by Jane Henry
“It’s nothing,” she says with a wave of her hand, but then her attention is drawn back to her daughter, who pirouettes so hard she crashes into me. I catch Kylie and right her.
“Kylie!”
I shake my head with a chuckle. “I haven’t had my coffee yet and need to wake up.” Then I give Kylie a hard look. “But maybe you ought to do what your mama says.”
Kylie grins, waves, and runs out the door to the bus stop.
Abigail shakes her head before she chases after her daughter.
“Bye, Axle!”
“Have a good date,” I yell after her, which earns me a groan before she leaves. There was a time when I was mildly interested in her. She’s always dating someone, though, and nothing ever developed between the two of us other than friendly camaraderie, but now I grow a little wistful as I go outside and see the kids and their parents waiting for the bus. Half a dozen of them stand outside. Two of them are giggling and sharing a package of those little muffins in a bag. One is holding some kind of game thing in his hand, fingers flying, his tongue sticking out in concentration. The parents stand around, sipping coffee out of travel mugs, and I wonder.
If Chandra and I had stayed together, would we have a little girl with Chandra’s bright eyes doing pirouettes in the hall? If we’d had a child back then, she or he would be about this age now, off to kindergarten or first grade. Learning to tie shoes and ride a bike, and for the first time in a really long time, the very notion pulls at my gut. I want that. A family.
We were young, and stupid, and had unprotected sex. We could’ve ended up just like this, raising a child together. Maybe then, we would’ve stayed together.
I shake my head to myself and put my head down. I never think about having kids. I never think about relationships. This is fucking with my head, and I have things to do. A gust of wind kicks up. I let the bitter cold whip at me, welcoming the sting so it clears my head.
None of that happened, so it doesn’t matter. It might never. It doesn’t do me a lick of good to focus on that now. I’ve got a girl to meet, and she’s making me coffee. I need to get to know her. Reacquaint myself with her and learn who she’s become. What makes her laugh, and what makes her cry. The kinds of books she writes and the kinds of books she reads. Who her friends are. What keeps her up at night and what puts a smile on her face. And how I can keep that smile there.
Chandra
I walk around the bookstore much earlier than I should be, like I’m waiting for my date to arrive. This is ridiculous. The clock hasn’t even struck eight yet, and we open at nine, but I tell myself there are things I need to do to occupy myself.
It has nothing to do with needing to see him again.
I yawn hugely, my eyes watering, as I make coffee. Last night, I came home with my mind teeming with ideas for my book, and I wrote long and hard until the wee hours of the morning. Today will be a long day.
I had to do it, though. I had to capture the memory of what he did to me. How it felt. How it awakened in me the need for more. And writing my own, controlled world of love and romance quiets the inner voice that plagues me with memories of my past.
So I wrote until I fell into a short, deep sleep, more like a nap than anything, and when I woke I needed to see him.
It took a little finagling to get his number out of Marla, but eventually she caved. My hands shook as I texted, but I needed to at least make some contact.
My heart soared when he responded so quickly.
What are you doing? I mentally berate myself.
I’m acting like an impulsive girl, not the self-contained woman I’ve tried so hard to become. This is crazy.
The only people for me are the mad ones.
I grab a broom and sweep the floor while the comforting, fragrant scent of coffee permeates the air. The floor’s immaculate, though, as Marla keeps it in pristine condition, and I’m only sweeping away imaginary dirt. My hands shake, and I need to keep myself occupied. I sweep the imaginary dirt into the dustpan and dump nothing into the trash barrel, then grab a feather duster and brush the dust-free tops of the books on display in front when the doorbell jingles and my heart nearly leaps straight out of my chest.
He’s here. God, he’s here, standing right in the doorway wearing a knit cap pulled down tight, blue eyes glinting at me in the early morning light. His lips quirk up and he gives me a little salute. Damn, he looks so good like that, all masculine and sexy and rugged. A delicious thrill shivers through me.
