The Love Coupon

by Ainslie Paton

  Four Sara Lee cheesecakes got stacked on the ice cream. “You came home to give us a sob story.”

  “No, to tell you I won’t be around.”

  “That’ll leave a huge hole in our lives.”

  Dad was the only one quick with his fists in the family. Mom used her tongue to strike. There was nothing to say to that.

  “Don’t pull that face. What did you think I was going to say, we’ll miss you? We don’t miss you. We all have our own lives.”

  Except Flick’s life financed part of everyone else’s life. There was easily going to be five hundred dollars’ worth of groceries in the cart by the time they finished. Mom added a box of cola to the stash and then a jumbo bag of corn chips.

  “For a while I won’t have as much money to send.”

  “Ah. That’s why you’re here.” Mom took hold of the front of the cart and surveyed the items inside. “At least you said it to my face.”

  “Elsie could get a job.” She had half a hairdressing qualification—she could turn that into something.

  “She’s a single mom.” Salsa went in the cart. Two types. And popcorn and an enormous bag of pretzels.

  “I said I’d pay tuition if—”

  “Elsie doesn’t want to do hair and nails or any of the things your fancy tuition was going to pay for.”

  “Lizzy has a job and she’s a single mom.” Her middle sister never asked for money either.

  “She’s sleeping with her boss. How do you think she manages to keep that call center job?” Maybe because she was a good worker, was reliable and knew how to play politics.

  Flick dragged the cart out of the middle of the aisle. “You work. Dad works.” Mostly. “The boys work.” Best not to worry about the shifty side hustles her brothers had on top of construction and spray-painting. “Why is that not the same for Elsie?”

  Spaghetti and Newman’s Own pasta sauce on special went in next. “What makes you think we care about your opinion?”

  “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

  A man with a toddler riding their cart moved past them. His expression said Sure looks like you did, lady.

  “I don’t know why you came.”

  To pay for the groceries. To leave clothing she bought specifically and pretended was secondhand, because her own secondhand clothing was never going to work for either of her sisters or Mom. To pretend she still had a family and they mattered.

  “Are the kids going to be around today?” She’d once hoped to build a bond with Kendall and Krystal, but she was the Christmas aunt who bought cool presents and was otherwise forgotten. She’d have to pay more attention if she wanted that to change.

  “With their dickhead father.” They’d wandered into the apparel part of the store. Mom added sparkly sneakers for both kids to the pile. That was something they could agree on—Dan was a dickhead, but only when Elsie wasn’t telling everyone he was the best husband in the world.

  “How’s Dad?”

  “His back is bad.” Given the bones he’d broken in the past on Mom, that seemed fair. “Are you planning on staying around to see him? He’s working a double.”

  And after the double he’d drink because it was Saturday and he resented working Saturdays. Flick had no intention of sticking around to see that. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Sheets. Towels. A new microwave. A milkshake-maker would be nice for the girls.”

  They needed a second cart.

  The bill came to thirteen hundred dollars.

  Back at the house, they unpacked, installed the microwave and the milkshake-maker, and Mom made tea. Elsie didn’t come home.

  “I’m tired. Going to lie down. Leave cash for the dentist,” Mom said when the tea was drunk. “You’ll come at Thanksgiving?”

  Maybe it was time to check out of a scene that she didn’t fit into. “There are boots in the bag I brought. I thought you’d like them.”

  “Always welcome your hand-me-downs.”

  They’d never had the same size feet. Mom had to know Flick had bought the boots new for her. Do you think I should pay for getting out for the rest of my life? Do you think that’s right?

  She didn’t say it. It made her feel mean and small and disagreeable, and with what leftover space she had inside, resentful. She’d done what she came to do. If she changed her address, her phone number, her bank account details, it would be like scorching the earth. There was no reason not to, except the guilt. She got lucky. She had choices. She got out. She was going to Washington to work so other people got the same chances.

  She drove back to the city and dropped the rental off. It was late and all Flick wanted to do was shower and sleep and wake to a new day that wasn’t so inclined to make her feel like she took up too much space in the world at the expense of other people.

  Chapter Seven

  Tom didn’t have the same fine motor skills in his left hand. He prodded the largest splinter of wood wedged in his right bicep with a sewing needle from a Four Seasons’s hotel convenience kit. It had a piece of blue thread tied through it and that’s the only reason he hadn’t already lost his prized surgical instrument in the living room carpet.

  He’d only managed to break the smallest of the splinters out of his arm. There were dozens more. He could leave them and they’d work their way to the surface eventually, but they could become infected no matter how much rubbing alcohol he dabbed them with. He didn’t want to chance that, but his only other option was to keep carving inexpert holes in himself or go to a clinic where a nurse would do a better job of it.

  Showering didn’t help, but it washed away the rest of the soil and dirt that’d covered him, showed what was bruised and gashed from what was filth. Nothing needed stitching and the bruises weren’t overly sore to poke.

  The whiskey helped, if only because it was the best part of a god-awful day.

