One Step Away (A Bedford Falls Novel Book 1)

by Sydney Bristow

  It made her think back to that moment in her bedroom earlier this week. The sexual tension clutched her even now. Why did it have such a pull on her, especially after that horrible display downstairs?

  The wooden floorboards creaked behind her. She turned to see the hallway light shining down on Freddy Krueger. Far from a haunting image, she laughed at the harmless figure staring at her. “You look as menacing as a Smurf.” She extended her arm, palm up to encourage him to join her.

  After a moment of indecision, Brad stepped through the doorway and entered the room, footsteps padding toward her until he captured her hand and stood behind her.

  When had Brad failed to clutch her breasts with greedy abandon? She supposed his conversational defeat downstairs explained his uncertainty. Saying anything now would only add insult to injury, so she just continued looking out the window. But even with him behind her, she couldn’t banish the thought of Alex kissing Cassandra.

  And she felt betrayed. Of course, Marisa had no claim on Alex. Still, she couldn’t remove that empty feeling. From the corner of her eye, she saw Brad’s head slanting toward her shoulder to see her face.

  That’s when she realized that tears had slipped between her lashes. She turned away from him, reluctant to let another person see her in such a shattered state.

  Something hit the floor, and she saw the mask lying at her feet.

  Marisa closed her eyes against the vision that refused to release its hold on her. She hated showing weakness at any time. But she couldn’t hide that part of herself forever. And if she and Brad were to have a meaningful relationship built on trust and understanding, then she needed to share this part of herself, especially now that he curbed his natural tendencies to grab her in a lewd way when she displayed a need to take things slowly.

  He placed two fingers under her chin, and even with her lids shut, she could feel him looking into her eyes with more empathy than she’d seen him display in all their time together. Or was that merely what she was hoping to “see”? Regardless, it was something Alex would have done.

  And now, with that realization, she knew why she had never considered Alex as a potential boyfriend: she didn’t deserve him. He was too good for her. Too kind. Too loving. Too perfect for her messed-up interpretation of what love should feel like. He’d grown up watching his parents show each other love and affection for almost three decades.

  And Marisa had only her parents’ twisted marriage to compare it to. If she gave in to Alex, he would expect the same deep romantic bond his parents had shared, and she wouldn’t know how to meet his expectations.

  In the end, she would crush his interpretation of romance. In doing so, she would destroy his heart, rather than simply breaking it by refusing to consider him as a romantic interest.

  She clenched her eyes shut and drove those thoughts from her mind, instead letting her feelings take effect. It made that lonely feeling drift away. And without any idea about might come next, she gave in to the anticipation.

  Then he gently guided her chin toward him and placed his lips against her cheeks, kissing her tears away. This was exactly how she imagined that Alex would kiss her: soft and sensuous, slow and sexy. His tenderness put her at ease, reminding her of the poem he’d written for her.

  It explained why he looked so uncertain in the hall. He must have read her body language and noticed a vulnerability that he hadn’t seen before. She let out a little whimper; an audible echo of the connection she hoped would grow stronger with time.

  His lips pressed against her neck with tremendous restraint and such delicacy that it felt like a feather brushed against her flesh. An image of Alex entered her mind and just like that, she forgot why sadness had gripped her with such tenaciousness.

  He placed his hands on either side of her waist, moving in closer, and she felt his erection against her leg. It jumpstarted her pulse, and she let out a sigh, biting her lower lip. He slipped his left hand across her belly, fingertips tracing up her dress until they tapped against her breast. She expected him to grab her, to pinch her nipple between her fingers.

  That didn’t happen. A fingertip slipped under her breast, gently stroking her skin before tracing upwards, the sensation so tantalizing that she felt a furnace burning between her legs.

  “So good,” she uttered, almost inaudibly. “Oh, so good.” The tip of his finger rounded the areola of her breast, causing it to harden under his touch, and teased her with leisurely strokes. Breathing heavier now, Marisa wanted to cry out with pleasure.

  Brad had never touched her like this. Why had he held back for so long? It reminded her of the way Alex handled her earlier in the week – with great tenderness along with tremendous restraint, while still evoking strong, assured movements.

  It brought other memories to her mind in quick succession: Alex looking down at her past boyfriends with a determined stare, expecting them to hit the road; telling her that he wouldn’t help her at work, only to show up at her house because he knew she needed someone to talk to.

  The comfort of his presence and constant support brought about the same mesmerizing effect that Brad’s fingers now achieved, albeit in a totally different capacity.

  Wanting to fuse those two emotions together, Marisa imagined that she returned to that moment last Monday when Alex had carried her into her bedroom and looked deep into her eyes with such longing and need. But this time, he gave in to his desires.

  Now that she had given in to the fantasy, and reality had blended with her flight of fancy, she surrendered to the rapture devouring her body, unable to stop her thighs from quivering with gratification. And Alex’s lips…how had she missed their supple sensation against her shoulders? His hot breath, delicate on her skin, gave way to the tip of his tongue, making her wonder if it hadn’t somehow managed to replace his fingertip on her nipple.

  She felt herself growing wet.

