Текст книги "Meet Me in the Dark"

Автор книги: J. A. Huss

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Answers come to those who seek them.”

– Sydney

I think this is it for me.

“What?” Case is next to me. I’m in bed with him. I can feel his bare chest up against my feverish back. His arms tighten around me as he repositions. I want to open my eyes and see if we’re in the crow’s nest room or some other room, but I can’t quite do that yet.

“Sydney?”

I hope we’re in the crow’s nest. And it’s daylight still, so maybe I only lost a few hours? I really like it up here. It feels good to be tall, looking down on things, instead of small, always looking up. It feels like a watchtower. A place where you can see the bad shit coming from a distance and prepare.

“Syd,” he says, a little softer now. “I didn’t want to drug you again, but you were hysterical. It was the only way I could calm you down. I won’t do it again, but I need you to help me out here. OK? Can you do that?”

Help him out. I bet. I tuck my head into the soft pillow and will myself not to cry. “Just be someone else, you say?” I croak out the words. My mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. How many times have I been drugged since he’s had me? “But all I’ve ever done is be someone else. I don’t even live in the real world anymore. I can’t imagine any more versions of myself, Case. I have tried so many times. I have lived in my head for days on end. I have refused to see the truth in hopes those memories would just fade away. I have been the good girl, the bad girl, the defiant girl, the sexy girl, the compliant girl. And it gets me nowhere.”

I turn my body so I can see his face when I open my eyes. We are in the crow’s nest, and that just makes me sad. Because no matter how nice this place is, he’s still the guy who left me to die. And I don’t know what he’s doing right now. Or why he’s being nice. Or why I’m even still alive.

But I know none of that is because he sees me. He doesn’t see me. He says I need to change into someone else. And that’s all they’ve ever told me. Change into someone else. Split me in half, that’s what they’ve done. But maybe it’s not just half. Maybe I’ve been quartered, like an elk when we hunt it down and kill it and then have to carry it back to camp in pieces.

“I am not the rabbit.”

He swipes a finger down my cheek and I realize he’s wiping away tears. I look up into his eyes. How many times have I wished I could be this close to those eyes? They are bright, like the room. Not brown, not green, not blue. Hazel. With specks of yellow in them that make them that amber color when he’s standing in just the right haze between dark and light.

I take a deep breath and let it out.

“I don’t know what that means, Sydney. The rabbit thing. It was a trigger for you? You saw the rabbit on the TV and it triggered something?”

“Yeah,” I say softly, wishing I could just curl up and die. But what’s the point of fighting him anymore? What is the point? Who do I want to protect here? I run the list of names in my head and only come up with one.

But it’s not fair. It’s so not fair that I will be fucked when this is all over. So I opt for answers before I give in. Maybe I can die peacefully if I at least get some answers. “Did you turn that show on to trigger me?”

“No,” he says. No hesitation. “I do not know Garrett’s triggers, Sydney. If I did, this would be a whole lot easier. I could help you. If I did. I could try to set this shit right. Do you know the triggers?”

“Bobcat.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” Case lets me go, pulling his arms away, and stands up. “I don’t think that’s it. If bobcat or wildcat were triggers and releases, we’d be making progress. Climbing out of that dark hole. But we’re not climbing out. You’re still falling in, cowgirl.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble into the pillow. “How much farther can I possibly fall?”

He sits down on the edge of the half-moon bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and then his face in his hands. I guess he has no clue. And neither do I. “More drugs,” I say. “Just give me more. Give me so much I never wake up.”

He doesn’t even answer me. Just walks away. I listen to each step as it creaks on his way downstairs. And then I listen to noises that have no meaning to me. Finally, after about twenty minutes of this, the door slams.

He walked out.

Isn’t that what he does? He says he’ll save me, but then he walks out.

I close my eyes and go back to sleep. This room is too bright. I need the dark.

When I wake, it’s twilight, which isn’t quite as good as dark, but I can’t make myself go back to sleep. So I sit up and look outside. It’s snowing again. But there’s a trail from a snow machine still a little bit visible.

I kick the covers off and then make my way to the edge of the bed and swing my feet over. I’m not dizzy. Whatever he gave me, it was a small dose. Just enough to calm me down, like he said.

I am hungry and thirsty. So I make my way down to the second floor and stop off at the first bathroom I see, relieve myself, and then gulp water from the faucet.

