by Emilia Finn
This room is not unrecognizable; the problem is that it’s not mine.
I look to my right, to the pillow jammed against my arm, to Miles as he lays on his stomach, fast asleep, while dark hair falls over his brow, and his lips pucker into cute baby lips that make me think of Alyssa.
Wars and kisses and queens and swords play through my mind, but right beside those thoughts are the night I spent in this home, the hours I laid awake in Miles’ bed while he touched and tasted my body. So sweet, so slow, then so fast and wild that I thought I would break. He paid complete attention to my pleasure, took his own at the last moment when neither of us could wait a second longer. He used skilled fingers, played me like a prized instrument, worked my body like he wasn’t afraid to hurt me, and after that, I fell asleep and dropped into my fictional world.
I was Tully, and Roman DeLuca was done waiting for her to take a hint.
She was heading to war, spearheading their campaign, because as queen, she leads her army rather than hide behind it. But as her best friend and loyal soldier, Rome refuses to be protected by her when he considers that his job.
“Shit.” The scenes that played in my head fade with every second I sit here. From perfect clarity, perfect memory, until they begin to fuzz.
I throw my head around in search of anything. A pen and paper. A handy laptop.
“My phone. Where’s my phone?” I toss the blankets aside and cling to my memories. What was vivid and colorful a moment ago, now dulls as the real world intrudes.
I leave Miles where he lays, dive into his walk-in closet, and liberate him of a pair of oversized sweats, then I stab my legs into them until the ends become socks.
I search around for a shirt, for a tank, for anything, until my eyes stop on my black bra, carelessly tossed aside at some point last night in our hurry to make it to bed. Snatching it up, I slide it on and adjust my boobs so they’re comfortable, then I dash into the hall and sprint down the stairs.
Thankfully, I’ve done this a million times in my life – but on a staircase eighty feet to the left of here.
I race through the kitchen, grunt out my dissatisfaction when I don’t see my purse, then sprint into the garage when I remember where I last saw it.
It sits on the roof of his car, the empty condom packet on the floor by the shiny black wheel.
I snatch the trash up and shove it into my pocket, then I take my phone and ignore the missed calls – from Smalls, and from Bry. They’re both checking in, but their attitudes are going to be wildly different.
One will come with a high-five.
The other, shackles and a warning to stay in the house for the rest of my life… “or else.”
I unlock my phone, jump straight to my notes app, and begin typing as I blindly walk back inside. First kiss. Back her up against a tree.
What was colorful and three-dimensional in my dream is now dot-points, but it’s enough, it’s fine, because I can work with that.
I stumble over a discarded shoe – mine – kick it aside without thought as I move to the massive counter, then I drop onto a stool, only to get up again – typing, typing, typing – and flip the switch on the coffee machine.
In my home, the day doesn’t begin until the coffee machine does. If someone wants to disagree, I’ll dust off my Gi and belt, and fight them about it.
Going to war. Rome drops to one knee and declares eternal whatever-the-hell-that-word-was… Servitude!
A toilet flushes upstairs, but my mind is in Tully’s world. Water trickles through the pipes, and water trickles through the coffee machine.
It’s time to meet our enemy. But Rome had to kiss her first. He had to tell her how he felt. She’s more soldier than she is queen or woman. Oblivious to his longing stares.
Little feet pad down the stairs, only to silence a moment later.
Rome wears a uniform. Have designer create a uniform. Black on black, dangerous and sexy. Swords. Fire!
“Miss Brooke?”
My eyes snap away from my phone and stop on the rumpled little girl that still wears the outfit she wore last night. Her hair stands on end, most of it falling over one side of her face. Her eyes are wide, but not mad. Her hands clutch to the little doll I “met” the first night I met the girl. Trudy. Sweet, beautiful Trudy.
“Uh…” I lock my phone and toss it to the counter. “Hey, sweetpea. Sleep well?”
“Where’s your shirt, Miss Brooke?”
No longer fuzzy-brained, I snap my gaze down to my half-naked body, to the lacy bra, then back to the curious girl. “Er… this is called a sleep bra. Like how you have jammies.”
