by K. Bromberg
“What else can there possibly be?” he asks, exasperated as he shoves his own jeans down his hips so that his cock springs free into my hand.
“This,” I say before I drop to my knees and look up to him as I take the entire, rock-hard length of him in my mouth.
“I fucking love that rule.” He groans as his head falls back and his fingers sink into my hair, tightening when he hits the back of my throat.
The woman is incredible in every fucking sense of the word.
She eyes me from where she stands in the kitchen—if I can call it that since it’s little more than a hot plate, a mini fridge, a toaster oven, and a Keurig. It doesn’t hurt that the only thing she’s wearing is a pair of boy shorts.
No top. No nothing.
Talk about a morning view I’d like to revisit.
That fact makes it that much harder not to stare at her and her perfectly perky set of tits. I can remember so very vividly how her nipples feel against my tongue, and it makes my damn mouth water.
Fuck if my morning hard-on isn’t begging to take advantage of everything about her again, but there’s so much more at stake right now than coming again.
Like her not realizing that we’ve broken her first rule, not once but twice.
No overnights.
I would be surprised if she doesn’t already realize that and is making her coffee and plotting how to get control of the situation back. I’ll gladly give it to her if I get to end up sitting here watching her shirtless in her kitchen again.
“How do you want yours?” she asks.
“I can get it.”
“Relax. I’m perfectly capable of pushing a button and not screwing it up. If it were anything more than that, then you could be concerned.”
“Black, please.”
After putting in a fresh pod and pressing the button to start the machine, she pads to one side of the small loft and fires up her computer without looking at the screen. My attention stays on her as she checks her cell phone and gives it a roll of her eyes over something before flipping a file folder open and making a note in it.
A file folder.
Much like the one in a box on my table at home.
How the fuck can the little girl on that folder’s label be this same damn woman in front of me. Shouldn’t she be fucked up? Shouldn’t she be a mess of issues?
Maybe she is underneath and is simply doing a damn good job of hiding it.
Then again, it’s hard to see a thing when her self-assuredness, confidence, and strength roll off her in thick waves.
Thankfully, the jiggling of her tits as she walks to get our coffee steers my thoughts away from any further psychoanalyzing. They mesmerize me as she crosses the distance, and hell if I’m not blatantly appreciating them. It’s only when she stops at the edge of the bed and holds the cup of coffee out to me that I meet her eyes.
“You like what you see?” She laughs with a raised set of eyebrows, and I love that she is secure enough she can ask the question and make it sound sexy instead of conceited.
“No complaints here. I’m just trying to figure out how I can see this view more often.”
“Such a typical male. You get blown, fucked, then fucked again, but you still aren’t satisfied.” Her smile is wide as she sits on the bed facing me with one knee bent beneath her and the other leg hanging off the edge. “What’s it going to take, Malone?”
“More of you.”
There’s a silent moment that passes where her eyes soften and her smile slowly falls, vulnerability written all over her features before she throws her head back and laughs as if what I said is the funniest thing in the world.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She takes a sip of her coffee but leaves her eyes on mine from above the rim.
“It will?”
“It will.”
“Good to know,” I say as I lean back against the headboard and look around her place. It’s small but has a pretty cool setup. The colors are muted, the furniture is modest, but it’s a complete reflection of her. Practical and minimalist. The best part is the series of windows that face out to the field and trees opposite the landing strip.
“Who do you rent this place from, again?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Travis Barnhardt.”
“I think I know him.”
“You do know him.”
“I do? Oh. Isn’t he Dean’s dad?”
“Dean?”
“Dean from Mrs. Gellar’s class.”
Her hand stutters in motion as she lifts her coffee cup to her lips. The quick aversion of her eyes tells me she doesn’t like this topic.
I push anyway.
“I don’t think so.” Her voice is soft as she sets the cup down, picks it back up, and then straightens the sheets some.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, hating that the simple mention of Mrs. Gellar’s class puts her visibly on edge. “You’re right. Dean’s last name was Meyers.”
I wait to see a reaction from her, but her expression remains stone cold. “Yes, that was it.”
Silence falls between us as we both stare into our coffees, but questions nag me more than ever before since running into Emerson. It’s her dig about not trusting me that she played off as one thing when she really meant another. It’s her need to stay detached even though we’re clearly sleeping together.
“About that day . . .” Fucking Christ. I’m so goddamn distracted by her incredible body sitting half-naked before me that I blurted out my thoughts.
“No,” she snaps as she shoves up off the bed.
“We need to talk about it at some point, Em.”
“Actually, no, we don’t.” She turns her back to me and walks toward the windows.
“Em—”
“Stop!” she shouts. “I’ve dealt with it. I don’t need you bringing it up, so don’t talk about it again. Now, get out before you break another rule because you’re walking a fine line with me, Grant. The spending the night was a mistake. You bringing that up, wasn’t cool . . . so, play time’s over. The benefits have been used up for now. I have to get to work.”
