Текст книги "Sex Love Repeat"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
HOLLYWOOD, CA
MADISON
I enter the bedroom, flipping on the lights and heading to the shower. Twenty minutes later, I crawl into bed and turn on the television. Halfway through a stain-remover infomercial, I fall asleep.
At some point in the night, Stewart joins me, his arms pulling me tight to his body, his mouth soft against the back on my neck. I nestle into his body, murmuring his name, and sleep steals back over me. The next thing I hear is the soft ding of my alarm.
I move, half-awake, through the motions of cooking. Preheating a skillet. Pouring oil. Beating eggs. The bacon is sizzling in the pan when I lick my fingers and move down the hall, pressing the button next to the light switch that opens the blinds. They move, a soft hum of motors, light peeking through the large windows, the room still dim, dawn on the edge of our city’s horizon.
“Wakey wakey,” I sing, running my hands lightly through Stewart’s hair before planting a soft kiss on his lips. They move beneath my mouth, smiling, and he speaks against my kiss, his eyes still closed.
“It can’t be five already.”
“It is, baby. I don’t joke about interrupting sleep. I’ve got bacon in the pan, so I’ve got to get back to the stove.” I steal another kiss and then leave, trailing my hands across his bare chest, then jog back to the kitchen, snagging a pair of tongs and turning crispy bacon a moment before it burns.
I have the bacon on a plate and am scooping eggs out when I feel him enter, his heavy presence as palatable as a burst of hot air. I grin, knowing what is coming, before I feel his hands on my ass, gripping and squeezing before he slides his hands around my stomach, coming up and brushing my breasts. He nuzzles my neck. “You can’t possibly expect me to eat food when you’re naked.”
“I’m not naked. I’m almost naked,” I protest, slipping out of his hands and carrying our plates to the bar. “Now sit. I didn’t get up at 4:30 to have you ignore my breakfast.”
He obeys, moving my plate till it is next to his and pats the stool. “Well, almost naked, if that is how you call it, looks damn tempting.”
“Thank you. You can thank Valentine’s Day, last year for that.”
He tilts his head. “Is that what I got you?”
“And a watch. But I didn’t feel like dripping diamonds while flipping bacon.”
He grins. “Understandable.”
“What’s the call with Helsinki about?”
“Rebranding. We’re splitting an entity into two parts and need a new brand for the new arm.”
Stewart works for a venture capitalist firm. They purchase assets that are typically struggling, then paint a new face on them, streamline their production processes, and use their bulk buying power and outsourcing to reduce costs. Many of his subcontractors are in Finland and India, which makes every hour of the day a business hour. He treats his new assets like children, becoming emotionally invested in their futures, their successes and their failures. I love his passion, and understand the time commitment and place in his life that his work possesses. In his life, work is first, and I am second. I am okay with that standing, just as he is okay with the fact that I will not make our relationship exclusive as long as I have that second-place ranking.
It doesn’t stop me from loving him any less. It doesn’t stop my heart from tugging when he smiles. It doesn’t stop my recognition that he loves me back, as much as his heart and schedule will allow. I don’t want our world to be any different than it is right now. A change in his priorities will mean a change in our relationship. A change in our relationship will mean that I have to choose between him and Paul. And I can’t do that. Not right now. I’m not ready for that jump.
He glances at the kitchen clock and bends over, placing a soft kiss on the edge of my lips. “Leave the dishes, babe. Estelle will be here soon. I’m gonna take that call.”
I nod. “I’m gonna head back to bed.”
And I do. I lose the lace underwire bra and matching thongs and crawl back to bed, the motorized blinds dragging the room back into darkness. My heavy breakfast and early morning causes sleep to come quickly, and I don’t wake ‘til late morning.
VENICE BEACH, CA
The bookstore is busy, a rare occurrence, and the afternoon passes quickly. I sell a grand total of sixty used books, bringing in a whopping hundred bucks. The new books do all right, too, bringing the owner some much-needed revenue and guaranteeing me at least one more month of employment. I lock up at eight, heading next door to the bar that shares our awning.
