With my tremors still running their course, Lane slipped on a condom and was inside me. He pulled me up to meet his chest, my nipples rubbing against his very hard body, the friction causing peaks to form as he shifted me back toward the headboard, and I caught a glimpse of his six-pack working hard.
With one hand on the headboard, the other holding me tight, his tip hitting the spot that drove me wild, I was pretty sure I was going to come again when I felt Lane pick up speed, hunting down his own release. As soon as he started jerking and I felt him losing it inside me, I followed suit.
Toppling down on me, yet careful to hold some of his weight back, he slid the condom off and tossed it on the nightstand. While I lightly scratched his back, he held me until all the sensation passed.
We spent most of the afternoon this way. Lounging and talking with lingering touches.
Tucked in the crook of Lane’s neck, our bodies sticking together in the sweaty aftermath of sex, I didn’t want to move. I said in a hushed whisper, “Wow, Spain. So that’s where you were?”
“Mmm,” he said into the top of my head.
“Was it amazing?” I asked, unable to keep a touch of melancholy from my words. Not sure where it was coming from, I couldn’t help but feel a longing to travel and explore with Lane. But that would never be possible.
“It was work. Of course, it is a beautiful country, but I was there for work,” he answered, before rolling me on top of him and smiling. “But it would have been better if you were there.”
“Don’t,” I pleaded. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’m not. Actually, I’ve never really traveled much with anyone else. It would be fun with you, and hot.”
Our eyes met, and I blinked back the wetness in mine. “Lane, let’s not get carried away. I’m a waitress in rural Pennsylvania. You’re a mega-successful entrepreneur from South Beach. I’m a recovered addict and you’re essentially a playboy. Even I’m smart enough to know this has a short shelf life, whatever this is. What I’m not smart enough to do is to say ‘no thanks’ to you and your fabulous offers, but I know this will end sometime soon.”
And I hope I don’t fall apart. I pray I’m strong enough not to crumble.
“Bess,” he whispered, steadying my face with both his hands so I couldn’t look away. “Don’t make this into some awful self-fulfilling prophecy. I don’t know what this is either, but like I told you on Christmas, I feel drawn to you in a way I’ve never felt before. I can’t stop the pull and neither can you, so we shouldn’t. And for the record, when I’m with you, I don’t feel like a playboy. I’m a man chasing a woman, scared I’m not gonna catch her.”
He didn’t use any more sweet nothings to capture my heart, only actions.
After another round in the sheets, this one slower and less frantic than our first hit, we drifted off to sleep. As dusk deepened outside the house, I was jolted awake with a swift punch to my ribs.
“Ow,” I mouthed, unable to make the sound come out with the pain rushing through me.
Lane was thrashing in the sheets, his hands fisted, punching the air. “No! No! What did you do? What?” he yelled, his cries hoarse and raspy with emotion.
“Lane,” I whispered while holding my side after shifting to the other side of the bed. “Lane,” I said quietly again, afraid of what might happen if I said it louder. I wasn’t equipped to care for someone this way. I’d been tasked with doing it for myself all my life, and look how shitty that turned out.
What was he screaming about? Was it the darkness that lingered in his eyes, that indefinable something I’d seen in him before?
Luckily, Brooks had gotten up from the corner of the room where he had been resting, and came straight to the side of the bed where Lane was sleeping. Apparently concerned, Brooks poked his wet nose into Lane, jarring him out of his nightmare.
“Shit,” Lane said, coming awake. He ran a trembling hand along his forehead, then pushed it back through his messy hair. He wasn’t facing me, but I could feel anger and an unwelcome embarrassment radiating from him. Whether he admitted it or not, he was a playboy, and this wasn’t how playboys drifted off to sleep after fucking their girl.
Unsure of what else to do, I placed my hand on his shoulder and asked, “Lane, you okay?”
He slowly turned my way, his eyes no longer the cornflower blue of a bright sky, and they were certainly no longer happy. They were muddled and pained, a sea of roiling emotions that I couldn’t dive into. I wasn’t a strong enough swimmer.
