Best Kept Secrets: The Complete Series

by Kandi Steiner

  Chills broke against the pale skin of her bare midriff, and I dropped to my knees, leaning in closer to find the shiny pink marks that ran across that white skin like tiny roads on a map. I pulled one glove off, reaching forward with warm fingertips that made her shudder when I pressed them against those marks. My fingers skated the lines, the thick bottoms of them that faded off into thin tips. A tear fell from where Charlie watched above me, hitting my wrist, and I cast my gaze upward to find hers.

  “Charlie, they’re beautiful.”

  And then, she broke.

  Charlie’s face warped, emotion taking over her, and she collapsed into me. Her arms wrapped around my head, pulling me into her bare stomach, and I wrapped my own around her, too. I caught her as her knees gave out, as tears ripped through her. Her tiny shoulders shook and small cries left her lips in sounds I knew would haunt me forever.

  My little tadpole, no longer innocent, no longer untouched by the cruelty of life.

  I waited until her sobs had subsided, all the while holding her tighter and tighter, letting her know I was there to bear the weight she could no longer hold. Then, when she was quiet, I stood, lifting her chin with me so her eyes would find mine.

  “You are an amazing mother already, Charlie, and I know you will make your future children happier than you can even imagine now.”

  Her face warped again, but she fought against it, nodding into my hand that had found her cheek.

  “And you are the best teacher I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You are touching lives daily, Jeremiah’s included. Those marks on your stomach, while they are forever a part of you, they do not define you. They are not a sign of your weakness or of your failure.” I smiled then, rubbing the pad of my thumb along her cheek. “They are a reminder of your strength, of your love, and of the miracle of life.”

  Charlie choked out a laugh, and a smile broke on her face, her eyes still glistening in the soft light of the city. She nodded, and then without even a second of hesitation, she pressed a kiss into my palm.

  At that, both of our smiles fell.

  She watched me, her eyes flicking between mine before they fell to my lips, and damn if that didn’t send a jolt of electricity right between my legs. I stepped into her, thumb still brushing her cheek, her jaw, and when she lifted her eyes to mine again, a new kind of presence fell over us.

  “Why didn’t you kiss me that night?” she asked, her voice a broken whisper.

  I swallowed, my free hand coming to her waist, pulling her into me. Charlie lifted onto her toes, and my fingers wrapped around the back of her neck, capturing her fallen hair between our skin. If we had lit a match in that moment, the entire Duquesne Incline would have gone up in flames, along with every shred of morality we both tried so desperately to hold onto.

  “You were sixteen, Charlie. I was leaving.”

  “So, then, why would it have mattered? Why not just kiss me?”

  She was so small in my hands, but so largely present in every other part of me. She always had been.

  “For the same reason you don’t hold your hand in a fire just because it’s warm,” I answered. “Because it burns.”

  Her eyes were still on my lips, as if she were watching each word I said leave them in finely written script. Charlie’s chest hit my ribs as she stepped farther into me, and I bent to meet her forehead with mine. We both took a breath, long and deep, inhaled in a moment of torture and longing, and then Charlie let it go with the sigh of reality.

  “I can’t drive,” she said, her fists tightening in my sweater. “Can you… will you take me home?”

  She pulled back then, and I let her go, squeezing my eyes shut tight until I knew she could see them again.

  “Of course, Tadpole. Whatever you need.”

  On the way back down the Incline, Charlie’s eyes watched the city again, and just like before, mine watched her.

  But it was a completely new woman I saw this time.

  A beautiful, strong, broken shell of a woman.

  A beautiful, strong, broken shell of a woman whom I wanted so desperately to save.

  ***

  Charlie

  My eyes were puffy and tired as I dragged myself up my driveway, tossing a wave back at Reese. He waited until I unlocked my front door and slipped inside before he pulled away, and I sighed, tossing my keys into the dish by the door and shrugging off my coat.