“Well aren’t you a picture.” The deep rumble of his voice rakes over my skin and coaxes a smile out of me.
I look down at myself on instinct. I’m wearing a burgundy sweater, black leggings that hug my curves, and knee-length leather boots. My cheeks flush.
“Thanks?”
“No question. Just thanks is good. Listen, that front walk needs a good shovel and icing. Whoever plowed it did a terrible job.”
“I know,” I say, “But I don’t know where she keeps the shovel. I looked.”
“I know where it is.”
I don’t like that he knows where Marla’s shovel is. It feels too familiar, too domestic. I ignore the stab of jealousy that hits me in the gut and grab my coat off the hook behind the counter. “I’ll help.”
He raises a brow. “No, you won’t. I’ve got this. I’ll take some of that coffee when I get back in though.” Shooting me a wink, he opens a little closet I never even noticed and removes a shovel and a bucket of ice melt. I don’t like him going back out, and I take a step toward him, but he only shakes his head at me. It’s enough to get me to stay where I am.
I forgot what it was like to be with a man who bosses me around like he does. Whose natural instincts are to protect and be chivalrous. Women say that chivalry is dead, but being around Axle, I know it’s not. When I knew him before, he always carried the heavy bags, held doors open for me, pulled out chairs and made sure I stayed dry when it rained. Some would find it overbearing. I loved it. And now that he’s back, I can tell he hasn’t really changed. He’s grown up a little, and I have, too, but he’s still who he always was at the core.
I grab the duster and go to the front window, swiping at imaginary smudges before I wipe a peep hole and look out. He’s hunched over, scraping at the icy snow by the entrance until he gets to bare ground, little by little removing every inch of it, then he shakes ice melt over the freshly-shoveled surface. An older man walks by, walking with tentative footsteps. Axle looks up, says something to him, then reaches for the man’s elbow to steady him. He helps him until he gets his footing, then watches until the man’s out of sight. My heart warms. Even when I knew him seven years ago, he was protective of everyone and anyone. It was partly why our affair was so hard on him, because he felt as if he’d let down the people he’d sworn to protect and care for. And in a way, he did.
I swallow.
It wasn’t right then. We were two people, stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, circling each other for answers but finding only empty promises.
Now will be different.
My eyes water and I swipe at them, swallowing the massive lump in my throat.
It’s the scene, I tell myself. He made me so bare and raw yesterday that today I’m a mess. That’s got to be it.
The door opens, and he comes in, shaking off ice and snow, his cheeks and nose red. I go to him and take his coat, then hand him a cup of coffee.
“Thank you for doing that,” I tell him. “Marla will appreciate it. Come sit and have some breakfast?”
“No problem. Thanks, babe.” I ignore the way my cheeks flush.
“You always were old-fashioned,” I tell him. “You’d like it if I sat by the fire and knitted while you cleaned your gun, huh?”
He snorts. “I hate hunting, and you don’t knit.” Taking a long pull from his coffee mug, he sighs. “This is delicious.”
He doesn’t deny the old-fashioned bit, though. And it doesn’t bother me. I’d love sitting by him. Serving him. Bein
g the woman he comes home to. I never could bear the thought of doing that the way my parents wanted me to, but somehow being his… it’s different. It feels right.
I realize with a start that I’m letting my mind get away ahead of me. What the hell am I thinking about?
“Maybe go sit down and I’ll bring this to you,” I suggest, pulling out a tray of warm muffins.
He heads to the back of the shop where circular tables wait for customers. Pulling out a chair, he folds himself into it, and my heart hammers in my chest and my mouth is dry, like we’re on a date or something. We’re not though.
But we are alone.
God.
This man has whipped me and punished me, when I was naked and vulnerable, and I’m worried about getting things just right?
With trembling hands, I place a blueberry muffin on a plate and head over to him. I slide the plate on the table in front of him.
“Your breakfast, sir,” I say, intending to make a joke of it, but the words make my cheeks flush and he doesn’t laugh.