“For real?” She moves into the kitchen now, works on shoving the hair from her eyes with a slide of her arm, but it simply falls back into place as soon as she lowers it again. “A sleep bra? Can I get one?”
“Um, sure… someday. It’s a bit like a bathing suit, right?” I’m reaching. I’m bullshitting. I’m a bad person that fucked her dad just a few hours ago. “Do you want me to put a shirt on? I can run upstairs and—”
“It’s okay.” She moves to the counter, tosses her doll up so it lands with a plop, then she climbs up with grunts and groans until she’s situated.
I say nothing as she makes herself comfortable. Do nothing as the coffee machine sputters and pours. Finally, she smiles, pulls her doll close, then she grabs my phone and tries to key codes in.
“Can I have a drink, Miss Brooke? I’m thirsty.”
“Sure, baby.” I rush – very un-cool like – to the cabinet that holds the glasses, snatch one down, and race to the fridge in search of something appropriate. “Do you want…” I search. “Uh… Juice, maybe?”
She gives an enthusiastic nod and continues to jack up my phone with incorrect codes. “I love juice in the mornings.” She leans back, rubs her belly. “When it’s so cold that you can feel it slide into your tummy…”
“Mm, I love that feeling too.”
I begin pouring, stop when the glass is half-full. Then I re-cap the juice, toss it into the fridge, and walk to the little girl that scares me a little bit. “Are you okay with glass? Should I have looked for a plastic cup?”
“I’ll be careful.” She takes the glass in two hands and brings it closer. “I promise, Miss Brooke. I’m a big girl now, so I know how to be careful.”
“Okay…”
I take my phone when she’s distracted, lift a brow at the screen that says I need to wait nine minutes before I can try to unlock it again, then toss the useless device down on the counter and turn back to the coffee machine.
Tully and Rome visited me in my dreams, they gave me the next level of information, and I jotted the notes down before I forgot. I consider that a win. And now I’m going to have coffee with the little girl that makes my heart beat faster.
I snag a mug from the cupboard, pour the caffeinated magic until it whispers against the rim, and forgo the dash of milk I usually drop in. Lyss can’t have it, and coffee tastes just as good when it’s black, so I move past the fridge without a second glance, set my coffee down beside the girl, and slide my sweatpants-covered ass onto the stool beside hers.
“So…” I click my tongue.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“Uh, he’s upstairs sleeping.”
She nods. Sips. Considers. “Did you sleep in my house last night?”
I swallow and race through a billion answers in under a second. But then I settle on truth.
“Yes, I did. Is that okay with you?”
She sips. Considers. Nods. “I think it’s cool. I like it when you visit us.”
“Aw, I love visiting with you.” I reach an arm around her and pull her in until her cheek rests against my boob. Then I throw my eyes skyward. Classy, Brooklyn.
I release her with an awkward cough, keep my hands to myself. “Sorry. I should put a top on.”
“It’s okay.” She turns on her stool, and cuddles in closer. “I like your boobies, Miss Brooke.”
“Oh, we
ll…” Shit. So does your dad. “Thanks.”
“They’re so soft, and cuddles are the best when there are boobies.”
“This is true,” I laugh. “My mom gives amazing hugs, and it’s all because of her boobies. Just tell me if you want me to get more dressed.”
“It’s okay. Do you think we can pick up more pie from the diner today?” She pulls away and gives me the innocent eyes that’ll get her anything she wants in life. “Please?”
“Sure. If your daddy doesn’t have time, I’ll go and get it for you. I have to go there later anyway.” To muzzle my cousin before she spreads my business around town. “Did you have a good sleep?”
“Uh huh.” She reaches up again and brushes her hair aside. It annoys her, frustrates her, so when my eyes move over a pink and white brush on the corner of the counter, a brush I suspect they leave there for last-minute fixes on the way out the door, I snatch it up and hold it so she can see. “Can I brush your hair? I’ll fix it out of your eyes for you.”