  For a moment I just stood there, my back to the front door, eyes closed and head cast upward. I didn’t know if I was sending up a prayer of thanks or one asking for forgiveness. Maybe both. The evening’s events blurred behind my vision, and I couldn’t make sense of anything — least of all the fact that I’d asked Reese why he hadn’t kissed me fourteen years ago.

  The entire house was dark, save for the kitchen light, which was just enough to light my way as I kicked off my boots and padded in to make a cup of hot tea. I needed to sober up a little before bed, and my throat was raw from telling Reese about the boys.

  I still couldn’t believe I’d told him at all.

  The way he’d listened, the way he’d held me as I broke completely in his arms, it was enough to move me to tears again as I put the tea kettle on the stove. Once the water was heating, I leaned against the kitchen counter beside it, pinching the bridge of my nose with a sigh.

  How long had I wanted Cameron to hold me that way, to fall to his knees and kiss the scars left by our children? How long had I silently begged him to talk about it, to acknowledge it, to let me know it was real? With Cameron, it was as if those months, that day, those roughly two-hundred-and-sixteen hours, as if none of it had happened at all. He was able to pack away the nursery — out of sight, out of mind — while I lived with the scars they left behind.

  For Cameron, there was before, a big blank, empty space, and then after. But we never talked about the catalyst that propelled us from the first to the latter.

  Still, I felt guilty for finding comfort in another man, in another person, period. It felt weak and inexcusable that I’d done so. I wanted to blame it on the alcohol, on the nostalgia of being back on the Incline, but I wasn’t sure I truthfully could.

  Had I been aware of Reese ever since he’d come back into town? Had I secretly wondered what it would be like if he had never left at all?

  It was impossible to say, and it only made my head hurt more as I stood in my kitchen, wishing for answers that wouldn’t come.

  “Fun night?”

  Cameron’s deep voice startled me, and I jumped, pressing a cold hand to my chest before I let out a relieved sigh at the sight of him.

  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  “I wasn’t going to sleep before you got home, Charlie. I’m your husband.”

  His tone set me on edge, my defenses rising of their own accord as I stood to pull out the jar of tea packets. I filtered through them, not meeting his gaze. “You say that like you think I’ve forgotten.”

  “It’s late.”

  I glanced up at the time on the microwave as the tea pot began to scream. I moved it gently off to the side, clicking off the burner and ripping open the packet of tea I’d chosen. “It’s only one.”

  “Thirty. It’s one-thirty, and you didn’t think to call your husband or even send a text to let him know you were okay?”

  “Did you call or text?” I threw back at him, turning long enough to watch his face as I said the words.

  His jaw tightened, and I noticed how tired his eyes were, how his hair had been mussed like his hands hadn’t left it all night. His beard was growing in again, dark stubble now that he would tame as it grew longer.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You didn’t. And I’m home now, so what does it matter, anyway? You had to work, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Don’t pull the work card.”

  “Why not? It’s your favorite one to pull.”

  Cameron’s head snapped back as if I’d slapped him, and I couldn’t find it in me to apologize as I tur
ned back to the stove. I couldn’t believe I’d said it either, but at the same time, I was glad it was finally out. I never wanted to push Cameron, never wanted to fight with him or make him feel bad for working so hard to provide for us.

  But I needed him. I’d needed him for five years now, and it was like he didn’t have a single clue.

  I filled one mug with the steaming water, dropping a bag of chamomile into it and noting the steep time.

  “Want some?” I asked over my shoulder.

  Cameron didn’t answer, so I shut the cabinet that housed our mugs and dunked the tea bag as the silence stretched between us.

  “Where have you been?” he asked after a moment. He still stood in the opening where the kitchen met our dining area, his arms crossed over his chest, checkered sleep pants hanging on his hips.

  “Happy hour. I told you that.”

  “You stayed at a bar until one in the morning.” It was a statement — one he didn’t seem to believe.