“Thank you, Chandra. Now go get yourself something to eat.” He folds his hands in his lap and doesn’t touch the food on the plate, waiting for me to obey.
It’s the smallest of things, but it makes my belly warm. I missed this. God, I missed this, having someone care for me and make sure I take care of myself. I do the bare minimum now. I throw myself into my work and go hours, sometimes full days even, without eating. Then I grab whatever’s nearby without thought. I get so immersed in things, I don’t get enough sleep like I should. If someone asked me, I’d deny the fact that I need a keeper, but being with him again? It feels nice.
I grab a cranberry-orange muffin and make myself a cup of tea, my hands shaking with nerves. I need to steady them. I’m tired, though, I tell myself. It’s got to be the fatigue.
But it’s more than that.
Joining him, I place my plate down next to his, but before I can sit he’s standing and pulling out a chair for me. I give him a bashful smile.
“Thank you.”
God, this feels so right.
He sits back down and sips his coffee. “That’s some damn good coffee,” he says. “I don’t remember Marla stocking blueberry muffins. Her specialty is the lemon cake.”
“I made the muffins,” I tell him.
Folding back the wrapper, he takes a bite and his eyes go wide. “That’s delicious,” he says around a mouthful of crumbs.
“You always did love my baking.”
We fall quiet, eating our breakfast, but I only nibble. I’m too nervous to eat much, and my eyes are so heavy the lids feel like they’re weighted. I yawn again, cover my hand with my mouth, then take another sip of tea.
“Why are you so tired?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.
“I didn’t sleep much last night,” I tell him. “I… well, let’s just say I was inspired.” I look away bashfully. I can’t meet his eyes.
“Good,” he says. “Well, good that you were inspired. Inspired to do what?”
“Write.”
“Then my evil plan worked.”
I smile. “Yup. And, excuse me, but I believe that was my evil plan.”
“It was your evil wish. I was the plan maker.”
I snort. “Okay, fair enough.”
Sobering, he asks, “Exactly what time did you get to bed?”
Uh oh.
I fold my muffin wrapper in quarters. “Umm…”
He was always such a stickler for these things. And why do I love that?
“Um isn’t a good enough answer.” His tone sharpens, folding his arms on his chest. “Tell me.”
“Well, I didn’t,” I finally respond. “Not really. I wrote all night and finally crashed for an hour or so?”
“Chandra,” he says, warning in his voice. “I’m thrilled you were inspired, and I’ll do my best to make sure I keep you inspired, but you don’t neglect your sleep to write.”
He’ll do his best to keep me inspired?
“Um, we do though,” I say. “People do. Like, writers do. We write all the time and often neglect sleep or something equally beneficial for the sake of the written word.”
That just earns me a stern brow raise. “Oh?”
I push on. “Creativity can’t be corralled,” I say, like I’m in court defending myself. I don’t even know if I believe this, but for some reason I need to explain it to him. “So when the muse comes knocking, I have to answer that door.” I sound ridiculous.
He tips his head to the side and a corner of his lips twitch. “Muse comes knocking,” he repeats.
“Yes. The muse. The… you know… inner voice that tells me it’s time to write.”
His lips twitch again.
“I know what a muse is. Baby, this outer voice is stepping in and telling your inner voice that your ass gets to bed, or your ass gets punished.”
Cue the tingle. It’s not fair how easily he does that.
I swallow. “Are we scening?”
At that, he sobers. “We’re not.” Taking my much smaller hands in his larger ones, he holds my gaze with his. “Do I have to be scening with you to tell you what to do? I never did before. We didn’t ‘scene.’ We were just us.”
I swallow. I don’t know how to answer this.
“You said you were going to become a regular at Verge,” he continues.
“Mhm.” Feeling him touch me again reignites my insides. I’m aroused and humbled and curious.
