Our place. It sounds strange, but defines Tahoe perfectly. Ever since she moved out of my parent's house, we’ve been traveling buddies. We’ve visited this place more often than any other. I recall her face from earlier when Sterling offered to buy the house. When I said that the house was Abby’s, I wasn’t lying. Maybe the deed is under my name, but I’ve always thought of the house here as hers. Her comment from yesterday that we should move to Tahoe replays in my head. I never stopped and asked her about her long-term plans or ambitions. Would she have told me if I hadn’t begged her to go back to Denver?
Our relationship is based on lengthy phone conversations and a few trips a year. I feel like I know her well, at least more than anyone else. But, these past weeks have shown me that there are many layers to her that I haven’t yet peeled away.
The server brings the bottle of zinfandel I ordered, a platter with sliced meats and a variety of bread, chips, and veggies. Once he pours the wine, I raise my glass.
“To all our future trips,” I propose a toast.
“To our future,” she says raising her glass.
“To us,” I add.
Abby and I reminisce about our trips. All of them have been fun, but some are more memorable because of a few incidents. Like the time I broke my ankle hiking in Peru. The day my brother hooked up with a married woman, and her husband was chasing him around with a loaded gun in Belize. The time we went to Australia and a kangaroo kicked me in the ass when I bent over to pick up my backpack.
It’s been so long since the last time we took a trip and just sat down without worrying about finals, work, or being interrupted by my brother. Our friendship is just like this conversation. Smooth, flowing freely without any restraints. I hope that our romantic relationship flows just as well.
“Are you feeling better?” I dare to ask. “Yesterday I was tempted to take you to the ER.”
I grab her hand and caress the inside of her wrist with my thumb.
“Sorry. It’s been a strange couple of weeks,” she apologizes while also dismissing the subject.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so distraught in the past, and she was extremely upset six years ago. I wish there were something I could do for her to make her life easier. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, to make her more comfortable. Her happiness is my mission in life.
“If you hadn’t come home to work for Ahern, what would you be doing?”
She shuffles around the chair, straightens her back and smiles. “Are you interviewing me, Mr. Ahern?” Abby drinks some of her wine and smiles. “Well, for starters it’s a bit late. You already gave me a job.”
When the waiter strolls by to pick up the empty platter, Abby requests the dessert menu. Poor thing, her heart is going to break if there’s nothing sweet to satisfy her craving. Thankfully, I have a few pints of ice cream at home waiting for her.
“What would you be doing if you weren’t in charge of your Dad’s company?” she asks once the server walks away.
I’m entirely caught off guard by her question. Once upon a time, I had other plans, but I let them go, and I never shared them. Not even with her. Moving close to her and starting my own company was a surprise. I didn’t want to tell her until it was all in place.
“Finish at least one of my software projects, open a company …” I shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Then why are you asking about me?”
“Well, it’s never too late to learn about your dreams.” I omit that now I feel like an asshole for imposing mine on her. “I had no idea that you wanted to live here, in Tahoe.”
“The thought’s crossed my mind,” she shrugs.
“What did you want to do?”
She takes a sip of her drink, sets down her glass and smiles at the waiter who gives her the menu.
“Chocolate covered strawberries,” she licks her lips, looking at me.
I’m turned on by the simple gesture. Dirty thoughts about her body, melted chocolate, and my tongue make my blood boil. My dick pulses, growing harder. I’m so fucking horny, I want to drag her to the car and fuck her right in the back seat.
Her eyes light up as the waiter leaves. “Everything okay, Wes?”
“Of course,” I say, composing myself. “You were talking about your ideal job.”
“Ideal is so cliché. I mean, as a CPA I can work almost anywhere. We could be handling our business over the phone,” she says in a sultry voice.
I pull the collar of my shirt, gasping for air. What is wrong with me tonight?
“So far, the only real job I’ve held is working for your charity, which I love. I think you should create a fully functioning non-profit instead of just calling it a grant. If you want me to, I can take the whole operation over. I love it because I get to stalk people online and give them money afterward. How cool is that?”
She chuckles, winking at me. Abby takes her glass of wine and drinks it all. I refill it as she continues telling me about the charities she’s helped so far and the applications she’s working on. She’s pumped up about the prospect of going through all the requests for funds we’ve received in the past six months and if possible, authorizing all of them.
“You love it,” I conclude enjoying the sparkle in her eyes.
“It’s interesting and fulfilling.” She nods, though her face turns a little serious. “Honestly, if I could, I’d create a nonprofit to help in other ways instead of just giving money to several places once a year. Something meaningful …”
Her shoulders slump, and she stares at the glass of wine she’s holding tightly. The waiter sets down the strawberries and chocolate and fills up our glasses with more wine. I should be concerned that Abby drinks it like water and pours some more. She’s lost inside that mind of hers. Whatever I said has those wheels turning fast.
“For runaway teenagers,” she says after a long pause. “A safe house for teenagers. For those who aren’t safe at home,” she expands. “If a kid has a place to go, they wouldn’t have to wait until they’re old enough to leave their homes or run away.”