I pull back, wiping my mouth, and look at myself in the mirror. My hair is long and dark and it hangs down my front in tousled waves. It’s messy, but cute. That makes me smile for a second. That I can be here, looking at my hair at a time like this. My face is marred with scratches, a bruise that is one of the remnants of the many head punches Case delivered. And my eyes are tired, but bright.

I wouldn’t say I feel bright. But I do feel better than I have in days. Weeks, I guess. Since he took me weeks ago now.

I touch the bruise and wince. But the hatred I feel for Garrett each time he made one of these appear doesn’t manifest for Case like it should.

I should hate him. But I don’t.

I should want to plot revenge. But I don’t.

And it’s not some sick Stockholm syndrome thing, either. I tried to love Garrett. I tried out that Stockholm shit on him. Thought it might make it easier if the man who was beating me was sexy and liked to fuck me.

But it never worked with Garrett. So I think I’m immune to Stockholm syndrome.

Besides, I have loved Case for years in my head. Long before this. He was my savior. So fuck it. I’m allowed to love him now too. He has no idea what’s happening. He’s just doing his best to figure it out. And if I wanted to make him stop hurting me, I could just tell him.

But I’m not some magnanimous do-gooder. Like it or not, I’m just as ruthless as him. And I want what I want.

I want him to like me. I want him to say, I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I fucked up. I want him to want me the way I want him. I want him to love me. I want to be loved so badly.

I flick the light out and see a large bedroom through a pair of open double doors. I step forward into the room. I know he’s gone. And I’ll hear the snow machine if he comes back.

Oh, God. What if he doesn’t come back? What if I go downstairs and there’s a pile of clothes and a note telling me to get lost? He’s moved on and so should I?

Instead of dwelling on that, I start looking around the room. He’s got a connecting bathroom in here. All his shaving stuff is out on the counter. A cup to hold soap. I pick up the cup and smell it—sandalwood. And a nice brush to lather up his face. I swipe my fingers along the soft bristles and picture what it would be like to watch him do that.

Nope. No Stockholm syndrome for me.

I flip the lights off and go back to the bedroom, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. There are nightstands on either side made out of a highly polished wood that is so dark it almost looks black. His house is not decorated like you might expect a huge luxury log cabin to be. Most of the elements are contemporary and new.

I open the drawer in the nightstand and find guns.

Of course you do, Syd. He’s an assassin. I pick each one up and handle it, checking the weight, the chambers—they are all loaded—and then put them back and close the drawer.

I never want to use a gun again. Ever.

The second nightstand on the other side of the bed has a closed black case and a first aid kit with a selection of drugs. None of them are the cocktail he’s giving me, because they are all antibiotics, heart-rate things, antagonists, and epinephrine. A crash kit. To save a life.

Nice to know the man whom I am lusting over, not for Stockholm-related reasons, is prepared to save me from too much anesthetic, should I ever require it.

I pick up the black case, spy a lock, and therefore expect it to be locked when I trigger the mechanism.

But it isn’t. He must not get many visitors up here.

That makes me let out an involuntary cackle. I think I might be losing my mind for real. Like, irretrievably for real.

The two guns inside are… magnificent. Black matte FN Five-SeveNs with custom grips and an aftermarket laser. There’s writing on the grips, so I pick one up and turn it sideways to read it.

The only gun you’ll ever need. Happy birthday, Merc. ~ XXOO – Smurf

I have no idea who Smurf is, so I just put it back inside the case and look at the three cartridges, which are also lined up, like this was made for a display. They have writing on them too, so I take one out to get a better look. With love, Sasha, it says three times over.

I guess she is the Smurf. Figures. That kid has had his heart since the night he left me out at that cabin. It makes me so furious to think that she got a cute nickname and her fairytale ending and I got…

I don’t want to think about what I got. It brings up bad things. Things better left buried.

I put the cartridge back and close the case and then the drawer. I don’t want to shoot Case. So I’m not even remotely interested in nabbing one of his guns.

The sound of a snow machine draws me out of my introspection, and I get up and make my way downstairs so I can meet him at the door.

God, I’m so pathetic.

“Eventually… you have to trust someone.”

– Sydney

I settle for the couch instead of greeting him at the door so I don’t look like I’ve been waiting for him. Or like I’m happy he came back.

The couch faces the living room window, so I peek over the back of it. He comes through the door, stomping his snow-covered boots on the mat, and then hangs his hat and takes off his gloves.

