by Hamel, B. B.
It’s fine. It’ll be okay. He’s still mourning his loss and trying to figure out our new existence. I’m having a shitty day too. I can only imagine what he’s going through.
I slip into the van and he drives us back to his place. We carry my boxes back inside and when it’s all done, we stand there in the kitchen and survey the living room. My boxes are stacked all over, just strewn about. We don’t speak for a long moment before he just sighs.
“Your room is first on the left,” he says. “And there’s only one bathroom. So don’t be messy.”
I sigh a little. Of course we’re sharing a bathroom. “That’s fine.”
“You can unpack your stuff. I’m going out.”
“Where?”
He shrugs. “Wherever I want.”
“Nathan,” I say. He turns to me, a flat expression. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out.”
He smirks a little bit. “No shit. Just do what you have to do and stay out of my way.”
Without another word, he leaves. I hear the van start and drive off.
I sigh and look around the unfamiliar house.
This is my life now. I don’t know anything in this space and the man I’m married to despises me. For good reason, but still.
The magnitude of what I’ve gotten myself into crashes down on me.
I think I’d collapse onto the floor… if two things weren’t keeping me standing.
First, those kisses. Both of them felt… surprisingly good. I mean, really good. I still can’t fully understand why or how, but we just meshed in those really brief moments when our bodies touched.
And second… the look he gave me earlier when he walked in on me.
Pure, animal lust. Pure desire.
It makes my spine shiver, my knees tremble.
I want him to look at me like that again.
And that scares the hell out of me.
I sigh, push those thoughts from my mind, and get to work unpacking all my stuff.
4
Nathan
It’s hard to explain how strange it is to live with the sister of my mother’s killer.
We’re total strangers. I barely know anything about her, aside from her name and the fact that she works as a vet tech. She wakes up early, rides her bike to work, and gets home late most days. She disappears into her room and doesn’t emerge until the next morning.
It’s like she doesn’t even exist for the first few days.
But then little things start to remind me of her. Like her toothbrush in the bathroom, or a dirty dish in the sink. Small things, inconsequential things, and yet things that drive me fucking insane.
Because the sister of my mother’s killer is living in my house.
I should be grateful. I’m not unreasonable. I know that she’s doing this out of guilt. She’s not the one that got fucked up and murdered my mother. She’s probably a pretty decent person and just feels so horrified and responsible that she’s willing to go to great lengths to fix it.
I still can’t help myself.
Every time I think about her, I’m reminded about my mother. I’m reminded that my mother is dead because some junkie addict asshole got fucked up, drove his car, and slammed headfirst into my mother. She was happy, her business was prospering, and I’m pretty sure she was starting to date again. All that was taken away.
I throw myself into my work. Well, not really. Since I don’t have an actual job anymore, I need to go find one.
Every day I leave the house and go to a local coffee shop. I sit my ass down, go online, and send my resume out to every accounting firm in the city. I even get up and walk into a few shops, say hello, show my face. I hate it, but I don’t know what else to do.
I can’t just sit around and feel sorry for myself.
Days pass like that. They drift away, one after the other. Slowly, I get used to having her around, or at least to the ghost of her. She’s barely there, barely a presence, and I try not to think about her at all.
Try not to think about those kisses. About the way her lips tasted.
About my goddamn wife.
After a week of that, I’m sitting in my usual spot, but I can’t take it anymore. I’ve heard back from a couple places with some tentative interviews, but nothing concrete yet. I’m feeling down on myself, angry at the world, so I just decide to call it a day and head home.
The weather’s ugly, threatening rain, so I jog back. I make it just in time before the sky opens up, throwing open the door and stumbling into the living room. I close the door behind me, take off my jacket, and turn to find Grace standing in front of the TV wearing a sports bra, yoga pants, and a surprised expression.
I stare at her for a long moment. I almost forgot how fucking gorgeous she is. Long legs, beautiful hips, perfect, perky tits, lips that were built to be kissed. She’s sweating very slightly, just a damp little dew on her gorgeous pale skin. Her tight yoga pants show off her firm, sculpted ass, and I can’t help myself. My cock’s half hard just looking at her.
“Hey,” she says, a little breathless. She’s standing next to a chair and quickly shuts off the TV.
I cock my head. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry. I thought… you’re not home during the day, so I…” She trails off uncomfortably.
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you were at work.”
“I was. I come home during lunch… I mean I come back here during lunch. When you won’t be home.”
“So you can work out?”
She looks away. “I don’t want to disturb you.”
I stare at her for a long moment. “What’s with the chair?”
She looks back at me. “Huh?”
“The chair.” I nod at it. “What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just for this stupid workout thing I do.”
I walk over and sit down on the edge of the couch. I stare at her, crossing my one ankle over my knee. “Tell me about it.”
She gives me a weird look and laughs uncomfortably. “Do you really want to hear? I can just shower and get going.”
“Nah. Go ahead.”
I can tell she’d rather get the hell out of here, but I hold her with my gaze. I can’t help it. She’s fucking tempting, and as much as I hate her, I do love staring at her body.
