Passion and Ink (Sweetest Taboo)

by Naima Simone

  Because nothing can come of this temporary moment in time for us. My father’s threats still hang over my head. Jude is leaving, and he can claim he’ll only be gone for four months, but no one can predict the future. He might find his place, his purpose, his home there.

  Then there’s me. Jude isn’t mine, because I’m still me. I’m still emotionally stunted, commitment-phobic, future-challenged me. And I can’t pretend that fear isn’t lurking beneath the chaos. Fear of him.

  Fear of who I could become because of him.

  Weak. Dependent. A shell. Broken.

  And yet… Yet my heart thuds against my rib cage like a wild, panicky bird, desperate to bust free—or return to its owner. The words I can never utter and remain whole shove at my throat, trample on my tongue, frantic to be spoken…

  The ring of my cellphone shatters the silence that’s fallen between us. Part of me is grateful for the interruption, because I was on the verge of doing something irrevocable. And damaging.

  Scrambling off his lap, I cross his bedroom, his scrutiny on my naked body a visual caress that strokes a sensuous warmth over my skin. With just a look, he rekindles the lust between us that’s never fully dormant to flickering, burning life. My nipples draw to tight points, and there’s that sweet ache of a pull high inside my sex that sets my clit tingling.

  My body’s response to him is a red, waving flag cautioning me to pump the brakes of this already screeching, out-of-control car. But how do you stop a race car that’s hit one-hundred-and-twenty around a curving bend without spinning out and crashing?

  Not possible.

  I am an emotionally scarred by-product of my parents. They’ve instilled in me that love hurts, betrays, will leave you broken, and flip-flops with the wind. It’s unreliable, and so have been most men in my experience. I don’t need to get neck-deep in a relationship to find this out; I learned this lesson from the masters. And then… I don’t trust anymore. After what happened at my old job, I’m terrified to trust anyone. I’m terrified to trust myself.

  I snatch my phone out of my jeans pocket and, desperate to get out of my head, answer it without glancing down at the screen.

  “Cypress?” Mom.

  Oh God. Ice crackles through my veins, freezing the heat, replacing desire with dread. Not because it’s my mom on the other end, and it’s after two in the morning. It’s the thin, reedy, and oh-so-damn familiar note of despair in her voice.

  Closing my eyes, I clutch the cell so tight, the casing bites into my fingers. “Mom. What’s wrong?” Because there’s no question. Something is wrong.

  “I just…” She trails off, but her low sob echoes through the line like a thick heartbeat. “Your father called, honey. To check on me. He said you told him about my heart attack, and he wanted to see how I was feeling.” Another half-hidden sob, this one heavier, rougher. “I haven’t talked to him in so long. What does this mean? Do you think…?” She doesn’t finish the question. Not through the now-furious and heart-breaking weeping.

  Dammit. Just… I press a fist against my forehead, tipping my head back, fighting back my own tears. Dammit.

  “Mom, listen, I’ll be right there, okay? I’m on my way over,” I assure her, though I’m not certain if she hears me. “Okay? Mom, okay? I’m on my way,” I repeat, urgency raising my voice, hardening it.

  Finally, her fragile, small “Okay” comes through, and I hang up, fear and worry pounding inside me, propelling me out of Jude’s room and to mine. Tugging on underwear, a bra, and a T-shirt and jeans that don’t smell like smoke and beer, I race from the room and out into the living room. It’ll take about twenty minutes to get from Andersonville to the Northside, and God, so much can happen in twenty minutes… My stomach lurches, and I snuff out those possibilities.

  Keys. I need my keys and purse. Damn, where did I leave them…?

  “I got your keys.”

  My head jerks up. I’d been so frantic, I didn’t notice Jude standing by the front door, completely dressed and holding up my car keys.

  “Wha-what are you doing?” I stutter, halting feet from him. Coat, sweater, jeans, and boots. “You can’t—”

  “You’re right,” he interrupts, handing me my purse that I missed. “I can’t let you drive upset. Let’s go.” He unlocks the door and pulls it open.