  All the while, his right hand trailed down her right leg, squeezing it softly, then grasping tighter, before easing up again as it curved toward the inner part of her leg. The heat raged inside her, mere inches away from his fingers.

  Alex kissed the base of her neck, his parted lips gradually rising until they left her flesh and captivated her ear lobe. At that moment, his hand dipped inside her thigh, found its way under her panties, and immediately located that glorious spot that made her ride a wave of sensuous delight until she shuddered in climax.

  Marisa had never before come so quickly, so effortlessly. It made her want to cry out. In one slow movement, he released her breast and settled his palm against her face, tilting her towards him.

  Their lips touched.

  She faced him, eyes still shut tight in bliss, throwing her arms around his neck, moving into him as a finger caressed the pearl of her desire and two others slipped inside her, gliding in and out.

  Marisa felt another wonderful release, sighing as she locked her lips around his once more. And yet, she kept flowing to such an extent that she inherently wrapped her leg up around his waist to clutch onto him, causing the pressure to mount.

  She shifted her mouth to his neck, moaning as she kissed his skin, wanting to taste every bit of him until she swallowed him whole. And still, even though his body shielded her from anyone who might now enter this room, she didn’t care if they saw her clinging to her lover, didn’t care how dirty the image looked. She wouldn’t let the most erotic moment of her life pass her by without fully experiencing every second of it.

  A third orgasm ripped through her, delivering such mind-blowing ecstasy that she let out a long-winded gasp, exhausting all of the air from her chest. But she refused to take another breath, refused to even move until this glorious moment ended. Then a sweet fatigue overcame her, and she finally inhaled his familiar, but…unexpected scent.

  She overlooked the discrepancy and held him tight, smiling through every heavy breath. “That was heaven.”

  She finally opened her eyes, now looking over his shoulder, almost expecting to find t
he world a different color. She had never experienced such a chain of intense orgasms, never felt so emotionally bonded with another man. And they were fully dressed. They hadn’t even had made love!

  “You touched my soul,” Marisa said, “in the same way your poem did.” She felt so relaxed, yet so exhausted, that she feared slipping to the floor.

  “My poem?”

  His voice comforted her, and she couldn’t stop smiling. But then something about his voice seemed…once again, unexpected. She pulled back to see his expression. And what she saw confused her – perhaps the fantasy playing in her mind had tricked her eyes into seeing the illusion that Alex, not Brad, stood before her. So she snapped her eyes shut. Waited a second. And opened them again.

  Alex remained beside her. Holding her. Looking baffled.

  She pushed away from him, aghast. Her breath came quick, trying to keep up with her heartbeat. “What…”

  “How did you get the poem I wrote you?”

  She shook her head, trying to dislodge what must have been a mental scan from the past, not a current image of the man standing in front of her. With a sideways glance, fearful that her eyes might once more deceive her, she met his gaze again.

  Alex moved toward her, reaching out to touch her. “I didn’t give you my poem. I lost it the night we saw each other at Apocalyptica a few weeks ago.”

  “That wasn’t your poem,” she said, disbelief overwhelming her, making her step backwards. “You’re lying. Brad wrote that for me.”

  “The hell he did!” Alex continued toward her, recalling a portion of the poem he’d memorized:

  “I want a that life that we can share

  And hope that you’re nearby to take me there

  No matter what I say, no matter what I do

  I know that I’ll always love you.”

  Having never felt so betrayed, Marisa back-peddled once more, wishing she had a poker from a fireplace, so she could keep him at arm’s length. “It can’t be.”

  “I must have dropped it.”

  “No.”

  “And he pawned it as his own.”

  “No. That costume. It’s Brad’s. I thought…”

  “What?” he asked, a hard edge entering his voice. “You thought I was Brad?”

  “Well, I hoped—”

  “You thought I was Brad, but you hoped it was me. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  Comprehension flashed across his face. “That’s pretty fucking disturbing!”

  “Wait, you’re playing that card? Really!? You went back to Cassandra’s house and kissed her.”

  “But I left.”

  “Because you were in love with me,” Marisa said.

  “Yes.”

  “So in all likelihood, you were kissing her but thinking of me. Do you see a similarity between the two?”

  “Kissing someone is not the same as what just happened. Besides, I took off the mask. You saw me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I turned your face towards mine.”

  “My eyes were closed.” That’s when the image of Batman kissing Cassandra entered her mind. If Alex had switched costumes with Brad…

  “Bastard,” she shouted. Filled with anger, but uncertain who she detested more, Alex or Brad, she edged backwards again, butting up against the wall.

  “If you hate me, that’s fine. But talk to me like my best friend, not your mother.”

  That comment drew her attention to what he might say next. As much as she didn’t want to hear that truth, she always suspected that Jaclyn’s demeanor had, on occasion, invaded her spirit, and her tone had occasionally exited Marisa’s mouth.

  “That aloof voice, lacking feeling and emotion. That’s not you. It’s your mother. And God help me, but I hate her. She’s mean and cold and cruel. And you’re not her. So don’t act like her.”