It is crowded, half tourists and half locals, familiar smiles greeting me as I grab a bar stool. Bip, the bartender, a pretty brunette that has managed to look eighteen for a good ten years longer than physically possible, pops a Corona top and slides it over to me.
“Thanks.”
“No sweat babe. Where’s your sexier half?”
“Somewhere on I-5. He’s with Nick and Moses, headed back from Del Mar.”
“They catch good conditions?”
“According to the text I got, the waves were great, but too many shoobies, it was a zoo.”
“That’s the problem with this time of year. Tourists everywhere.” She lowered her voice, glancing around before shooting me a smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Hey, me either.” I toasted her, taking a swig of the beer and glancing at my watch. “Can you put in a large philly to go? I’m gonna head home before it gets too crazy.”
Venice Beach has been romanticized by Hollywood and an impressively deceptive tourism marketing campaign. They paint our sidewalk stands and street performers in a romantic light, touting our artistic graffiti and muscle beach as unique oddities. In actuality, it is the armpit of LA tourism. Panhandlers and druggies everywhere, homeless getting rich off of intimidated tourists and families of four too far from the safety of their car to say no. We have at least ten murders a year, over three hundred aggravated assaults and around a hundred rapes. The majority of those crimes happen to tourists, prostitutes, and drug users. Paul and I fall in the lower-risk demographic, but that doesn’t mean we are safe. Locals do their best to protect other locals, our misfit band of eccentrics attempting some basic form of civility. But I am a young, attractive female. Walking down the boardwalk after dark alone scares me. I call Paul and let him know I’m on my way home.
“Awesome babe. I’m twenty minutes away. Gonna drop the boys at their place and then I’ll be home. Call me when you get to the house, so I know you’re safe.”
I agree, hanging up my cell, and slip it into the pockets of my sweatshirt, the cash in my pocket burning my skin. Then I grab my food, throw a twenty on the bar, and head into the crowded night, a half-mile from home.
I move quickly through the crowds, my hood up despite the warm night air, ignoring the catcalls from men and the panhandlers who know me yet still stick out their hands. I nod to familiar faces and share words with a few locals. Then the crowds thin and I am on the sparse path that covers the last quarter-mile home. There are still tourists here, ones who didn’t realize that the South Venice parking lot is the wrong place to park, a long walk from the attractions, a much closer lot a quarter-mile north. We all hurry, the night sky unsettling, too many shadows and dark alleys in between the million dollar bungalows that face this oceanfront broken sidewalk.
Then I reach our street, head a block east and jog up the steps to our home, my key out and ready, the deadbolt flipping in the lock as soon as the door is fully shut. I strip off my sweaty pullover and call Paul, letting him know that I am home.
I hear his jeep rumble as I pull two beers from the fridge, popping their tops and carrying them to the coffee table, flipping the dead bolt switch on my way. He bounds up the steps, flinging the door open and crossing our living room in four easy steps, pulling me into his arms and taking my mouth. I jump, wrapping my legs around his waist and he catches me, his hands strong on my ass, his mouth desperate on mine, like he has been away a month instead of a day. He carries me to the couch and tosses me down, the worn leather soft against my back, his mouth following my descent before softly releasing me. His eyes linger on me, a smile on his face before he wheels around and shuts the door.
We eat on the couch, sharing the sandwich, juice running down my wrists as I try to bite into the overfull sandwich. I get up twice for napkins and more beer, our conversation dancing over, but not touching, my activities last night. Paul prefers to not discuss the existence of Stewart. While Stewart approaches their shared split of my time as he would a business merger, coolly and unemotionally—it is much harder for Paul. I have all of Paul’s heart—surfing and his career taking a backseat to me, to my happiness. I’m sure he struggles with that—having half of me while giving me all of him. But I was with Stewart first, gave him that half of my heart before Paul ever came into the picture. Paul was just sex to me, a warm body to fuck my body and occupy my days while Stewart worked. But somewhere, over a year ago, Paul took the other half of my heart and I fell for him as well. I know it bothers Paul. I know that he is competitive and possessive and wants me to be only his. But he will not give me up over that desire, so he doesn’t fight it. He goes with the flow, and only asks for my happiness.
