“I hope you guys have a good night,” she says. “And just remember our family owns a lot of farmland and equipment that can rip you to shreds and scatter the pieces across multiple fields, never to be found again.”
“I will keep that in mind. Sierra’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
“She is.” She smiles and goes back to the counter to get her food. I leave the bar, go upstairs to shower, and head to Sierra’s. Before I start my car, I find myself staring at my phone, voicemail pulled up. It’s like I’m possessed, doing something I know will cause harm.
I have no control.
I press play on the next message.
“I told my therapist that I still call you,” Sierra says. “And she said I need to stop. Calling and acting like you’re still alive won’t allow me to move on, she said. I’m not ready to move on yet and I don’t know why everyone acts like that’s a bad thing.”
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the date of the next voicemail. A month and a half goes by before she leaves another, and everything inside me tells me not to listen.
So I don’t. I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and start the car, and roll out of the parking lot. The engine revs and I pass a slow truck, crossing over a double yellow line. Oh well. Really, I should be more careful. I have a record, one with a recent arrest. If I get an unforgiving cop having a bad day, a simple speeding ticket could set me back more than a few hundred bucks.
Sierra’s house isn’t far from the bar and I’m there in less than fifteen minutes. If I’d gone the speed limit, it might have taken longer than that though, to be fair. Her house is off a private drive, and I pass by the large antebellum-style plantation house on the way. The driveway to Sierra’s little brick house is gravel, unlike the stone-paved path that leads to the Belmont family mansion.
Being born into a family with money is unfathomable. Being born into one with money and history blows my mind. Since internet stalking Sierra’s ex wasn’t creepy enough, I went and looked up her family history as well.
If it weren’t for the Belmonts—the first Belmonts, that is—Summer Hill wouldn’t be here. They were the first to settle in this area, and though their establishment in the south was thanks to the slave trade, later Belmonts turned into abolitionists. The original farmhouse that Sierra resides in is rumored to have been part of the Underground Railroad, or so Wikipedia says.
I park next to Sierra’s BMW and get out, taking a minute to soak in what I can before going to her door. I know she has cats, likes to be outside and wants to start a garden—or at least she did at the time when she left that message. I have to push all that aside and pretend I don’t know anything else about her.
This old house is over a hundred years old and has gone through a series of renovations. The yard is neat but not professionally landscaped like the large white house. Light from the sinking sun reflects off crystals and gems hanging from the trees around the front, and what looks like sea glass is scattered amongst the rocks on either side of the sidewalk leading to the covered front porch.
Planters full of dried and dead plants hang in planter-boxes from the wooden rails of that very porch, long forgotten, but at one time loved. The boxes are hand-painted in bright colors, matching the pillows on the wicker lounge chairs on the porch. Wind chimes and old, metal and glass lanterns hang above them, swaying slightly in the thick, summer air.
I count three birdhouses and even more bird feeders hanging from the trees on my way to her front door. A miniature fairy garden is set up in the weed-filled stone circle around a large Angel Oak. I pause, lifting my head to see the full length of its twisted branches. More crystals and a wind chime made from antique spoons hang, looking out of place yet perfectly at home at the same time.
Is this part of why people around here think Sierra is weird? The eclectic style of the front yard is welcoming to me, though it’s hard to narrow down exactly why. Conforming to social norms and doing what you think you should do has never been my strong suit. I have a love/hate relationship with my inability to give a shit about what others think. Finding someone else who marches to the beat of their own drum is incredibly satisfying.
An old carriage lantern hangs by her front door in place of a porch light. My heart skips a beat when I knock on Sierra’s door. I’m never nervous around women. No one has ever mattered before. Not like Sierra.
It only takes a few seconds for her to answer the door. The sight of her takes my breath away. She’s wearing a pink dress with her hair down around her pretty face. A gray and black tabby cat is nestled in her arms, sleepily blinking at me.
“Hey,” she says and steps aside, welcoming me in, and then closes the door.
“Hi,” I say back.
Sierra bites her lip and looks down at the cat. “This is Tinkerbell.”
Right. Tinkerbell and Dolly are her cats. I remember that from her messages. “Oh, uh, hi Tinkerbell. She’s a good-looking cat.”
“Thanks. I think so, of course. But I’m biased. My other cat is super pretty too, but she’s not very friendly. She’s already hiding, but don’t take it personally. She only likes to be around people when she decides it’s okay. I can’t even pet her half the time.”
I nod, looking into Sierra’s eyes. She blinks and looks away, shaking her head.
“Sorry. I’m nervous and rambling,” she says.
“Don’t be nervous.” Sierra gives me a half-smile. “No pressure tonight, remember?”
“I remember.” She walks away from the front door, going into the living room. Her house is neat, smells amazing, and is decorated in a similar fashion to the front yard. While her walls are painted a light grey, splashes of color pop almost everywhere I look.
“So, what do you want to do tonight?” she asks and sits on the couch. Tinkerbell lazily moves from her arms, stretching and then settling on the arm of the couch next to Sierra.
“Whatever you want to do.” Seeing she’s barefoot, I take my shoes off and join her on the couch. “Did you eat yet?”
