by L. C. Morgan
It was a fair enough question of her to ask, but I was at a loss for words, not really wanting to rehash my sad past at the moment.
“Mom,” Mona warmed, but I waved her off.
“It’s okay,” I said and turned my attention back to her mother. “I actually don’t have any family.”
“Oh, you poor thing. No family at all? Do you mind if I ask how?”
“Mother.”
Waving Mona off again, I told them both my sob story, leaving out certain parts that essentially led to my move.
I hated the matching looks of pity, but I smiled through the pain, attempting to take the attention off me. “So, have you guys always lived here?”
“Oh, yes. Big Bear born and bred. Every single one of us.” Martha was more than happy to tell me how she’d met and knew she’d found her future husband and father of her children at the tender age of five.
“Mona married her high school sweetheart, too. We thought for sure Joe would marry Meg, but I think things worked out for the best.” Shrugging, she took a sip of her drink then dabbed her lips dry.
“Have you met anyone while you’ve been in town? Perhaps we should introduce her to Joe.” Martha looked at her daughter. “She’s so much nicer than Meg, prettier too.”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Mona’s outburst was surprising. I excused myself to go hide in the bathroom while Martha chastised her for being so rude. However, the white walls were thin, and I could still hear them bickering all the way down the hall.
After a while, the voices calmed down. The yelling turned to murmurs and the murmurs turned to silence.
The silence was what lured me out of hiding, where I found Martha standing alone in the hallway, staring at her son’s picture.
“He was eighteen when this was taken.” She sighed, fingering the edge of the frame. “I begged him not to go, but he was insistent. Had his mind made up. He’s stubborn like that, you know.”
With another sigh, she dropped her hand, but not her eyes. Her eyes stayed trained on her stubborn boy in green.
“I’m sorry about that in there.”
I shook my head even though she couldn’t see it. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” She gave me a smile before turning back to the picture.
“Meg was engaged to Joe, but she was also Mona’s best friend. When they broke up, she was devastated.” Glancing toward the kitchen, she lowered her voice. “She doesn’t know the real reason Meg left, and Joe wants to keep it that way. But she’d see that girl was no good if she’d just put her own feelings aside. She’s just as stubborn as her brother.”
She smiled up at the picture on the wall. “Mona suspects you’ve been seeing Joe, but a mother always knows. He hasn’t told you any of this, has he?”
“No.”
Frowning, she shook her head, sending mine racing. “You never think it will happen to you, ya know? Not your son. He was lucky.” Nodding, she cleared her throat, her soft sniff stirring a violent storm inside my chest. The memory of Joe’s pain caused her pain, which caused me pain in a perpetual procession. So powerful, I could feel it—how it lingered.
“I think about those mothers every day, the ones who lost their children. I may have lost the man he once was”—she paused, grabbing my hand as if it could help her through it—“but at least he’s still here,” she reminded herself.
I repeated it in my mind over and over again.
“I can see him, talk to him … hold him.” Watching her wipe away what she couldn’t hold back, I took a deep breath, swallowing the painful lump in my throat. It burned me to learn of Joe’s suffering, the smoky ashes coating the lining of my throat, threatening to choke if I didn’t release a sob. I let it strangle me, intent on listening carefully, occasionally wiping a runaway tear when one dared to trickle down my cheek.
It was true, Joe had been lucky on that fateful day in June—the day his unit was passing through town, most blown to bits by a detonated car bomb. Any closer and his injuries would have been far worse—fatal even.
“Most of his injuries were internal,” she told me, which explained the lack of scars, but only the ones you could see. “Nothing even hit him; he hit it.” Her choked sob resounded, demanding my heart to crack and the dam to break, flooding my chest with cold blood and filling my eyes with searing tears. How scared he must have been, no matter how fast it all had happened. He must have felt it, seen it. He must have remembered something.
Snapping my eyes shut, I pictured it over and over again.
