Redemption

by Robin Covington

  His thrusts slow down, evolving into shallow dips and swivel of his hips against mine. I grind back, enjoying the pleasure still sparking with each rub against my clit. I slide my hands down to his ass and squeeze, relishing the way the muscles become concave with every forward push.

  “Sweet holy hell,” I breathe out, my heart racing in my chest like a freight train. “I don’t know if it’s you or the Molly but I am tingling all over. Damn.”

  He releases my nipple, lifts his head, and grins down at me. “It’s me, of course.”

  “Absolutely,” I nod and pull him to me to for a long slow kiss of tongues and teeth and more laughter. “I don’t think I’ve ever come while laughing before.”

  “Imagine what we can do if we make it to a bed,” he murmurs in my ear. “Your place or mine?” When I don’t answer right away he pulls back to look at my face. “What?”

  This is where it gets awkward.

  “Usually I’m a one and done girl.”

  His hand strokes lightly across my collarbone and dips down to circle and gently squeeze my nipple. I gasp and he takes another kiss. “No exceptions? I think I’m worth an exception.” He adds a sexy, teasing growl to his plea. “I haven’t a chance to taste your pussy. You can’t go until I show you my mad oral skills. You won’t regret it.”

  I slump against him with desire and try to hide my smile and hang on to my principles while he touches me. I want to stay, want to invite him back to my bed but I have my rules for a reason. For his protection more than mine.

  I shove back and shake my head, adjusting my top to cover my breasts and give me some breathing space to make the hard call.

  “I don’t stay over. I don’t do beds. I don’t date,” I shrug at his raised eyebrow, smiling to ease the sting. “Those are my rules.”

  Mateo watches as I ease out of his arms, adjusting my dress. I’m having trouble meeting his gaze, afraid that he’ll see the desire to make an exception on my face. This is why I waited until he was almost gone; I knew I’d want to break my rules for Mateo. I have a crush. There is no point in denying it. But it is also the main reason I need to leave.

  “Well, when you put it that way, you’re almost challenging me to get you to break them,” He says, leaning against the washer with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

  His dark hair is mussed, his jeans pulled up but unfastened so I can still see the top of his cock and the dark curls at its base. My mouth actually waters and I hesitate, regreatting that I’d waited all year to sample his goodies and now I was just walking away.

  I lean down and grab the purse that fell to the ground when we burst into the room.

  “Sorry, I’m very firm on ‘no beds, no sleepovers, no dates’ rule.

  “I should warn you that I am a very creative guy when I want to be.” He grins even wider and I realize that I might have bitten off more than I can chew with him. “I’m also very creative.”

  “Darle su mejor tiro mateo,” I say, daring him to give it his best effort.

  And then I leave, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into with Mateo Butler.

  Chapter Three

  Carlisle

  Going to see Dr. Shrieve once a month is a compromise with my parents.

  I left Texas and came to Nashville to go to college because I couldn’t stay with April and John Queen one minute longer without committing a crime that would have gotten me the death penalty in the Lone Star state. They are good people, the best parents, but they were smothering me.

  I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been for them to see me hurt in the bombing. I remember times in the hospital when I woke in the middle of the night to find my mother crying in the chair next to my bed.

  So I cannot blame them for being protective.

  But after the initial shock, the agony of the surgeries and physical therapy, they refused to make the turn and see me as a grown woman. They hovered, they worried, they were on my ass like a tailgater on the freeway and I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I applied to and enrolled in Nashville University against their protest but agreed to continue to see a therapist to deal with my PTSD and other issues.

  It was an easy compromise to get away and live my life on my own terms.

  Dr. Shrieve is in her mid-thirties, married with no children but two very spoiled Chesapeake Bay Retrievers. She is plain-speaking and encourages me to be the same. I like her. If she wasn’t my doctor, we’d be friends.

  “So, are you dating?” she asks, looking down at her notebook with a slight smile tugging at her lips. She asks me this every time. The answer is always the same.

