by Leighton, M.
And I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to do that.
But I know I have to try.
When we reach the house, I put the car in park, but I don’t cut off the engine. I get out and walk around to get his wheelchair out. I pry it open before pushing it to the now-open passenger door. Like the pro he teased about being, Darrin reverses his earlier movements and stands on his good leg, pivoting and then plopping down in his wheelchair.
I move to the back of the chair, grabbing the handles to push him up the driveway.
“You gonna leave your car running all night?”
“I’m not staying. I think I’m going to head back home tonight. I’ve got some . . . trailblazing to start tomorrow.”
I see him nod. He gets my meaning. He doesn’t speak until we’re at the front door. He wheels his chair around to face me. His smile is pleased.
“Good for you,” he says, a twinkle of pride lighting his eyes. It’s something I’ve never seen before, not even from my father when I graduated law school. It makes me feel like I can leap tall buildings in a single bound.
He digs his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door. Before I can ask him if he needs help with anything, he cuts me off. “Drive safe,” he says warmly. “And don’t be a stranger. You’re always welcome here. You’re family.”
I nod and smile before I turn to walk back to my car. My throat is so tight with a lump of emotion I doubt I could squeak out a single syllable. When I reach the idling car and slide behind the wheel, I look up to see Uncle Darrin sitting in his wheelchair in the doorway. He waves to me once more. I wave back and put the car in reverse. I pull out of the driveway and into the road. As I’m driving away, I glance into my rearview mirror. Uncle Darrin is still sitting in the doorway, watching me go.
TWENTY-THREE
Nash
My mouth is so dry I could spit cotton balls. I need something to drink, but the blonde from the bar is lying on my arm, pinning it to the black sheets.
Like a magician pulling the tablecloth out from under the dishes, I jerk my arm out fast and roll to the edge of the bed. I don’t bother to look back at her. If she wakes up, she wakes up. If she’s stupid enough to open her mouth, she’ll deserve the cold shoulder she gets.
I left with her last night to make a point. To myself and to Marissa. The only thing I managed to prove is that Marissa is under my skin.
The blonde, Brittni with an i, didn’t seem to notice that I was distracted, nor did she seem to care that I wanted to get some liquor in me before I did more than kiss her. But even then, with a head all fuzzy from a mixture of vodka and tequila, all I could think about was a different taste, a different smell. A different girl.
No matter how much I drank, I couldn’t seem to forget she wasn’t Marissa. Luckily, Brittni drank too much, too. Passed out before I had to tell her I wasn’t interested in doing anything with her but drinking her liquor.
I’ll be gone before she wakes up. After I get a drink of water, that is.
I grab my shirt and pull it over my head as I stumble from the bedroom. I find the kitchen with relative ease. Her condo is about the size of a cracker box.
I open the fridge, hoping for bottled water. But there’s none. Only Diet Coke and beer. Without shutting the refrigerator door, I get a glass from the dish drain and hold it in front of the light. Thank God it looks clean. I run some cold tap water into it and gulp it down. Then I do it again. Water is the best thing for a hangover.
My head is still swimming a little, so I flop down on the sofa until it clears enough to drive. Heaven forbid I get pulled over. I avoid the law like the criminal that I am. Decent people worry about tickets on their record. I worry about someone finding out who I am and what I’ve done and throwing me in prison with no possibility of parole.
I slump down in my seat and lean my head back against the cushion, letting my mind wander for a while. It travels back in time to a night that I’m living to regret, one that haunts me. It’s the night I became a victim of my own game, a victim of my own need to make my brother suffer.
I was in New Orleans a year or two ago. Even now, I can remember the smell of the air with perfect clarity. I breathe it in, just like I did that night, and I remember . . .
The air is balmy and laced with the scent of salt water. I let the loud music and wild celebration flood my mind, rid it of all other thought. For just a little while, I need to forget who I am, what I’ve done and the road ahead. I need to get lost in the moment, and there’s no better place than Mardi Gras.
I’m anonymous. In the French Quarter during this time of year, everyone is. I’m not wearing a mask or costume like most people, but I’m just as masked in every other way. No one knows me here. And that’s just the way I like it.
Girls flash their tits from balconies all along the street, collecting strings of beads for their efforts. The people are drunk, the music is loud, and hedonism is the theme of the night. The same holds true for the luxurious private homes I pass.
This one is no different.
All the French doors are open. Music and light are spilling out into the street, and laughter can be heard as it mingles with the other elements of the party.
Something breaks the monotony of the night. It reaches out to grab my attention and pull me back to the present, to my troubles, like nothing else can.
It’s someone calling my name. It’s a woman’s voice.
But who the hell would know me here?
I look around and see no familiar faces. I hear my name again. This time, I use the sound to triangulate where the voice is coming from.
Then I see her.
She’s standing on the balcony of the house, leaning over the intricate scroll of the wrought-iron railing.
My eyes meet hers and I know she’s talking to me.
“Nash! Ohmigod, what are you doing here? Come on up!”