“Sure.” She spins so fast that juice jostles over the side of the glass and her eyes widen. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Laughing quietly, I grab her hips to center her on the stool a little more, then I run my fingers through her hair to determine how badly it’s knotted. The moment my fingers touch her scalp, she purrs.
“So, I was thinking…” I swap my fingers for the brush, run it through her hair with slow, gentle strokes and pray I don’t say anything that Miles would disapprove of. No matter how much I enjoy her company, Alyssa is not my daughter, and he clearly has strict rules when it comes to her. “Do you like it that I hang out with your daddy?” Nope. Rephrase, dummy. “I mean to say, does it make you mad or sad that he’s my friend?”
She shakes her head and creates more knots when the brush catches. “I like it. Daddy smiles when you’re around.” She sighs. “I like it when he smiles.”
I grin. “Me too. Thank you for saying that. Do you…” I frown. “Are you mad that I slept at your house last night? You probably got a little surprise when you came downstairs and found me here.”
Again, she shakes her head. “I don’t mind. I wanted juice, and maybe I would have spilled it if you weren’t here. Then I would have had to clean it up.”
For a juice-pourer, I’m acceptable. “I… uh…” I laugh. “That’s cool, I guess. Do you think… would you be mad if you, me, and your dad had dinner together more often? We would always eat yummy things, and I promise not to bring desserts that you can’t eat. I just wanna hang out some more. I like that you’re my friend.”
“Can you bring Twain next time?”
Jesus, kids are brutal. For a juice-pourer and dog-bringer, I’m alright.
“Sure. If your dad is okay with it, I’ll bring Twain over more often.”
“I think it would be nice if you come over more.” She sips her juice and purrs under my hands. “I like it when you’re here. We never had a mommy before.”
“Oh.” The brush catches in her hair and flings to the floor when my hand keeps moving. My heart stops, starts, gallops, and threatens to kill me. “I… well…” Shit. “I’m not a mom, baby. But I can be your friend.”
“But you give the mom hugs,” she argues. “With the boobies. Daddy’s can’t do that.”
“That’s true.” I slide off the stool and reach out for the brush. “Um…” I clear my throat. “I just… I don’t want you to be confused.”
“You don’t wanna be the mom?”
“No, I… It’s not… I didn’t say…” Hooooo, shit.
I choke off my words before I break something. Draw in a deep breath, and exhale again.
“I’m going to be your friend, Lyss. Your best friend, and if you want the boobie hugs, then I’m your girl.”
“Any time?”
“Any time. Every single day.”
“What if I ask for three times? Will you run out?”
“Never.” I wind my arms around her chest and cuddle her from the back. “I will never run out. I just don’t want you to say the mom stuff and get confused. I don’t want to…” I do want to. I do! “Maybe this is something you could ask your dad. I don’t think I have enough on-the-job training to handle this kind of enquiry.”
Lyss tenses when I pull away. Lifts her shoulders in defense. Then she turns to me with a frown. “I don’t know what those words are.”
My breath whooshes out on an exhale that smacks her in the face and sends her hair fluttering. “I can’t even with this… ask your dad, okay? When I’m not around.”
She shrugs like this conversation is no big deal, and flips her hair to her back in silent demand.
Brush my hair, wench. And make me purr.
“What are you doing today, Miss Brooke?”
“Um… I just woke up before you did, so first I’m going to drink my coffee. Then I’ll get dressed and go home, because I told my cousin I would sit with her for breakfast.”
“What are you having for breakfast?”
I chuckle and marvel at the way she can flip from a scary subject to something as simple as breakfast. “Probably pancakes. It’s tradition.”
“I don’t get to have pancakes very often,” she pouts. “Most of the time, they give me a tummy ache.”
“Yeah.” My smile falls away, and my mind flickers through the alternatives. “I wonder if I can invent a pancake that won’t upset your stomach… eggs, milk, and flour. Those are the main ingredients, right?”
She shrugs. “I dunno.”