And she is my wife, after all.
“I do this thing called Barre,” she says. “It’s like… ballerina stuff.”
“Ballet?” I ask.
“Right, like, lots of standing on toes and lifting legs and stuff. You use a chair instead of an actual ballet studio bar.”
“Ah,” I say. “Hence the Barre name, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” She laughs uncomfortably. “Like I said, it’s stupid.”
“Let’s see you do something.”
“No, really, it’s not like, dancing or whatever. It’s just stupid exercise moves.”
“Were you done?”
She hesitates. “No, but—”
“Let me see you finish.”
She stares at me for a long moment. I can tell she doesn’t want this at all, but I’m in a shitty mood and I want to see how far I can push her. Plus, she looks sexy in that outfit. I kind of want to see her body move. I could probably stroke my cock right here and watch her and I bet she’d let me. Maybe even drop to her knees and help, lick me top to bottom.
Fuck. I shake my head to get the dirty thoughts out of it.
For a second, I think she might walk away. But instead, she turns the TV back on and grabs her phone. She starts the video over again and I watch as the woman on the television, wearing spandex and talking in the most annoyingly energetic tone I’ve ever heard in my life, runs her through a workout routine.
I’m fascinated. I can’t help it. She’s doing these squats, bouncing slightly, then lifting her toes up. She does this over and over again and I stare at her gorgeous ass. She shifts into a new move, arms straight up in the air, back straight, arms reaching high into the ai
r.
She keeps moving. Sweating slightly, doing these moves over and over again. At some point, she grabs onto the chair, and starts doing squats in all different slightly acrobatic methods.
I can’t look away. Her ass is tight and firm and incredible, while her muscular back is slightly damp with sweat.
The workout doesn’t last much longer. She was nearly finished when I came in. When it’s over, she lets out a long breath and quickly turns it off.
I can tell she’s embarrassed. Her cheeks are flushed, although I can’t tell if that’s from the workout or from me staring at her body.
“See,” she says. “I told you it’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” I say, head cocked to the side. “Maybe. But I really did like watching.”
She blushes now for real, definitely because of me. “I didn’t mean to take over your living room. I should’ve… done it in my room, I guess.”
“Yeah, probably.” I smirk at her. “You’ve been good about keeping to yourself.”
“I don’t want to bother you.”
“Good. I appreciate that.”
She looks away. I can tell she wants to get out of this, but I can’t help myself.
“I should shower,” she says.
“Of course. Go ahead, use all my hot water.”
“Sorry, I just—”
“No, it’s fine. I wasn’t about to shower or anything.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t?” I stand up and look at her. “Maybe you’re not so good about keeping out of my way.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’ve been staying in my room for days,” she says. “I sneak home on my lunch break to work out so I don’t disturb you. I’ve been trying my hardest.”
“Not hard enough. I come home to find you half naked in our living room, sweating a little bit. It’s almost like you wanted me to see this.”
“That’s not true.”
“I think it is.” I step closer. “You want me to see your body, Grace? You think I like having you here?”
She glares at me now. “This was your idea. I’m living here because I’m helping you.”
“Oh, good, throw that in my face. You’re such a saint.”
She turns to me and we’re close now, her body lean and gorgeous and sweating. There’s anger in her eyes and I love it, goddamn, I fucking love it. I want her to be pissed off. I want her as angry as I am.
“Screw you,” she says. “I’m trying, okay? I haven’t seen you in days. I barely do anything in here. I’m trying so hard not to disturb you.”
“Try harder,” I sneer.
Her eyes flash and we’re inches apart. I want to reach out and touch her so badly. I’m yearning for it, my whole body pulling closer to her, my heart beating rapidly. I want to touch her body, run my hands down her skin, whisper how hard my cock is in her ear, make her stroke me nice and slow.
I want to look her in the eye while she swallows my cum.
Fuck, I tear myself away. I turn and stomp toward the door, heart racing, breath coming in shallow. I nearly kissed her there, nearly grabbed her hair and just took her.
But no, I can’t forget what this is. I can’t forget who she is.
“Go shower,” I say. “I don’t give a shit.”
“Fine.” Without another word, she stomps upstairs. I hear her door slam, then open, then the shower starts running.
I sit down on the couch and put my head in my hands.
I don’t know why I’m being such a piece of shit to her. I think… I think I have all this anger inside of me, all this rage and grief. Not just over the loss of my mother, that’s bad enough. But at the injustice of it.
Her killer is this addict asshole, and he survived without a scratch. He walked away and even though he’s spending the next twenty years in prison, he’s going to get out one day. He’s going to live and my mother’s not.
On top of that, my life is upended. The business I worked for, gave my life to, was taken from me. I didn’t have to quit, that’s true, but I can’t work for my father. I won’t stoop to being anywhere near that abusive, controlling fuck ever again.
So now here I am, my life in shambles, everything I cared about completely gone. I’m not even living in my own apartment anymore, I’m staying in my dead mother’s place, which is fucking weird enough.
