Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  Nothing stings quite like

  The denial of forgiveness

  I am a puppet to this

  My strings pulled in every

  Direction

  I return to routine, because

  It is the only thing I know

  The nagging in my brain

  Seems to exponentially expand

  With every minute apart

  Time is to heal

  All wounds

  But time is a bitter, overworked

  ER nurse watching me bleed out

  On the linoleum floor

  Life has been divided into

  Before her and after her

  Torture is knowing your

  Soul’s counterpart lives on

  The other side of a paper-thin wall

  And pressing your ear to hear nothing

  - Preston

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Icky Thump

  An hour later, we finally finish sorting everything into different price points. I line up the boxes along the far wall, so that Preston doesn’t twitch when he sees them.

  “I’m going to head upstairs, Wren. Dinner. Bath. Bed.”

  I chuckle and open the door to the stairs leading to the apartment for her.

  “I’m going to see Preston,” I say.

  “Grab a bottle of water from my mini-fridge up front. I bet it’s hot up there.”

  I practically skip to the front counter, grabbing the water and heading out through the front door. On the side of the building, I take the stairs two at a time, eager to finally put this behind us. I knock, but there’s a loud buzzing sound inside and music playing. Knowing he won’t hear me, I open the door and let myself in. I’m not prepared for the sight before me.

  Preston’s plaid shirt is hung over the back of a chair near the door. He is across the room in only a black beater and jeans. I feel my mouth go dry, and it’s not from the sawdust in the air. He leans over a large saw, turns it on, and slides a piece of wood through. I watch the well-defined muscles of his shoulders and arms bend and move as he repeats the process a few times. There are flakes of wood in his hair and stuck to his sweaty skin.

  He turns the saw off, and the quiet is eerie, especially with the musical soundtrack playing and me lurking here in the dark.

  “Preston?” I say.

  His shoulders jump, and he spins to face me. Preston offers a cautious smile and dusts his hands off. The heat in the air suddenly feels suffocating. I remember the water, move toward him and hold it out—a peace offering.

  “Thanks,” he says, taking the bottle.

  He twists the top off and brings the bottle to his lips. I watch his throat move as he drinks down the whole thing, crushing the plastic bottle as he goes.

  “Jesus, it’s hot in here,” I say, fanning myself.

  “Yeah, it is. Did you need something, or are you just delivering refreshing beverages?”

  “I was wondering if we could talk. If it’s a bad time, it can wait.”

  One side of his mouth curls up, and there’s a new shine to his silver eyes. “Now is a great time. Just let me wash up?”

  “Okay.”

  Preston goes to the sink and rakes his fingers through his hair a few times. Sawdust falls around him like snow. He lathers his hands up to each elbow and dries them on a nearby towel. When he catches me watching, I turn toward his workbench and look over the tools. I recognize most things, but there’s a big electric-gun thing that I can’t identify. Grabbing the chair with his shirt on the back, he brings it over to where I am.

  “What’s this?” I ask, pointing to the tool.

  “A nail gun.”

  “It shoots nails?” I almost shriek.

  “Think of it as an electric hammer.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, The White Stripes are your work music?” I ask.

  “Actually, it’s on random.”

  I mock gasp and place my hand on my chest. “Electronic device for your music? What would your boss say?”

  Preston grins and gestures to the chair. I take a seat. He sits across from me on a stool, and I can’t take my eyes off him. Here’s this big, muscled man all sweaty from hard work, and he sits looking at me like a kid waiting to see Santa. He moves one tool on the bench and then rearranges all of them so they are equally spaced out. I observe him with wonder and amusement.

  “So, you wanted to talk?” he asks when he is finally satisfied with the tools.

  “Yeah.” I twist my fingers together in my lap and take a deep breath. “I understand why you didn’t tell me about Bennie. I’ve always understood why. I just wasn’t able to deal with the news of her being sick and feeling betrayed by you at the same time. It was too much. It still is. I took out all my anger about everything on you. It was easier to blame you than to deal with it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I know you are. I’m sorry, too, about the terrible things I said to you. I’m an ass.”