  I shake my head. “No, Jude, I’ll be—”

  “I know because I’m going.” He steps out into the hall. “Let’s. Go.”

  I don’t have time to argue with him. And from the implacable, move-your-ass growl in his voice, he’s not budging.

  Goddammit.

  Charging out of the apartment, I bolt past him on the landing and down the stairs.

  Dreading what waits for me across town.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jude

  Jesus H. Christ.

  “Don’t say anything. Please,” Cypress quietly pleads without glancing over her shoulder at me as we move farther into the living room of her mother’s small Northside apartment. I don’t reply, but I stroke my hand up her spine and curve it around the nape of her neck.

  Not too long ago, in a pit of a motel room, I asked her why she didn’t stay with her mother. I also remember her vehement answer of that not being an option. Now I get it. God, do I get it.

  Only the doorway of the kitchen and a dark hall are visible from the living room and tiny foyer, but it’s enough to see the place is a time capsule from damn near twenty years ago. A flimsy entertainment center that one stiff Chicago wind would topple like a house of matchsticks. An outdated television model with the built-in speaker and stereo underneath. A couch and loveseat are backed against opposite walls, both covered in faded, flowery upholstery that might’ve been fashionable before I was born. An old-fashioned dining room set crowds one half of the room, its long table and six chairs the only gleaming items in here, as if they’ve been freshly waxed in preparation for visitors to sit and enjoy themselves.

  No, I take that back. There’s the mantel. Even in the dim light glowing from the one lone lamp in this sad room, it shines brighter than the polished table and chairs. There’s not a speck of dust on its cherry wood surface…or the mass of framed pictures assembled on it. And those pictures…

  Dan in a blue, red, and white Chicago Cubs jacket.

  Dan, grinning and proudly standing next to a classic Ford LTD.

  Dan and a pretty woman with an astounding resemblance to Cypress posing in front of the building I entered with Cypress just moments ago.

  Dan. Dan. Dan and the same woman. A couple with Dan and who I’m guessing is a pint-sized Cypress. Dan. Dan.

  It’s a fucking shrine to Dan.

  My chest tightens, as does my hold on Cypress. For a moment, she leans into my grip, relaxes against it. But just a moment. In the next, her shoulders and spine stiffen, and she steps out of my hold.

  “Cypress?” An older woman appears in the hallway, a robe wrapped around her thin, almost frail frame. The resemblance is unmistakable. This must be Cypress’s mother. And she’s the woman in the photographs with a younger Dan.

  Long black hair liberally striped with gray falls over her shoulders, framing one of those faces that only becomes more distinguished and elegant with age. It’s like God zipped down a partition and offers me a glimpse into the future of what Cypress will look like in twenty-five more years. But hopefully, weariness won’t radiate from her eyes and sadness won’t weigh down her mouth, flattening it into a line that seems like it never curves into a smile. God willing, disappointment won’t stoop her slender shoulders like the weight of the world is slowly crushing her closer and closer to the ground.

  That tightening in my chest cinches like a vise, and denial roars so loud in my head, I miss Cypress’s reply to her mother, although I see her lips move. No way in hell can this vibrant, brave warrior so full of life end up a…shade, faded and gray as this poor woman standing in this sad memorial dedicated to a man who abandoned her more than a decade ago.

 
Cypress rushes forward and gently clasps her mother’s forearm, guiding her into the living room. I move toward them, but a subtle shake of her head stops me from helping her. But her mom must’ve noticed, because her attention shifts in my direction, landing on me. Those denim eyes that I know so well from her daughter widen, her pale lips forming a small “O.”

  “Mom, this is a friend of mine. Uh…Jay,” she lies, shooting me a pleading glance. “He gave me a ride over.” She carefully lowers her mom to the couch, then crouches down in front of her, cupping one hand between both of her own. “Now tell me what’s going on. Can I get you anything? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  “I…” She pauses, glances at me, a haunted hollowness in her eyes. Jesus.