  “I did.” The lie came so easily from my lips, I almost shocked myself. But the alcohol had softened me, or maybe hardened me. I just didn’t care anymore. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  Cameron watched me in that moment like he didn’t know who I was at all. “And how did you get home if you had been drinking that long?”

  I swallowed, turning back to the stove to pull the bag from my tea and lifting it to my lips. I blew on the hot liquid, the steam warming my cold nose. “Reese drove me.”

  “Reese,” he repeated, tone flat.

  I nodded. “Yes, you remember him, right? From dinner at my parents’?”

  “I know who he is, yes. Was he sober?”

  I shrugged. “Sober enough.”

  Cameron smacked his hand against the wall, snapping my attention back to him. “Damn it, Charlie. Stop being nonchalant about this. It’s almost two in the morning and you don’t seem the least bit apologetic about the fact that I’ve been worrying about you all night. And then you tell me that Reese drove you home, and not even completely sober?” He shook his head. “I told you to call me if you needed a ride.”

  “You were working,” I reminded him, abandoning my steaming tea on the counter as the anger and defensiveness steaming up from inside me took precedence. “And the phone works two ways. If you were so worried, why didn’t you check in?”

  My blood was boiling, and in the back of my mind, I realized this was what I’d wanted — a fight. I wanted a reaction out of Cameron — any kind of reaction. He was finally noticing me, finally looking at me and feeling something after so long of feeling nothing at all. But now that I had it, that reaction I’d been so desperately seeking, I didn’t even care.

  I was indifferent to how I’d made him feel tonight. Maybe because he’d been indifferent to how I’d felt since we lost our sons.

  Guilt flooded me as I toiled with the thought that, perhaps, I didn’t care because someone else had given me attention. Someone else had looked at me first, had asked me how I felt, had wanted to make the hurt disappear.

  Reese had beat him to it, and now, Cameron’s attention didn’t feel warranted.

  “I’m tired,” I said when Cameron didn’t have anything else to say. I dumped my untouched tea into the sink, but when I went to move past Cameron, his arm shot out to block the door frame.

  “We’re not finished.”

  “I want to go to bed,” I threw back, louder, my eyes finding his. “It’s late.”

  He scoffed. “Oh, now it’s late.”

  “Whatever. Goodnight.” I ducked under his arm, but before I could reach the stairs, one strong hand wrapped around my forearm and ripped me backward. I opened my mouth to protest, to scream, to cry, but nothing came.

  Because in the next instant, Cameron’s mouth covered my own — hot and angry and needy.

  I pushed against him, my hands pressed into the middle of his chest as I tried to break free, but he only wrapped me in his arms tighter. His mouth opened and without hesitation, mine opened, too — letting him in, letting him taste, and in that instant, I was his again.

  In that instant, everything I’d wanted for so long came to fruition, and all the confusion and anger melted away.

  He possessed me with that kiss, one I hadn’t felt from his lips in years. He’d kissed me, sure. We’d had sex, yes. But the passion had been absent — the want, the need, the look in his eyes that he finally had again, one that said he couldn’t live another second without his hands on me.

  He wanted me. My husband still wanted me.

  I sighed, melting into him, my hands wrapping around him and sliding up to grip his messy hair. I tugged on it as his fingers yanked my blouse and tank top from my jeans. Cameron broke our kiss long enough to strip them over my head, letting them fall to our feet as his mouth found mine again, his hands squeezing my exposed breasts with enough force to make me wince.

  He kissed me so hard I thought he might draw blood, or leave a bruise in his wake, but I didn’t care. Maybe a part of me wanted him to mark me, to remind me I was his, to obliterate any other feelings I thought I’d had earlier in the night in the arms of another man.

  I ripped at his cotton t-shirt, pushing it up over his ribs with my hands before he reached behind his neck to pull it the rest of the way off. He lifted me then, my legs wrapping around his waist, and he moved us up the stairs as his mouth devoured the skin of my neck, my collarbone, my breasts.