  If he’d been paying attention, he’d have known it’d rained heavily overnight, he’d have noticed that part of the track was saturated. He’d have watched where he put his feet or turned back, stayed away from the edge, taken a different trail.

  Taking a tumble as the track broke up would’ve been acceptable if he’d had his thoughts directed against the conversation he needed to have about his promotion. Everyone knew it was coming and the waiting was destabilizing. Tom wanted a public acknowledgment he was taking over from Harry Hardiman, if only to settle the gossip. It was good business sense, but that didn’t make him insensitive about broaching it. If it looked like an inappropriate grab for power it would be more difficult to ward off any unpleasant backstabbing.

  He’d wanted to plan that conversation while he hiked and emerge from the trail with his thoughts organized, contingencies planned, spend an hour or two in the office while no one was around working on a first-hundred-days program so he was ready and could demonstrate it.

  Instead, not a single footfall came unaccompanied by thoughts of Flick. How she sounded, smelled, felt on his lips, in his lap and as she chased her orgasm on his hand.

  That determined madness in her eyes, the way she shook with the effort, the pleasure, the softening of her features as she came down.

  She was wild and beautiful and he’d been a fool for letting things get extreme. A fool for walking away from making her come all night. It’d be understandable if she left, because he’d treated her like she was the remains of a good meal gone bad and thrown out.

  There were a dozen different ways he could’ve handled what happened last night that didn’t set him up as spectator, a holier-than-thou judge of her behavior. He’d detached himself like it’d meant nothing and he couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d shut down on him, lights out, music off.

  He dropped the needle again and lost sight of it.

  He could’ve broken a leg, his shoulder.

  His neck.

/>   He’d gone down hard when the trail gave way and would’ve fallen farther had the tree not stopped him. It was a difficult climb out, and by the time he reported the slide to the ranger’s station and got back to his car, he was more angry than winded.

  He hadn’t been that badly distracted by a woman since his early twenties and then it had been women in general and the magic of ready sex on tap. Flick had been more than ready, but the distraction of her might’ve killed him.

  For once he’d hoped there was a sign she was home. A bag or a brush, a pair of shoes, a tangle of power cords, or a book left out. A bra tossed over the lampshade in a fuck-you gesture would’ve been perfect. Her bedroom door was closed and there was no response when he called out. She’d have answered, even if she wanted to carve his eyes out with a hair fork. He was the petulant one.

  Another mouthful of whiskey. He looked out of the balcony doors at the last of the sun, clouds gathered, heavy and dark; it was going to rain again. Spider-Man and keys under pots. Flick didn’t always tell you what she was thinking. He might not have been able to cope if she did. Her honesty had a brutal quality about it that most people left for their rivals.

  He spied the blue thread and found the needle, and moved the operation to the kitchen counter where the lighting was stronger. He was poking at his arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball when she came in.

  “Oh hell, what happened to you?”

  “Argument with a tree.”

  She put her purse on the hall table and came toward him. “Tree won?”

  “I’d call it a tie.” He was shirtless, shoeless, wearing old sweatpants, and no doubt the bruise on his cheek was starting to take on rainbow color now. His eye might go black.

  She took all that in and said, “Victory looks like a beat-down on you.”

  “Sometimes that’s the way it goes.”

  “Are you seriously trying to stitch yourself up?”

  He shifted to show her his arm. “Trying to get these out.”

  She held her hand out for the needle and then laughed when he gave it over. That laugh was ominous.

  “Do your worst, I deserve it.”

  “Because you went out into the wilderness and wrestled with poor, defenseless nature?” She stepped close and smoothed a warm hand down his arm, from shoulder to elbow, her eyes on the mass of scratches and gouges that scored his bicep.

  “Because I’m a total shit for how I reacted last night.”

  She scraped the flat edge of the needle down his skin. “Before or after you let me rub one out on you and made me feel like a greedy whore?”

  “Before.” Her hand stopped. “After. All of it.”

  “And yet you’re going to let me stick a needle in you.”

  “Least I can do.”

  She worked a splinter loose, caught it in a tissue and then moved on to the next one.

  “You’re not a whore.”

  Her hands were gentle. Nothing hesitant in her movements. “Thank you for that very fine endorsement. Perhaps I can get some likes for it.”

  He took a sip of the whiskey to mask his frustration. He had to stop screwing up with her. Flick worked efficiently, the prick of the needle in her hand easier to take than in his own.

  “This one—” she tapped the deepest, widest splinter with her finger “—no way I won’t hurt you taking that out.”

  He’d hurt her last night and it’d been unnecessary.

  “It had to hurt going in.”

  He hadn’t felt the injuries till later—adrenaline. He’d felt the weight of what he did to Flick all day. “Wait.”

  Her hands came away and she looked up. “It needs to come out.”

  He swiveled on the stool to face her. “I did the wrong thing last night.” She shook her head and he touched her forearm to stop her walking away. “I wanted you. I wanted to be inside you. I wanted to make you come till you passed out.”

  She made a noise of frustration. “Why didn’t you do something about it?”

  Afraid he’d like it too much. “Stuck on my rails. You’re a detour to an uncertain destination.”

