by Kim Bailey
His light groan is followed by an even lighter kiss to my temple. “Are you sure?” he challenges.
I’m sure of nothing.
His mouth moves over my face, which has turned up to meet his. His lips skim over my forehead, my cheeks, and the tip of my nose. There’s a steady pounding in my chest, but I can’t tell if it’s my heart or his beating out of control.
“Well?” he asks. “Are you going to let me take you on a date? A real one? With more talking and handholding and maybe a kiss at the end of the night?”
“A kiss at the end of which night?”
“Please, quit tempting me. I swear, you’re a sadist.” I’d think he was making a joke, but there’s true pain in his expression. “I want to do this thing right, Zadie. Will you let me?”
“Cal, we —”
My feeble, final attempt to object is cut short by his mouth. It’s hot and urgent, and feels even more amazing than I remember.
For a moment, I forget. I forget about the crowd around us, I forget about the world. All I can focus on is the way his evident need for me ratchets my own desire, my own desperate need for more.
But, just for one moment.
My stomach rolls, jolting me into focus with alarming speed and efficiency. Reluctantly, I tear my mouth from his, whimpering involuntarily when the air hits my wet lips. My craving for him is far from satisfied.
Loosening my hold, I try to back away, but he doesn’t let me get far. His arm holds me in, cradling me against him.
“Say yes, Zadie,” he whispers into my ear.
“Yes?” I question.
“I can taste how much you want this, and I know you can feel how much I do. Are you going to keep denying it?”
His words, somehow erotic, send shivers racing down my spine making every hair on my body stand on end.
“Maybe I gave you the wrong impression,” he says. “When I said I didn’t want to be your friend, what I meant is that I can’t be just your friend. What happened in my bathroom was more than physical for me. I hope you know that.”
My lusted gaze turns watery, regret and rejection taking over. “Friends is all I can handle right now, Cal.”
“You mean friends is all you’re willing to trust right now. I get it, Zadie, I really do—you’ve been fucked over—but I’m not like that.”
“I know you’re not,” I quickly reassure. Of course, I know. He’s nothing like that. He’s the complete opposite. Everything about him screams safe, secure, and fucking wonderful.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I’m pregnant. That’s the problem,” I manage in a hoarse whisper that’s barely audible over the music.
“That’s not a problem.” His urgent plea, hot in my ear. “It’s a goddamn miracle. And it doesn’t change anything for me. I still want you. All of you.”
I want nothing more than to believe him. To kiss him again. To feel his desire again. To forget everything again. But the sick feeling is back. I don’t know if it’s the heat, my hormones, or the unrivaled surge of fear making me woozy.
“I can’t think right now,” I tell him honestly. Turning, I stare at the dance floor. The mass of bodies, pulsating like a single organism. “This place is making me ill.”
***
Caleb
RAGE. IT CLOUDED BOTH my vision and my judgment. When I saw that pig with his hands on Zadie, my first instinct was to protect her—even if she didn’t want me to. Even if she didn’t need me to. But somehow, that anger quickly morphed to something else entirely. A feeling I’ve even less control over.
The impulse to take her, to make her mine. Forever.
I was intoxicated by the press of her body, her arms wrapped tightly around me, and her mouth welded to mine. Drunk off her beauty. Drunk on desire.
Now, staring at her profile—beautiful and unsure—I’m hit with another urge. The distinct need to get the hell out of this club. Ditch the flashing lights. Eliminate the monotonous, restricting bass. Lose the crowd.
I want to take her away from anything and anyone who could possibly ever hurt her. For once, I don’t want to be lost in a swarm of people. I don’t care about feeding off anyone’s energy, or about staying anonymous in a crowd. All I want is Zadie.
“Let’s get out of here,” I suggest, caressing her arm.
She looks reluctant, but nods in agreement. Taking her by the hand, I maneuver us through the mass of people. We sidestep a couple of drunks who stagger into our path, quickly making our way to the exit.