“Sounds like you know someone like that.”
“Yeah, you could say that.” It feels like she’s shutting me out. A big steel walls crashes down between us.
“Another bottle of Zinfandel, sir?”
“No, thank you. Can you bring me a Macallan, neat?” I order.
“I’ll have more wine,” Abby requests.
“I wish they had daiquiris,” she says, dipping a strawberry in the chocolate. “After my grandmother died, living with my mother was different. She was moody. When she was unhappy, she’d take it out me.”
It feels like an elusive butterfly just flew nearby. I stay still to make sure I can watch it for as long as possible before it flies away. Abby tells me about the nights when her mother would arrive home angrily and turn the air-conditioning high, trying to freeze her, and wouldn’t let her go into her bedroom. The days when she wouldn’t feed her. My hands curl. I’m fucking furious as I listen to her. I shake with rage as I learn that the woman who was responsible for her well-being mistreated her for years.
“One day, she tied me to a chair she’d placed under the shower,” she continues. Although her body is here with me, her voice sounds lost, much like her gaze. “She turned on the cold water and let it run. It was just for a few minutes, but I stayed tied there for hours, shivering and afraid. It felt like my mind detached from my body, and I counted for a long time remembering how Grandma and I used to count together. When I was much younger, my grandmother would put me in the bathtub, and we’d count my toys.”
Once again, I find out why counting under the water is like therapy for her. Or is it just a way to deflect from her problems?
She chuckles humorlessly. “If I’d had another place to go, I would’ve left my mother. Maybe I wouldn’t be so fucked up.”
Abby remains seated, but it feels like she’s putting a world of separation between us.
“What happened to you before you came t
o the Aherns, Wes?”
Her question catches me off-guard. I lean back, my jaw tightens, and my teeth grind together. Something about her question is unnerving. I sit there staring at Abby like she’s offered me a knife and asked me to give her a piece of me I swore I’d never give away.
30
Abby
The relaxed evening transformed into a deep conversation where I ended up confessing a little more about my past. In exchange, I asked Wes for something in return. A piece of his history. He never shares, and I’ve always been okay with that until now. I want him to be a part of me. Wes’ body is tense. Stiff. That easy grin he displayed while we talked about our trips disappeared once I spoke about myself. But when I asked him for more, he became angry.
My stomach tightens because I feel like he’s pushing me away. I want to remind him that we’re best friends. He’s the person I tell everything to. In a way, he’s my human diary. I have trusted him with pieces of myself, and if this is going to work, he should trust me with the parts he hides from the world. How can we be together when he’s not willing to give as much as he asks? Then, a question pops into my head.
Would you be willing to tell him everything?
With time, I think I’ll be capable of letting him all the way in. I just need him to give me more too.
“Relationships are a two-way street, Wes,” I say, as the guy searches for the nearest exit. “Things won’t work if we settle for sharing just the beautiful and hiding the ugly. That’s not how foundations are built.”
Tension roils between us. He stares at the fire pit, breathing harshly. I drink more wine, unsure if it’s for liquid courage or wanting to do something with my hands and mouth while I wait for him to answer me. Wes is terrific, but he only gives and requests what’s convenient for him.
He wants to know everything about me, but he avoids talking about himself.
“Let’s go home,” he says, signaling to the waiter who brings the check almost immediately.
After signing the check, he looks at me thoughtfully. “After you, Abbs,” he hisses.
The nickname doesn’t make any sense with that broody face. I want to tell him that I can finish my evening whenever I want and grab an Uber once I’m done eating and drinking. I love him, but I don’t need him ordering me around or trying to define who I am.
He looks impatient and annoyed. “We have to go. This place isn’t fit for the conversation we’re having, Abigail.”
My irritation disappears and my heart pounds loudly and fast. What is it that we’re going to discuss exactly? Our relationship and how it needs adjusting, or his past?
We drive in silence, listening to instrumental jazz. In less than twenty minutes we’re back at the house. He turns off the engine and exhales harshly. We make our way to the house and without a word, he leads me toward the terrace. I lean against the railing while he walks around the perimeter like a trapped lion.
“I don’t remember much. It happened over twenty-four years ago,” he starts, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Hey, I’m with you,” I say, walking to him and interlocking my fingers with his.
I kiss his arm.
“I lived in a whorehouse.” My lungs constrict when he says that word.
“I’m not sure if my mother lived there or if she abandoned me.” He sinks into one of the lounge chairs.
“There were other kids beside me. We were everyone’s kids and no one’s responsibility. Men and women came and went through the house. We saw things that we shouldn’t have seen. They didn’t care if we were around or not. It was … bad.”
“Did anything ever happen to you?” I dare to ask, horrified of what could’ve happened to a little boy in a place like that.
He shakes his head. “I was neglected.”
“No one reported them?”
He sets his forearms on top of his thighs and stares at the horizon. “Not until one of the women died. The police came to the house, and when they left, they took us with them. After that I met Linda. I was her first foster child, and well… you know the rest.”