We eat, we watch tv, and then fuck—starting in the shower and taking the activity to our bed. Then we spoon, the sound of waves lulling us to sleep.
DANA
The definition of a secret is something not meant to be known by others.
What do you do when you discover a secret? Do you have a responsibility to share it? Or is the responsibility in the keeping of the secret?
I think it all depends on the outcome of sharing the secret. Some cause harm, some good. I need to find out more about this secret. To know what outcome it harbors. So I will watch. And try to find out as much as I can about this woman. And why she has latched onto these men, who hold my heart as much as she holds theirs.
I don’t know if she loves them or if toying with them. The chances of both of us loving them are too slim, too incredible to be a coincidence. What I don’t understand is why. Why these two men?
With the millions of men in Los Angeles, why date brothers?
MADISON
I watch Stewart sleep, the rise and fall of his strong chest. He is so rarely still, so rarely calm. Intensity is his standard; peace is a rare moment for me to view. At a time like this, when his eyes are closed and his breathing is soft, I feel protective of him. As if I have some responsibility for his world, for his happiness, for his life. I love him, there has not been a question of that for some time. I fell quickly for this brilliant man—a man who has no time for anything more than bites of time and affection. He will never bounce our child on his knee or take me to the doctor when I am sick. Those are his limitations and he realizes that. Is regretful for that shortcoming but unwilling to change. He has chosen his lifestyle, and accepts the restrictions that come with it. Maybe one day he will change. Maybe one day his brow will relax and he will smile easily, laugh more often, and lose the suit and tie. Maybe he will be able to do more than fuck me senseless and kiss me before leaving me alone to sleep. Maybe he will have a life outside of work, and maybe I will still be around when that time comes. Life is too unpredictable to plan for that. What I do know, as I watch this beautiful man sleep, his face relaxed and body still, is that I love him. Just as much as I love Paul. And that, one day, will be a problem.
10 YEARS EARLIER
The fire burned hot, a wave of heat pushing Jennifer Brand back from the pit, her feet sinking in the thick sand. She tripped, stumbling backward, and was caught by strong arms, her gaze looking up and catching on gorgeous green eyes and a cocky smile.
“Gotcha.”
She blushed, gripping his forearms and pulled herself to solid sand, brushing off her legs. “Thanks.”
“It’s Jen, right?”
“Jennifer.” She hated Jen, hated the childish lilt of the name.
“Cool. Having fun?”
She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes drawn to his body, to the ripped six-pack he proudly displayed.
“We were actually about to jet. Head to a house party over in Summerset. You seem pretty cool... would you want to come?” He flashed a smile that any warm-blooded teen would be crazy to resist, a grin that displayed his dimples to perfection, his white teeth flashing at her in the dark.
Yes, I would love to come. I would love to do anything your perfect self deems necessary. She hesitated. “I’ve got to ask my brother, I came here with him.”
He stiffened slightly. “Really? Who?”
“Paul Brand.”
He stepped back a pace, surprise on his face. “Really? You’re Paul’s little sister?”
Nodding, she blushed at the impressed look he shot her. “Yeah.” It’s my birthday... so he brought me along.”
His look turned wary. “Eighteenth birthday?”
“Yeah,” she lied. “The big one.”
He nodded with a smile. “I knew your sister, Dana. You look a little like her. Prettier.” He flashed another smile, this one a little awkward, as if he regretted the comment. There was a shout, and he turned, waving absently at a group that passed. “Well... ask your brother. Summerset party. We can drop you wherever when its done. And tell him I’m a fan. He is lethal on that board.”
Stuffing her hands in the front pockets of her jean skirt, she nodded, watching his profile as he turn and jogged through the sand, effortlessly catching a beer that was tossed his way. Then she glanced around, looking for Paul.
He was by the dunes, a blonde head underneath his, his body stretched out over a form she couldn’t really see. She hung back, unsure about interrupting, glancing back at the fire before hesitantly calling his name.
There was a groan from the two bodies, and a muffled whisper, then Paul rolled, coming to his feet, his back to her, his hands adjusting the front of his swimsuit before he turned, an irritated expression on his face. “What’s up Jennifer?”