“He wasn’t breathing when they found him, couldn’t find a pulse, and by the time help arrived his throat had closed off, and they had to perform the tracheotomy.” Gesturing to her throat, she met my gaze. “He couldn’t talk for the longest time and then when he could, he wouldn’t. Not even to tell his sister that Meg took off on her own. She couldn’t handle it: the tubes, the drama, the stress.” Catching a tear, she wiped it on her pants. “She stuck around for a while, but I knew it wasn’t going to last. How was she going to marry my son when she couldn’t even bring herself to hold his hand while he lay helpless in that hospital bed?”
I couldn’t imagine not wanting to hold Joe’s hand, or not wanting to be by his side through thick and thin. I realized I didn’t know him back then, but still, how could she do it? How could she turn her back on the man she was going to marry? And in his most life-altering time of need?
A certain understanding hit me just then, a revelation that formed a kinship between me and the one who had done Joe and his family so wrong. When all was said and done, Meg had done them a favor, just as Mark and Julie had done me. No matter how cruel or unkind it may have been at the time, it was a favor just the same.
Wiping the tears from her face, Martha helped me with mine, pulling me in for a bone crushing hug.
“I didn’t tell you all of this to make you sad or upset you,” she assured, squeezing me even tighter. “You just needed to understand, to know what I know he won’t tell you. I don’t want his stubbornness to run you off, like Mona thinks it did Meg. Just the fact that he’s spending his time with you means the world. You’re special.”
Martha held me so long and so lovingly as she swayed me back and forth that I almost fell asleep in her arms.
When we returned to the kitchen, Mona had poured us all a glass of iced tea, and we gathered around the table—them telling stories of happier times while I sat back to listen and laugh. It was nice learning about Joe even if the information wasn’t coming from Joe himself.
I thought about him the whole ride home, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of his truck parked in the driveway.
How was I going to act when I went inside? Was I going to act none the wiser? Pretend I didn’t know why he was hesitant to trust me? Was I going to stay silent and continue to take whatever I could get? Or was I going to break through those stubborn walls, tear them down and take what I wanted?
Finding him in the bedroom, I took him in, all shirtless and faded jeans. Head to toe, he was covered in grease. Turning to find me gawking, his hands went for the silver buckle on his belt. But it was the smirk on his lips that sold me, helping me to make my final decision.
Pushing off the doorframe, I was on a risky mission, reaching out to touch his bare chest, watching the turned-up corner of his mouth lowering into a frown as my hand kept creeping toward the bottom of his beard.
I wanted to see the scar, wanted to let him know I knew it was there. That I always would be there.
Grabbing my wrist, he stopped my advances cold. “What are you doing?” he asked, eyes hard and unwavering.
“Show me.”
The crease in his brow deepened, and his grip tightened, but not enough to hurt me—never enough to hurt me. If he wanted to do that, he’d simply have to let go.
“Who told you about that?” The flare of his nostrils took the brunt of his anger.
I fumbled for the words, my bravery quickly slipping. What could I say? That
his mother gave away all the secrets he was too scared to give himself?
“Not you, that’s for sure,” I pushed, apparently bound and determined to make him finally talk or leave for good.
Twisting my arm loose, I continued to try and reach out to him, but he was too strong, both of us too hard-headed to bend and give in. There was so much fight in him, the proof in how he was still standing and striving, his body probably the strongest it had ever been.
It broke my heart to watch his suffering, knowing that I could be who he needed me to be, that I was better than her, that he deserved this and that I could make him happy.
Letting go of my wrist, Joe stepped around me in an attempt to leave.
“I’m not her, Joe, please,” I pleaded, that sob I was holding back earlier in the day finally breaking free. Another followed right behind the first. “I’m not Meg. I’m not leaving. I wouldn’t.”
He stopped just as he reached the doorway, his fists clenched tight by his sides. I slowly approached, placing my hand on his back. “I don’t want you to leave either.”
Joe didn’t seem to care what I wanted when he took off for the front door, leaving me alone with all these feelings I didn’t know how to deal with.
