by Dee Palmer
“Fuck Lilith! This is not normal; nothing about this is remotely fucking normal.”
“They’ve poisoned you against me.” She turns her head slowly and drops her chin to look starkly at me through her long dark lashes. The warm brown colour in her eyes is gone, and vacant, inky blackness is the only thing staring right through me. Her limp hair clumps in thick strands, shielding most of her face. Her lips barely move when, in a disquieting whisper, she answers a question I never asked. “Because I love you, Logan.”
I drag my hand roughly down my face, pulling the tiredness through the muscles and repositioning it to a tight knot at the back of my neck. My shoulders are set like concrete with tension. I take my time to look around the bedroom. I think I’ve slept more nights in here than in my own bed. Even if it is a shit tip most of the time, I take comfort just being around her stuff. The clutter is ridiculous, total chaos with piles of art supplies, stacks of sketchbooks and canvases leaning against any available wall space. The two chairs are piled high with clothes and the antique chaise against one wall looks like a seamless river of laundry spilling and melting into a floordrobe. She doesn’t even own that much clothing, but she somehow manages to take what little she has and make it look like the first day of the January sales.
I’m not OCD, but I like everything in order, tidy, neat and exactly where it belongs. I draw the scent of the room deep into my lungs, and I know I’m projecting, but I swear I can smell the scent of her, of us, as if she were still naked on the bed.
Was anything between us real?
I start to pick at the pile of clothes dumped on the chair by her dresser and pretty much each item I lift and fold is mine. My t-shirt, my sweaters and jumpers, she even has a few pairs of my most colourful boxer shorts, the ones she bought for my stocking at Christmas, which she knew would be wasted on me. It’s lucky I like the butt naked approach to living because I swear she’s got half my damn wardrobe in here. How did I not notice this?
Because you’re always butt naked, and you liked her wearing your clothes, dumbass.
I can’t believe how much this fucking hurts. I sent her away for all the right reasons, yet looking around at all her belongings, it’s all just stuff. Excuses, lies, betrayal—all just stuff that clouds what’s real. It’s like I’m justifying what I can feel changing inside me, but the truth is, there’s too much going on that is outside of her control to really judge this fucked up mess. And there’s too much at stake to walk away without knowing the whole truth. I need to know what’s real.
Fuck, I hope this was real for her, because it damn well is for me.
I get the first flutter of a feeling in my chest that kick starts my heart, with what, I’m not sure, but I feel it pounding hard, like a call to arms.
I’m not broken by what Tia has done, but I’m pretty fucking dented, and I know in my bones that none of that fucking matters. Tia matters. The only thing worse than the hurt my sister caused me in the past is that she’s able to do it all over again with someone else I love.
The only thing that is going to ease this agony is Tia.
I slump on to the bed and let out a deep, heavy sigh that feels as though it’s been dragged from my soul. I breathe in her scent on her bed sheets and the pillow that perfectly moulds to my head. She’s everywhere and nowhere, and I’m struggling to see straight.
I tuck my hands under the pillow supporting my head, and my fingers slide across some sheets of paper. I feel around and grip the spiral edge of one of her many sketchbooks. Pulling it free, I can’t recall ever seeing this one before. I sit upright and make myself more comfortable before I take a closer look. She might get all kinds of embarrassed when I’m looking over her shoulder, but she’s never had a problem showing me her work, and I don’t feel like this is an intrusion, it’s not like it says Tia’s Diary ‘Keep Out’ on the front.
The front cover has an ink doodle with a million tiny strokes forming intricate shapes and patterns, waves, teardrops, and a thousand different strokes, no one the same, and all beautifully etched. An elaborate cursive shape that resembles a half finished ‘u’ or maybe an ‘r’, at a push it could be an ‘L’. It’s impressive and I know this will just be a distracted doodle for Tia since it’s only the cover. She keeps the good stuff inside. I open the cover and take a direct hit to my chest at the image before me, which would’ve had me on my arse if I wasn’t already on the bed.
