by Tara Wylde
I squirm against him. “Paul.’
“Hmm?”
I bend my knee and rub my thigh against his hip.
“Please, take me. I … I need you. Now.”
He doesn’t wait to be told twice.
He captures my mouth in a kiss I feel all the way to my soul and slides in.
I thought I remembered our night together with perfect clarity, but I hadn’t. The memories, while good, can’t compare to the real thing.
Desperate for something to do, my hands grope at his back, slipping against the sweaty skin as I scream his name. My hips piston against his, driving him on as my inner walls clench, creating so much friction we both shudder and gasp.
I cling to him as, groaning my name, he thrusts one final time and empties himself. The feel of his hot cum coating my inner walls triggers my own release.
30
Lara
Christmas Eve
Nine days. That’s how much time has passed since I learned I was pregnant and Paul inserted himself back into my life.
Steam from the cup of raspberry tea I’m holding bathes my skin as I stare at the wall calendar beside the fridge and wonder just how the hell Paul managed to turn my life completely upside down in what really isn’t any time at all.
The first few days were pure heaven.
At night, I did the books while he worked the bar and, after the last customer went home, he carried me upstairs and make love to me until I couldn’t see straight. And then once more, until I couldn’t hear much, either.
We slept until late in the morning, rising when we felt like it instead of when an alarm clock told us to and spent the day doing the kind of things normal couples do. Cook breakfast, walk Atticus, talk about the past, and plan for our baby’s future.
It was pure bliss.
The only blip in our happy little world was another bout of graffiti on my windows, this message aimed at both me and Paul, leading Liam to believe that whoever was harassing me was also watching the place.
And the text messages. How could I forget them?
They are bad. Really bad. Not only aere they becoming more and more threatening, but I’ve started getting eight or nine of them a day. Liam keeps trying to trace the number but they keep leading back to a number of different burner phones. He’s started to talk about staking out the stores that sell such phones and seeing which customers match the description of my window artist.
But otherwise, life has been about as good as it could get. I’ve never been happier.
Finally, I felt safe admitting, just to myself, that I’ve fallen hard for Paul.
Of course, that’s when he got weird.
He started taking off for hours and hours at a time. Which wouldn’t bother me. No one can stand to live in another person’s pocket, no matter how much they enjoy their company. Eventually everyone needs some time and space to themselves. I get that.
What bothers me is that Paul refuses to tell me what he’s up to, or where he’s going, and he’s suddenly easily distracted. I want to trust him, but it’s getting harder.
And now. With the bar closed for the night, Paul and I agreed to get together with some of the employees to go caroling. We’re supposed to leave—I glance at my watch—in about twenty minutes and no Paul.
I tried calling him but it was directed straight to voicemail.
Footsteps sound in the landing. Atticus darts across the floor, nearly falling over his own feet in his haste. Well, that clears up any question as to who is on the other side of the door. My dog has fallen even harder for Paul than I have, and all but turns himself inside out whenever my lover is around.
I turn away from the calendar as Paul pushes the apartment door open.
“Where have you been?” I demand. “We need to leave in-”
Paul makes it across the living room, into the kitchen and has me pinned against the fridge, his mouth on my mine, his tongue practically touching my tonsils, before I finish the sentence.
I rise up on my toes and loop my arms around his neck, hanging on for dear life as I return the kiss. It doesn’t matter how mad I am at him, one touch and nothing else matters.
We tear at each other’s clothing. Sighs mingle, bodies strain together.
Once my jeans are on the floor and his are around his ankles, he grabs the back of my thighs, hooking them over his hips. I press my heels into his ass as he enters me in one smooth thrust.
While his hips flex and buck, he buries his face in my breasts, flicking his tongue across my nipple in a move that both torments and excites me.
Behind me, the cold fridge strikes a delightful counterpoint to the heat that threatens to burn me up from the inside out. Sobbing, I writhe against Paul, straining against him as intense spasms rock my body.
Boneless and breathless, we slide to the floor. Paul gathers me close to his chest and I rest my cheek against his heartbeat. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I whisper and kiss his cooling skin.
“Wasn’t it?” Paul strokes my hair.
“No. I was mad at you.”
“It’s Christmas Eve. A day that’s supposed to be all about love.”
He’s right, but that doesn’t ease the niggling sense of unease that pushes against the back of my mind each time he refuses to tell me what he’s doing.
“It’s just that I don’t understand why you won’t tell me why you keep taking off.”
Paul moves away from me and pulls his pants on. “You’ll find out soon. I promise.”
“Really?” It’s the closest he’s come to telling me anything.
“Really,” he repeats. “Now, aren’t we supposed to be meeting people? Walking up and down streets and torturing people by singing sappy songs in off-key voices?”
“Crap.” I get up so fast I slip on the floor.
Paul grabs my elbow, steadying me. “Take it easy,” he murmurs.
I reach up and back, exploring my hair. Our session against the fridge has left it a tangled mess.