I urge her to continue following me through Montreal’s underground. The sound of the up-tempo dance music slowly fading as we find our way outdoors.
Street lamps and starlight greet us as we step out onto the cobblestone sidewalk. Hand in hand we soak in the city nightlife. Even with all the shops closed and the chill of approaching winter in the air, this place is vibrant. Alive.
“Your cousin disappeared with a man,” she tells me, uneasiness in her tone.
“Is that normal for her? Actually, don’t answer that. Do you think she’s safe?”
“Yeah, I think so. They seemed to know each other extremely well, but I’ve never seen him before.”
“Isn’t that kind of weird?”
“Everything’s weird these days,” she mumbles, her hand flexing in my grip.
“Come on,” I say, pulling her toward the line of taxis parked on the street. “Let’s go.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the other girls that we’re leaving?” she stalls.
“They’re Chante’s friends, if she can leave without saying goodbye, then so can we. Besides, I doubt they’ll even notice we’re gone.”
“Okay...but where are we going?” she insists.
“On a date.”
“Wha—?” Her expression is adorable. The wrinkle of her forehead and the dramatic arch of her eyebrow remind me of the night we first met.
“I’m kidding, Zadie,” I reassure. “I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve had enough excitement for tonight. I’m taking you home.”
It’s not a long drive, and this time of night—or early morning—with little traffic on the road, it won’t take us long to get there. Still, our taxi driver seems impatient. Maybe he was hoping for a better fare and is anxious to get rid of us. Or, maybe he’s a stunt driver in his spare time. With his foot heavy on the gas, we’re barreling at dangerous speeds toward our destination.
“Would you mind slowing down a bit,” Zadie asks, her knuckles turning white as she clutches the seat.
Mumbling under his breath, I catch the tail end of the cabbie’s belligerent French curse. I’m about to repeat Zadie’s request a bit more forcefully, but the car suddenly swerves. Our driver takes an unexpected, unnecessary sharp turn. Despite her seatbelt, Zadie slides toward me. On instinct, I throw my arm across her middle, stopping her trajectory.
This asshole’s going to kill someone.
“Arrêtez!” I demand.
The driver’s eyes snap to mine in the rear-view. When he recognizes how serious I am he begins mumbling again. But this time he slows the car, eventually stopping at the curb. Zadie jumps out as soon as it’s safe.
“Twelve dollars,” he barks at me as I open my door.
“No dollars,” I tell him. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the police.”
Slamming the door, I watch as he pulls away, squealing the tires as he goes. I’m tempted to call the police anyway. Someone like that shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel, especially not for a living.
My body’s shaking as I come down from another major surge of adrenaline. I’m still contemplating a call to the police when I hear Zadie crying. Turning, I’m prepared to apologize, to comfort her, but her tears aren’t what I expect. She’s not crying, she’s laughing.
Full-on hysterics.
“What the hell?”
“I don’t know which was scarier,” she manages between outbursts. “His driving, or your face.” She wipes at her tears with one hand, whil
e holding her stomach with the other.
“What’s scary about my face?”
“You’re all...” She attempts to mimic my expressions, but only ends up laughing harder.
“A thank you would be nice,” I joke, stepping close beside her. My arm joins hers, wrapped around her middle. “I just saved your life.”
She breathes deeply, her laughter quickly dying as she laces her fingers with mine. Drying the last of her tears on the sleeve of her sweater, she peers up at me. Humor lights her mascara smudged eyes, her lips twitching at the corners.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “For saving me.”
She turns me inside out, and she doesn’t even know it. My irrational, impulsive need to be her savior, fulfilled by the sincerity of her sweet voice.
“Not just you,” I whisper, moving our joined hands lower on her stomach.
Her eyes widen on a silent gasp, the humor long gone.
“You okay to walk the rest of the way?” I ask.
Clearing her throat, she tugs away from my grip. “Yeah. Absolutely, yeah.”
“Even in those heels?”
Looking down at the flashy red, stilettos on her feet she smiles. “I love these shoes. I could walk for miles in them.”