It’s me, from when I’m not sure, a while ago I think, and I have my nose in a book; my legs are stretched and dangling over the arm of my father’s armchair. She’s captured every hair on my head. I can sense the concentration from the shading on my furrowed brow, but I can’t work out what the book in which I’m engrossed; she left the title fuzzy. It must’ve been good for me to not notice her drawing this. It’s far too detailed for her to have done it from memory. Christ, I can even see the break in the scar on my thigh, where the knife slid out for a centimetre or two before Lilith plunged it back in. The scar is so faint, I assumed Tia had never noticed, she never asked. I get a twist in my stomach; perhaps she knew already. I hate these corrosive doubts. I swallow the thought down like bad tasting tequila.
I turn the page and there I am again, working at my desk or playing a video game. The way she has captured my image, it’s more than my face; it feels like she’s delving inside me, searching, coaxing and discovering more, the real me perhaps.
I don’t know if that makes this worse or better, I’m fascinated, enthralled, and I have to see it all. I turn the page again and again.
Several pages are just me, but the next few are us. Her features are blurry, most likely dismissing the time needed to detail her image as wasteful if I know her. I rebuke my ironic reflection with bitter laugh. That’s the whole fucking point; do I know her at all? I heave a heavy sigh and stare at the careful shading and sparing use of fine lines that give the faintest suggestion of her portrait compared to mine at least. Only her eyes hold any definition, and in the sketch, they are looking into mine as if there’s not another soul on Earth. Like she’s caught her breath in that pivotal moment and everything between us is held just there on that page, perfect and untouched. I’m not sure if that was the moment I knew I loved her, but judging by this picture, it’s the moment she loved me. I can feel it through the page, and that is the craziest fucking thing.
I close my eyes, if only for a second, to try and regain my sense, my sanity. I must be losing it. Reading signs from a damn drawing, searching for this to be real. I must be beyond desperate for any fragment of hope, if I’m reading shit like this into a piece of fucking paper with some pencil marks on it.
I skim the rest of the pad. It’s pretty much full, and judging by the change in my facial hair and muscle tone of my body, it has been compiled over the entire time she’s lived here.
The last picture knocks the wind from my sails and demolishes my last reserve in one monumental hit. Two naked bodies, entwined and enraptured, lust and love rise from the page, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a sensual drawing in my life…and it’s us.
There’s a Christmas tree in the background of all things, snow on the window ledge above our prone bodies in front of the open fire, in a mound of soft fur rugs and cushions. She drew this before I kissed her that day, before she told me about her rape, before she gave herself to me. She drew this before she left.
She wanted this, she wanted us and that makes this about as real as it fucking gets.
“I need leverage, so just do it. I don’t really care how at this point but preferably before she wakes up.” Clarke gives a tight nod to my request. He’s been my driver, personal security and general-man-that-gets-things-done for the last three years. Before that, he was in some South American private army, and that is the main reason I hired him, flexible morals and loyal to one thing, his paycheque.
“How long have I got?” He checks his watch, and I can see the calculations already working through in his expression. I hope he’s on the same
page, and I don’t actually have to spell it out.
“A few hours.”
“Jesus, a few hours. How much did you give her?” The crease in his thick brow deepens with concern.
“If I wanted to discuss it with you, I think we would’ve had this conversation by now, don’t you?” I don’t attempt to hide my irritation; he holds my glare and stiffens his already ramrod-straight posture.
“Sir, it’s just—” He swallows and I interrupt.
“It’s just what, Clarke? You suddenly have a problem with taking orders? Developed an untimely case of conscience?” My tone is piqued with sarcasm. He shakes his head before speaking.
“No, nothing like that. I mean she seems nice and all, but actually, I was more concerned with going to prison for kidnapping and murder,” he replies flatly.
“She came here voluntarily.”
“I don’t like that you haven’t said no to the murder thing, Mr Kruse.” Clarke seems to be pushing all my buttons.