I study her for a moment—a silhouette against the morning light beyond—the curve of her waist, the shape of her legs, her strawberry hair falling down her bare back in tangles. There’s so much shit I want to say, but the defensiveness in her posture tells me she won’t hear a damn word of it.
In time.
In silence and with gritted teeth, I rise from the bed and pull on my jeans and shirt. All the while, she stares out the window, ignoring the tension settling into place.
With my keys in my hand, I walk toward where she stands. “Your past sure as fuck doesn’t define the woman you are . . . and it isn’t my business, regardless of how much I care about you and want to make sure you’re okay. Em, I was there, and I feel like you hold it against me—”
“Or maybe I’m just this hostile with all men,” she whispers, never turning to face me, but I can hear the pain in her voice and hate that I put it there.
I take the final step to her and hear her breath catch as I press my lips to the back of her shoulder. “Nah, I think it’s particular to me.” She nods but doesn’t step away from me. “Can we somehow wipe the slate clean?”
“How, though?” Confusion laces her voice, and her willingness to even ask that question is telling. It doesn’t matter how much I think I know about her past, I don’t have a goddamn clue about the demons she still battles. And battle she does. Even now, she’s fighting them with loud declarations of denial and softly whispered pleas for help.
“From here on out, we forget the memories and just chase the moments,” I say with another press of my lips to her skin before walking out the door.
“If I had a secret, could I tell you and would you promise not to tell anyone in the whole wide world?”
“Huh? Yeah. Sure.” I’m at the good part in my RL Stine book and don’t want to stop.
“I’m serious.”
; She is serious. When I look up from my book, I realize she’s been crying. Like red-eyes crying. But she’s wearing her favorite purple dress with sparkly black shoes—the one she calls her “pop star” outfit.
“What’s wrong?” She doesn’t move other than to look over her shoulder toward where her house is and then back to me. “Emmy?”
“Never mind. I’m fine.” She smiles as she sits beside me but makes a funny sound when she does. Like she’s trying not to cry.
“You okay?” Something’s wrong with her. Emmy never cries.
She bites her bottom lip and nods before looking over her shoulder again. Something’s wrong.
“Em?” I nudge her with my elbow. “If you’re gonna tell me, then you need to tell me quick because my mom’s gonna come out soon with my lunch, and then we’re going to have to walk to school. So what’s wrong?”
“You have to pinky promise, Grant Malone, that if I tell you this secret, you won’t ever tell another person, ever, ever, ever. If you do, I’ll never be your friend again. Promise me. Cross your heart and hope to die.”
“But I—”
“Not even your mom or dad or brothers or anyone.” Her eyes fill with tears again. Girls and tears. I’d roll my eyes if she weren’t so upset.
“Okay. I promise.” I cross my heart and link pinkies with her. “Is that good?”
“Yeah. You really promise?”
“Yes. I promise. What’s the big deal?”
“You know how my mom goes to work at night?”
“At the hospital? Yeah. It’s super cool she gets to help people.”
She nods and licks her lips and then looks down to where she’s picking the skin around her thumbnail so it bleeds. “Well, when she goes to work, sometimes my dad hurts me.”
“Hurts you? Like he spanks you when you get in trouble?” I’d give anything to have a mom like hers who doesn’t believe in the belt on your bottom. My dad says it builds respect. I say it builds a sore butt.
“No.”
“No? Then . . .”
“He comes in my room and holds a gun to my head and molests me.”
A tear drops on her thumb, but all I hear is the word “gun.” I don’t know what molests means, but I know guns are serious. The million lectures my dad has given me and my brothers to never touch one fill my head, and I know this is bad, but . . .
“Emmy . . . why would he do that?” I look around the street and wonder if my mom can hear inside the house.
“Because he says I’m pretty and he loves me.”
“But . . .” My dad has a gun, too, and he doesn’t do that to me. I don’t like the icky feeling in my tummy. My book slips from my hands, and I don’t like what we’re talking about, so I concentrate on the creepy monster on the cover as I shove it in my backpack. “I don’t understand. I—”
“I don’t, either.” Another tear falls, and the way she says it makes tears burn in my eyes.
“We should tell my mom. She’d know—”
“No!” she yells as she grabs my hand and squeezes it so hard it hurts. “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone. He said it would hurt my mommy if I tell anyone, and I don’t want her hurt, Grant. He said this is what daddies do and . . .” She hiccups over a sob, and I don’t know what to do.
“Grant! It’s time to get going,” my mom calls from the house. “Oh, hi, Emmy. Look at how pretty you look today. Just like one of the Spice Girls.”
Emmy smiles for the first time since she got here to walk to school, and I wonder if maybe she’s fibbing. Sometimes she does that. Girls always want attention, or at least that’s what Cooper says.
Em stays where she is on the sidewalk as I jog up the steps to get my lunch from my mom. After I shove it in my backpack, I give her a hug goodbye.
For some reason, when I hug her, I have to blink away the tears before she sees them.
“Have a good day, honey,” she says and then she gets that line in her forehead like when she doesn’t believe what I’m telling her. “You okay? What’s wrong?”
Emmy’s dad is mean.