“I ate half a bag of shredded cheese,” she says and then laughs. I’m laughing right along with her. “I eat when I’m nervous.”
I lick my lips and lean in. “Do I make you nervous?”
Sierra inhales, making her large breasts rise under her dress. God, she’s gorgeous. “Yes.”
I could push her, have fun with it, and make her squirm. But I don’t. Because Sierra is different. So much different. Instead, I take her hand in mine, running my thumb over the smooth skin on the inside of her wrist.
“Don’t be nervous.”
She nods quickly and pushes her hair behind her ear.
“Did you make those dessert-ish things yet?”
“I actually just finished a batch before you got here. I made the dough this morning with the intention of bringing you some at the bar if you were working. The dough has to chill for a while,” she explains and gets up, leading me into her kitchen. “I stuck them in the oven to keep them warm.”
“Is that what smells so good in here?”
“It might be part of it. I put lemongrass oil into the diffuser. It’s my favorite scent. It has a nice, subtle sweetness to it, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I agree, not really knowing what else to say, which is rather unlike me, but there’s something about Sierra’s place that’s welcoming…and so homey. I’ve never felt this before, and I’ve only been here for a few minutes. I don’t even want to think about how fucked up that is. “It is nice.”
“Do you want anything to drink?” She opens the oven and pulls out a tray of square pastries. “I have wine, but I think I’m going to forgo alcohol tonight, for obvious reasons.”
I chuckle. “I’ll skip it with you.”
She pours two glasses of lemonade and sits next to me at the kitchen table, serving the beignets.
“These are really good,” I say, after taking a bite. “I’m impressed with your baking skills.”
She waves h
er hand in the air. “These are easy. My grandma is an amazing cook. She actually grew up really poor and her own mother had to improvise a lot in order to feed her family. She taught us the best of her recipes.”
“So, she wasn’t born a Belmont?” I ask and take another bite. “I might have looked up your family history on the internet,” I confess. “I find that kind of stuff fascinating.”
Sierra smiles. “I do too, which is why I live here instead of a new house like my sister. Houses like this don’t do well when left empty. And no, my grandma wasn’t. She married into the Belmonts but it was because of her my grandfather started doing business with one of those big food chains. It’s an interesting tale. I like hearing her talk about it as lame as that sounds.”
“It’s not lame at all. But what might be lame is that I’m really curious if this house was actually part of the Underground Railroad or not.”
Sierra beams. “There’s no actual proof, but we think so because of this weird space upstairs with a hidden door. Want to see it?”
“Hell yes.”
She brushes powdered sugar from her fingers, takes a drink, and gets up. Excitement gleams in her emerald eyes as she leads me up a narrow staircase.
“A historian came out and evaluated the weird little room not that long ago,” she explains. “And she couldn’t come up with a logical explanation for it, which is why we think it was used to hide slaves trying to escape to freedom. And one of my ancestors was hanged for helping slaves run away, so it fits the history.”
There are two rooms upstairs. One is set up as a guest room and the other has bookshelves along the entire perimeter. A yoga mat and exercise ball are the only furniture. We go into that room and I can’t help but admire all of Sierra’s books as we pass through. She takes me to what I presume to be a closet, turns on a light, and pushes clothes out of the way. She pushes on a piece of old paneling, moving it to the side to reveal a small door.
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Because you have to do a bit of crawling.” She drops to her knees and grabs a flashlight that’s stashed right inside the little trap door. She’s wearing a short dress and her ass is in my face as we move through a narrow crawlspace that follows the roofline of this old house. It’s weird to get turned on in a place like this, I know, but I can’t help it. Sierra is too fucking good-looking to begin with. Pair that with her interest in history, and I want to fuck her right here in this hidden room.
“We’re behind the other room now,” she tells me as she stands, shining the light around. The roofline angles down on one side, and exposed beams and insulation surround us. The room looks like an old attic and is only a few feet wide. “There was a cot in here, right up against that wall.” She shines the light on the wall opposite us. “But it was full of mice so it had to be taken out. And there was another door leading from the crawlspace to here, but it wasn’t in good shape either. Some of the boards had to be replaced, and obviously the little squares of carpet were added. I got splinters enough times crawling through here that I lined it to save my knees.”
“Do you hang out in here often?”
“No. It’s hot as hell, as you can tell. But sometimes I come here and just think about who stayed here, praying not to be caught and for a better life. Gives me perspective,” she adds quietly.
I step forward and the boards creak beneath my feet. Pictures are carved into one of the wooden beams, along with the name ‘Ester.’ “It’s amazing this has survived.”
“It is. There was an old lantern and a schoolbook with notes written in it under the bed. The book is super fragile, but can still be flipped through. And the lantern is on my coffee table. I like lanterns.”
“I noticed,” I say with a smile.
Sierra inhales and gathers her hair in her hand, pulling it off her neck. “Want to get out of here? The heat gets to you fast, which makes me feel like a baby when I think about people staying here for days.”
“I am very grateful for whoever invented air conditioning.”
“Me too,” Sierra says and goes back through the crawlspace.