Wes fidgets with his fingers and remains quiet for a long time. I squat next to him and tap his arm the same way he does when I’m anxious. He looks at me and smiles.
“I had no idea what to expect from Linda and Will—or how to behave. It took years to get over the anxiety of not knowing whether the Aherns were going to kick me out or not. I couldn’t trust them, yet I wanted Linda to be near me, always. I lived in a place where there wasn’t any structure, so having some was too hard to handle at first, but I wanted to please them. I never knew who my parents were. Maybe I even lived with them, but they didn’t give a shit about me.”
He puffs some air and looks up to the ceiling. “Did they abandon me? I don’t even know. My biological mother could’ve died just like the other woman.”
Wes shivers. I stand up and rub his arms. It’s breezy but not cold. I kiss the top of his head, assuring him that he’s not alone.
“It’s a time that I don’t want to remember. It’s been a while, but the memories still hurt. I should be grateful for my parents, yet I’m stuck wondering who my real parents were. My name before I became Weston William Ahern was: Hey kid. I hate to revisit those days because honestly, there’s not much good that I can remember. Only the anxiety, desperation, and fear that I carried around for a long time. But you’re right. I need to share everything with you. The same way I’m asking you to open yourself to me and trust me with your pain.”
I gasp, my breathing becomes shallow. He’s asking for the impossible. I wouldn’t want him to learn about those dark days.
“Please,” he says softly.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking for. They’re ugly. I can’t just give them to you. What if it makes you hate me?”
“Nothing you do will make me hate you.” The conviction in his words gives me a little hope.
“You might not love the fallout from the ugliness of those months,” I insist. I’m ashamed of everything that I let happen and the guilt I carry with me.
He caresses my face with the back of his hand, kissing my temple.
“Mom once said that the broken part is where the healing begins. Your broken soul fills mine where it feels empty.”
The words are beautiful. I touch the pendant he gave me yesterday, remembering the promise that he’ll always be with me.
“You’re going to have to trust someone, and I hope you trust me.”
Fear cripples me. How much could I tell him without lying? It won’t be easy to open up to him. I should do it soon though. I’d rather tell him when I’m wide awake and not in the middle of a nightmare. What if I’m being followed and the truth comes out? He has to learn about my darkest secrets from me, not anyone else. Wes will be the first person to know my side of the story, what really happened to Ava. To me.
“Would you give me a little more time?”
“Fair enough. Just do it soon. Holding it in is destroying you.”
He has no idea. Every memory feels like a knife stabbing me over and over again while they play inside my head. Corbin and Shaun own me.
“I wish I could snuff out the power they have over me,” I confess, closing my eyes. “They took everything, and they’re still doing it.”
I feel like I’m bleeding as I recall their laughs after they hurt me.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” I say regretting what I’ve already shared. “I’m fine.”
Those men shouldn’t have any power over me. I’d take it back if only I knew how to do it. Could Wes help me?
“Stop trying to hide yourself from me.” He touches the necklace. “I feel your pain, Abby—it hurts so much to witness it that it feels like my own. Each time your heart screams in fear, I can hear it—even when you’re silent.”
31
Wes
Abby climbs upon me, straddling me. A bold move that turns me on, but worries me too
. What is she up to?
“What’s on your mind, gorgeous?”
“You.” She puts her arms around my neck. Her lips claim mine this time around. She kisses me furiously, as if she’s begging me to make her forget. I pull her roughly, almost violently to me. My heart jolts and my pulse pounds. It’s so easy to get lost in the intensity of her kiss. It’s like a storm. A swirling tornado claiming whatever’s in her way.
Our mouths burn with fire. She tastes of strawberries, chocolate, and wine, raw passion, and desperation. I surrender to her, to this kiss, letting her take whatever it is that might bring her peace. I shake with need as my blood roars in my veins. I’m turned on and ready to let myself loose.
“What do you need,” I ask trying to peel her off me before I do something stupid.
“You,” she says breathily. “I want to share everything with you. I want you to take away my pain without feeling it yourself.”
“I don’t mind feeling it as long as it means you’re free from it.”
“You’re going to hate me as much as I hate myself.”
“Never,” I assure her. “There’s no fucking way I’d ever hate you.”
“Touch me,” she pleads. “I want to try.”
“Abigail,” I warn her, while at the same time I’m fucking chiding myself for not doing what she wants.
I breathe out hard as I close my eyes. She’s making it impossible. I can’t think of anything but the heat of her body burning through my pants.
“We are taking things slowly,” I remind her. “I’m a patient man,” I stutter wanting to touch her panties and find out if she’s wet and ready for me. “We can take it one day at a time. There’s no rush.”
“It’s not rushing things,” she sucks on her bottom lip. “It’s taking back my life.”
I’m not understanding what she means. What is she trying to claim?
“You might be the key, Wes.” Her breathy voice makes me shiver.
Begin with You Page 16
