by Rea Frey
“Hey, didn’t I see you at the Five Spot last week?”
Noah turned, and a pretty blond cocked her head, a strand of beads clinking against her breasts. “You were there, right? I remember you.”
“How do you remember me if I was just turned around?”
“Because I was standing behind you thinking, ‘That man has one fine-ass back.’”
In spite of his mood and maybe because of how drunk he was, he smiled. Did his breath smell like a distillery? “I wasn’t in town last week.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure…”
“Patty. I’m sure, Patty.” She offered her hand, delicate and manicured, and he kissed it, which made her blush. “A gentleman too? Now we totally have to hook up.” She sipped beer from her red plastic cup—the raised eyebrow, the bait—and he pushed closer to her.
“And what’s your definition of hooking up?”
“What’s yours?”
He shrugged and was pierced by a pair of sharp elbows. He winced as they jabbed against his spine. “Will you excuse me for just a sec?” Pam? Peg? Patsy? Shit, he’d already forgotten her name. He moved past her and weaved through the throng of chatty, drunken bodies to look for a bathroom. The line spilled into the hallway, so he headed upstairs, hoping he wasn’t going to find some couple hooking up in Phil’s bed. He was too old for this shit. He felt like he was back in college. He should be married with a wife and kid by now.
He tried a few doors, found a bathroom attached to a guest bedroom, and relieved himself. He washed his hands and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Why was he even here? What was he doing with his life? He was thirty-one years old. At a house party. Alone. He wiped his hands on his jeans and flipped off the light. He opened the door to see the outline of a woman waiting to get in.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was waiting.” He fumbled for the light, but she pushed him back into the bathroom against the rim of the sink. The porcelain groaned under the weight of his back. The girl from downstairs?
“Do you want to leave?” The click of the door’s lock pricked the darkness.
No, someone else. What was up with the women at this party? He could smell the alcohol on her breath, the angles of her body grinding into his.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
They were at a standoff in the dark, balanced between something happening and not happening. A sizzle of desire seared the base of his skull. She pushed in closer. “What’s your name?” he whispered.
“What’s yours?” Her tongue found his earlobe and licked.
For a moment, he forgot where he was, forgot why he was here, forgot about Wyatt. “Noah. Banks. Noah Banks.” Why had he just told her his last name?
“Well, Noah Banks. It’s your lucky day.”
She moved in again. Her lips found his cheek in the dark and self-corrected until their tongues bumped. She sucked his lips and moaned. He closed his eyes, even though he could have kept them open, and focused on nothing but her. Their kisses deepened, and an urgency wound itself around them like a brittle web. This wasn’t about her wanting him—she clearly wanted something or someone else—but he understood. He wanted to escape Wyatt, to escape his parents, to escape life.
He pressed her against the wall, his hands suddenly all over her body. She had small, high breasts and tiny nipples. He sucked on one and traveled down her trim waist to her hips. He bit the bone, and she laughed.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Noah hesitated as he fumbled with the button of her jeans. He could hear the desperation in her voice. Was she drunk? “Hey.” He stood back up. One of his knees popped. “Maybe we should slow down a little.” He kissed her again, but her small wrists flexed against his sturdy chest.
“No. Do it.” She nibbled his ear, and he could smell tequila on her tongue. “Do anything.”
“Anything?” He felt arousal mix with hesitation. The arsenal of his relatively tame sex life shook out like a bag of tricks.
“Anything,” she whispered again. She ripped his shirt over his head. Her nails scraped across his belt buckle as she fell to her knees. She peeled his boxers down and took him into her mouth. Her hair tickled his thighs.
Please don’t have whiskey dick. Please don’t have whiskey dick. The mantra repeated like a prayer while the sounds of her sucking filled the blackness, and he came to full attention. Two minutes in, and he was already close, but he didn’t want to be that guy, so he pulled her up off her knees.
“Do you want to go somewhere? Like to a bed or something?”
“Here’s fine.” She pushed his boxers all the way down and began to undress. She told him, in order, what she wanted him to do. He listened to her demands and almost asked why. Why did she want to be choked? Why did she want to be dominated?
He tuned out the logical part of his brain—the part that reminded him he was too old for one-night stands, the part that knew they were both drunk, the part that was now dead inside because of Wyatt—and shoved her facedown on the floor. He felt in the darkness for her panties and pulled them to the side, rubbing a thumb over her asshole as he began entering her with force. Just like that.
“Harder.”
The slap of their flesh was the only sound in the bathroom until he felt his hamstrings cramp.
“Put your fingers in my mouth.”
The need in her voice was palpable. He groped in the darkness for her face and swiped her cheek, which was wet. Was she crying? She grabbed one of his hands and sucked his index and middle finger.
“Stick your fingers inside me and shove them in my mouth again.”
Her voice had softened, but the boldness made him almost come. He was a witness to this woman splitting open, spilling a need that he too felt. He missed Wyatt. He missed having a purpose. He missed himself. He did as he was told by this stranger, feeling her contract on his hand, the moans in her throat unleashing across the mildewed rug. He shoved them back into her mouth, and she sucked herself off of them. He needed this woman. And he knew, by her body, by her forcefulness, that she needed him too.