  “I don’t date. You know this,” I answer as I snag another Twizzler from the pack on the table. “I did it with the TA in my Spanish class. In his laundry room. It was awesome.”

  She raises her eyebrows, smiling as she looks at me over the edge of the notebook. “I thought you weren’t going to do that.”

  “I wasn’t but it's the end of the school year and he’s graduating.”

  “So, he’s another emotionally and logistically unavailable man you allow yourself to be with in an environment that you control from initiation to completion.”

  “Wow. Are you charging by the big word today?” I shift on the couch, adjusting my position until the low throb in my back reduces from “give me a Percocet” to “give me a stiff shot of whiskey”. “We’ve talked about this. I love sex. I want to have an active sex life but I don't want to get involved with anyone. I can’t.”

  “I just think you might be passing on the opportunity to have a real connection with someone. True intimacy is not found in the alley behind a bar or in a guy’s laundry room. Don’t you want that kind of connection?”

  “I’ve had that, Doc. I had it and I watched him die right in front of me with his blood and brains all over my hands.” I swallow hard, the memories I rarely indulge in making it difficult to speak. “I’m not doing that again.”

  “You’re not even allowing yourself the chance to do it again.” She’s stubborn this one. Determined for me to get that happily-ever-after she lives in the suburbs. “You’ve mentioned this TA so many times over the past year. I just wonder if there is something there to pursue.”

  I take a bite of the candy and consider Mateo. He’s hot, intense, a smartass. If I was the old Carlisle, he’d be a guy I’d want in my bed, on dates, taking home to meet April and John. The new Carlisle needs to keep it all physical and as far away from entanglement as possible. I have nothing else to offer. “It’s not a good idea. It’s not fair to do that to somebody.”

  “So, you’re still planning on taking your own life.” It isn’t really a question. I worried at first that she’d tell my parents or try to get me locked up but she explained that there’s a difference between suicidal ideation due to mental illness and planned suicide. She’s not on board with assisted suicide for herself but her east-coast-educated-yuppie upbringing won’t allow her to trample on my right to choose.

  We’ve been over and over this countless times and I throw my hands up in the air in a “really” gesture.

  “Look, I wouldn't be much of a shrink if I didn't ask you about it at least every other session.” She reaches over and steals a candy from my bag. “I know you're not crazy and you’re not depressed. But there aren't many young women your age who plan to end their life.”

  “The doctors all say that I have a forty percent chance of the shrapnel doing it for me. If that is how I go, my pill stash will go to waste. I’ll leave it to you in my will if you want.”

  “You’re avoiding my point about the other sixty percent.”

  “I don’t want to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.” I start out looking her in the eye and then I can’t anymore. She tries to hide it but I can see the pity in her gaze. It’s the same look I get from every reporter, every doctor, every person I’ve met since the bombing. “I just don't want to live that way.”

  “Lots of people live with disa
bilities.”

  “And they are much better people than I am.” I can't control the anger in my voice. I am really tired of explaining this again.

  “I’m not saying you’re a bad person. I just feel like I should continue to make sure you’re aware of the options for you. Paralysis is not the end of your life. You can even participate in competitive athletics again. The Paralympics—”

  I stand, biting back the wince in my right leg as I gather up my things. “I’ve told you at least eight million fucking times. All of that... swimming... it’s behind me. You say I’m not crazy and it’s because I left my past in the past and I made peace about my future. I live in the here and now more than most people, milking enjoyment out of every fucking minute.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you angry,” she says, putting her pen and notebook down on the table in front of her. “You’re so young and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

  “And you need to accept the fact that my ‘whole life’ is just going to be a lot shorter than expected.” I look at her and hope she’ll hear me. “I have and I’m okay with it. Really.”