“Then it’s lucky I’m not paying you to like…I’m paying you to do!” I rise up from behind my grandfather’s desk in the old study and walk slowly to where Clarke is standing. He looks directly ahead, stiff and alert. I can see his fingers twitch, ready for me to make a wrong move.
It’s possible I already have.
I have a good few inches in height advantage; however, he’s built like a brick shit house, and I’m not stupid. Besides, this isn’t up for negotiation. This is his job. I speak quietly since there is no reason to shout. “Now go and get my leverage.” He hesitates, and his eyes flick to catch mine. ”Would it help if I said her life depended on it?”
“Sir.” He blinks, and with a curt nod acknowledging everything I said and everything unspoken, he turns abruptly and walks briskly from the room.
I let out a heavy breath. This is such a fucking mess; I’m not sure how I’m going to fix it. I walk from the study and make my way back up stairs. Time to check on sleeping beauty. The ancient floorboards creak beneath me, and the echo of my footsteps bounces off the thick stone walls and oak panelling as if there are a dozen people racing along the corridor. The entire length is dimly lit, and tiny leaded windows let little of the mid morning sun inside. It’s chilly, and I guess most people would find it gloomy, even eerie, yet this is my home. The only time I ever felt what that word truly meant, was when I was living here, at Tartarus Hall. I pause outside of my grandfather’s bedroom and rest my palm flat as if trying to feel the heartbeat inside. I have to correct myself; the only time Tartarus felt like home was when she was with me. I press the handle and crack the door wide enough to slip inside.
The slight gap in the window allows a shard of sunlight to slice the darkness and strike the end of the bed. Her bare feet are bathed in light. The rest of her sleeping form is as I left it, curled up on one side, her hands cupped together under her cheek. She looks so peaceful. Her soft lips are pursed, letting the gentle flow of air in and out through the tiny opening. Her long lashes fan against her pale cheek, and strands of her thick chestnut hair have fallen to partially cover her face. She’s so damn beautiful. And she’s going to go ballistic when she wakes up.
I slip the handcuffs from my back pocket and sit carefully beside her. My breath catches when she moans, struggling against the heavy blanket of the sedative I gave her no doubt. I may not know this woman like I knew the girl, but I don’t doubt she’s still a fighter.
My stomach churns that I’m the reason she’s needed to be so strong. That and the knowledge that I think I’ve just fucked up my second and third chance with Tia. Everything is slipping like warm sand through my fingertips, and as tightly as I grasp, I can’t contain the inevitable flow. I’m not ready to let it go, not the company, not this place, and not her. I want it all. Unfortunately, I’m not remotely confident she was ever going to give it to me willingly, and I’ve run out of time. My fingers find themselves entwined in her hair, absently twirling the long silky strands. My mind drifts to the last time I saw her here, five and a half long years ago. It may as well be another lifetime so much has changed between us.
I’d managed to persuade my uncle to let me hitch a ride on the company jet, told him the arranged engagement was off unless he agreed to smuggle me back into the UK without my passport. I had to see Tia. I had to explain.
“Then let me remind you.”
“Cass, I want you so bad, I’m afraid I’ll believe just about anything you say, and that terrifies me. I sometimes hate that you’re all I have.” She’s breathless and trembling in my arms. My body is carefully aligned to hers as we lay together on her small bed, my torso is pressing over hers and she’s holding my gaze. Doesn’t she realise she holds my heart too? Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and I know I’m causing all that pain with my absence. I hate it too. I know it’s not forever, but she doesn’t have the luxury of my certainty; she has blind trust. She has no choice but to believe every word I say, and I know, for the most part, she does. Even so, with everything she’s just learnt, I can feel the doubt tearing her apart.
I need to fix this, even if I can’t make love to her the way we’d both imagined. I know I can make her feel good, perhaps feel a fraction of my love with the pleasure I’m going to tease from every fibre in her sweet body.