He sees me just as he unzips his jacket. “You’re awake. I wasn’t sure how long you’d sleep. I didn’t give you much, I swear.” I can see his muscles through his long-sleeved thermal shirt as he hangs up his coat and kicks off his boots. “I had to go out and do some things,” he explains. Like I’m his wife, wanting to know where he’s been.

I do want to know, but not because I think he’s out hooking up with some chick. We are in the middle of nowhere. And Merric Case doesn’t strike me as a guy who fucks around a lot. Either on the side, or otherwise.

He walks into the living room in his socks. There’s sweat on his brow from the warm clothes and the heat of the wood stoves. “I just didn’t know what to do. Sorry.” He looks down as he walks to the kitchen and starts pulling out some food.

I want to say something, anything to break the silence, or change his mood, because he seems worried. And I don’t want that worry to be because of me. I’d like him to save me, yes. But I don’t want him to pity me. I’d rather die.

But I’m not a social girl, having grown up in the wilderness. Cheyenne doesn’t really count as a city, even if I told him it did a few hours ago. It’s a small place filled with small-place people. So I don’t know how to start this. I tuck my feet underneath me and stare at them instead of trying.

“You feel better?” he asks, unwrapping some meat from white butcher paper and throwing it in a pan. “Hungry?” He throws in some potatoes and then drops in baby carrots too. He puts it all into the oven and closes the door. I guess we are having a roast. He opens the fridge back up and pulls out two beers, pops the tops off with a bottle opener, and walks out into the living room.

I take the one he offers me and he plops down on the couch. Close. Very close. Like we’re together and we always have beers on the couch in the evening. Not like he kidnapped me a few weeks ago and washed me down with a fire hose. That should piss me off, because it fucking hurt. But it doesn’t. I’m not mad about any of it and I wonder if there are more drugs in me. Calming drugs. Anti-anxiety drugs. Things to keep me on an even keel.

I hold the beer up and he looks at me. “Should I be drinking this? Will it interact with the drugs?”

He takes a swig of his own bottle, but for a second there, I think I see a wince of shame. “I think you’re OK, Syd. I gave them to you this morning. I think they’re out of your system by now.”

He seems genuine, so no. Drugs are not the reason why I don’t give a shit about all the stuff he did. And since we’re clear that this is not Stockholm shit, I have no other ideas about why this might be.

“You wanna tell me about the rabbit?”

I close my eyes tightly, to keep the images from popping into my head. That noise, though. That scream the rabbit gave when I picked it up. It’s burned into my memory.

Case puts a hand on my leg and gives it a squeeze. “You don’t have to,” he says. “I think I get it.”

I give my head a small shake. “No, I think you have the wrong idea about pretty much everything, Case. Be the rabbit.” I look up and he’s listening, but confused. “Be the rabbit is what I used to tell myself when things got bad. It gave me hope and calmed me down. I was supposed to kill a rabbit that Garrett caught. And I know how to kill a rabbit in a live trap, OK?” I search Case’s eyes. “I know how to do it right. But what Garrett wanted me to do was cruel. So I let it go.”

“It got away?” Case asks hopefully.

One more small shake from me. “No, the dogs got it. They ripped it to pieces.”

Have you ever heard a rabbit scream?

“I have seen many things in the woods. Nature.” I look up at Case. “You know? The rules of nature play out every moment of every day, and we hardly give it a thought. But I lived with that for a very long time.” I look down at my beer and realize I haven’t taken a drink yet, so I raise it to my lips and have a good long gulp. It goes down cool and soothing, so I take another. “Garrett treated the dogs better than me. At least they never got shocked with a collar.”

When I look back up to Case, he’s frowning. “Look,” he says, almost a whisper. “I am sorry I didn’t take you that night—”

“Stop,” I say. “Just don’t, OK? I saved myself, so forget about it. When things got bad, I just imagined I was living a different life. It got me through.” I gaze out the window, into the darkness hiding the beautiful view beyond. “It got me through. I’m still here.”

I can feel him nod, but I don’t see it. Because I can’t look him in the eye.

He guzzles his beer, gets up and walks into the kitchen, and then tosses it into the garbage with a clink that tells me he’s been drinking a lot while I’ve been drugged. The top comes off another and then he walks over to the stairs. “I’m gonna get a shower before dinner. Make yourself at home.”