  It was all consuming, the way he kissed me, like he’d sat on his hands for years watching me and unable to touch me. It was as if access had been granted for the first time, even though he’d had me for years. I closed my eyes and saw the man who’d taken me on our wedding night, felt the man who’d stolen my heart on our very first date. As his passion mixed with the alcohol floating through my system, he was all I could see, all I could feel, all I could care about.

  And even still, I couldn’t feel him close enough, couldn’t see all that I wanted, couldn’t ever tire of hearing the way he groaned in appreciation as his hands roamed my body. It had been untouched for so long, but with every kiss and squeeze and moan, it came to life at his command.

  Our moans echoed off the walls as he carried me through the hall to our bedroom, and before I registered what was happening, my back hit the down comforter of our bed, the soft gray fabric puffing up around me.

  Shakily, I pushed up on my elbows, watching with appreciation as Cameron yanked his pants and briefs to the floor in one fell swoop. He sprang forward, hard and ready, and I bit my lip at the sight.

  His eyes were hooded and dark, his jaw set with the intention to bring me back to him. The want rolling off him in that moment was the most intoxicating drug, one I’d craved for so long. And though it was the same drug, it was a new high, one much more powerful than I remembered.

  He tugged on my jeans next, pulling me to the edge of the bed, and then his hands flew over the button and zipper. The denim I wore was so tight, almost like it had been painted on me, yet Cameron was able to peel it off of me as if his hands were liquid heat and the denim was butter. My simple nude panties came off next, the lift of my hips the only help he needed.

  And there was no body worship, no soft kisses on my thighs or at my core, no time spent working me up to his touch. That was how he touched me on our wedding night, how he made love to me the night we’d moved into our new home. But tonight, he was claiming me.

  So once I was naked beneath him, Cameron gripped my hips with passionate force and yanked until my hips hung slightly off the edge of the bed. He positioned my ankles on his shoulders, himself at my entrance, and with his eyes hot and needy on mine, he flexed his hips with a groan, filling me to the brim.

  I arched off the bed, the thickness of him stretching me all at once after so long of being empty. I was overcome with a searing pain that faded quickly into an electrifying pleasure as he pumped in and out of me, fast and quick, taking what was his. My hands gripped his strong forearms, nails digging into the skin, and he bit the
tender hollow of my ankle before kissing that same spot.

  There were no words. There never were with Cameron.

  It was only his lips on my skin, his eyes capturing mine, his hands tightening around where he held me, as if one loosened grip would let me slip right through his fingers like sand. I lived inside that moment with everything I desired. My husband wanted me, he loved me, I was his and he was mine.

  For that hot moment of passion, I was the woman I once was, and Cameron was the man I remembered.

  I hoped we’d both stay.

  Cameron bit the skin at my ankle, snapping my attention back to him as he used both hands to spread my legs wide. His fingertips trailed down the inside of my ankles, calves, knees, thighs, until one hand wrapped around my hip and the other moved to work my clit. He wasn’t easy, wasn’t slow. No, he worked my clit like he hated it, like he hated me, and my orgasm didn’t build like a slow tide but like an earthquake.

  I arched up off the bed, reaching for his neck and pulling him down into me as he bent to fill me even deeper. I climbed him like a tree, and he never stopped moving, never stopped flexing, pushing my climax to last longer than it ever had before.

  “Oh God, Cam,” I moaned, biting his neck to keep from screaming. He growled at the sensation, and just as my orgasm receded, he found his own, pumping into me with force before stilling completely. Cameron held me there in his arms, our bodies hot and slick and stuck together as he moaned. I felt him emptying inside me as I kissed all over him — his neck, his chest, his jaw — before finally claiming his mouth with my own.

  When he was finished, he trembled, falling to the bed with me still in his arms, with him still inside me. We both panted until our breathing evened out, his hand sweeping through my hair, my fingertips tracing the soft hair in the middle of his chest.

  It was what I’d wanted. I’d gotten exactly what I’d wanted.