“Shit, Bess. Fuck!” He sat up in bed and rummaged around for his shirt, whipping it on before grabbing his boxer briefs and throwing those on in a fury. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stood up and paced beside the bed, his brow furrowed, his mind more than likely racing between fight or flight.
His breathing was heavy, his eyes frantic and wild, and I felt the need to go to him. Gingerly, I brought my feet out of bed, pain jabbing my side from the movement. As I stood, I held my ribs, trying to act like I was stretching. No such luck.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?” Lane asked, marching over to me when I should have been running to him.
“Nothing. You just clipped me in your sleep,” I said, trying to be vague.
“Don’t do that, Bess. Don’t be all naive and pretend what just happened didn’t freak you the fuck out. One minute I’m making . . . I mean, we’re having sex, and the next I’m punching the shit out of you and waking up in a terror.”
“Well, I was worried,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and soothing. “But you’re up and we can talk about it now if you want.” I ran my hand down his cheek.
Isn’t that what I should say? I felt like I needed to call Shirley or May. I was at a loss, clueless about what to do next.
He swatted my hand out of the way and stepped back. “There’s nothing to talk about. It’s an old bad dream. Haven’t had it in years, and now it’s back. Probably stress.”
I didn’t have a chance to respond because before I could open my mouth, he turned away and said, “I gotta roll. I’m really sorry, but I have to cut this visit short. I can’t stay and risk hurting you.”
Lane was out the door and peeling down the gravel driveway in his Jeep before I could even wrap myself in my robe and get to the door to watch him pull away.
Lane
“Jake! Pick the hell up!” I yelled into the phone as I barreled down the hill faster than I should have been going.
Of course, my fucking brother wasn’t picking up when I needed him to. It had always been a one-way street when it came to us.
Frustrated, I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat.
Screw him.
I drove straight to Pittsburgh’s airport, not stopping for gas, food, or anything. I kept my foot heavy on the accelerator, feeling myself gain control with every push. I was in charge of the car, where I was going, and my own destiny. Not Jake. Not Bess. Not my nightmares.
Fuck ’em all.
My phone rang, startling me as the sound blared through the dark car.
With my left hand and knee on the wheel, I reached over to grab it. Swiping my finger across the screen, I didn’t need to see who it was. It wasn’t Bess. She wasn’t strong enough to call me, let alone survive my lies and nightmares without getting hurt. Not only emotionally, but physically too.
“Hello—Jake?”
“Yeah? What the fuck is up?”
“Oh, I don’t know. My nightmares are back, you little shit. I had them the whole time I was gone, thought it was the hectic travel schedule I’d been keeping. Then I had one last night, when I got in from Spain. No way this was another one-off, no such fucking luck! Fuck you, Jake. You started all this!” I yelled into the phone.
“Calm down, Lane. You’re losing it.”
“Me? I’m fucking losing it? No, you’re gonna be the one losing it because I’m going home. No way I’m staying until Monday to go to Youngstown. You got that?” I s
aid this as I leaned into a curve, the Jeep just about on two wheels, the dark mountains on one side, a straight drop into a ravine on the other.
“Lane, listen, come back to Pittsburgh. Let me buy you a beer and you’ll calm down.”
“Nope. No fucking way, Jake. ’Bye.”
I disconnected the call without waiting for him to answer. I’d had enough.
It was time to go back to my world. Business and bikinis.
Lane
One month later
“Good evening, Mr. Wrigley? Checking someone in tonight?” Stuffed like a pig in a blanket into his fitted dress shirt and skinny chinos, James greeted me with his usual sarcasm as I walked into the Dylan.
“No, James, I’m not, but thanks for asking. I’m here for a late dinner. Can you call down to the restaurant and see if they can accommodate me?”
The snarky little shit. He’d seen me come in a few times this month for a drink, never once checking anyone else into the damn fucking hotel.