I watch him walk up the stairs. He climbs slow, and maybe I’m imagining it, but it seems a little bit somber. But beer and bad news will do that to a person. He disappears and a few minutes later I can hear the shower running.

I finish my beer too and grab another from the fridge. It’s a local brewery out of Jackson. I stock it in the bar. God, the bar. What’s even happening to my bar?

And that’s when I spy his cell phone on the counter. I walk over and pick it up, glance up at the stairs to see if he’s watching, and then swipe my finger to see if I can unlock it.

It’s not even locked. I open up the keypad and punch in the number for the bar, but just as I’m about to hit send, I stop. “What the fuck will I tell them?”

I set the phone back down and go back to the couch. It’s not Stockholm. It’s not. I just have no good reason to want to go home. There is nothing good there for me. Nothing. I know this. I love that bar, I really do. I’d give anything to be able to wipe away all the things keeping me from it and go home. Because that place—filled with drunk cowboys, shitty country karaoke, and ninety-nine-cent microbrew nights—was the only place I felt real.

Cowgirl, Case calls me sometimes. I am a cowgirl. I like that girl. Maybe I can be that girl instead of this one?

But I can’t go back. Not until I know what’s happening to me. Not until I figure it out. And I know my only hope of figuring out what I’m feeling right now is to let Case in on things.

I want him. But I don’t trust him. And just as that thought consumes me until I feel like I will explode—I hear the music coming from the third floor.

“Moments are permanent. You can’t take them back or change them. You can only make new ones.”

– Case

The music has always saved me. But it reminds me so much of Sydney. That song—my fingers pluck it out, just from habit. I learned to play it years ago, back when it first came out and it was on the radio in Sydney’s car every single day. I know that not because I was in the car with her, but because I have been stalking this girl for eight years.

I was relentless the first two years. I had Garrett in my sights so many times. I could’ve killed him a thousand times over if I had acted then. But Sasha needed me. My friends needed me. I saw all that shit through with them, and Sydney was an afterthought while we pieced together the final mystery.

Only we never solved it. We got the money we stole. But that final piece of the puzzle never materialized. And now Syd is here, a place where I’ve imagined her a million times—but this is definitely not how I imagined it going down.

In my head it was quick. Some torture. Some questions. Some answers. Mental persuasion was always an option, but I never, ever saw things turning out like this.

Like what? I have to ask myself that. Because I’m getting tangled up in her past. I’m letting her get to me. I’m allowing her sadness to take over all my plans. And I’m not quite sure what to do about it.

That scream. Now that I know she was imitating the rabbit, it makes sense. But it was blood-curdling. It was evil. It was fright on a level I’ve never experienced before.

I have killed a lot of people. Even some women. I don’t discriminate in that department. If they deserve it, if the money is right, I finish the job. But I have never heard a noise come out of a person’s mouth like that scream today. Drugs were my only option. She was hysterical. Just gone.

The stairs creak and then she appears in the shadows. I have one lamp on. And I guess it sets my mood. Low. That’s how I feel. On the bottom of something.

It’s not a good place to be in the middle of a job. And the feelings, I’m not used to the feelings. I care about people—not many, but I do care about them.

I should not care about this girl.

“Hey,” she says, flashing her bandaged hand in a wave.

“How’s that feeling?” I ask, still strumming out the tune I can’t seem to get out of my mind.

She looks down at her hand. “It’s better.”

“We’ll take the bandages off tomorrow and have a look at the blisters.”

She nods and takes a seat on the bed. Not far from me, but not close. I’m on the floor, one knee up, skin showing through a hole in my jeans, with the guitar in my lap. No shirt on. Not to make her look, even though she looks. But just because it gets so damn hot up here with the wood stoves burning downstairs.

“You must really like that song.”

I flash her a small smile. “I got it from you.”

“I realize. So…” She crosses her legs and I glance at her bare feet. She has a tattoo on the top of her left one. A rabbit. I’ve seen it before, but figured it was some girly thing. It’s running, its long hind legs crossing its front legs, and looking over its shoulder. Like it’s in the middle of a mad dash for its life.

“So, yeah,” I finish for her. “I’ve been watching you for a very long time.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” She wrings her hands a little and then looks me in the eye. “If you want to kill Garrett so bad, why not do it a long time ago?”