  “I won’t pretend like it didn’t hurt to hear those things from you. But it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay. But I promise to make it up to you.”

  Preston nods and looks away. “My therapist got an earful.”

  “You have a therapist?” I ask, staring at his profile.

  “Every Monday at one o’clock.” He taps his watch twice.

  I nod, remembering his appointments in Franklin on Mondays. “Well, apologize to your therapist for me.”

  “Nah. That’s what she gets paid the big bucks for.”

  There’s a silence that falls around us. I lean forward in my chair and open my mouth, but “I’m sorry” is not enough. Preston watches as I struggle to find the right words.

  “I try to keep my distance, but it is futile.”

  Preston recognizes the words from his confessional poem, and his expression lifts into one of awe. One side of his mouth pulls up, and my favorite eye crinkles appear.

  Standing, I move forward until I’m between his knees. He smells like wood and sweat and something uniquely Preston. I place a hand on each thigh and lean closer.

  “I miss you,” I practically whimper. “So much.”

  “God, I miss you, Wren.”

  Preston’s arms wrap around my back and pull me against his chest. Our lips meet in a frenzied kiss that has been building for too long. It is redemption and relief, pain and glorious pleasure all rolled into one. My fingers claw at his ribs through the thin material of his beater. I want it gone. I need to feel him. Clutching the material in each fist, I lift until he releases me and lets me pull it off. Beneath the bright shop lights, he is all muscle and flawless skin. My eyes travel over his heaving chest, down to abs that flex with each breath, and trail down to the cut of his hips.

  “You’re so pretty,” I say.

  He gives me a smile and stands from his stool, now towering over me. Preston’s hands grab my hips, and he lifts me onto his workbench, sweeping the carefully placed tools out of the way. Now, he stands between my knees, nipping at my lips. I place my hands on his shoulders and run them down his arms.

  “Pretty shoulders, pretty biceps, pretty elbows,” I say between kisses.

  “Elbows?” he murmurs against my lips.

  “Yes. Elbows.” My hands continue their exploration, enjoying the feel of his body beneath my fingertips. “Pretty chest, pretty abs, pretty little happy trail.” I scrape my nails through the bit of hair that disappears into his jeans.

  Preston stops moving and pulls his lips from my neck. He leans his forehead against mine, and we exchange panting breaths that say more than words ever could. I’m sorry. I’m not perfect. I need you. In one swift move, he has my shirt off. Next is my bra. I have to show him that it clasps in the front. Preston fumbles with the closure, but finally gets it unhooked. He pushes the garment from my shoulders. I feel exposed, but in a good way. Proud to be on display for him.

  “You’re beautiful, Wren.”

  His lips return to mine, and
when his warm hands wrap around my waist, I moan into his mouth. He slides his palms up until each breast rests in his hands. Preston squeezes gently, as if trying them out, before his thumbs sweep across my nipples. I cry out and shift my hips against his, needing something more, anything he’ll give me.

  My hands reach for the button of his jeans, and I get it undone before he steps away. We face each other, both topless and trying to catch our breath. I shake my head, confused by his reaction.

  “We’ll get there. Not yet.”

  “But I can’t keep my hands off you, Preston. I need you. I have no control when it comes to you.”

  He gives me a devious grin and stalks forward. Preston grabs his black beater from the floor and wraps it around my wrists, tying a knot between them. My pulse quickens at the primal look in his eyes. He is pleased with himself. Raising my hands above my head, he pushes my wrists against the wall. I gulp when he grabs the nail gun, presses it between my wrists and fires three nails into the shirt. I am now tethered to the wall.

  I test my restraints and see the satisfaction on Preston’s face when they don’t budge.