“I need to get cleaned up. You get Atticus into his coat and booties and we’ll meet at the door in five minutes.”
It takes a little longer than I expected, but in nine and a half minutes, I rush out of the bathroom and find Paul and Atticus, dressed and waiting for me.
31
Lara
“I can’t get over how bad Rita sounds when she sings,” Emile says with a chuckle. “She has such a beautiful speaking voice, I assumed she’d be our star caroler. But no, she can’t carry a single note and she sounds as if she has a flock of bullfrogs living in her voice.”
“True,” I agree. “But you have to give her an A for being loud. I’m sure people three blocks-”
“Lara, look. The Blind Pig.”
I look in the direction Paul is pointing, and the bottom falls out of my stomach.
Three squad cars, lights flashing, are pulled up in front of the Blind Pig. Two officers, including one I recognize as Liam, are working together to put an enormous piece of plywood over the space where one of my fancy windows used to be.
A third pushes a pile of glass, the remains of one of the windows, with a wide broom.
I break into a run, barely looking both ways before darting across the road, scarcely hearing Paul and Emile calling my name, begging me to be careful.
Liam sees me coming and jumps down from his perch on my windowsill.
“Lara, it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Really?” I gasp. “Because it looks like my windows are gone. My very expensive windows. The windows that keep the inside of my bar protected. That seems pretty bad.”
Paul skids to a stop beside me. Atticus jumps on Liam’s legs, tail wagging. Liam bends down and scratches my dog behind his ear.
Paul wraps an arm around my waist. His eyes meet Liam’s. “What happened?”
“About an hour ago, your security alarm went off. Officers responded as soon as we got the call, but by the time we got there, whoever did this was already gone.
Your system is noisy. I’m betting it spooked them.”
“Maybe this time the cameras caught something that’ll help us identify this bastard.” There’s no doubt in my mind that the jerk who keeps writing lewd comments on my windows is the same one who broke them.
“Yeah, about that,” Liam says. “We’re going to see if there’s any salvageable footage, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Puzzled, I look up and understand. My windows aren’t the only thing that got shattered. The cameras suffered the exact same fate.
“Is that it?” I ask, not really sure I want to hear the answer.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Liam holds the door open and Paul, Emile, and I walk in.
“How long did it take the cops to get here when the alarm sounded?” Emile demands. His eyes widen as he takes in the destruction.
“Less than five minutes. Whoever it was, they weren’t looking for something. They just wanted to destroy.”
Emile whistles. “They did a good job of that.”
Bile burns my throat and my hands tremble as I take in the interior of the place I worked so hard to create. Derogatory words are spray painted on the tables and across the top of the bar. The soft bar stools have been slashed. All my decanters are ruined. The beautiful blue spruce is tipped onto its side. The beautiful Christmas decorations Paul and I got at the tree farm are broken.
I want to sit down and cry.
How could anyone hate me so much?
Paul wraps his arms around me, pulling me in tight against his chest. “It’s okay, baby.”
“It doesn’t look okay.”
“The insurance company will pay for the damages. Then you can start over again. Make it even better,” he promises.
“I don’t want it better.” My voice catches. “I want it back the way it was.”
“I know.” His lips move against my hair.
“Lara.” Liam clears his throat. “I hate to ask you this, but what kind of texts did you get today?”
“Texts?” Paul asks.
“I know some came in earlier today, but I didn’t read them. I never read them anymore, you know that.” I dig my phone out of my pocket and hand it to Liam. “I’ve had it off for the past hour and a half while we were caroling, so I don’t know if any others came in.”
“I want to know what texts,” Paul demands.
“For weeks now, Lara has been getting text messages and notes from whoever has been putting the graffiti on her windows.” Liam turns my phone on and hits the text message icon.
“They started off pretty benign; we thought it was a disgruntled customer or employee. Now, well, I just don’t know. The past week or so they’ve gotten really bad. You didn’t know about them?”
“The only thing I knew about was the graffiti.” Paul looks over Liam’s shoulder, reading one message after another. His face pales, anger flashing in his eyes.
Ten minutes later, the windows are boarded up. I thank the officers for all their help and watch as they leave.
Liam lingers a moment longer.
“Lara, I’m sorry. I thought you’d told him.” His gaze darts to Paul, who is sitting on one of the damaged barstools, Atticus perched on his lap. He hasn’t said a word since he learned about the messages.
“It’s okay, Liam. He would have found out eventually.”
“Which is why you should have told him right away.” He squeezes my arm. “Look, Lara, I don’t know Paul well, but from what I’ve seen so far, he seems like one of the good ones. You don’t want to let him get away.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Liam grins. “That’s all any of us can do. Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
I watch until his squad car turns toward the police station.
The silence between Paul and me as we make our way up the stairs is deafening. I don’t know what he’s thinking. He won’t talk to me and his face is a stone mask. Anxiety churns in my gut. I’d feel better if he’d yell at me.