  He voiced the thoughts that had consumed Marisa since her earliest memories, that one day she would become as demeaning and heartless as her mother, that she would lash out at her husband, using every excuse to diminish his pride and undermine his confidence.

  And now that her greatest fears had been uttered aloud, she found herself torn between anger and self-loathing, because Alex caught her embodying the aspects she most abhorred.

  The self-fulfilling prophecy had come to fruition; she’d transformed into her mother. Ashamed of herself for lacking the strength to restrain Jaclyn’s cold-hearted personality from penetrating her psyche, Marisa started shaking. She’d never felt so worthless, so alone.

  “Hey,” Alex said, approaching her. “You’re not her.” He moved in and wrapped his arms around her. “Your mother is weak. She acts that way because she lacks compassion. And you’re a successful, loving, strong-willed woman. You’re nothing like her.” He pulled back to meet her eyes and placed both palms against her tear-streaked cheeks. “Do you hear me?”

  Marisa wanted to believe him, wanted to trust him. But how could she after he’d tricked her? Or had he? She shook her head, pulling away from him. Feeling him holding tight, she pushed and shoved until she broke away from his embrace and headed for the door.

  “Last Christmas,” Alex said, “who bought me Blackhawks tickets? Would your mother have done that?”

  In the middle of the room, she stopped, eager to hear words to convince her that she and Jaclyn were nothing alike.

  “Last year, when Lance went to Hawaii for two weeks: who did he ask to take care of his two Beagles? You didn’t know anything about dogs, but you read up about it, just so you’d treat them right. Would your mother have done that?”

  The Beagles were a handful. The puppies were balls of energy and tested her patience, but she ended up enjoying their company. And when her boss returned from vacation, she reluctantly parted with them and felt lonely at home for more than a month afterwards. She considered getting a dog, but she feared that her mother’s temperament would one day inhabit her body, and she would mistreat the canine.

  “When we first met, you introduced me to everyone on staff to make me feel comfortable. You made me feel like part of the team. You made me feel… special. And you’ve made me feel special every day that I’ve been at your side.”

  She looked toward the ceiling, pretending to see beyond the rafters, past the night and the stars, and into heaven, wanting to believe – pleading with God to let her trust Alex’s words.

  He came up behind her and placed his hands on her arms. “You’re nothing like your mother. Our minds have a way of tricking us even when the evidence disproves it. Your head can lie to you. But your heart can’t.”

  As much as she wanted to, Marisa couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust Brad. She couldn’t even trust herself. And she couldn’t continue listening to Alex dispute the truth when she knew otherwise. She broke free from his hands and ran out of the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  On Alex’s way out the door, Kelsey and Lauren stepped away from Damon and confronted him, asking why Marisa rushed out of the house.

  Alex didn’t answer them. How could he explain when he had no explanation? Although he’d lately consulted Damon about his love life, Alex only now realized who he needed to speak with when he parked his car outside his parents’ home. Other than discussing the Bears and the Cubs, the stock market, and his career, Alex didn’t often approach his father in conversation.

  An entire lifetime of conflicting interests told him that doing so would be impractical. But whenever he needed guidance, he never hesitated to seek out his father. And he’d never needed it more than at this moment.

  When Alex walked into the house, his father must have noticed the conflicting emotions on his face, because without one word, he escorted his son to the garage, the place he felt most comfortable. The two-car garage held his mother’s gold Hyundai Sonata and his father’s black Harley Dyna, which would be stored in Alex’s garage for the winter, to allow his dad to store his Ford Fusion in his own garage durin
g the coldest months of the year.

  Peg boards holding a metal shovel, gardening tools, shrub trimming tools, and plenty of similar items clung to opposing walls. His father sat on an iron stool in front of a scarred oak workbench he’d constructed over twenty years ago. A power drill, a buzz saw, various wrenches and sockets, and a hammer were spread out on a countertop that held over 60 small, transparent containers filled with nuts, bolts, screws, washers, and dozens of other tiny elements necessary to build, maintain, or fix. Everything was scattered in tiny boxes.

  More than anything, Alex respected his father’s handyman abilities. His dad had tried teaching him how to work on his first car and how to create a xylophone for an Industrial Arts class during middle school, but no matter how hard he’d tried, Alex just couldn’t grasp the concepts and terminology.

  It frustrated his father, who picked up this knowledge from his four brothers. But since he only had one son, deep down Alex could tell that his father felt like he’d failed to bring up a son with the basic knowledge that every man should know: how to repair things around the house.

  This aspect, more than any other, had set up an imaginary dividing line between father and son. Because his dad worked with his hands, while Alex worked with his head, they had little to talk about and even less to discuss. Each man respected the other’s innate qualities, but their different natures made it difficult for them to communicate on a level playing field.

  “What’s on your mind?” asked his father.

  Alex leaned up against his mother’s vehicle. “I bought a bike. A 2004 Harley Sportster.”

  His dad squinted, disbelief dancing in his eyes. “No.”

  “Yeah, I did. It’s blue. I got it about three weeks ago. My friend Damon helped me learn to ride. I got my license last weekend.”