“You have to pinky promise, Grant Malone, that if I tell you this secret, you won’t ever tell another person, ever, ever, ever. If you do, I’ll never be your friend again. Promise me. Cross your heart and hope to die”
“Yeah. I’m good. Just got something in my eye is all.”
She studies me again, but Grayson cries inside, saving me from more questions. “Don’t rub it then, okay?” I nod before she says the same thing she says every day when we leave to walk the straight shot of a street to school. “I’ll watch you guys from here until you get to the school gates, and then I’ll meet you at the tree after class to walk home with you.”
“’Kay.”
When I jog down the steps, I hate that Adam from across the street is standing there with Emmy and waiting to walk with us. I need to talk to her and ask if she’s really telling the truth. Her dad seems nice to me.
And he’s not a police officer. Only police officers and bad guys have guns and he’s not either of those.
But my tummy still hurts.
“You promise?” Emmy mouths to me from where she stands beside me in the girls’ line while I’m in the boys’ line. We’re in the very back this morning because we were battling in two square and neither of us wanted to quit first and lose.
“I promise.”
“If you tell anyone, I’ll never be your friend again. I might even ‘bad word’ you.”
“’Bad word me?’”
“H-A-T-E,” she spells, and I forgot that her mom thinks the words hate and stupid are bad words worthy of television time being taken away.
“I promise, Em. I promise, okay?” I say loud enough that the kid in front of me turns around to shush me like I’m going to get the boys’ line in trouble.
Emmy just stares at me like I told her we’re getting to watch a Disney movie after lunch instead of doing work . . . I think the word for it is hopeful. I’m not sure, though.
But even as we start our morning paperwork, I can’t stop thinking about what Em said.
“He puts a gun to my head and molests me.”
Even after our circle time when we move into writing in our journals, I think about it.
But she seems fine. She seems like Emmy. The red in her eyes from crying is gone, and she’s pulling out the dreaded composition notebook so she can write about Helen Keller. Just like we all did yesterday. And the day before. I don’t care about Helen Keller because I already know the important stuff—that she was deaf and blind.
“Mrs. Gellar?” I shoot my hand up as high as it will go, hoping her answer will be the same as every other time someone has asked.
“I don’t know the meaning of this word in our book.”
“You know where Webster is,” she says, using the class-decided name for our dictionary.
I walk to the corner of the room and open the book, struggling with the paper jacket when it falls off the hard cover. When I glance over my shoulder, no one is near me, but Emmy meets my eyes and smiles softly.
M.
It takes a few seconds for me to find the word.
Molests.
And it takes me even longer to figure out the definition.
To assault or abuse (a person, especially a woman or a child) sexually.
I snap the book closed, my cheeks red because there is the word “sex” in the definition, and I don’t really know what that is except for it’s what Cooper says only mommies and daddies do and he’s never going to do it.
But I know the word assault. My dad uses that word all the time when I get to visit him at work and he talks cases with other officers. So, if he uses the word, then I know it means bad things.
Does Emmy have this same molestation disease these suspects my dad talks about have? But she isn’t a suspect. She didn’t do anything wrong.
Did she?
The bell for recess rings.
Guns. Mr. Reeves. Molest. Assault.
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“Bet I’m gonna beat you at two square again,” Emmy says, and I run to follow after her.
“Mr. Malone.” Mrs. Gellar’s sharp tone—like I’m in trouble—stops my feet from running when I know I shouldn’t be running in the classroom.
“Yeah?”
“The word is yes, not yeah. We’re working on grammar,” she says as she walks toward me with her hand on her back and her big, pregnant belly—that Cooper says you get from having S-E-X—leading the way.
“Yes?” I correct.
“Head on out, Emmy. Grant’s going to go back and put Webster in his proper place. He’ll be there in a minute.”
I grumble and shuffle my feet as the door to the playground shuts, taking the sunshine with it.
Guns.
Picking up Webster, I make sure the jacket is on . . .
Mr. Reeves.
Then I slide it into the bookshelf . . .
Molest.
Finally, I turn to head to the door.
Assault.
“Mrs. Gellar?” I ask, my voice breaking and heart beating so fast I can feel it against my chest.
“Yeah, sweetie? Oh, thanks for fixing Webster,” she says, thinking I was trying to show her I did what she’d asked. “You can go play now.”
“I have a question.”
“You do?” She looks up from the stack of papers she is shuffling through on her desk. “Can it wait until after recess?”
“I’ll never be your friend again.”
“I don’t think so.”
She angles her head to the side and stares at me. “What’s wrong, Grant?”
She’s going to hate me.
“What if someone told you something and made you promise to never tell anyone but you think you should tell someone?”
“Are you tattling on them?”
“No.”
“Are you saying something to make someone look bad so you look better?
“No.”
“Are you worried about their safety?”
I look down to the smiley face I wrote with Sharpie on my Converse and then look back to her.
Guns.
“Yes.”
“Come over here, Grant. Pull up a chair.”
With every step I take, I know Emmy is going to hate me that much more. She can’t hate me. Dad says it’s our duty to help people who are in trouble.