“Choke me.”
He slid one hand around her throat but didn’t close his fingers.
“Choke me. Tell me you could kill me.”
“What?” He moved back. “Hey, no. I can’t say that. I’m not—”
“Just say it!”
Her voice revealed something he recognized: pain, fresh and raw, that needed to be erased by being overtaken. Maybe she’d lost someone too, maybe she wanted to run away from her life, or maybe she just wanted to be punished. Just a few days ago, he’d wanted to die, and now here he was with a woman’s throat in his hands.
“I need you to say it!” she screamed again. Her voice pierced the silence, but it shook with desperate intent. Part of him wanted to let go and wrap her in a hug, but the stronger part of him just wanted to do what he was told. To feel something other than what he felt. He closed his eyes and felt the words leave his lips. I could kill you. Do you know how easy it would be to kill you?
To his surprise, his body reacted as he said the words. He thrust harder and harder, something wild cracking open inside him—desire, need, power—just from taking control of this moment, of his body, of her. His fingers tightened.
He felt her climax again. She moaned, her entire body writhing in pleasure. He continued moving in and out of her, his hand around her slender throat. He compressed harder.
“Do you like when I squeeze? Do you like thinking about what I could do to you? Yes, oh yeah. Oh God.”
His own orgasm curled itself around his hips and then released harder than he could ever remember. In it was his grief, his anger, the betrayal he felt, this life that he was supposed to live without his brother. He tightened his hand even more, then finally loosened his grip and shook the contraction from his fingers.
He collapsed on top of her, his triceps twitching. A drop of sweat landed on her back. He wiped it away with his
free hand. For one agonizing moment, he saw his brother’s face. He blinked it away, but the blackness engulfed him. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to calm his mind, to catch air, but the room felt too thick. He climbed off of her, sucking for breath, and finally found his voice in the small, dank space.
“I’ve never done anything like that before.”
The girl had grown quiet and still.
“Hello?” He kneeled beside her, accidentally ramming into her ribs with his shin. “Oh sorry.” He gripped her slick shoulder and shook her gently from behind. For a sickening moment, he wondered if he’d killed her.
He inched closer to her face, praying that she was alive, that she was okay. He hovered above her nose and mouth. She was snoring. He felt for her cheek in the darkness. Her head was twisted and warm on the tile. Had she passed out? He assessed the situation. He couldn’t just leave her here.
Could he?
He should turn on the lights, wake her up, and put her in the shower to rinse her off. Maybe even take her home if she could remember where she lived. He tapped her cheek. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Her snores saturated the silence as he sat beside her.
He finally stood on shaky legs, peed, cleaned himself up the best he could, and fumbled around the sink to wash his hands again. He scrubbed her from his fingers, dragging the bar of soap under his nails. He didn’t want to turn on the light. He didn’t want to see her. The aggression, the impulsiveness. He wanted it to stay hidden, black, unseen.
As he dried his hands on his jeans, the reality of what he’d just done slid into focus. Why hadn’t he used a condom? What was he thinking? He got down on his knees again, careful not to trip over her. “Hey. Please wake up.” He didn’t know if she was here with anyone, or if she’d taken something besides alcohol. He rattled her shoulders, this time harder, but she didn’t move. Should he call 911?
He calculated his options. He knew how it would look, a girl passed out, his semen leaking out of her. He moved to the wall, fumbled for the light, and flipped it on. He squinted from the sudden brightness and stared down into the hollow shell of the woman he’d just fucked. He memorized her haircut, the high cheekbones, and the mole above her lip. Seeing her there, unconscious, sent a wave of repulsion through him, when, moments before, he’d had the strongest orgasm of his life. His heart cut out of rhythm against his ribs.
The girl’s snores vibrated the tile. He flipped off the light and bolted down the stairs. The party rocked around him, but he edged past the sweaty bodies back into the night, deciding right then and there that he had to do something about the state of his life.
His brother had died. It couldn’t be the event that ruined him and took him down a dark, dangerous path. People died. That’s what they did. He knew this, and yet he felt responsible. He’d been only inches from Wyatt, and if he’d just reached out …
His entire life he’d lived by other agendas: Wyatt’s, his mother’s, his father’s. Any emotion Wyatt had ever had, he expressed. And Noah, the therapist, Noah, the older brother, Noah, the mediator, had repressed his own feelings—all his feelings—until he was a seething ball of emotion.
Where was his release?
The chaos of the party faded as he walked closer to the end of the block, the cool wind drying the sweat on his face. He felt bad about leaving that girl up there, alone, to wake up with her panties around her ankles. What kind of a guy did that? What kind of a guy said those things to a girl during sex?
He was ashamed to admit that it had been exciting; it had awakened something in him to talk to a woman like that, to wind his fingers around a stranger’s neck and do whatever he wanted. He felt powerful and in control. He wanted to hold onto that feeling.
He took a right and continued the few short blocks to his house. But the words he’d said and what he’d done … he couldn’t hold on to the feeling that way.