“I’m ready to leave.” The words spilled out without premeditation, but she saw the brilliance in them as soon as they came out, Paul’s expression fighting hard to disguise the frustration at the statement.
“Now? We haven’t even been here an hour.”
“I know. There is a big group headed to a house in Summerset to hang out. I could go with them – and you could just pick me up there when you’re ready to leave here.” She said it casually, as if she didn’t care either way. As if her entire love life wasn’t resting on his answer.
His eyes lit up. “Really. Summerset? Who all’s going?”
“Just some girls I’ve been talking to. But I think it’s a big group. So it’ll be safe.”
The blonde called his name, moving in the sand, and he glanced back before facing her again, indecision in his eyes. “You got a cell on you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. I have Mom’s cell and I’ll be with a group. It’s just like any other night I go out with a group. Mom and Dad would be fine with it. Just call me when you leave here. You can pick me up then.”
He looked back once more, then studied her face. “Alright. Just be safe. I love you.”
She grinned, unable to contain the smile that burst out. “I love you too Paul. Thanks.”
He stepped back, watching her closely. “Cell phone. Don’t lose it and make sure the ringer’s on. I’ll call you in about an hour.”
She waved, turning and jogging up the beach, towards the fire.
“Happy Birthday!” he called out after her.
She waved again, without looking back, her eyes skimming the fire lit bodies, looking for the athletic build of her dreams.
He had a football in hand, and was heaving it into the darkness, a dim figure in red jumping up to catch it. She jogged up, tugged gently on his shirt, and waited for him to turn. He did, throwing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest. “You coming?”
“Yeah. If that’s still okay.” She beamed up at him.
He squeezed her shoulder gently. “More than okay. Come on, you can ride with me.”
He whistled to a group, the guys turning, ditching red cups into the nearby dunes, insults and laughs tossed out as they dispersed.
Five minutes later, she was lifted into the backseat, his strong hands lingering on her waist, his hand sliding the seatbelt across her lap, teasing her bare thighs as it moved. He clinched the buckle, his face close to hers, and leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers as his hand slid around her thigh, caressing the flesh there.
Then he leaned back, breaking their connection, shutting the door and leaning in the open window. “At the party, stick close to me. I’m gonna need more of that.”
His words made her smile, her cheeks warm, her lips still tingling from his kiss. “Okay.”
He tapped the roof. “Let’s go!” he yelled.
She glanced to the boy next to her, extending a shy smile, one that was quickly returned, framed by dark eyes, ruddy cheeks and thick black hair. “Heard you’re Brand’s sister.”
She nodded.
“He’s sick on a gun. Everyone knows who he is.”
“He taught me how to surf,” she offered.
“Hey!” the loud voice from the front seat broke their conversation. “You hitting on my girl, Brian?”
“Just making conversation Travis,” the boy muttered, grinning at her.
My girl. She bit her lip to contain a smile, grabbing the arm rest as the truck was slammed into drive, throwing her slightly forward.
10 YEARS EARLIER
DANA
LOS ANGELES GAZETTE
PRESS RELEASE: LOS ANGELES COUNTY
A late night of partying and drinking has taken the lives of three Los Angeles residents, one of them a seventeen-year-old girl. The driver, Jason Tate, is in critical condition at Long Beach Memorial Hospital and had a recorded BAC of 1.23.
Tate’s vehicle, a 1992 Land Rover Defender, lost control on Pacific Coast Hwy at approx. 11:14pm on Friday evening. The vehicle crashed through a guardrail before rolling down a steep embank. Jason Tate, a 21-year old UCLA student, was thrown from the vehicle and suffered severe head trauma. The bodies of Brian Jesup and Jennifer Brand were found in the burnt-out vehicle, restrained by seat belts. It is unknown if they were conscious when the vehicle caught fire, the blaze a result of the impact, which cracked the fuselage and tank. The third fatality, Robert McCormick, was found a short distance from the vehicle, and died of head injuries.
A joint memorial service will be held on Saturday at 2pm. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to M.A.D.D. of Los Angeles.
