by Lane Hart
And the next morning, by the time my stiff back lets me out of bed, she’s already gone into work.
What did I expect? That we would have candlelit dinners at the dining table to talk about our days and breakfast together before she heads out the door? All we have is an agreement to pretend to be the perfect married couple for social services. It’s not like I’m up for more than talking at this point thanks to the aches and pains. Even though I’m exhausted, and my head is throbbing with weariness, I still can’t sleep more than a few minutes at a time. If Liz even tried to lie down with me, she’d probably give up quickly with the way I thrash around all night.
“Where have you been?” I ask Cedric when he strolls into the house around ten a.m. I’m sitting at the bar in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal.
Grabbing the dry erase board from the counter, he writes on it, “Liz is here, so I didn’t think I needed to be. She didn’t seem to want me to stay.”
“Oh. Well, I’ve got a few packages coming in today that I need your help with.”
He writes, “What is it?”
“We’re going to babyproof the house, whatever that means,” I tell him. “I bought everything they had online yesterday with next-day delivery.”
“Okay,” he replies, before he starts scribbling something else on the board. When he holds it up to me, I groan and throw my spoon down into my bowl.
“Do I really have to go see that quack again already?” I demand.
Cedric just points back at the board, which reads, “Don’t forget you have to be at the doctor at 11.”
“Goddammit,” I mutter. “Go start the van, I’ll be right out.” I wave Cedric off.
An hour later I’m reclining in the audiologist’s weird ass chair while the old geezer peeks into each of my ears. I can’t hear anything he says in his dry, wheezy voice; but when he appears above my head with what looks like a pointy steel prod, I almost run out of the room.
The doctor raises a hand to forestall me as he raises the chair back to a sitting position, and then rolls his stool so he’s sitting in front of me. “Your eardrums are healing,” he mouths clearly. “But you have some proud flesh in your ear canal that needs to be excised.”
“What?” I ask with a shake of my head. “Proud flesh? Excised? What does that mean?”
“I’m going to scrape your ear canal and vacuum out some damage,” he explains.
I ponder that for a moment, before asking the only question that pops to mind, “Will it hurt?”
“Yes,” the old bastard confirms with a nod. “Back you go,” he adds as he begins to recline the chair again.
Once he’s finally done torturing me and has returned the chair to its normal, upright position, I lean over and put my head into my hands while I catch my breath. “You weren’t fucking around,” I mutter. “Feels like my skull is on fire.”
“That’s only partially because of the treatment,” the doctor tells me once he catches my gaze and is certain I’m listening to him. And I can hear most of what he says and fill in the gaps with the rest. “Your ears weren’t the only thing damaged in that explosion. You still have some inflammation in your nose and throat from the exposure, not to mention all of the superficial injuries across your body. Tell me, how have you been sleeping?”
“Not very well,” I reply honestly. “It seems like every time I close my eyes and try to relax my mind just jumps back to the explosion. It hits me like an electric shock, making every muscle in my body spasm. I can’t get the images of the building ripping apart, of Jenna…” I trail off.
“Jenna? Is that the name of the woman who died in the explosion? Was she close to you?”
“She worked for me,” I grunt.
“That’s not what I asked,” the old bastard observes. “You look awful. Your blood pressure is up, you’re obviously not sleeping, and frankly, I’m worried about your recovery. I’m going to refer you to a doctor for a mental health evaluation. The symptoms you described are consistent with a post-traumatic stress disorder. You need restful sleep. If we don’t treat this, you may start to experience a host of additional issues. Now, I’m also going to write you some prescriptions for pain…”
“No,” I interrupt him.
“No?” he repeats, one of his bushy eyebrows rising so high it almost covers his bald spot. “Why not? Do you enjoy suffering? Or do you think you deserve it?”
“Fuck off with that psycho-analytical bullshit,” I growl at him. “I don’t want your meds, or your therapists, or anything else. I just want my hearing back. Understand?”
The doctor sighs, then nods. “As your eardrums heal, your hearing will begin to return. The scar tissue that will form will likely prevent it from ever being as good as it was previously, but we can measure your progress and look for options to improve your situation over the next few visits. I’m going to schedule your next appointment with me a month from now. I’ll note that you need a referral to a mental health professional in your file and will have them call you. I’ll also have the prescriptions sent to your pharmacy. Whether you pick up the medicine or even your phone to make the appointment is up to you.”
“We all done?” I snap at him.
“Until next time, Mr. Cummings,” he replies, standing up to open the door for me.
I storm out of the room, brushing past Cedric, who is waiting in the hallway for me. “Let’s go,” I grunt as I stomp toward the exit.
Cedric stands beside me while I’m checking out, and I notice when he begins to scribble on his board. After he holds the board up, I realize that the receptionist had been trying to talk to me but was so soft-spoken I hadn’t noticed.
“She wants to know if you want your RX at the same pharmacy, and if they should have a psych doctor call you at cell number,” it reads. “No!” I snap, “I don’t want any of that!”
Cedric stares at me for a moment, then turns his head so I can’t see his lips and says something to the receptionist. Irritated, I slap him on the arm and then head towards the exit. He doesn’t catch up to me until I’m outside by the van.