  “You once offered me control, Wren.” He leans over me, running his nose along my hairline until his lips are at my ear. “If you’re not okay with this, tell me now. I’ve got to say, you look fucking amazing tied up and at my mercy. I’m tempted to keep you here, locked away in my tower.” His words, along with the hard resonating timbre of his voice, ignites a fire in my body.

  “Preston, please. Touch me.”

  My head and shoulders rest against the wall, with my hands pinned above. He pulls my bottom to the edge of his workbench, my body stretched out before him. Preston unlaces my boots before pulling them off. His fingers unbutton the fly of my shorts and then curl into the waistband. Preston tugs them off me, along with my panties. I am a wanton mess, squirming under white-hot lights and his gaze.

  “I wanted our first time to be slow, so I could memorize every inch of you,” he says against my lips. Preston’s tongue slides between my lips and tastes me before retreating again. “But this is not going to be soft or slow.”

  “Good,” I answer, challenging him. I take his lower lip between my teeth and pull on it. He moans and shifts his denim-covered crotch against where I want him most.

  Preston grabs his wallet from his back pocket, pulls out a condom, and places it on the bench. I raise an eyebrow, and he shrugs.

  He lowers his zipper and pushes down his jeans and boxer briefs in one move. I chew my lip as I watch him roll on the condom and stroke himself twice. I recall the feel of him in my hand all hard and soft skin.

  A new song plays through the speakers. It is fast-paced and hard-hitting, a challenge. Preston places himself against me before looking into my eyes. I nod, and he pushes inside. I try to keep my eyes open, because his face in this moment is breathtaking. But the pleasure radiating from my center makes me lose that battle. He holds still and places kisses along my jaw down one side of my neck and then up the other. I grin when I realize it’s three kisses on each side, a total of six on Wednesdays.

  “Wrap your legs around me, Wren.” His voice is more rough than usual, and it stirs the tingling sensation inside me. I follow his instructions, gripping his body between my trembling legs.

  His fingers ghost across my ribs down to my pubic bone. He follows the patterns and lines of my tattoo. When Preston begins to move against me, my eyes pop open. His face is inches from mine, his brow furrowed low, a concentrated pout on his lips. Those gray eyes connect with mine, and his rhythm increases. The bench beneath me creaks and rocks with each thrust of his hips, the tools shaking and rattling from the force. It all adds to the sexual melody of our exchanged whimpers and sighs.

  My shoulders ache from being tied up, but it is a delicious ache that reminds me that I belong to Preston and no one else. He is beautiful in his control, his tics almost nonexistent in this perfect moment between us. Preston presses his hands to mine against the wall and my fingers curl around them. His hips continue pushing against me and pulling away in a punishing pace. I dig my heels in to the back of his thighs, encouraging his movements.

  “She is flawless in her passion.”

  “Preston,” I whisper. “Yes.”

  “Imperfect in her love.”

  His hair falls into his face, and he ignores it. My lip is between my teeth in an effort to control my cries. There is a swirling, building wave of heat inside me. My fingers and toes tingle with prickling numbness. Preston slides his hands out of mine, running them down my arms and over my breasts, where he pinches and tugs on my nipples. I scream his name and try to meet him thrust for thrust, feeling myself so close to the edge. One of his hands drifts down to my hip while the other cups my jaw before he places two kisses on the corner of my lips, his pattern be damned. His thumb pulls my lip from between my teeth, slides down my chin, between my breasts and over my stomach before pressing against my clit.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I say on each breath.

  “She commands my universe.”

  My back arches as my orgasm rips through me. I scream as white lights dance beneath my closed eyes and every nerve in my body sings. My insides explode and melt into each other, making me feel soft and warm. I am lost to the sensation of Preston filling me again and again. Gasping for air, I open my eyes just in time to see him press into me and freeze. Every muscle goes rigid as his eyes squeeze shut and his lips part to breathe my name. Both hands wrap around my hips and hold me against his body.