That night ripped apart our lives. I came home, leaving Berkeley mid-semester, and found Mom, on her bedroom floor, sobbing, her arms wrapped around a framed photo of our family. One taken before Dad’s heart attack. Back when we were a family of six, before we became five, and then four. It wasn’t long after that that we became three. Three separate souls, unconnected except for the blood in our veins and love locked away in the stubborn places of our hearts.
“She was seventeen!” Stewart yelled, pushing Paul against the wall, frames rattling against wallpaper from the impact. He dug his hands into Paul’s shoulders, their faces only inches apart. “Seventeen!”
“She wanted to go. I didn’t know. I thought it was just a party.” Paul’s words stumbled out of his mouth, a sob thick in the back of his throat, his body slumping down the wall as Stewart released him.
“Did you put her in the truck?” Stewart asked, every word a bite of venom. “Did you look into the eyes of the boy who killed her? Or were you too busy fucking around to worry about something as simple as our little sister’s life?”
Paul was silent, his head in his hands, shoulders racking as he tried to contain silent sobs.
“You fucking disgust me.” Stewart said, breathing hard, his face tight with barely restrained rage. I left my post by the wall, stepping forward, my eyes meeting Stewart’s, a fraction of a moment in time before I wrapped my arms around his chest. He gripped me tightly, so tightly it hurt, his need so great, his heart openly breaking between my arms. “She’s gone.” He whispered the words, his voice gravelly. “She’s fucking gone.” His voice broke and I felt the shake of him, his strong frame crumbling in my arms, his breath gasping as he buried his face in my hair. “What the fuck are we going to do?”
I held him, my own tears flowing, my eyes blocked from Paul by the wide expanse of Stewart’s chest. I wanted to go to him, to hug my little brother, but could feel the anger radiating from Stewart, mixing with his pain, the combination crippling him. I pulled back, looking up into his eyes. “Mom’s asking for you.”
He nodded, squeezing me one final time before stepping away, his eyes never going to Paul, his profile furious.
I waited until he left the room, pulling the door shut with a finality that hurt, then hurried to Paul, crouching down next to him. I wrapped my arms around him, shushing him as I felt him shake. When he moved, sitting up against the wall, his wet eyes staring straight ahead, I curved into him, his arms automatically moving around my shoulders, taking me into his embrace. “He hates me.” He whispered.
“He’s just in pain.” I said softly. “He’ll change Paul. He knows you were just trying to do the right thing.”
“I wasn’t. I was being fucking selfish.” He choked out. “I should have been with her. It was her night. It’s my fucking fault.” He tightened his arms around me and rested his head on mine, letting out a shuddering breath. “It’s my fucking fault and he knows it. He should hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He loves you.” I said the words, and believed them to be true. But Stewart may have loved Jennifer more. And when one love kills another, can you still love them?
Stewart left minutes after the funeral ended. He and Paul didn’t see each other for three years, until Mom’s funeral. They framed her casket, two visions of handsome in black suits and somber faces. Then the separation continued. It has been seven years and three months since her death. Over seven years of silence.
The first few years, I ran ragged between the two of them. Attempting reconciliations. Planning peace-keeping holidays, birthdays, lunches. But the time has only increased the distance, and after two years of trying – Paul asked me to stay away. Said that it was too painful to see my face. Said that I reminded him too much of her. I fought it, continued to try. Then he changed his number, moved. Made his feelings crystal clear.
I hope that now, as an adult, Paul realizes the implications of his actions but also the reality of the true cause. Stewart buried him so deep in guilt that it took years for him to smile again, to realize that he is a good person who made a simple mistake. I think he now begrudges Stewart for those years of pain, when he was close to suicide over the loss of his sister and the overwhelming guilt he felt.
But Stewart... he still blames Paul for her death. And he is too proud to admit anything to the contrary.
They both loved her. So much. Almost too much. So much that her death was impossible to recover from, at least where their relationship was concerned.
And that brings me to the present. Another woman holds both of their hearts in her hands. Their relationship didn’t survive Jennifer. I’m worried their hearts won’t survive Madison. I have to protect them. I am their sister. It is my duty.
