by Marata Eros
Finally, she is. Living.
Brooke gives me that lopsided smile . . . so perfect it makes my chest constrict. I am just now beginning to stop beating the shit out of myself for not understanding soon enough, guessing, calling Clearwater myself. Finally, it always comes around to the same thing: Brooke’s life. I still can’t believe how it all happened.
She slides her arms around my waist, gripping me, and I kiss her head. “You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Have you talked to Jake?”
I smile, thinking about that tough bird. He has a new scar to joke about. He likes to brag that his old ivory-topped cane that was used to bludgeon him with was a spit and polish away from looking good as new. It’s so Alaskan of him, I’d laughed—we repurpose everything. Apparently, even weapons used with intent to murder.
I nod at her question. “Yeah, he’s happier than a clam at high tide, keeping an eye on the boat.”
Brooke sighs, giving a little smile at my pun. “What about your house . . . and . . .” I press my finger to her lips.
“I told you, Tucker is house-sitting until I can move back . . .”
A smile curls her lips. “We,” she states, running her tongue on the lower part of her lip and I watch the small movement, an instant distraction.
The ownership in her voice makes every bit of me harden except my heart; it keeps beating, strong and sure—soft. For Brooke.
“Hell yes, we,” I answer, pressing my mouth to hers. She pushes back, her tongue sliding between my teeth and playing with mine. I forget we’re in the middle of the storage parking lot and attack her like it’ll be the last time I see her.
It won’t. But it’s a helluva excuse.
Finally, we break away, both our chests heaving, eyes locked on each other, and I laugh. “I can’t get enough,” I say, not minding the admission in the slightest.
She grins. “Me either.”
Then her grin fades. “We still need to stop by the FBI.”
We need to check in with Clearwater before we move to New York for the school term, beginning in September and finishing in May.
“Yeah,” I agree, reluctance thick in the one syllable.
I grab her hand and we move to my Ford Bronco, a mirror of Tucker’s but a khaki green that Brooke likes to tease me about. I stand by the original color scheme, defending it with its ability to tow nearly anything. Of course, that is after Tucker made a custom hitch, as those early Broncos were averse to towing. But no longer. I hitch the Bronco to the ten-foot U-Haul trailer and chain it.
Ready.
Brooke’s already in my Bronco and I can’t help but notice how gorgeous her eyes are . . . against the car’s baby-shit green. I give a low bark of laughter and she asks, “What?” Her brow furrows in a small frown.
Makes me want to kiss it away.
“I’m just thinking how hot you look in my car with all that green paint.”
“Huh . . . Yeah, get in here, clown.”
“Don’t you ‘clown’ me or I’ll put on a show . . .”
“No,” she says, wagging her finger as I rip open the car door and tackle her across the seat.
“Chance!” she squeals as I jerk her underneath me, the wide vintage seats perfect for my nefarious purposes.
I look down at her, my radar having already scoped out our isolation. We are the only ones in a narrow strip of asphalt that bisects the two low-slung rows of garage-style storage units.
“One for the road?” I ask quietly, my heart speeding.
Her lavender eyes darken, sparkling like jewels beneath me, and she nods.
I don’t waste time, unbuttoning a blouse so sheer a white Brooke had to wear a tank top underneath. I slip one thin strap off her shoulder and kiss the rounded top of the skin and she sighs. It’s such a lonely but contented sound I stop, looking into her eyes again.
“I never thought this was possible,” she says in a voice that holds hesitant wonder.
I grin suddenly and answer, “I never did either.” And I didn’t. How wrong I was.
I work my way down with the lightest kisses I can, really no more than the heat of my breath hovering on top of her skin, and she moves underneath me, opening more of her blouse so I can do more.
And then I do.
My tongue finds her nipple through the sheer material of her bra, her fair skin revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the palest pink leading to the sensitive peak. I move in slow circles, my eyes meeting hers as our gazes lock.