She’s smiling down at me. Widely. Almost too widely. I think she’s drunk. I’ve seen her only a few times, but I’ve seen enough to know she’s pretty much a cold bitch. But not tonight. Tonight, Marissa, my brother’s girlfriend, is feeling warm. And I’m feeling the warmth of taking a little revenge.
Before I can contemplate the wisdom of it, I turn onto the well-lit sidewalk of the home and make my way to the front door. The knob isn’t locked, so I enter.
In the foyer, a few people glance in my direction, but no one calls me out or tries to stop me when I head for the stairs to my right. I wonder if it’s because some of them think they recognize me, if it’s because they think I’m my brother, Cash. My brother, the imposter. My brother who’s pretending to be me.
The familiar bitterness stings the back of my throat like acid. I revel in the burn. I let it feed the anticipation coiling in my stomach, the anticipation of a little payback.
As I climb the steps, it heats my blood. I know it’s probably not smart to risk giving myself away like this. I just hope everyone’s too drunk to remember seeing me here. Or at least too drunk to question it if the topic should ever come up in conversation later. It should be easy enough to blow off. Especially for Cash. He thinks I’m dead. No doubt he’ll assume everyone was too shitfaced to know what they saw.
When I reach the second story, there’s a hall that extends left and right. It’s a crossroads, much like the one I find myself at. I could leave right now—no harm, no foul. Yes, I would feel cheated out of an opportunity to take a little vengeance, but I wouldn’t be jeopardizing my deceased status.
Or I could go ahead. I could seize this night, this chance, and, for just a few minutes, feel the satisfaction of having a laugh at my brother’s expense.
My choice is a no-brainer. I brush aside the voice that’s telling me this is stupid and I proceed to the right. From the street position, I figure Marissa must be on a balcony in that direction, so I head that way.
There are three doors on the street side of the house. The first is closed, so I don’t open it. The second one is open and filled with people. It’s some sort of upstairs parlor and I can see through it to the other side of the room where narrow doors open onto a balcony. This has to be the one.
I make my way through the tight crush of bodies toward the doors. I hear a couple of people speak as if they know me. I smile politely but don’t respond. I don’t want to draw anyone into conversation. My goal is singular. I can see it standing on the balcony. I can see her standing on the balcony.
She’s wearing a shiny, royal-blue dress that fits her like a second skin. The top pushes her tits up into a luscious heap beneath her chin and the bottom of the dress is split dead center all the way to mid-thigh. It separates into two distinct pieces, giving the appearance of a tail as it flows to the ground. Her long blond hair hangs over her shoulders in thick waves, some pieces braided, with seashells dangling from the ends. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s a mermaid.
I stop to watch her, letting the anger brew. My brother is one lucky bastard. He gets to live a great life, my life. He graduated from law school and got a job at a prestigious Atlanta law firm. He’s got a good name and he’s screwing the boss’s daughter (no doubt with his consent). And the kicker? She just happens to be gorgeous. Cold as ice, but gorgeous.
She’s gonna get a little warming up tonight, though. Then she’s gonna get some humiliation to cool her back down. I’ll piss her off real good, all while wearing my brother’s face, and leave him to clean up the mess and explain how he can be such an insensitive asshole. In the meantime, I get to get a little taste of the good life. Sounds like a win-win to me.
I continue across the room and step out onto the balcony, right in the middle of something funny evidently. Marissa is laughing her ass off, hanging all over some tiny brunette as if she’s the only thing holding her up. And she probably is. Marissa’s plastered.
As the tuxedo-clad servant passes to exit the balcony, I grab a beer from his silver tray. The top is already off. How convenient.
I stand just outside the French doors, taking a long swig from the bottle as I wait for Marissa to notice me. When she does, she squeals in delight and launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck and smashing her body to mine.
She leans back to look at me, her face close to mine, her arms still draped loosely around my shoulders. “I had no idea. Seriously. This is the best surprise ever. I thought you meant it when you said you were busy.”
I shrug, turning my head to take another long pull from my bottle. My dick twitches when I feel her tongue on my throat. Apparently she warms up quite nicely when she’s drinking.
“I’m so glad you changed your mind,” she purrs, rubbing her chest against mine. “And I love the wig. Longer hair suits you.”
My hair is loose, my bangs hanging on either side of my face, all the way to my chin. It’s a wonder she recognized me at all. Or thinks she did, anyway.
Impulsively, I wrap my free arm around her waist and lift until her feet are off the floor. Slowly, I back her up until I feel the resistance of the railing behind her. Then I set her down again.
“Why so glad?” I ask, keeping talk to a minimum so there’s a lesser chance of her discovering who I really am.
“Because I need someone to kiss right now. And it’s only us girls out here.” She pauses to look around. I do the same. But for us, the balcony is empty now. “Well, was,” she giggles. It appears everyone has left and wandered back inside. It’s just me and Marissa and the half million people milling around on the streets below us, some of them no doubt watching.
“Well, I’m here now,” I say, staring down into her almond-shaped eyes. She might be a frigid bitch most of the time, but she’s got some spice in her. I can see it in the smoky invitation of her gaze, in the sexy curve of her mouth.