Paul shoulders his way in front of me, unlocks the apartment door, and does a quick visual scan before moving out of my way.
The cops were already up here, did a thorough search and made sure no one was hiding in my apartment or the empty ones before they left. They didn’t find anyone. The fact that the security system I use for the upstairs wasn’t tripped is a good sign.
I sit on the couch, relieved that at least this part of my carefully constructed world wasn’t disturbed. Atticus jumps up beside me and I unhook his leash from the ring attached to the back of his parka.
The leash falls to the floor.
That’s when Paul finally lets lose his temper.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me what was going on?” he roars.
32
Lara
“I was handling the situation. There wasn’t any reason to bring you into it.”
Paul grabs a glass plate off the table and throws it against the wall. Atticus bolts across the room, taking shelter under the sofa as the broken shards slide down the wallpaper and scatter across the floor.
Throat tight, heart hammering against my ribs, all I can do is stand, frozen in place, as he picks up another plate and hurls it as well. Paul’s always been so sweet, so in control, it never occurred to me he’d lose his temper like this. Or that I’d be the reason his control slipped.
A third plate flies through the air.
“Exactly when were you planning on fucking telling me about it? After they burned this place down? After one of your employees is threatened? After you’re attacked?” His eyes flash as he looks around the room, his gaze finally landing on the couch and Atticus’s trembling tail beneath it. “When someone did something terrible to your dog?”
“Wait one damn minute.” My voice grows louder and stronger with each word.
Fury dilutes the anxiety churning in my stomach. Maybe he’s entitled to be angry with me, but that’s no excuse to scare me to death. “How dare you accuse me of putting everyone I care for in danger? I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I called the police every time I got a note, every time I found graffiti on my windows, and whenever I got a strange phone call or text. I updated my security system, just like they suggested. I took precautions. So don’t act like I’ve been reckless.”
“But you didn’t tell me.”
“Why does that matter?” As soon as I hear the words come out of my mouth, I know they’re the wrong ones, but I can’t take them back.
Paul reels back like I’ve struck him a physical blow.
“Why does it matter?” he repeats. “If you’d told me, I could have done something.”
“Like what? I’ve already updated my security system. All that money you have might help you make life easier, but it doesn’t fix everything. This is one of the things it can’t fix.”
“You might be right,” he says, his voice clear, steady, and completely devoid of the warmth I’ve come to expect from it. “But you still should have told me. You owed me that.”
“Why?”
“Not telling me means one of two things. One, that you don’t trust me. Or two, you don’t think I’m important enough to be allowed into both the good and bad parts of your world. Which is it?”
A sob catches in my throat. “Neither.”
Paul’s hands twist into fists. He closes his eyes, only to open them right away. “I can’t deal with this right now. I need to get out of here.”
He moves toward me, and for a brief shining second, I think he’s going to take me in his arms and kiss me, just like he always does. My mind swiftly spins a fairytale moment, where the second our lips touch, he’ll magically forgive me and we’ll enjoy a magical Christmas together.
But instead of reaching for me, he bends and picks up the leash I dropped.
“Atticus, come,” he yells.
My dog scoots out from his hiding place, his face covered in dust and cobwebs, and races to Paul. He whines with excitement about the unexpected adventure. Paul, wh
o didn’t even know how to work a harness just a few weeks ago, now slides it over Atticus’s head like he’s been doing it his whole life, secures it, and gathers the leash in his hand.
“Let’s go.”
My dog happily dances ahead of him, leading him to and through the door.
I know I should let him go, give him time to cool off, but something, I’m not sure whether it’s pregnancy hormones or my own stubbornness, sends me to my feet. I stomp after him, yanking the door open just as he and Atticus reach the landing.
“While you’re up on your high horse and feeling pissy about me keeping something from you, you should consider that I’m not the only one around this place who’s been keeping secrets.”
Paul spins on his heel. Our gazes collide for a hot second before he digs into his coat pocket. He drags something dark, small, and square out of his pocket. Holding it in his cupped hand, he stares at it a moment.
“You want to know what I’ve been hiding? It’s this.” He tosses it lightly in my direction. I use both hands to catch it, and my fingers curl around it so tightly, the corner bites into my flesh. “I’ll let you decide if our secrets bear comparison.”
He turns and charges down the stairs, Atticus hot on his heels, before I can formulate a response.
With the sound of his footsteps thundering in my ears, I open my hand and study the dark burgundy jewelry box I’m holding.
33
Lara
My hands tremble so much it’s nearly impossible to work the tiny catch that holds the elegant jewelry box closed.
The contents stop my heart.
A giant, square-cut sapphire sits atop a white gold band. The stone is designed to stand out, tall and proud, when it’s worn. The Art Nouveau style filigree casing is crusted with a slew of tiny, brilliant diamonds that catch the light.
It’s exactly the type of ring people would have worn to speakeasies during the 1920s—and it suits me to a T.