“What did you tell that woman?” I demand once he’s inside.
“I told her to do what the doctor ordered and apologized for you being a grumpy bastard!” Cedric roars.
“You don’t get to make that fucking decision!” I yell right back at him. “Now drive us back to the house and let’s get to work,” I order him after taking a deep breath.
“It’s your decision,” Cedric says loud enough for me to hear after we’ve driven about halfway home. “But Torin and Chase told me to take care of you. If you don’t do what the doctor says, and something bad happens, they’re going to blame it on me.”
“Well that sucks for you,” I sneer. “Don’t forget your place, prospect. Go tattle to Torin if you want but get ready for an ass-chewing if you do.”
Cedric’s chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh, but he doesn’t say anything else until we’re back at the house. As he puts the van into park, he looks over at me and says, “At least keep it in mind, okay? If you get worse, think about doing what the doc says. If not for me, or the club, do it for Liz and this baby you’re so hung up on. The doc is right — if you keep on running wide open like this, you’re going to break down. Think about it,” he repeats as he gets out, which tells me that he was eavesdropping from the hallway.
“I’ll think about it,” I huff when I meet him on the porch. There’s a mountain of packages waiting for us, all of the baby supplies I had ordered on impulse. “If, that is, you open up all this shit and get to work on setting it all up.”
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth
“Cooper?” I call out when I get home and walk through the silent house, yelling for him as if he could even hear me. I finally spot him through the sliding glass door, sitting outside next to the pool. Is that…is he really being that stupid?
I walk out, my heels clacking on the tiles as I approach my husband stretched out in a lounge chair with
enough bottles of alcohol surrounding him to supply a bar.
“What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” I ask him when I come to a stop outside the ring of booze.
“Hey! You’re home,” he slurs as he looks up at me with his fingers wrapped around the neck of a mostly empty bottle. In both hands. “I’m cleaning out the liquor cabinet before the...” He pauses to burp loudly. “Home inspection tomorrow.”
“You could just pour all these down the drain. Or give them to someone else,” I grumble mostly to myself as I stroll up to his chair.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks, and I realize he’s either getting incredibly good at reading lips, even when he’s drunk, or he actually heard me.
“Cooper, did your hearing come back?”
“Uh-huh. Mostly,” he responds. “Been getting better for a few days now, ever since I saw that quack ear doctor. I’ve barely seen you and haven’t had a chance to show you!”
“Oh,” I say in surprise. He’s right. I’ve been swamped at work and happily burying my head in files and clients to avoid coming home to him since everything is so…awkward.
“Cooper, you need to stop drinking,” I tell him as I jerk one of the bottles out of his closest hand. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to be hungover for the inspection?”
“No, probabbab…probably not. Cedric’s been a pain in my ass, though, and I needed something to take the edge off. Besides, it’s all got to go!” he exclaims as he gestures to all the empties around him with the bottle he’s still gripping.
“You’ve just been drinking for the last couple of days?” I ask him. Bending down, I grab several more bottles by their necks in each hand and carry them over to the trashcan, making a mental note to add the bag to the garbage bins sitting at the curb so they get picked up tomorrow. We wouldn’t want a social worker peeking inside and seeing all of the bottles.
After a few trips, I’ve gotten rid of his entire stash. Cooper never replied to my question; but when I get back to him, he’s waving his last remaining bottle in the air.
“Let’s pour one out for all your fallen brethren,” he proclaims, before dumping the rest of the liquor onto the pavement. “Shit, that’s probably gonna bring ants,” he adds.
“Let’s get you up to bed,” I tell Cooper when I take his hand and try to pull him to his feet. It takes a few tries and then he’s up, most of his weight leaning on me as I struggle to get him back into the house. Then, we slowly make our way to his bedroom. It’s decorated sparsely — just a dresser, a small sofa, and enormous four-poster bed with crimson bedsheets.
“You’ve never been in my room,” Cooper says when he flops down on the mattress. “I like seeing you in here. I’ve wanted you here for a long, long time.”
“Is that right?” I ask when I kneel down on the carpet to start untying his boots.
“I like seeing you on your knees too. Although, I’d like it better if you were naked.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I reply while pulling off one of his socks.
“You can’t disappoint me,” he says as he reaches down to run his fingers through my hair. “Well, expect…except when you won’t go out with me because you’re embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I tell him as I remove his other sock even though he probably won’t remember this conversation tomorrow. “I’m just not looking for anything serious.”
“Nothing serious? You married me!” he exclaims. “You married me, and you’ve never been in my room.”
“I’m in your room now,” I point out as I stand up again. Once I push his cut down his arms and off, I grab the hem of his t-shirt and lift it over his head.
A gasp of shock leaves my lips before I can help myself as I see all the angry, red scabs and pink, still healing cuts slashed over Cooper’s chest and stomach, on his arms…everywhere.
“What? Never seen a few scars before?” he asks when I continue staring at all the marks.
“A few scars? Cooper, you look like you got into a fight with Edward Scissorhands and lost!”
“Edward Scissorhands!” he chuckles. “That’s a good one.”