The revving of his engine died soon after it started and before I knew it, he was standing in front of me again.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was low and raspy. Pulling me into his arms, he wrapped them tightly around me. Mine wrapped even tighter around him as he lifted my feet off the floor and walked us both to the bed, his hands sliding down to spread my thighs so I could straddle his lap once he sat. Cradling my backside, he touched his forehead to mine. “No more leaving.”
I shook my head and he reached for my wrist. “You can’t see, but you can feel.” His thumb worked little circles into my palm as he brought my hand up to the base of his neck and hesitantly threaded my fingers through the coarse hair.
I felt the bob of his Adam’s apple before I did the small scar. Looking up, I found his eyes reddened and weary and wholly focused on me.
In all my years, I’d only seen one other man cry. His snotting and slobbering was disturbing and unbecoming. It verified the saying that real men weren’t supposed to. However, watching a real man fight it, that was truly a sight to see.
His other hand held on tightly to my hip as he brought my hand to the back of his head.
The skin beneath my fingers was raised and bumpy, another vicious reminder of where he had been and what he had endured while living there, helpless to protect himself while selflessly defending his country.
Gently urging his chin back, I was well aware of his carefully guarded eyes. How they watched as I dipped, allowing my lips to brush against the thinner bristle near the base of his throat. It was as overwhelming as it was insanely intimate, kissing that cleverly covered scar—the one that once helped him to breathe.
Not only had he built metaphorical walls around himself and his heart, he built physical walls as well, hiding his pain, shrouding the past and disguising those scars behind a well-grown beard and shaggy head of hair.
Gripping my waist, he ran his hands beneath the fabric of my tank, inadvertently tickling my ribs as they slid the fabric from my body. A cool rush of air hit my feverish flesh.
“You’re nothing like her.” His words shocked the lining of my stomach as his lips found my neck, trailing light kisses along my rapidly beating pulse. “She didn’t look like you, didn’t think like you, didn’t care like you.”
Nosing his neck, I breathed in that sweat-doused cedar, basking in the dizzying effect it and this man had on me. I couldn’t get close enough. I couldn’t get enough. Not now, maybe not ever.
The pads of his fingers were rough against my skin, the calluses sending a ripple of excitement as they slid up my back and threaded through my hair. A paralyzing anticipation took hold when he tightened his grip and tilted me back, his eyes flickering up to mine then back down to my mouth before he pulled me forward again and pressed my lips to his.
The scratch of rough whiskers surrounded the softness of his mouth. Warmth filled my chest and spread out to my limbs, and they tightened around his neck as his lips parted, letting his tongue slide against mine. He tasted like he smelled, all sweet and right with a hint of smoked hickory.
Tightening his grip on my hips, he easily flipped us, laying me flat on my back to hover between my legs. His mouth remained hard and feverish, pushing my head down and into the downy comforter, his fingers lightly trailing along my sides. I reveled in the sensation of two entirely different tactile touches.
The weight of him was wonderful. His hands were welcomed as they dipped under the stretchy band of my pants. I lifted my hips, his mouth never leaving mine as he pulled them down my legs and tossed them aside.
Rough knuckles brushed against my lower stomach while he fumbled with the buckle of his jeans, pushing them down as far as he could. His lips left mine briefly, but I followed, pulling him back down while both of our feet tried and kicked the difficult denim the rest of the way off.
I never wanted to breathe again if it meant not feeling his lips, his tongue as it slipped in and slid against mine.
Grabbing my wrists from around his neck, he laid them on the soft downy, tentatively threading our fingers.
“She never made me feel the way you do.” The intensity of his confessions was fogging, white noise made up of stolen exhalations. It was impossible to breathe after what he said next. “And I could never feel for her the way I do for you.”
Chapter Twelve
I woke with the feeling of fingers skimming softly across my back. Twirling and swirling, the rough pads traced indecipherable shapes on the surface of my skin.