“I love it that I’m all you have, princess.” She closes her eyes, and I wait for them to open. She needs to see my absolute honesty when I say what I’m about to say. “You’re all I have too, Tia, always.”
“I love you so much.”
“Heart and soul, right back at ya, princess” My whispered words cause her lips to spread to the widest smile. Her tongue darts out, scooping her bottom lip into her mouth. It’s too fucking tempting, and I swoop my mouth over hers to claim those lips for myself. She moans into the kiss and writhes against me, careful to keep her wantonness away from my injury. This is possibly going to be the most excruciating make-out session in all history, with swollen, bruised balls and fresh stitches to contend with. However, I need her to understand that I want her just as much as she wants me. Simple.
My tongue dives and takes what’s mine, my lips meld with hers, our tongues dancing, entwined and urgent for more. When I break the kiss, I’m rewarded with bright, wide eyes and frantic panting.
“I want you Cass, please. It hurts, I want you so bad.” At any other time her begging would be music to my ears; at any other time I wouldn’t be risking a return visit to A&E.
“Shhh, baby, I’ll do what I can. And trust me, this is going to hurt me much more than it will hurt you.” I smile at her pout, even as she flashes an apologetic glance down between our bodies, where my jeans are stained with dried blood. Her expression changes and she stiffens under me. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m okay. I just can’t—”
“I know. Maybe we shouldn’t do anything. I mean you look pretty swollen down there.”
“I am pretty swollen down there, and it’s got nothing to do with you kicking me in the balls and the stitches bursting.”
“Oh god, Cass!” Her cheeks might be flushed a glowing hue of pink, but she looks mortified at my predicament.
“I can take the pain, princess. The jeans are actually helping, and I want to do this. I want to devour you in any way I can.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that.” She exhales the breathy words and bites back an overeager grin that pleases me.
“Good, because I’m starving.” I pitch up onto my side and, with my free hand, begin to unbutton her shirt, picking it free from the waistband of her jeans. The light material falls to either side, exposing her taut and trembling tummy and her pink bra. Her nipples are hard as pebbles, pressing against the delicate fabric, taunting me. I dip and lick over the material that feels rough against my tongue, her soft flesh teasingly elusive in its pretty lace cage. I squeeze and mould her breast in my hand, loving the way she presses into my hold, soft, mewing sounds escaping with every breath. I pinch one nipple a little too hard, and her eyes fly wide open on a sharp gasp.
Her pupils are so wide, her eyes look like the darkest night, pitch black with endless possibilities.
“God you’re amazing.” I press kisses to her exposed neck and up to her ear where my whispered words can be heard above her panting. My hand and fingers continue to massage, squeeze, and tweak each breast until she is hoarse for pleading.
“Please, please, Cass, anything, do anything but please, I need more.” Her hands switch from tugging my hair this way and that to gripping my shoulders and giving me a frustrated shake.
“God, you’re adorable when you’re horny.”
“I’m not joking here, Cass. I’m going to explode soon if you don’t…” Her face flashes bright red, and I can’t help chuckling that she’s too embarrassed to finish that sentence.
“Don’t…?” I ask with as much seriousness as I can muster.
“Don’t…don’t…” she flusters. “Please don’t tease me.”
“I wouldn’t do that…well, not tonight at least.” I kiss her lips, tender at first. In response to her needy moans, I release several years of pent up passion and teenage desire. I flick the clasp of her bra, mentally thanking bra designers the world over for the front release, as I start to work my way down her body. Reverently caressing every undulation, worshiping every swathe of heavenly skin with my mouth, kissing and tasting, sucking just hard enough to get the right kind of cry and doing it all over again until I reach my goal. I quickly pop the button on her jeans, and she shifts her hips to allow me to pull them effortlessly from her legs.
I let my legs slide to the floor, and she squeals when I roughly drag her body down the bed, so her own legs are over the edge. She lifts her feet so they are perched on the bed-frame, just in front of me. I tap the inside of her ankles, and she peeks up, staring at me through the too-tiny gap between her legs.