“Do you do yoga?” I ask, mind going into the gutter on its own accord as I imagine Sierra in various poses.
“I used to. And speaking of air conditioning, the upstairs only recently had the ductwork done to get central air up here. It was too hot most of the time before.” She closes the closet door and her eyes go to a photo on her bookshelf.
It’s of her and Jake.
“I was trying to do most of the renovations myself,” she goes on. “So I could only do a bit at a time since, you know, it’s super expensive to update old houses. But my parents thought it would be a good distraction, I guess, and paid for everything up here to be updated so I could decorate. I like decorating.”
“A distraction?” I ask, though I already know what she’s talking about.
She looks away from the photo. “After Jake died, I stopped doing pretty much everything I used to do.” Slowly, she shakes her head. “It hurt. A lot. And instead of feeling it, I shut down. It’s easier to feel nothing, after all.” She blinks and flicks her gaze to me. “I don’t know why I just told you that. I’ve never told anyone that before. If you want to rethink the whole basket case thing, I don’t blame you.”
I close the distance between us and take her hand. “I don’t think you’re a basket case, Sierra. You do what you have to do to guard your heart. Life is hard. Sometimes the best you can do is survive.”
Her long lashes come together as she closes her eyes in a long blink. “Why do I get the feeling you’re speaking from personal experience?”
“Because I am.”
I slide my fingers up her arm and over her shoulder. Sierra closes her eyes and leans in. With my other hand, I reach behind her, putting my hand on the small of her back, and bring her in so her hips are against mine. Sierra brings her arm up and rests her hand on my chest, feeling my heartbeat.
I want to kiss her.
I want to taste her.
Feel her.
Love her.
“Chase,” she whispers, tipping her head up.
“Sierra,” I whisper back, moving her hair over her shoulder. I press my forehead against hers, getting more and more turned on from her touch as each second passes by. She curls her fingers in, bunching my shirt beneath her grasp. I run my fingers along the skin on her back, exposed from the backless dress.
She shuffles closer, taking her other hand and setting it on my waist. Desire comes over me like a wave crashing on the shore and I lose the shred of self-control I was holding onto.
I put my lips to Sierra’s, gently cupping her face. She hesitates for a second and then she kisses me back.
And neither one of us can stop.
Sierra’s arms wrap around me, holding me as close as she can. I kiss her hard, hands moving down to the hem of her dress. I pull it up, and then take hold of her legs, lifting her up and pressing her against a bookshelf. Sierra wraps her legs around me and moves her lips from mine to my neck. She sucks on my skin and rakes her fingers through my hair.
I move one of the straps of her dress off her shoulders, watching as the fabric slides down, and cup her breast in my hand. My cock hardens against her, and Sierra lets out a moan as she feels it, pushing her core against me.
I press her harder against the shelf, using one hand to bunch up her dress. She widens her legs and throws her head back as I kiss her neck. The shelf wobbles and books fall around us, but that doesn’t stop us.
I’ve never wanted someone more than I want Sierra at this moment. I want to make her feel because it makes me feel, and for once, nothing hurts. Everything feels right.
She reaches down, trying to undo my pants. I slip both hands around her legs and move so she can undo my belt, sliding it out of the loops and dropping it on the floor. She takes my lip between her teeth as she pops the button on my pants. Her fingers are just inches awa
y from my dick, and I push her against the shelf again in order to reposition us.
A picture frame comes crashing down, glass shattering as it hits the shelf below, and then crashes onto the floor. Sierra tenses and turns her head away.
Shit.
The photo that fell was the picture of her with Jake that I saw just minutes ago. I look down at the floor. Broken glass lies in shards around my feet, and Jake and Sierra’s smiling faces stare up at us. Jaw tense, I move my gaze back to Sierra’s. Her green eyes are wide with horror.
And then she laughs.
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s not funny at all. I don’t know why I’m laughing. It’s just…you’re the first person I’ve kissed since Jake died and his photo falls from the shelf and cuts me.”
“You got cut?”
“I think so. I felt something fly up and hit me when the glass shattered.” She inhales and looks over my shoulder at her foot. Her legs are still around me and I don’t want to let go.
“Yep. I’m bleeding.”
There’s no panic in her voice, no sign that she’s in really any pain at all, yet knowing that she got cut upsets me more than I thought it would. I tighten my grip on her, look down at the broken glass. Carefully stepping over it, I move to the rainbow-colored carpet in the middle of the room and gently set Sierra down. Her eyes are on the broken photo frame and a tear rolls down her cheek.
“Sorry,” she says and quickly wipes it away.
“Don’t be,” I whisper, crouching down next to her so I can look at the jagged cut on her ankle. The ache in my heart turns to anger. This isn’t how things were supposed to turn out. The Mystery Woman was supposed to find happiness again. She wasn’t supposed to struggle and hurt for this long.
“It doesn’t look that deep,” I go on, gently wiping away a bead of blood with my fingertip. “I’ll clean it for you and make sure there’s no glass inside the wound.”
She nods, still looking at the broken frame. I stand and reach out to her to help her to her feet. “Thank you, Chase.”
“Do you have a first aid kit and tweezers?”
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