Brooke arches her back, driving her nipple deeper into my mouth, and I mound the flesh with my hand, pushing her breast further inside my mouth and give a long pulling suck and her legs open further as I swim between them.
I let her nipple go with a pop and her breast slides back from my hand, the vague outline of my teeth around the nipple.
It turns me on, seeing any part of myself imprinted on her.
It’s a primitive guy thing but it flat-out does it for me.
I take my thumbs and hook her shorts, the elastic giving way to me jerking them off her hips.
I leave Brooke’s blouse half on, taking my own shorts off with a pull and dismissive kick behind me as they slide to hide the pedals of my car.
I gaze down at Brooke, her black hair fanning behind her, a portion of it grazing the floorboards of the passenger side, her luminous eyes staring up at me, half-baked with lust, darkened with anticipation, and I don’t want it to end.
That look.
Her beneath me.
This moment.
My eyes roam her body, my eyes falling between her legs and my fingers spreading her apart to see the pink within.
“Chance!” Brooke says softly, my thumb driving against her clit while one finger slowly pumps inside her.
“Come for me,” I whisper beside her ear, that breast I’ve had in my mouth shoved hard against my chest as one of her legs flirts with my gearshift and the other is held by my other hand underneath the bend of her knee.
I feel a single wet pulse against my finger and my dick hardens to the point of pain but I hold back. I grit my teeth and feel it as she shatters.
I withdraw my hand and press myself inside her, the crushing rhythm of her orgasm driving me in.
Jesus . . . how she feels . . . slick, swollen . . . soft. “Brooke,” I murmur against her skin, my forehead pressing against hers as I get to the end of her and stop to breathe.
I wait, our bodies joined perfectly.
Brooke opens her eyes and I stare into them, my dick throbbing, her pussy caressing me in an almost unbearable rhythmic grip of velvet friction.
“I love you,” she says softly.
I withdraw from her, my eyes never leaving hers, and she gasps as I do, her body fighting me, our foreheads locked together. Her face looks like she’s in pain but when I look closer I see the glitter of tears.
I rock inside her deeply back and forth as those tears slide out of her eyes. When I can’t bear the sweetness of her another second, when she’s sucked everything from me, I feel my release and I bury myself inside her so deeply I feel like I’ll never be apart from her. Brooke wraps her legs around my pumping hips and groans, pressing her heels into my back.
I catch my breath, the interior smelling like sweat, sex . . . and Brooke. Always Brooke.
I scoot her back against the seat on her side facing me and she smiles, using her free arm to wipe away happy tears. By this time, I know the difference.
We stare at each other for a few moments, our heartbeats slowing together.
“So what do you have to say for yourself, Chance Taylor?” she asks through her tears, ecstasy at the edges like icing on a cake.
It’s too easy. “I love you more.”
She dips her head against my chest and cries.
I hold her while she does.
Brooke
I sit across from Clearwater’s desk, holding hands with Chance. Actually, breaking Chance’s hand.
He doesn’t even flinch . . . that’
s the kind of boyfriend he is, though boyfriend doesn’t do him justice. Avenger, rescuer, lover . . . those seem like better monikers. But to the general public, the press—he’s forever part of what brought the killer down.
Lacey.
As I look around my hometown I know I can never go back. There’s a wildness inside me now. Alaska’s in my blood. A quiet river that flows through my heart and mind, whose path changes yet remains the same.
Wherever Chance is will be my home.
“Miss Starr,” Clearwater asks again and I start, Chance squeezing my hand once.
I blush, realizing I’ve been zoning in my own little world.
“Yes,” I reply.
Clearwater smiles, and the scar at his throat lifts slightly with the movement. Somehow, it should ruin the perfection of his face, a blight on the beauty of it.
It doesn’t. The raw imperfection showcases how handsome he is and it gives us something to share. My scars don’t show like his, but they’re there.
Lacey made sure I’d never forget her, dead or alive.
I never will. But what I know now is she can never steal my happiness. Happiness is mine to own or choose—if I want it.