“So we’ll see what I can do under the circumstances. But until further notice, you’re in bed by ten so you get a good night’s sleep.” He holds one of my wrists against his rough fingers and glides the thumb along my pulse. “Do they hurt after a long day of writing?” He continues massaging until I feel the tension I didn’t even know I had ebb away.
“Sometimes,” I tell him. “Especially after a particularly long day of writing.”
He nods. “And how do you have time to work here and write?”
“I only work here part time.”
“I see.” He waits, and when I don’t speak, he quirks an eyebrow at me.
“What?”
“I asked you a question, Chandra,” he says. “I’m waiting for the answer.”
Shit! What did he ask again? Something about finding time to work and write. “Oh, so, I write on my breaks and when I go home at night. I’m… sort of a night owl. I write a lot then.”
“I see. Tell me what you wrote last night.”
Now my cheeks are flaming. It was the hottest ménage scene I’ve ever written. Clamping my lips together, I give him a look that says oh hell no.
Narrowing his eyes, he returns that look with a oh yes you will.
We stare in a battle of wills. Part of me wants to tell him.
“Need to find out for myself?” he asks. “Alright, then. What’s your pen name?” He lets go of my hands and stands up, heading to the large display of kinky romance books Marla’s running a sale on.
“I’m not telling!”
Turning to me, he anchors his hands on his hips. “I need to spank it out of you?”
My heart races. “I shouldn’t have to tell you my pen name on threat of a spanking!”
But immediately my mind goes to him bending me over the little table right here and slamming his palm against my ass.
“So,” he says, a hard edge taking over his voice. “You let perfect strangers read your books but not me?”
“It isn’t like that.” I’m circling the books, trying to get him away. If he sees what I write, I’ll die. I’m not sure why, but I know it to be true.
“Oh?” he asks.
On instinct, my eyes flit to the huge display of glossy paperbacks I’ve signed, adorned with a golden sticker on the front that says Signed by the Author.
“Bingo.”
Damn it. I’ve watched enough C.S.I. to know that a guilty party’s gaze will frequently go straight to the evidence they’re trying to hide. The throw rug that covers the hidden key.
The closet door that hides the body.
The bookshelf where all my books sit.
I’m my own worst enemy.
I let out a sigh as he lifts a paperback in hand and raises a brow at the cover, all glossy skin and sex appeal. Turning it over in his hand, he reads the blurb.
“Don’t,” I plead, but he’s got that glint in his eye that tells me he’s not stopping now.
“When single mother Elena Mcintosh finds herself at her neighbor’s mercy, she—”
“Axle,” I plead.
Mercifully, he stops, but only so he can open up the cover and read.
“Nooo,” I moan.
His mouth drops open and his eyes crinkle around the edges. “With the purposeful intent of a master at work, he glides his tongue over my—”
I’m going to die. No, I’m already dead. I cover my face with my hands, trying to drown out his bark of laughter as he continues reading. He flips pages and doesn’t stop for minutes while I die a slow death.
“Baby, this is good. It’s the real deal. I’m just messin’ with you.”
I peek out from behind my hands. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. “And listen, I haven’t read this whole thing, but I know for a fact Marla wouldn’t have put these on display like this if she didn’t think they were top quality.”
My hands drop. “Top quality?”
He nods, his approval filling me up like sunshine, from the top of my head all the way down to my toes.
“Why do you want to know what I write so badly?” I ask him.
He shrugs a shoulder. “We need to get reacquainted. And why do you like to make me coffee and bring me breakfast?”
That makes me grow a little shy. “Well… I like serving you.” It’s true. There’s a part of me that’s a natural submissive, who wants to earn his praise and approval.
Reaching out, he tugs a lock of my hair. “You’re a good girl, Chandra.”
The door to the shop jangles open and we step apart like we’re totally guilty.
God.
Marla walks in, blinking wide eyes at us. “Well, hello,” she says. “Master Axle. I see you’ve met my newest hiree?” She walks briskly past us and removes her coat, hat, and gloves, hanging them up on a peg behind the counter.