We travel the remaining blocks quietly, calmly. Both of us seem lost in our own thoughts. The only sounds are traffic and Zadie’s heels, clicking on the cement. I don’t mind the peacefulness, but part of me is still desperate to know exactly what she’s thinking. Am I taking up as much space in her thoughts as she is in mine?
By the time we make it to our building, her pace has slowed considerably. The shoes she loves so dearly, hobbling her steps. If I thought she’d allow it, I’d offer to carry her. I’d love nothing more than to sweep her off her feet.
The elevator’s waiting at the ground floor. “Are you willing to get on this thing with me?” I joke.
Zadie simply smiles, shuffling into the car. She doesn’t notice when I press the button for my floor, but not hers. She leans against the wall, closing her eyes.
As usual, the elevator creaks and groans as it starts its ascent. Turning away from the bank of controls, I face her. Despite the traumas of the evening, she looks content.
Beautiful, as always.
“Are you going to kiss me again?” she murmurs, her eyes still closed.
“I was thinking about it.” I’m tempted. So tempted. “But maybe it’s not such a good idea.”
Lifting her soft brown eyes to mine, she whispers, “Why not?”
Why not? It’s hard to rationalize, hard to remember, when I’m engulfed by an inferno caused by her lazy, lustful stare.
“Because friends don’t kiss each other,” I remind her, my voice straining with need. “And, I believe you said, really good friends know how to pretend they don’t want to.”
“Hmm...” She smiles. “I did say that.”
“You did.”
The elevator grinds to a halt and the doors slide open. I take her hand again, pulling her with me to my apartment. My goddamn unlocked apartment. I swear, I’m going to tie a key around Chante’s neck.
It’s not until we’re stepping over the threshold that she decides to object. Tugging back on my hand, she asks, “What are we doing?”
“Nothing inappropriate, friend, don’t worry. We’re going to sleep.”
Winning our tug-of-war, I make sure to turn the deadbolt before leading Zadie to my room.
“You want me to sleep here? With you?”
Standing at the end of the bed, I pull her gently into my arms. “Yes. I want you here. With me. It’s purely selfish. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re somewhere safe.”
Doubt creases her forehead. “And you think this is where I’ll be safest?”
“One hundred percent.” I kiss her lightly on the top of her head before grabbing my sweats and a T-shirt for her.
“You can use the washroom first,” I offer.
She groans, “I’ll use Chante’s, thanks.”
My laugh is interrupted by my own pained groan when I enter my bathroom and see the tub. It mocks me—the perfect porcelain finish reminding me of Zadie’s smooth skin and the way I touched her.
She seems to take forever, so long, in fact, I almost go looking for her. But, just when I’m convinced she’s sneaked out to her own place, she shyly reappears at my bedroom door.
My T-shirt hits an inch above her knees. Her bare knees. She’s holding my borrowed sweat pants at her side, her pale, thick thighs peeking out from the hem of the shirt.
“Maybe I should sleep in Chante’s room, or on the couch,” she suggests.
“Why would you do that?” I scoff, walking to her and taking the unused pants from her hand. “That would defeat the purpose of having a sleep over.”
“So, that’s what this is now? A slumber party? Are we going to braid each other’s hair, too?”
“Don’t be silly.” Tossing the pants aside, I guide her toward my bed. “We’re way too old for that nonsense. We can tell ghost stories instead.”
With a giant, tired smile she gives in. We both climb into the bed, cautious and respectful of each other’s space. Too much space.
I want nothing more than to pull her into me. I want to feel her head nestled on my chest, and have her body spread over mine. But I don’t want to take the risk of pushing her away again.
Lamenting the strip of empty mattress between us, I allow her to keep a respectable distance.
“Thanks for staying.” Daring to cross the divide, I reach out and take her hand in mine again.
“I feel safer already,” she says on a heavy, yet satisfied sounding sigh.
I can’t tell if she’s joking or not—she’s already half-asleep. It doesn’t matter. I feel better, having her here. Even if she is still too far away.