“Yes, you are.” She leans into me, pressing her lips to mine. While the kiss is warm, like she’s familiar with whom she’s kissing, it lacks real . . . heat. I wonder if this is all that she and Cash share. This superficial, perfunctory kind of chemistry.
I remind myself that I don’t give a shit about them or their relationship. I came up here for one reason. It’s just a bonus that I get to slake my lust for revenge with lips like this, with a woman like this. She’s a far cry from the kind of females I usually visit when I’m on shore.
Moving my hand up her spine, I wind my fingers into her hair and tug her head back and to the side, deepening the kiss. I slide my tongue against hers and I feel the vibrations of her moan. She seems a bit unsure of herself at first, but it doesn’t take her long to respond to me.
She threads her fingers into my hair and holds me to her. She’s liking this, which will just make it that much sweeter for me.
I slide my hand from her hair and drag it down the smooth skin of her bare back. I reach between her and the railing and give her ass a squeeze. I press her hips into mine and give her a little feel of what’s between my legs. I’m gratified when her fingers curl into a fist and tug at my hair.
“You like that?” I whisper against her mouth.
I can feel her shallow breath fanning my face. “Yes.”
“How ’bout this?” I ask, grinding my rigid body into hers.
She does this breathy gasp-moan kind of thing and leans back to look at me. There’s a question in her eyes. For a second I think I’m busted, that she knows I’m not Cash. Or, to her, not Nash.
But she doesn’t ask the question. Whether it’s because she doubts herself or because she doesn’t really want to know, I don’t know. But she keeps quiet and just goes with it. “I like that even more.”
She pulls my head back down to hers and lifts her leg, running her calf along the outside of my thigh, opening herself up to me a little more.
I slide my hand over her hip until I feel the skin of her bare leg. I run my palm up under her dress to the edge of her panties. With one quick jerk, I tear the wispy material. I feel her nails dig into my scalp. It just prods me to continue.
My clear intentions of humiliating her and, therefore, my brother become diluted in the burning lust for the hot little minx in my arms. But the thirst for revenge is too strong. It doesn’t disappear completely. Still, I want to push her to a place she would never go, to a place she’s not entirely comfortable with. Even if she doesn’t remember it and Cash never finds out, I’ll know. And that’s what matters. I’ll know.
I turn my body slightly to the side and move my hand between her legs. I slide a finger inside her. She’s so wet it drips down to my knuckle. Blood rushes to my dick and I groan into her mouth as she moves her hips against my hand.
I pull my slick finger out of her and move my head back just enough that I can see her face. Her eyes are wide, her pupils round with excitement.
“Open,” I say simply, my eyes dropping to her mouth.
Her lips fall open and I slide my finger between them. My stomach clenches into a tight ball when she closes them on my finger and sucks. I’d be willing to bet she’s never done that before. But I could be wrong. So I push her further.
Reclaiming my finger, I reach around behind her and I take the beer bottle into my right hand. Moving it between our bodies, I touch the cool glass to the inside of her leg. Her shiny lips part on a gasp. It fuels me like gasoline.
She’s excited. But how much further will she go?
I drag the bottle up her leg to the heat I can feel coming from between her thighs. I touch the cool rim to her and she shudders visibly. But she doesn’t stop me. She just watches me, panting, her fingers still tightly wound in my hair, her face an inch from mine.
“Do you think I can make you come in front of an audience?”
I hear her breath hitch. She holds it as she listens, her eyes flickering beyond me as though confirming that we aren’t, in fact, al
one. My guess is she’s so involved in the moment, she’s forgotten we’re practically in public.
She doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t move, either. So I slide the tip of the bottle inside her. I feel her knees buckle and I wind my other arm around her, holding her up as I move the bottle neck farther into her. Very, very slowly, I pull it out. Her lips tremble.
She closes her eyes and her breathing comes in deep, fast gulps. She’s close. I can almost feel it.
“Look at me. I want to watch you.”
When she opens her eyes, I push the bottle back into her, farther this time. She bites her lip to keep from crying out. I slide it out and back in, rotating my wrist, moving the bottle inside her, bringing her more pleasure with every tiny movement. I pull it out and push it into her again, and again, and again in quick succession. In my hair, I feel her fingers fist and relax, fist and relax until her eyes closed again. I see her mouth fall open and I feel the gush of her breath hit my face. I know she’s coming. Coming for me, the guy she thinks she’s dating. Coming for me, with thousands of strange eyes on us. I press my lips to hers, licking her tongue with mine as she rides the wave, rides the bottle I have shoved between her legs.
When her breathing slows, I sink my teeth into her bottom lip just before I pull back to look at her. Her sleepy eyes open a crack to stare at me. She’s not smiling, she’s not frowning; she’s just watching me. Curious. Maybe a little confused.
I pull the bottle from inside her and take a step back. With my eyes on hers, I bring it to my lips. Purposely, I tip the bottle back, inch by inch until cool liquid hits my tongue. The flavor of Marissa mingles sweetly with the cold beverage. I swallow.
“Best beer I’ve ever had,” I say.