I do. I choose joy.
I turn to Chance and smile at him and he smiles back.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Clearwater remarks.
My face turns to him and I nod as Chance says, “Yes, Brooke’s worked really hard to get reinstated.”
“That’s great . . . and the other victims . . .”
“Survivors,” I correct, a hard edge like a steel rod driving down the center of that one word.
Clearwater nods acquiescence, his eyes a quiet study of black, the pupil hiding in all that dark brown. “They are very grateful for your advocacy.”
“It wasn’t all me,” I say, casting my eyes away from his, latching on to my hand laced with Chance’s. Still looking down I mutter, “Juilliard was very understanding.”
“Bullshit,” Clearwater says.
My eyes snap to his and Chance smirks.
“What . . . ?” I begin, confused.
He points a finger in my face. “You. Are. Brave.”
I gulp, my eyes burning. The void of my family looms large . . . overwhelming.
“Agreed?” he asks. But his eyes are not really asking. I glance at Chance for help and he stares blankly back.
Dammit. “I guess,” I finally say, so softly they both lean toward me.
“Brooke.” My eyes rise to meet his. “It’s normal to feel bad about . . . killing Lacey, about surviving your family, about her taking a friend.”
Evan, I think with a pang of grief. Clearwater’s eyes flick to Chance and he gives a subtle nod. Grief doesn’t own him.
“It’s also normal to be who you were meant to be. Nobody can rob you of that.”
I know this. My brain has told me this 101 times. Chance has told me. In that moment I know that reciting something to death doesn’t mean it’s true.
You have to believe for it to become reality.
I think I do.
I nod.
Satisfied, Clearwater relaxes, leaning back in his chair. “So you guys are off?”
I smile, thinking of making love to Chance in his Bronco in the storage parking lot. I blush and Clearwater’s brows rise. “Yes,” I answer quickly and Chance gives a soft chuckle.
He so knows what I’m thinking about.
“We’ve got a little slum studio rented,” Chance says.
“New York City’s damn expensive,” Clearwater agrees.
Chance raises our linked hands to his mouth, brushing his lips across my knuckles, and I shiver at the contact, his gaze all for me. “We’ll eat Top Ramen,” he says.
His eyes say more.
Clearwater lets the undercurrent we have run underneath him as if he’s a bridge, watching the water swirl below, guarding our passage.
And like any good guardian, he lets us go.
Marshal Decatur Clearwater stands and we do as well. He lifts his cell, a little different than any I’ve seen. I guess the FBI might have access to things us civvies don’t.
“Thanks for answering my text,” he says, his face free of accusation.
I laugh, a little nervously. “Yeah . . . I guess I’m over ignoring FBI messages.”
“Good thing,” Clearwater says with a wink.
I bob my head, letting go of Chance’s hand to shake Clearwater’s. Instead, he takes me in his arms, holding me tightly, and after a moment I hug him back.
He releases me and it’s only then that I notice his wounded eyes look less hurt. The bruise that’s shadowed them is no longer there.
I stand there for a moment with so many emotions I don’t know which one to embrace. My eyes move to the scar at his throat and I ask softly, though I know it’s the rudest thing ever, “How did that happen?”
He moves his hands to the raw line of twisted red.
“I was protecting a girl . . . a girl like you.”
I stand there. I have to know. “Is she . . . did she live?”
Clearwater nods. “She did. Now she’s doing what she is meant to.”
A fat tear rolls down my face. I don’t even know why. Chance wipes it from my cheek with his fingertip.
“That’s good,” I say quietly.
“Very good,” Clearwater agrees. He’s speaking about the girl, but the words are for me. All for me.
I turn around and walk away, feeling like I’m more than when I entered his office.
Feeling like myself for the first time in a long time, not stranded, no longer adrift. Not the Brooke Starr from before.
But fully embracing the Brooke I am now.
