcompensation for a teeny wiener. Salt Life and Team DNR decals completed this other, other vehicle of his.
Every true GRITS–Girl Raised In The South–knew her trucks.
Reardon helped me out of my car, straight into his body. I scouted for the Land Rover or his sexy sports car. “Tradin’ down?”
“Playing up, more like.” His hands in my hair turned me just right for a long, slow kiss.
Separating so our tongues touched and withdrew, our lips sucked, nudged and parted, I whispered, “Hi.”
He dimpled. “Hi.”
Towing me to the truck, he produced a key on a ring way more swanky than the one I used, mine being unsightly with grocery store discount cards, his being sparkly and pretty.
“Penthouse.” He dropped it into my palm.
I laughed.
He arched his eyebrows.
“Well, baby, who’s to say I’m not gonna case the joint and fence all your high falutin’ merchandise?”
I must’ve lost my street cred because he didn’t look the least bit alarmed. He smiled indulgently and handed me into his monster truck. In the cab, he gave me the once over, and came back for a double take. “You’re looking tired.”
“You ain’t lookin’ so hot yourself.” Fibber. He was gorgeous as ever, if a touch rough around the edges. Not fair, because it only lent appeal to his rugged appearance, whereas I had bags under my red-rimmed eyes. My lips were raw from crying, not kissing. I lowered my sunglasses. “Hard couple of days.”
“Palmer do something?” He tensed.
“No.” I knuckled my eyes beneath my sunnies. “Delilah.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I can’t, not right now.”
My thigh clasped in one hand, he started the engine with the other. Its guttural rumble shook the floorboards, sending a thrill through my body and a surprising giggle from my lips.
Car whore.
He gunned the gas. “Shall we?”
“Yeah.”
His hair was wilder than usual, begging to be grabbed. His t-shirt was so threadbare it tucked itself to all his muscles. His cut-offs were ridiculous, the frays lying in feathery lashes on thighs straining with every press of break and clutch and gas.
He caught me mid-lip-bite. “What?”
“Nothin’.” I leaned toward him, licking the line of his throat, his pulse jumping under the flat of my tongue, until I found his earlobe. After I sucked it, his entire ear was burning red, his cheeks flushed, his mouth parted like his thighs.