We fall asleep holding hands, the warmth of her palm, heating my heart.
***
Zadie
I’M WOKEN BY A low rumbling moan. Like a distant thunder, the sound rolls up my spine, erupting softly in my ear. Cal’s arm is tightly banded around me, his hardening length pressed up against my ass. When he shifts, growling out another stormy sound, my body responds. A lightning strike of heat courses through me, flaring bright between my legs.
He feels so good, curled around me. And I feel good, having him there.
He settles and so does my foggy, sleep thirsty brain. The flames reduce to smoldering embers. Burrowing into the pillow, I’m ready to give myself over to the warm lure of slumber. Until Caleb shifts again. All his taut, lean muscles rub against me. His hand—talented, steady, and soothing—lazily caresses up my stomach, landing firmly on my breast.
This time, the noise that wakes me is my own. I can’t help the whispered gasp of pleasure. The fire inside me roars back to life, flames licking my center.
One light, squeezing palm of my breast and I’m set to shatter. An insurmountable craving grows. I need to feel his hands roaming over me, in me. It won’t take much, just a bit of friction—the flick of his thumb, or the pinch of his fingers.
God. I feel so desperate.
What was it he said last night? He wanted to keep me safe? I have no idea what harm he thought he was protecting me from, but I’d played his game of rescuing hero—he earned it.
But this is not safe.
This is the most dangerous place I could possibly be. Very bad things are begging to happen. Begging me to make them happen. Very good, very bad things.
With a stealth barely possessed, and rarely used, I slowly extricate myself from his hold. Rolling off the mattress, I’m careful not to make noise as my feet hit the floor. Collecting last night’s offered sweat pants and my senses, I quietly find my way to his bedroom door.
For the second time, and hopefully the last, I squash my guilty conscience as I sneak away. I leave Caleb asleep in his bed. This time, I spit in hope’s face and I don’t look back as I flee.
Less than two hours later, I’m showered, dr
essed and staring at my phone. The text I’d thought about sending Sean last night reappears as I type out my plea for him to call.
We need to talk. PLEASE call me.
Once again, I’m reluctant to send it.
Why am I begging him? Where the hell is my spine? I’ve been so intent on the mistakes I’ve made. So worried about how he’ll react to the news, so concerned about the role he will or won’t want to play in the life of my child. I’ve forgotten, he’s just as responsible as I am, if not more so. I shouldn’t be begging, I should be fucking demanding. I’m the one who should be calling the shots.
I hit delete, then hastily rewrite the message.
We need to talk. Call me, ASAP.
No more second guessing or doubt. I hit send on that fucker faster than he walked out my door. No more regret. In its place, conviction. I’m moving forward with my life, regardless of his decisions. Regardless of my mistakes.
With that same confident conviction, I finish off my enormous bottle of water and head back to Chante’s.
Letting myself into her apartment, I try in vain to keep my courage in place. I’m here for a purpose. No matter what happened last night, or any of the nights before, I won’t let my confused feelings over Caleb derail me.
Today’s an important day. My first ultrasound. Chante better hold my hand extra-tight because, despite my determination, I’m an anxious mess.
It’s not until I hit the living room that I realize how quiet it is. Eerily quiet. Despite knowing the futility of my actions, I race into Chante’s bedroom. I’m hoping she’s just asleep, but I find nothing other than her rumpled bedsheets and dirty laundry.
Where the hell is she? Did she stay out all night? Did she forget about me?
Anxiously pacing, I forget to be quiet as I check my phone for a missed call or text. My thoughts race with concerns for Chante, and worry for how late I’m going to be to my appointment.
“Hey,” Caleb says, stumbling from his room as he sleepily rubs his eyes. “What time is it?” he asks.
His hair’s pulled back in a messy knot, his T-shirt’s wrinkled, and his pillow’s still imprinted on his cheek. Even straight out of bed he’s handsome, maybe more so—especially with his bare feet.