  “Would you like some tea or coffee?” I offer, softening my voice as if my normal volume might shatter her. “I can make you a cup of either one.” She obviously isn’t comfortable talking in front of me.

  Her mother dips her head. “Tea would be fine…uh, Jay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She nods again. “Nice to meet you. I’m Brenda. The kettle is on the stove, and the tea bags are in the cabinet over it.”

  “Got it.” I head into the kitchen that’s barely large enough for two people to move around in. Though a wall separates it from the living area, the apartment is small enough that I can still hear the conversation between Cypress and Brenda. And I eavesdrop without the least bit of shame.

  “You haven’t mentioned someone in your life, honey,” Brenda says.

  “He’s a friend, Mom,” Cypress whispers back, probably very much aware that I can catch every word.

  “Well, he seems nice…”

  “Mom, I’m not here to talk about him. What’s going on? I can’t believe Dan called you. How could he not know it would upset you?” Cypress practically snarls.

  “Honey, you shouldn’t call your father by his first name. It’s disrespectful,” Brenda reprimands, but it’s without heat as if said out of habit. “And I told you. He wanted to check on me.”

  I belatedly twist the faucet and place the kettle under the running water. Once it’s full, I switch on the stove eye and set the water to boil. And wait. Listening. This is a side of Cypress I haven’t met, and I’m too greedy for more to feel bad about violating their privacy. Besides, I would have to leave and go across the hall to the neighbor’s not to hear anything in this small apartment.

  “What do you think this means?” Brenda asks, an urgency entering her voice. On silent feet, I move toward the kitchen entryway and peek around the wall. Cypress is kneeling in front of her mother, and Brenda is clutching her daughter’s hands now, bent forward so their foreheads are almost touching. “I asked him if he would come by for coffee. He said he’d think about it. Do you think he will? I’ve missed him so much. Maybe he’s finally coming back to me—”

  “Mom, stop it,” Cypress cuts her mom’s desperate monologue off with an angry hiss. But underneath… I fall back from the entrance, returning to the counter and gripping it. Tight. Imagining it’s Dan’s neck. Because it’s his thoughtlessness—his casual, nonchalant call to this poor woman causing that bright, bleeding note of pain in Cypress’s voice. “It was just a phone call. You know he didn’t mean anything by it. He didn’t even know about your heart attack until I told him.” A heavy sigh and the squeak of a spring creaking. “Mom, you have to let this go. Dan’s been gone for years, and he isn’t coming back. He has a wife, a family. This waiting and hoping…” A pause and a soft, but terrible sob. “Mom, please stop crying. You’ll only make yourself sick. And you can’t afford that.”

  “Why? Why did he leave me? What did I do? I love him so much…”

  I bow my head, squeezing my eyes shut. But that only sharpens the sound of the harsh weeping. Christ, is this a snapshot of what Cypress has endured since Dan walked out on her and her mother? Had he been playing stepdad to us while all that time his little girl had become a mother, a caretaker of the broken woman he left behind?

  My arms ache to be wrapped around Cypress; my shoulders groan with the need to have her lean on them, carry some of the load. Just some because as stubborn as she is, she won’t allow me to take more. Doesn’t mean I won’t fight to do it.

  She’s survived so much. Has suffered and survived—a too-short childhood with adulthood forced on her all too soon; being on her own in a strange state at a new school far from her home; a job where she should’ve been valued, and instead was assaulted then punished for having the balls to report it; caring for her ill mother; working at any job so she could make ends meet and support herself.

  People laud men for being strong. How dare those same people call women the weaker sex? They obviously have never met a woman like Cypress Winters. She puts all of us to shame.

  The kettle whistles, steam flowing in a column from the top. Flicking off the eye, I grab a cup, saucer, and tea bag from the cabinets and prepare Brenda’s drink. Carefully and slowly, I reenter the room, granting both women plenty of time to recover from their conversation.