“So you believe that he’s alive now?” I stop playing, letting her know that this is not a casual question. It’s an important conversation, if she allows me to continue it. Maybe the most important in her whole life.

She shrugs. “I really don’t know what’s real and what’s not.”

I look away and start playing again. Because that was my answer. She’s not ready. Even though I know she knows Garrett is alive, and she admitted to talking to him the night before her wedding—the very night she ran like a rabbit—she’s not gonna talk about it tonight.

“You know why I like that song?” She nods to my guitar.

I look down, letting my still-wet hair fall over my face, and hide a small smile. It’s not about Garrett, but it’s the next best thing. Her. “Why?”

“Because it’s got a good message. Nothing At All. The title says everything I feel. And the words, they just… it’s like they’re talking about me.”

“I guess that’s the secret of all good songs, right? Words that are personal to the writer can speak to millions.”

“I want everything and nothing.”

“Me too.” I strum it a little harder and pick the strings a little more carefully.

“Because you never know what you really want. It changes every day. And you get things, and then they’re not what you want.”

I nod as I play the ending, letting the music get louder and louder, mimicking the building crescendo. In the real song, it sounds chaotic, like life is taking over and nothing makes sense. But if you listen carefully, it all fits together perfectly until the final bit of guitar that evens it all out and makes it OK.

“That’s life, right?” I say in the ensuing silence. “You bust your ass to get to the place you want to be, and then you realize it’s not what you expected.”

“It’s a letdown.”

“Makes you want to stop wanting things.” I look up and smile. She laughs a little and bows her head. I’ve seen her in so many situations, but I’ve never seen her confident. I’ve only ever seen her afraid. Or shy. Or helpless. I bet she’s never seen herself as confident, either.

I reach for her leg and give her a squeeze through her jeans. “When I’m not thinking of you, this is the song I usually play.” I take a breath and then say, “One, two, three…” and then I start strumming. She lets off a little laugh. “So you know it?” I ask.

“I love Shinedown.”

“Shit,” I say. “Bitch, this is Skynyrd. Fuck that cover shit.” I look up to see how she reacts to my joke. But she’s got a nice grin on her, so I continue to strum. I’ve never seen her happy either. I’d like to see that just once. So maybe I can make that happen tonight?

“Are you a Simple Man, Case?”

“I try.” I bow my head a little as I play the bridge. “But I’m not so sure I’ve been successful.”

“Did you have a mother to give you simple advice on how to get on in life?”

I shake my head and keep my eyes closed, seeing the music in my head. “No. She died from a fire when I was eight.” I look up at her. “So we never got to the good parts.”

“What are the good parts?” Sydney scoots down, dropping her ass to the floor like mine and stretching out her legs. She’s close to me, almost shoulder to shoulder, and I wish I could ask her to sit across from me so I could get a better look at her.

“You know, the part where I make her proud.” I stop strumming and take a deep breath. “My old man was an asshole, but compared to the torture that Company kids endure, he was perfect. I mean, he drank and shit. Was an alcoholic, actually. But after thinking about him for the past fifteen years… I’ve come to the conclusion that he was just heartbroken. He loved her, Syd. And how can I be mad at a guy who can’t pull himself out of the fact that he was the one who started the fire that killed the love of his life?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

I start playing again. Mostly to change the subject without having to say anything.

“Well, I had a mother for a little longer than that. But I don’t think she’d have had anything to say even if we did get to the good parts.”

“What would be the good parts for you?”

Sydney stays silent. Thinking maybe. “My wedding day, I guess. A real one. Not the one I agreed to just to make my life have meaning.”

“So you don’t love Brett?”

She shakes her head and her hair covers her face.

I stop playing and reach over, dragging her hair behind her ear. She looks up at me, startled, and I give her a nice smile to ease her down. “I like looking at you.”

“Why? I’m covered in bruises.”

“Ouch,” I say. “That stings me a little.”

“Did you really want to kill me?” Her eyes fill with tears and I know I’m pushing her tonight. It’s not a good plan, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve never had a real conversation with the girl. And she’s pretty. And I fucked her all wrong the other night. All wrong.

“I would not have had sex with you that night if I’d known you were a virgin.” It’s not the answer she wants, but it’s one that makes her think. Maybe see me in a different light. Not many people get that opportunity, and I wonder if she’ll bite.

“Why?”