I continue running the pink brush through her hair while I think. “The milk is easy, we can switch it for coconut milk… maybe.” I frown and lean forward. “Are you allowed coconuts?”
Again, she shrugs.
“If not, we can replace it with water. What about flour? That’s wheat, isn’t it? I bet they have an alternative for that. The egg is our problem, but I wonder if that can be subbed too. We could add a couple things, like vanilla, so that they’re extra yummy… maybe sprinkles or raisins?”
“I like raisins.”
“Sweet. Let me think on it, okay? I’ll come up with an awesome alternative just for you.”
“You promise?” She turns when I remove the brush from her hair, and stops when her little legs rest between mine. God, she hasn’t yet noticed I’m wearing her dad’s pants. “Do you promise to make me pancakes that I can eat without a tummy ache?”
“I promise to try my very hardest. In the meantime, maybe I can make you a fruit salad?”
“For real?”
“You want?”
“Uh huh!” Her grin creases her little face as I set the brush aside and slide off the chair.
I wash my hands at the sink, snatch a banana from the fruit bowl as I pass, an apple, a bright orange mandarin, then I go to the fridge, because I know I saw strawberries in there when I got the juice. I set my ingredients on the counter and take a sneaky chug of my coffee, then I search cupboards for a chopping board and the knife block.
Prepared, I fall into the almost routine of making a colorful breakfast, so I forget the elephant in the room, or in our case, the missing elephant.
I chop the apple into thin strips, slice the banana, and tear the leaves from the strawberries, but on my way to the trash with the off-cuts, I stop with a squeak when Miles stands at the door in a pair of sweats much like the pair I stole.
He wears a white tank that shows off the chest he’s strengthening and broadening each day in my family’s gym. He’s a middleweight in the competitive divisions, but unlike many others who sit at the very upper end of the division – as in, as heavy as they can possibly be – he still has room to build and remain in his division.
Evie’s plan all along has been to build him heavier, stuff the protein into him, up his training, until he’s a heavier dude, but with a body that knows how to move fast. Her plan is sound, and with her working side by side with him five days a week, they’re succeeding.
But the practicality behind what the
y’re doing is lost on me at this moment, because I’d much rather focus on how his tank clings to his body. How his abdominal muscles literally stretch the fabric and ripple under the morning light. His hair is messy like Lyss’, and tempts me to ask him to sit down so I can brush it.
But I can’t ask him anything, because he’s staring at me with those eyes that I’ve yet to determine if they mean I’m about to be ravished or yelled at.
I just had private time with his daughter, and the ‘M’-word came up. Maybe he’s enraged. Or maybe he’s still horny. Maybe he wants to carry me back to bed.
Or maybe I’m hoping that’s the answer, because I don’t want him to be mad at me for the ‘M’-word thing.
“Miles…” I clear my throat. Present my hands to show off the banana peel. The apple core. “Lyss asked for a fruit salad.”
“No nuts.”
I frown and cast a glance to the curious little girl that watches us. “Do you…” I turn back to him. “Do you have peanuts in your house?”
He thinks about it for a moment. Shakes his head.
“So why the eff would you think I need to be told no peanuts?”
Finally, his scowl cracks, and his lips quirk with what may be a shy smile. “Sorry. Old habits. How’s, uh…” He looks around. “What’s going on? And where’s your shirt?”
“Oh! I keep forgetting!” But instead of covering up, I burst out laughing and continue moving to the trash can. “This is my sleep bra, duh. And when Lyss is a big girl, she would like one too, please. The kind with lace.”
“Absolutely not. Next.”
My chest bounces as I pass him, skim close enough to catch his fingertips on my hip, and then I make my way back to finish the salad. “Lyss’ hair was messy. Kinda like yours,” I toss over my shoulder. “So we brushed the knots out. We chatted.”
“Daddy, is it okay if Miss Brooke brings Twain over later? Also, I got juice.”
His eyes snap from her to me. They slide along my body so it almost feels like I’m naked from top to toe, then he changes his face like it’s a literal button and looks to Lyss. “Sure. Twain can come and play later. Baby…”