  “Here you go,” I murmur, setting the cup and plate on the low coffee table in front of the older woman. When she lifts her head, I pretend not to see the tear stains dampening her cheeks or her puffy, pink eyes. Or the utter, soul-shattering sadness in them. “I didn’t add sugar or honey, but I can grab them.”

  “No,” she rasps. Then, clearing her throat, she picks the tea up. “This is fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Glancing at Cypress, I tilt my head toward the apartment front door. “I can wait downstairs for you. Take however long you need.”

  Unable to not touch her, I briefly but gently cradle her cheek and run the backs of my fingers down that same soft skin. “Downstairs,” I repeat. Then add, because I have to. Need to. “Whatever you need, sweetheart.”

  She can read what she wants into it. Knowing Cypress, she will. All she has to do is ask, and I’ll gladly inform her I mean my body, my place, my support, my…everything.

  But Cypress being Cypress, she doesn’t ask.

  Nodding, I shift my attention to her mother once more. “It was nice meeting you, Brenda.”

  “You, too,” she whispers.

  Letting myself out of the apartment where Cypress grew up, I propel myself down the stairs and out of the building, battling the urge to charge back in there and drag her out. To shield her, protect her from the ghosts that refuse to stop haunting her.

  Opening my car, I slide behind the wheel and hit the locks as if they can keep me inside. Settling in for a wait, I twist the ignition so heat streams out of the vents, and then scroll through my phone. A couple of missed calls from Knox. One from Mom. Six missed calls from Ana. Same number of texts. I leave them unopened.

  Sighing, I toss the cell down in the console between my seat and the passenger’s. Given her display at the shop earlier, I should at least call her parents and check to see if she’s all right. But her folks have made it very clear they blame me for Ana’s behavior. Somehow, I seriously doubt her almost pathological cry for attention started when we began dating, not with parents so consumed with work and their social calendars that the nanny raised their daughter more than they did.

  Still, what if I don’t call her back and it’s the night she decides to—

  She needs help, baby. And the help she needs you can’t give to her. So stop going down the what-if path because it leads to nowhere.

  Cypress’s words from earlier glide through my brain, and my fingers curl into tight fists on my thighs. I don’t need a psychiatrist to inform me that I have a savior complex. It started with Mom after finding her bleeding on the bathroom floor. It continued with keeping her secret and playing the peacemaker for my brothers, girlfriends, and it was the same need that led me to offer Cypress my apartment as a place to crash.

  But in the last few weeks, I’ve been learning that I can’t fix things for everyone. Accepting that truth is harder. But it started when I followed Cypress to th
at motel. Risking Dan’s disappointment and my mom’s hurt if they found out about Cypress and me didn’t matter. Not when it meant keeping her safe…

  No, now I can be honest.

  Not when it meant having the woman I hadn’t been able to purge from my mind or my dreams close to me.

  Even then, she called to me, teased me, tortured me…scared me.

  Can’t lie. She terrifies me, because stepsister or not…moratorium on relationships or not…unstable ex or not… I want her. Like I’ve never wanted another woman. The power and depth of my greed for her shakes me, keeps me awake at night. Because it’s not just for the sex. It’s for the scent of her shampoo in my bathroom after she takes a long, hot shower. The sound of her humming in the kitchen when she’s cooking me breakfast that I’ve repeatedly told her she didn’t have to do. The sight of her dark, thick hair spread on my pillow.

  Before she reentered my life, my existence had revolved around London. Counting down the days until I could leave and start a new phase of my life. Now? Now it spins around the next time she’ll walk in that front door with her denim eyes and smart mouth.

  Goddamn. I lean my head back against the seat rest, staring at the interior roof of the car. When did this get so goddamn complicated?

  A tap sounds on the passenger window, and spotting Cypress, I hit the locks. The door opens, and I straighten as Cypress slides inside. I didn’t even notice her exiting the building.

  “Were you asleep?” she asks, buckling her seat belt.

  “Dozing,” I lie. Better than admitting I’d been sitting here so deep in thought about her, I could’ve been carjacked.