  She pulled her hand out of his grip. “You think I’m this big risk, that I’m going to play games with you, mess with your head.”

  He knew it. “I think you’re a challenge. I don’t take anything I said back. It’s not a good idea to get involved. But how I withdrew, distanced myself, that was a bastard act.”

  “Like wrestling a tree.”

  “I wasn’t careful and it side-swiped me.”

  “I’m not going to side-swipe you.”

  She already had. “I’ll survive.”

  “We could both win.”

  A tie. “I want you to know I’m sorry.”

  “I want you to know this is going to hurt.” She scraped the needle across the open end where the rough edge of the splinter showed and broke the skin, making blood well and then dribble down his arm. She stopped the flow with a cotton ball. “I have to do that again, otherwise it’s going to break up into pieces and I’ll be digging at it forever.”

  “Do what you gotta do.”

  She worked at it, picking and squeezing, using her fingernails and then tweezers to work at the splinter. It did break up and came out in pieces, and they were both relieved when it was all over.

  “Thank you.” His arm was red, angry and sore. The antiseptic ointment she switched to and slathered on would help.

  “Do you have any more anywhere else?” She moved around to his back and walked her fingers over his shoulders. “You’re scratched up.”

  He’d had a pack on, it’d protected him somewhat, but caused the welts she could feel. She rubbed the cream in there as well, fingers drifting to the back of his neck. “Tight.”

  He had the makings of a headache behind his eyes. He dropped his head forward and let her work on the column of muscle in his neck. “This is now officially the best part of my day. How did you spend yours?”

  “Went to see my family.”

  He straightened and turned, moving his knee so she stood between them. “How did that go?”

  “It was overrated.” She put her thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone. “That sting?”

  Not as much as whatever she wasn’t saying stung her. He’d attributed her earlier tension to frustration with his behavior; now he saw there were layers to it that had nothing to do with him. “Tell me.”

  “All spark and no fireworks. It was a day, okay. I wrestled trees as well.” She put her hands to his shoulders and leaned in, kissed the bruise. His hands had gone to her waist. He expected her to pull back, but she hesitated, and when he moved his head they bumped noses.

  She nuzzled. “I’d like to forget about the splinters, how deep they can go and the ones that never come out.”

  It was an invitation he didn’t expect and couldn’t give up again. He slipped his hands to her ass and moved her closer; she draped her arms over his shoulders. “We kiss this time, I’m not going to stop at kissing. I’m not stopping at clothing, getting my hands on your skin or making you come. Is that the kind of forgetting you’re talking about?”

  The answer was a groan and an openmouthed kiss that started deep and went down fathoms, pulling from the muck of stalled expectations a surge of feeling intense enough to heat Tom’s chest from the inside. He put his teeth to her tongue, grazed over its surface, making her moan. His headache was gone. He didn’t feel muscle-sore or weary to his bones. A new flood of adrenaline hit, excitement and desire. Almost overpowering.

  “What do I need to know, Flick?”

  “There’s nothing I don’t like.”

  That left it wide-open. There were things he didn’t like. His preferences were simple enough. He didn’t like to dominate, though his size made women think he would. He didn’t want to immobilize her, or mark her, or play rough.
“I want to put my mouth where my hand was last night. I want to come inside you.”

  “Yes.”

  It might not be enough for her. “What do you need?”

  “Your kisses, hands on my skin. I want to hear you. I want you to lose it.”

  That could happen all too soon. “Birth control.”

  “I’m taken care of. No diseases. You?”

  He should be clear. He didn’t know for sure. He’d need a rubber.

  She saw the hesitation. “I’ll risk you.”

  Her cupped breast was firm under his palm. It would be warm and soft under his tongue. This was risk enough. “My room or yours?”

  “Surprise me.”

  He chose his room, taking her by the hand there. Pulling her inside to back her into the wall and kiss her. He stopped when her stomach growled, put his hand over her belly. “My second favorite thing to eat in bed is pizza.”

  She laughed and shoved him away. “Take your pants off.”

  “You first.”

  She toed her loafers off, pulled her shirt over her head. He sucked in a breath to see her lace bra, nipples hard under the filmy fabric. He’d had the pattern under his fingers, the button of her tit.

  The cargoes went next, yanked down her legs, leaving her pale-skinned and curved stomach in blue panties.

  There was a thick scar on her thigh. A web of broken capillaries on her hip. Her belly was pierced with a hoop and she had a tattoo that rode her rib cage. The words I make it happen in a cursive script.

  He wasn’t afraid of liking her too much now—he was terrified.

  The bra came off, his mouth went to water. He was moving before she bent to lose the panties. Had his mouth on hers, had her backed into the wall. That scrap of cotton was his and he was taking his time with it.

  She tried to pinch him. “I still don’t see your ass.”

  “You’ll see stars in a minute.” He dragged his lips over her throat, down her sternum, detouring to lick one tit, while his fingers lightly rolled the other. Down her rib cage, hands going to her ass, he buried his face between her legs. He liked how she smelled, filled his nose with her scent, plucked at her panties with his teeth.