We drive in peaceful silence, our hands linked as Chance drives the Bronco one-handed, a low whistling seeping through the silence, the old radio in bad need of an overhaul.
I recognize the tune and hum along.
“Will you miss Alaska?” I ask, breaking through the melody like a dull knife through a slab of soft butter.
“Yes,” he instantly replies, and I feel bad, noting our random progress through the thick, saunalike heat of an Indian summer in South Dakota, my foot dangling out the window. Cars built in the 1970s aren’t big on air-conditioning. Air-conditioning is opening the window. Ours are cranked.
The wind breezes between my toes, my silver toe ring winking in the sunlight as the dusty car travels through endless fields of harvested corn.
Chance slants a glance at me. “But,” he says, and I instantly think of halibut, “fishing season conveniently occurs when you’re done for the summer . . .”
I look over at him, his left arm tanned to a deep bronze from the driving, his already dusky skin deeper from a summer in Washington. Every muscle stands in stark relief. His legs work the pedals on the floor and I watch the shadows of his strength at the small movements he makes while driving. My eyes move to his arm as his hand grips the wheel, the small muscles of his forearm connected to the huge ones of his bicep and beyond that a thick neck that I’ve held onto when he’s taken me in the middle of nowhere, not a surface in sight, suspended against only him as he drives into me.
The memory gives me goose bumps. “True,” I say. Breaking my contact with his hand, I walk my fingers to his thigh and Chance’s eyes darken with my contact.
“Not good for my concentration, Brooke,” he warns, and his ominous tone does something to me, pulling everything by invisible strings to loop and knot at my core, the heat bursting from the center of me.
“Oh?” I croon, unbuckling my seat belt and prowling the short distance across the seat, my ass in the air, my boobs hanging down on display.
And Chance is looking. He blinks, his hand turning white on the steering wheel.
“What are you going to do while I play until my fingers fall off?” I ask innocently . . . as those same fingers squeeze the hardness through his shorts and he sucks in a breath.
“Damn . . . Brooke . . .” he says, h
is breathing a little ragged.
I’m going to cause a wreck and I find . . . I’m not caring much. I have other things on my mind. Lots.
“Answer,” I say, giving him a hard squeeze and he moans, jamming his back into the seat, sweat popping on his brow.
“I’m going to play my guitar,” he answers through a throat squeezed for air.
His eyes move to mine for a moment, tortured. Then back to the road.
“So you’ll play gigs while your girlfriend plays piano . . .” He gasps. I laugh and pull my hand away. We can save that for later.
“I love you,” I say, my breath tickling his ear.
“I love you more,” he whispers.
TWENTY-FOUR
Nine months later
Chance
I’ve never wanted to cry as badly as I do now. My eyes are on fire with it . . . but I don’t. Instead, I get to my feet like everyone else in a standing ovation.
There are many who do cry. Brook’s that great, her talented fingers cause every head to turn, every longing sigh and pause of breath to heave and break.
My Brooke.
She stands and the roses fall, the petals like silky blood, filling the stage with their fragrant praise.
Brooke stands in the middle of the raining petals and gives a small bow, her floor-length velvet skirt a low and shimmering navy, a crisp white blouse that lovingly flows over curves I know so well they’re memorized.
Her last recital for the year has come and gone. The final ringing note signals her success as a pianist.
Her success as a human being.
Brooke is becoming who she was meant to be, and I’m so glad I’ve been there to see it.
The curtains sweep together as a small hand scoops up a rose that made the throw whole. Bringing it to her face she smells the delicate blossoms, and as the sliver of her face is swallowed by the deep red fabric of the curtain, her eyes meet mine.
The after-party is exactly what I expect it to be: boring. High-class types that I feel about as comfortable with as invading aliens. But Brooke’s comfortable with all of them. She moves between the intimate groups, champagne in one hand.
A waiter cruises through with a tray full of hors d’oeuvres and champagne held high. The golden liquid splashes inside with a burst of bubbles and he miraculously spills nothing.