She does. And it’s not a challenge—not the way she says it, anyway—but I feel challenged for some reason. I have a good answer though, so I let that feeling drop. “Because every major moment in your life was stolen from you. And you had that one moment left. By luck, or planning, or whatever, you still had it. And then I was the one who stole it from you.”

She drops her head back on the edge of the bed and looks up at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Who cares? It’s just a moment, ya know?”

“But that’s all life is. Just one moment after another. Stacked on top of each other. A good friend explained it to me that way once. Stackable moments lead to things. Sometimes things you planned. But sometimes they lead to new things. Things you didn’t plan.” I stand up and put the guitar on the stand. And then I reach for her hand. And wait.

Her face is puzzled. She looks at my hand and then her eyes find the cut muscles of my waist and travel up my chest until they meet my eyes.

“Take it,” I say.

She does. But she swallows hard when her skin touches mine.

I pull her to her feet and wrap my hands around her waist, pulling her close. Inhaling her scent. Feeling her warmth. I lean down and kiss her neck. I can feel the prickles of hair rise up on her nape and the chill that runs through her body when I whisper in her ear. “Have you ever had the soft fuck, Sydney?”

Another hard swallow as she tilts her head up. Her throat is exposed, like an offering. “I don’t know,” she breathes. “I don’t think so.”

“Cowgirl, if you did, you’d know it.” And then I slip my hand under her shirt and caress my way up her ribs and kiss her mouth at the same time. She’s stiff at first, her lips tight against mine. “Want me to give you a sample?” I ask, pulling back.

“Why?” she asks softly. She’s not looking to say no. She’s looking for a reason to say yes. “Because you feel sorry for me?”

“Nah,” I say, still trying to get her to respond to my kiss. I bite her lip, not hard, just enough to make her pay attention to what I’m doing. “Because the way I took you, Syd, that was not my best performance. And I think I can do better.”

“Why do you want to?” She pulls away from me a little, unsure of my intentions. Hell, I’m not even sure of my intentions.

“I just want you.” I let her pull back a little more, but only so I can see her face. She’s scared. Out-of-her-mind scared. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is open now, even though I couldn’t get it to open with the soft touch of my tongue not two seconds ago. “It’s not always rough, Sydney. Sometimes people fuck and they actually like each other.”

“Do you like me?” It’s such a soft whisper, I barely hear it.

“I’m not gonna kill you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I need to know why, though.” Her face scrunches up a little, like she’s having a hard time pulling herself together. I know I have her. I know if I just push a little more—squeeze her nipple in just the right way, press my hard cock against her stomach—she will give in. But if I’m gonna make up for the way I took her the other night, that’s not how this is gonna go.

I take my hand from under her shirt and pull her hair back away from her eyes again. She’s struggling right now. In all the ways I’ve seen her over the years, struggling with kindness has never been one of them. But that’s because she never had the opportunity. I tip her chin up and press my thumb into her bottom lip.

She whimpers and that little noise makes me even harder.

“You’re pretty. Garrett never told you that?”

She shakes her head.

“Well, he’s a dick. Your face is like an angel’s. And your hair, fuck.” I laugh a little and she takes a deep breath. “I’ve pictured you on top of me and that long, dark hair of yours dragging across my chest as you fuck me from the top so many times.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I swear to God, I did. You’ve got a hot fucking body too.” I place my palm on her ribs again, only this time I let it slide down, tracing the line of her waist and then the curve of her hip.

My hands go to her jeans and they are unbuttoned before she has a chance to protest. And then I lift her shirt up by the edges of the hem. Slowly. Looking down at her breasts as I do it. When the fabric releases her nipples I feel a little anticipation.

“I’d like to show you my best work, Sydney Channing. And make you forget your first time. Replace that night with this one. Nothing can be taken back. But you can replace the bad stuff with something else.” I shrug. “That’s all I got, sorry.”

She says nothing. So I lift her shirt over her head and drop it on the floor. “Take off your pants.” She bites her lip and I’m about to yank them down her legs at the sight of it. I control myself though and let her do it her way. She wiggles a few times, her hips moving back and forth, and we are so close this makes her rub against me in all the right ways. They finally drop to the floor and I take her hand as she steps out of them.

“You’re more than pretty, Syd. Your body is so much more than hot.” And it is. In this low golden light, with the backdrop of the windows on all sides, she is perfection. “I’ve always known it. I’ve always seen you in a sexual way. I’ve always wanted you.”