  I kiss him with everything I have. Every good, bad, and dirty emotion pours from my soul into his. I need him to know how much he means to me. I need him to feel the depth of what we have. When he pulls back and looks into my eyes, I know he does. Preston steps away, and I am empty and chilled from the cooling sweat on my skin.

  I watch as he removes the condom, ties off the end and tosses it into the trash can. He pulls up his boxer briefs and jeans before returning to me. For a minute, I think he might leave me here, nailed to his wall like a piece of art. But then, he reaches up, wraps his fist around the shirt, and yanks it out of the wall. Each nail makes a pinging sound as it hits the floor. My shoulders are relieved when he places my hands in my lap. Preston keeps his eyes on mine, a satisfied smirk in place as he unties the knot. I bend and flex my wrists and shoulders as he slips the black beater back on. There are now holes in it where bits of skin and muscle peek through.

  “Are you sore?” Preston asks, rubbing my shoulders.

  “A little. I’ll be fine.” I still sit naked on his workbench while he is fully clothed. “That was…”

  “Amazing,” he answers for me.

  “Mind-blowing,” I say. “Fantastic. Earth-shattering.”

  “Don’t move.”

  Preston steps to the sink and washes his hands again. Lots of soap and water up to the elbow. I still find this so mesmerizing, watching the muscles of his forearms and the way his hands move. He dries them on the towel and comes back to me. With such a gentle motion, Preston slides my bra back on and connects the front clasp. He finds my shirt and slips it over my head. I push my arms through the sleeves. My panties are next, sliding up my legs, his fingers against my skin. Finally, he pulls on my shorts. I hop down from the bench and finish tugging them up before buttoning them.

  I take a seat in the chair to put my boots back on, but he does that, too. On his knees, he rests my feet against his chest. He slides each sock on, kissing the inside of each ankle. Next are my boots. His fingers work methodically and quickly, lacing them up and tying the strings. The bows are perfect.

  “There,” Preston says when I’m dressed again.

  “So…” I say.

  “So.”

  “You’re completely sober.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’re okay?” I ask. He tilts his head and considers my question.

  “I’m better than okay.” Preston takes my hand and runs his thumb across my knuckles. “You are my first
, Wren. Because, for some reason, my brain doesn’t scream when I touch you. My thoughts don’t race with what-ifs and phobias when you’re in my arms. In my head, there is only you—only the sound of your voice, that sweet smell on your neck, your eyes seeing all of me and wanting me anyway. You take all my roaring fucked-upness and quiet it with one touch, one glance, the way your finger mindlessly slides around your collar when you’re thinking.”

  His words wrap me in a blissful cocoon that I want to stay in. It’s so nice here. I am good and worthy of him. I am desired and the best medicine.

  “Fucked-upness? Is that a medical term?”

  “It is. Just added to the American Journal of Mental Health.”

  I follow his glance toward the workbench. He looks back to me and again at the tools.

  “You don’t have to censor yourself around me, Preston. If you want to straighten them, do it. I’m not judging you.”

  He exhales and stands to arrange the tools on the workbench, placing each of them parallel with the edge of the bench and spacing them evenly.

  “Condoms in your wallet, huh?”

  He turns and delivers that delicious smirk that makes my panties want to fall right off again. “I like being prepared. Last time I didn’t have any, things went bad. Very bad.”

  We both frown, remembering.

  “Well, we didn’t do much talking. I only came up here to talk.”

  His eyebrows shoot toward his hairline, his mouth drops open. “I thought you wanted—”

  “I’m kidding. Of course I wanted you. I never stopped wanting you.”

  “Like sailors follow stars,” he quotes.

  “I am led by her light,” I finish, loving the taste of his words on my tongue.

  What is it that makes disarray okay

  What is it that stirs the deepest need

  That can only be tamed by the taste of her lips

  What is it that wipes clean every fixation

  But the one who sits before me

  Love

  I know that now