Oh, and I’m in a green card marriage to a woman I partially blame for her death.
I’m a mess. I’m so angry and I can barely hold it in. I’m lashing out at Grace and I know it. I want her to be as angry as I am, and I don’t know why.
I shake my head and let my breath out. Grace showers upstairs and when she’s done, she comes back down wearing clean scrubs.
“I’m going back to work,” she says, not looking at me.
“Hold on,” I say. “It’s raining.”
She frowns. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because,” I say, not really sure. “You won’t have to get wet.”
She hesitates a second. I can tell she’s considering it, but she finally shakes her head. “It’s fine. I’ll need to get home somehow.”
“Suit yourself.” I stand and head into the kitchen.
She lingers near the door. I can tell she’s watching me but I can’t bring myself to look back over at her.
Finally, she leaves and I can let out a breath.
I don’t understand these feelings. One second, I want to make her angry, I want to piss her off. I almost want to hurt her. And the next, I want to throw her down on that couch and fuck her goddamn brains out, make us both come so hard the whole world ceases to exist.
And then I’m offering her a ride.
I need to get my shit together.
I just don’t know how.
5
Grace
I barely see Nathan for a few days after that afternoon.
I keep playing it back over and over again my mind. I keep seeing him sitting on that couch, watching me do my workout, staring at my body as I moved. At first, I thought his expression was only anger and hate, but by the time I finished, I realized that he was staring at me with pure, naked lust.
It didn’t make any sense. I mean, we had those kisses, and he looked at me like that before, but he was being such an asshole. And yet he was looking at me like he wanted to rip off my sports bra and take me right then and there on the floor.
But god, then he had to go and be a dick again and ruin it.
I did my best to avoid him. I was pretty successful for the next few days, until Friday rolls around and I find something strange in the morning.
I get up early. I like to be up and ready to go before six, and I’m out the door by six-thirty. That way I can take a long lunch, get a workout in, and work late to make up the hours.
This morning, something’s different. I head into the kitchen, the sun barely starting to rise outside, and I find coffee already made and a little note on the pot.
Go ahead. It’s not poison. -N
I stare at the coffee and at the note for a long time before finally filling up my travel mug.
Stupid coffee. Stupid Nathan. I don’t know what the hell he wants from me. Maybe that was an apology for being a total dick for no reason a couple days ago. Or maybe he just made too much and didn’t want to waste it.
Either way, I hate that I’m analyzing a stupid note and a pot of stupid coffee.
Somehow, even a nice gesture from him pisses me off. I ride my bike to work, park it and lock it up, then head inside.
“Morning, honey,” Angie says to me. She’s an older woman that works the front desk and she’s always here. I swear, she sleeps in the kennel with the dogs and doesn’t have an actual home. Except she’s always immaculately dressed and smiling.
“Morning, Angie.” I lean against her desk. “Any news?”
“None, sweetie. How ‘bout you?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. My
husband left a pot of coffee on for me so I’m endlessly analyzing that.”
She stares at me for a long moment.
I realize my mistake right away.
“Husband?” she asks quietly.
“Oh, uh, I mean. It was sort of—”
“YOU GOT MARRIED?” Her voice goes up an octave, her eyes wide.
“Angie, hold on,” I say, raising my hands.
She leaps to her feet. She’s not a fit woman, not by any means, but I swear she moves like a gymnast. “SWEETIE, CONGRATULATIONS!” Her voice booms through the nearly empty room. She comes around the desk and throws her big arms around me, hugging me tight.
“Ah, thanks,” I manage. “Keep it down, will you? I haven’t told anyone yet.”
“Your secret is safe with me. Oh, honey, I’m just so happy you’re married. And to a man!”
I give her a weird look. “What do you mean, to a man?”
She ignores me. “Oh, honey. Go on back, Dr. Riley’s waiting for you. Oh, honey, I’m so happy, bless your heart.”
I sigh and shake my head. The entire office is going to know in the next ten minutes, I’m totally sure of it. When Angie says your secret is safe with her, she means it’s safe with everyone.
I head back, drop my things in a locker, and head into the main room. Jody Riley, the head of the clinic, is sitting behind a computer, her glasses down on her nose, frowning slightly. She’s a thin woman in her early forties with mousy brown hair, going white in some places, and perpetually tired eyes.
She looks up at me. “Morning, Grace. I hear you got married.”
I sigh and sit down in a chair next to her. “Jesus. She’s fast.”
“Can’t say anything around Angie. She’s running all over telling everyone.”
“I wanted to keep it a secret.”
Jody arches an eyebrow. “Really?”
I blush, flustered. “I was just a fast thing, you know?”
“Don’t have to tell me. I’ve been married three times.”
I stare at her, stunned. “Really? But you have six cats.”
“And you wonder why I’ve been divorced three times too.” She laughs a little at her own joke and turns back to the computer. “Anyway, Teresa’s gonna kill you, so you better prepare for—”