I had no idea why I continued to go there; it only held memories I would have liked to banish. Yet I kept torturing myself with quick glances at the hammock or toward the suite where she’d stayed.
“For how many, Mr. Wrigley?”
James interrupted my thoughts of Bess spread out on the bed, my head between her legs. Unable to talk yet, I held up two fingers, my fantasy so real I could almost taste her pussy. When he waggled his eyebrows at me, I was tempted to make two fingers into one. The middle one.
James hung up the phone. “If you’ll head over to the patio, they have a table ready for you. Should I direct your guest that way?”
“Yes. Randi, I mean, Ms. Pepper should be arriving any minute.”
I hadn’t sealed the deal in a month. Not since I shoved my boxers back on and ran out of Bess’s, fleeing the scene, leaving only bullshit in my wake. My balls felt like they were going to burst, even after rubbing one out—often.
I’d gone on a bit of a bender when I first returned home, spending the remainder of the weekend holed up with a bottle of aged scotch. Then I thought of Bess and her struggles, and scolded myself.
On Monday I jumped back into my life with a renewed vengeance, ignoring twenty-five frantic calls from my brother, and then I remembered Bess and her story of helping the puppies. I called him back, Skyped with the smoothie fuckers, wired them their money, and solved my brother’s problems again. Except he wasn’t a lost puppy.
After that, back to work I went. I had closed three new accounts in a month. It was a new record for me, traveling eighteen days of the month. I’d even been back to Spain once for forty-eight hours. All I thought about was Bess and how dreamy-eyed she got when thinking about traveling.
Losing myself in my preferred rigorous workaholic lifestyle, I felt my shell snap back into place. But every time I ran or twisted in yoga, it felt like it was going to crack wide open again. I couldn’t help but think of Bess holding her side. Christ, I’d hurt her; I’d physically injured a woman. The very one who held all my fantasies, and as of recently, my heart. I almost felt her pain when I bent into the side crow pose, or pounded down the beach.
She was all I thought about. Essentially, I’d traded one nightmare for another. At least I’d been able to somewhat control the awful dreams of my past since returning to my refuge—sunny Florida—where all that mattered was people’s appearances, no matter how contrived they were, and nothing was more important than a tanned, firm body.
Like the fake beauty walking my way at the moment. Randi had arrived and was taking the outdoor dining patio by storm, air-kissing a plastic face here and another one there before sitting down across from me.
Tonight was about exorcising my latest living hell, burying myself deep inside some faceless woman so I could forget the girl who had taken up permanent residence in my head.
“Hi, Lane. How are you?” Randi asked as she slinked into her seat. Her tits were popping out of her miniscule black minidress. Thank God someone came and put a napkin on her lap as she sat down, because if she had to bend over, one of those fake C-cups was going to come popping out onto the table.
It didn’t even look remotely sexy. My tastes had turned toward skinny jeans and Nikes.
“I’m fine. You?” I asked, not really caring.
Randi flipped her auburn tresses back in a practiced gesture, her long French-manicured nails catching the light. “Oh, great! I just got booked on a shoot in Australia! I can’t wait. I wonder if the toilets actually flush the wrong way there . . .”
She never shut up, yapping incessantly about herself, and as she waved her hands in the air to emphasize a point, I couldn’t stop thinking about Bess’s hands. They were small with short nails that felt so good scratching up and down my back as I rode her hard. Bess was smaller than the average model I dated, but we fit together so perfectly.
Oh fuck! I wasn’t going to get her out of my head. Not tonight.
Interrupting Randi, I stood up and said, “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I have to go.” And like that, I walked right out of the Dylan, calling my assistant on the way out.
“I have another package to send.”
Bess
Not bothering to look up when the bells above the diner door chimed, I heard, “What the hell are you doing here?” The tone was gruff, and a waft of cigarette smoke and Jim Beam hit my nose.
“Um, working,” I said as I looked up into AJ’s angry face. “The question is, what are you doing, AJ?” I stepped back, giving myself some fresh air.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting a coffee,” he said with a snarl.