“Do they hurt?” I ask when I gently run my fingers over one of the smaller cuts on his shoulder.
“Not right now. Or should I say yes and ask you to kiss them better?” he asks with a goofy grin. “Nah, what’s the point? I’m probably too drunk and too weak to fuck you. I hate being weak.”
“You’re not weak,” I assure him as I lean down and place a soft kiss on the healing wound. “Maybe a little drunk…” I tease. Unable to stop myself, my lips move over to another cut on his chest; then I’m on my knees again kissing a slash across one of his sculpted abs.
“Lower,” Cooper instructs me.
My trembling fingers undo the button on his jeans while my mouth moves lower down his stomach. His zipper is down a second later.
“A little lower,” he says softly as his back hits the mattress and his hands grab his waistband to shove his jeans down his thighs. I give him some help since I’m closer, guiding them down his legs and finally off, leaving Cooper laying on the bed with me on the floor between his legs, wearing nothing but a snug pair of white boxer briefs. His hand reaches into the front and pulls his cock out while I tug the material to his ankles.
“I may be drunk as fuck, but I can still get it up for you,” Cooper tells me from where his back remains flat on the bed, his fist stroking his long, thick cock from root to tip over and over, making my mouth water for a taste. “I ache for you, Liz,” he says, sending a jolt of hot, liquid desire through my lower belly.
We agreed to no sex during our fake marriage. No, I asked for that. But all I can think about right now is the pain of the man in front of me and what Cedric told me. Cooper almost died; and not only did he survive, but he’s trying to do a really good thing for someone, for a baby. The least he deserves is my mouth right now to give him a little relief. Besides, once he passes out tonight, he probably won’t remember any of this. So, while his hand is still gliding up and down his shaft, I lean forward and let my tongue lick around his crown and over his slit.
“Oh fuck, yes!” Cooper exclaims as his body shudders. “More. Please give me a little more.”
I run my tongue around his head a few more times until he lets go of himself to slide his fingers through either side of my hair, not forcing my head down but just caressing. Once they’re out of the way, I wrap my own hand around his thick root and then lick up and down and all around his cock, getting him wet so my fist can stroke him easier.
“God, I’ve missed your mouth,” Cooper groans. “Take me deeper. Let me feel the back of your throat, baby, please. Please, baby,” he says, his words coming out in a breathy rush. “I’m hurting so bad for you.”
I give him what he needs, sucking him with deep pulls, stroking his shaft and cupping his balls all at the same time until his fingers tighten in my hair. I feel Cooper’s cock swelling in my mouth just before his warm, thick seed hits my tongue while his loud, throaty rumbling grunts echo around the room. He comes so hard and for so long that I can’t swallow it all no matter how hard I try. I finish him off in my hand and then go get a wet washcloth from his bathroom to clean myself and him up.
By the time I pull his boxer briefs back up and into place, he’s already asleep. I struggle to maneuver his legs onto the mattress and then cover him up with the other side of the comforter before turning his light off and leaving his room.
Before I go to bed, I take a warm bath with a much-needed vibrator shoved between my legs. Closing my eyes as I lean my head back on the edge of the tub, I imagine it’s Cooper’s tongue swirling over my clit and succumb to my own orgasm quicker than ever before.
Chapter Eleven
Cooper
Liz is already gone the next morning when the alarm on my phone finally drags me out of bed. I’m not sure if I actually slept last night, or just blacked out. Either way I feel like I’ve just woken up from the bombing
again. I dig around in my nightstand until I find a pack of old Marlboros buried under my socks, and then light one up as I stagger to the shower.
I stand with my back to the scalding water while I smoke the badly needed cigarette, letting the water soak out some of my aches. I’ve got about an hour until the social services inspection lady arrives. That just might give me enough time to drink a pot of coffee and shake off this hangover, if I’m lucky. I lean out of the shower to flick my cigarette butt into the toilet, hating I caved and had one after giving the nasty things up years ago, then get down to some serious scrubbing.
I’ve barely swallowed my breakfast of aspirin and orange juice when my doorbell rings. When I open it up, I’m immediately greeted by an older, no nonsense hawkish-looking woman glaring over her glasses at me.
“Mr. Cooper Cummings?” she asks. “I’m Donna Jefferson with social services, here for your home inspection.
“Good to meet you, Mrs. Jefferson,” I greet her as I wave her into the front room. “My wife, Liz, is at work. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Cummings. Your wife, Elizabeth, works as an attorney I understand? While you are the manager of a nightclub?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s right. Our schedules would work out perfectly for fostering, or adoption, as you can imagine,” I tell her, attempting to cast my job in a better light.
“Well, your home is certainly nicer than some I’ve seen, Mr. Cummings,” she comments. “Would you mind showing me around?”
“Yeah, of course. This way.” I wave her into the living room, then take her through the rest of the house. I make sure to point out all the plugs we placed into the sockets, as well as the baby room we had prepared. When she starts towards my bedroom, I quickly run ahead of her and grab at my quilt, throwing it over my messy sheets. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Thought I had gotten everything arranged, and of course I forget to make my own bed.”