His breath was hot against the crown of my head, blowing heat in the same spot with each exhale, leaving it too cool on every silent inhale.
The bed wiggled when he moved, the mattress dipping down just under my shoulder as he adjusted behind me. I pictured him propped up on his elbow, his palm cradling the side of his head, the muscle of his bicep flexed to support it. But I didn’t dare look, too afraid it might spook him and make him stop.
This was the first time I’d woken to such tenderness, and as much as I wanted to see, I didn’t want him to stop, so I imagined. I imagined his hair all tossed and pillow-pushed, the piercing pine of his eyes dark and sleepy. I imagined those muscles, all tan and brawny, tempting and tightened in all the right places.
Those eyes were boring into my flesh. I knew they were. I could feel them, how they explored, following right along with the trail of his fingers.
Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the sensation, the barely-controllable shivers he so sweetly summoned, as he stopped mid spine, running the tip of one finger up and out, swinging it back in with a semi-circular swerve.
Heart.
My own jumped when he cleared his throat, my belly flip-flopping around, neither one expecting it when he actually spoke.
“I used to wish I died that day.” The tips of his fingers dipped down toward my lower back and under the cotton sheet that covered me. Crawling back up my spine, he ran them down the other side, the sheet creeping lower and lower with every sweep of his hand. “I’m glad I didn’t.”
His words were as soft as his swirls on my skin, making me shiver as he pulled the sheet down the rest of the way, his hand slowly sliding up the back of my thigh.
I was glad he didn’t die that day either; just the thought sent me into a paralyzing panic, the words dying on my lock-jawed lips.
I hated what-ifs.
What if this? What if that?
They were a waste of time and caused so much undue stress, premature wrinkles. I was going to have to give in and start using a stronger anti-aging serum at the rate my mind was reeling, the upsetting thoughts never ceasing.
What if he’d died that day?
I didn’t like to think about it.
I didn’t want to think about it, because I didn’t want
anyone else.
Plain and simple.
He was it.
Thank God he didn’t die that day.
My thoughts paused with his hand. My lungs strained as my heart pounded. I wondered if he worried, as well. If he thought about those pesky what-ifs as much as I did. Did they bother him as much as they did me?
His hands were a good distraction. Warmth spread through my lower abdomen as he curled his fingers over my hip to flip me over and onto my back. Lifting one of my legs, he situated himself between them, letting the limb go as he bent down to press his lips to mine. My heart soared as his tongue reached out to mine. My hands came up to cradle the sides of his head. They slipped lower to the coarse hair covering his jaw.
Searing heat burned the corner of my eyes, my vision blurring right before I blinked, basking in the hard press of his mouth. I wiped at the embarrassing evidence of my happiness as he pulled away.
“I meant it, you know,” he said, sleepy greens lit by a sliver of the morning sunlight. The dust danced as they darted from side to side, unable to pick and choose just one of my eyes.
“Everything I said.” Not letting me get a word in edgewise, his mouth worked its way down, the tickle of his beard causing my stomach to tighten. Baring his teeth, he nipped at my waist. “I love the way you taste.”
Agonizingly slow, he slid down the length of my body, stopping to hover, his hot breath blowing over the sensitive space between my legs. The weight of his upper arm rested on top of my lax thigh, and I attempted to raise my hips, my mound just grazing the subtle smile on his lips. I moaned as they closed over me, soft and warm, his tongue slipping out to slide between my folds. Pushing my hips back down onto the bed, his mouth held me there, his head slightly shaking from side to side to help him sink deeper.
Spreading me wider with his shoulder, he hooked the opposite arm under my other leg, the rough pads of his fingers lying against my outer thigh. My free hand played with the tips of his fingers before tangling into my own hair. Gripping at the roots, I dug my heels into the springs of the mattress. My vision zoned in on the slight bob of his head, the hungry movement of his mouth as he tentatively ate me. The sight intensified the feel, causing my empty walls to flutter.