Concerned that he’d been drinking, I tried to bring my palm up to his face to touch the man who had saved me years before, but he slapped it out of the way with his own rough and heavy hand.
“AJ, what are you doing to yourself?”
“I’m getting a coffee, Bess,” he answered, my name coming out long and slurred.
Narrowing my eyes at him, I crossed my arms over my chest. “You know what I mean.”
“Why don’t you get me a large coffee to go. And while you’re at it,” he sneered, “you can tell me why you’re working in this shithole of a diner when you have a cushy job over at the WildFlower. You slumming it again? Like when you gave me a whirl in bed?”
I turned around to the coffeemaker and grabbed a Styrofoam cup, filling it as I willed myself not to cry. I closed my eyes tightly for a moment, pulling air in and out of my nose.
Whipping back around, I handed AJ the coffee and said, “No charge, it’s on me,” before moving toward the kitchen.
Once behind the swinging doors, I ignored the light film of grease covering the linoleum floor and slid down to sit on the dirty piece of shit, dropping my head between my knees as I gulped for air.
I’d picked up a shift or two per week at the diner over the last month, ever since the day Lane left. The emotional bruises were taking much longer to heal than the physical, and I found even one day off work a week was too much time to be alone with my thoughts.
By chance, I’d hobbled into the diner the morning after Lane ran away, hoping for coffee and a hug from Shirley. She’d been short a waitress, and since I was off work that day, I filled in.
Sadly, I didn’t do a good job of hiding my injury, and ended up at Doc Riley’s after painfully serving breakfast to locals and tourists who wanted real rural flavor. The gentle gray-haired man assured me that my rib was bruised—not broken—and since I was an addict they preferred not to prescribe pain pills for, I just needed to grin and bear it.
Shirley had run home and retrieved a hot pack, which she wrapped tightly around my middle with a bandage, and tucked me into bed with a steaming mug of tea and Brooks. Then she’d sat on the side of my bed, stroking my hair as she made false promises that everything would get better.
Much like she was doing now on the kitchen floor of the diner.
Shirley slid down next to me. “Come on, girl. He’s a big boy.
When he wants help, he’ll get it. No one knows the program better than AJ, honey. He knows we can’t offer him help when he isn’t willing to accept it. I’ve been keeping an eye on him. Me and one of his buddies.”
My heart breaking, I sniffed back my tears and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Aw, Bess,” she said and grabbed my hand, squeezing my knuckles. “You’ve had so much on your plate, I didn’t want to trouble you any more than I had to. With Lane gone and your side injured and the way you were pushing yourself at your other job—not taking any sick days even when I told you to—I couldn’t let you know about this.”
I leaned my head against her shoulder. “But it’s my fault. Everything.”
“This is not your burden, Bess. AJ should have never messed with you; he knew that. You were his responsibility to be there for in times of need, not sex. If he confused it all, that’s on him.”
“But I participated, Shirl. Ugh, And Lane. He was helpless, flailing in the bed, all tangled up in the sheets, screaming, and I couldn’t even figure out what to do for him. I’m such a failure at anything but this ridiculous life of mine with nothing but work. And it’s not even meaningful work.”
“There’s nothing you could do for Lane, honey. He just needs time.”
“How do you know?” I practically wailed. “You’ve never even met him. It seemed pretty final when he walked out . . . ran out with his boots in his hand, his button fly open.”
“You’ll just have to trust me on this one,” Shirley said as she ran her hand soothingly down my arm. “Go home, sweetie. Get a warm bath, take a rest. I’ll call you later.”
There was no rest in the cards for me, though, because as I pulled down my gravel drive, I saw a courier waiting for me in front of my house. Slamming my car into park next to his vehicle, I began to wonder how much more I could take today.
“Can I help you?” I yelled as I walked toward the truck.
“Delivery, ma’am,” the guy in the uniform said, stepping out of the truck.
Redemption Lane Page 14