No. He had to erase what had just happened. He had to bury it.
No one could ever know about tonight.
present
54
noah
He arrives at Grace’s early and slides the journal back into its proper place. Grace enters the living room, waves at him distractedly, and hustles Luca into the car for his soccer game. He knows she needs time to process their conversation from last night, but her icy demeanor is literally killing him. Their relationship has fissured, but he will do whatever it takes to make it right.
While Mason is eating breakfast, Noah formulates how to talk to him about this next phase of life. “Hey, Mase. I want to ask you something.”
“Ask away, Professor.”
Noah chuckles at the nickname. “So you know how much Grace means to me. That we are in a relationship and love each other very much.”
“Yuck. Gag. Vomit. Yes.”
Noah nods. “I know that stuff is gross at this age. But I want to talk to you a little bit about what that means.”
“It means you’re probably getting married.” Mason shovels another bite of cereal into his mouth.
Noah nods. “Well, that’s true.” At least I hope that’s true. “And do you know what that would mean for you?”
Mason taps out a rhythm on the table. “You want me to be best man?”
Noah’s heart swells. “I’d love nothing more, buddy. But what I mean is since Grace is technically your guardian”—he says the word with some trepidation, not wanting to remind him of his recent loss—“I would then become your stepfather. If we were to get married.”
“Why do they call it a stepfather? Are you a stair? Are you made of concrete? That would be a negative.”
Noah smiles. “That’s a good question. But I want to talk about how you’d feel about that. Me being kind of like a dad.”
Mason cocks his head to the side and taps his spoon against his bowl. “I’ve never had a dad.”
“I know.”
Mason studies him. “I think you would be an acceptable father figure. You’re adequate. And you don’t annoy me, so that’s a positive start.”
“That is a good start.” Inside, Noah’s heart fills to almost bursting. Suddenly, a whole life together flashes before his eyes. Him and his boys. The baby. Grace. “So you’d be okay if I were to become part of your family?”
Mason bristles at the word family, a word designated only for his mother.
“I had a family.”
The past tense guts Noah, but he only nods. “I know, and your mother will always be your family. No one will ever take her place. But now Grace is your family too, and Luca. I’m like part of your family. Family doesn’t always have to be related by blood, remember? We talked about that.”
“I know.” Mason sighs and dips his spoon back into the bowl.
Part of Noah feels like everything he experienced with Wyatt brought him here, to have a do-over and take care of a child who needs him. Mason is his second chance. As Wyatt’s face flashes into his mind, he kills the memory in its tracks. He has to move on from that loss, and maybe this is how to do it.
“Okay, enough of that. Lesson time?”
Mason nods and puts away his dishes, and the two begin. They start OT with some bear crawls, crab walks, and exercise ball work. By the time they move onto putty work, Grace and Luca are already pulling into the drive.
“How was it?” he asks.
“We won!” Luca exclaims. He rushes off to grab a snack, and Noah turns to Grace.
“They’re really on a winning streak, huh?”
“They sure are.” She smiles at him warily and looks at Mason. “How’s it going here?”
Mason squeezes the putty and passes it back and forth to each hand. “Noah is going to become my stepfather. We are going to be a family.”
Noah reddens at the admission and glances at Grace, who looks stricken. “Oh?” She places one hand on her hip and assesses Noah. “Is that right?”
He stands and pulls Grace into the kitchen. “Sorry. We had a conversation about family.”
Grace’s eyes
flash. “And you’re going to be his family?”
“Hey, don’t be like that.” He reaches for her, but she steps out of the way. “I do want us all to be a family. Of course I do. Don’t you?”
Grace’s jaw tightens then releases. “Look. This is just going to take some time. It’s not going to be easy for me.” Her arms encircle her own waist. “I still need to sort through some things, okay?” She finally looks at him, hesitating just long enough to make him uncomfortable. “But yes. I do want that stability for the boys. I want them to have a family.”
He kisses her forehead, relieved but cautious. “Just please don’t shut me out, okay? That’s all I ask.”
Her eyes blink warily beneath the fan of lashes. “Okay.”
“I’m going to finish up with Mason.” He tunes out his worries as the two complete their therapy, says good-bye to both boys, and gets in his car. Something solidifies on the drive home. He makes a detour to the antique jewelry shop he’s passed a million times in Hillsboro Village and finds a parking spot on the street.
He walks inside and hunts for the cases of rings. He knows Grace needs time to sort through her feelings. He doesn’t want to rush her, but he knows what he has to do.
He summons an employee. The woman removes one ring after another. He holds each diamond up to the light, watching the jewels explode and dance.
After three rings, he finds it. He knows her ring size—six. (He’d found her old engagement ring and sized it.) He knows the cut of diamond she prefers—round. (She’s talked extensively about Chad’s cluelessness for diamonds.) The band—platinum. (She dislikes gold.) He pays for the ring, pockets the small velvet box, ignores the prick of worry, and begins to plan his proposal.
55
grace
A week later, Noah calls and asks if he can come over. They haven’t talked much. She’s been busying herself with work and the boys. He says he has something important to discuss.