  She stares me down and I can see the wheels in her head spinning in every possible direction. I know she doesn’t really understand. How could she? Nobody can unless they’ve lived it and I sincerely hope that no one ever has to go through what I did. Never again.

  But those assholes took more than my health, more than my career and passion, more than the man I loved. They took my control, took away my ability to form my own future. They took away my hope that each day can get better... because mine has never gotten better. It’s lke I’m stuck in that moment when I knew Aaron was gone and I was left behind to bear the pain of our loss all by myself.

  The timer goes off on her phone, signaling the end of our session and I let out a sigh of relief. I bend over to get my purse off the floor and I gasp at the sharp pain in my leg. I test out the sensation, tapping my foot on the floor and measuring my level of control. It hurts but I don’t feel the tingle of numbness in my leg that signals another episode of limited mobility.

  “You okay?” Dr. Shrieve asks, reaching out a hand that she quickly pulls back. She knows I’ll ask for help if I need it.

  “Nothing a little smoke break with MaryJane won’t cure,” I joke, biting back a laugh when her eyebrows shoot up at the mention of my recreational drug habit. She’s lectured me about it before, many times, and I can’t resist the chance to yank her chain.

  “You didn’t smoke before you came here? I’m honored.” The level of sarcasm dripping from every word is epic.

  “What? How helpful would it be for me to come to my therapy session high as a kite?” I tease, both of us recalling the time I showed up loaded on a dose of Molly. The good doctor was not amused and sent me home in a cab and a bill for the full session.

  “I’ll see you in a month,” she says and points at the door. She tries to remain stern but I see her smile as I open the door that leads directly into the hallway of the office building and bypasses the waiting area of her office. It’d a privacy thing. Nobody wants to parade their crazy in front of a bunch of strangers.

  I walk to the elevator and press the button for lobby, leaning on the wall a little bit as my back twinges. Once I get to campus, I’ll find Livvy, go home and light up my little stash OG Kush marijuana I bought from a contact in California. It was helpful with the pain and the anxiety I experienced when my legs stopped working, however temporary.

  I love this city and a few minutes later I am enjoying the ride as the bus takes me through downtown Nashville, stopping often to discharge or accept new passengers. I peer out of the window, soaking up the sights as we pass Music Row. Numerous musicians walk down the sidewalk, guitar cases slung over their shoulders. I wonder if they have melodies and words swirling around in their heads as they make their way home or to work or the next gig. Can they turn it off or does it keep them up at night until they get it all down on paper? I am a music junkie and those kinds of questions fascinate me. It was one of the reasons I chose to move to Nashville.

  Swimming was like that for me. As I got closer to competition, I would plan the race in my head, committing the strategy and the strengths and weaknesses of my opponents in the database in my brain. I would practice the strokes in and out of the pool, committing the movement to muscle memory. The constant soundtrack in my head was the sound of the water rushing past my ears and my elevated, ecstatic heartbeat.

  I miss that music. I miss the cool water on my skin, the weightless power of my body in it, the strength I exerted as I carved my path through it. I never really heard the crowds yelling or my coach screaming. Just the damn water music, my theme song.

  It’s why I’ve never been in a pool since the attack. I haven’t heard the music since that day. The moment when the bomb went off it turned my paradise into a nightmare.

  The bus rumbles to a stop on campus near the science building where Livvy is taking her final exam and I exit, steadying myself against the doorframe when my right foot hits the sidewalk and I lose balance.

  “You okay, miss?” the driver asks, the beads on the end of her cornrow braids clinking together as she gets up to lend me a hand. Her touch is light, tentative and I give her a smile as I push away and stand on my own.

  “I’m fine. A touch of vertigo,” I answer as she returns to her seat. “Thanks.”

  I walk as far as I can, each step increasing the lack of sensation and control over my leg. My heart is hammering in my chest, sweat forming on my back and under my arms as I fight off the panic attack I can feel building in my gut. I don’t know what’s worse, the actual loss of mobility or the fear that this might be the time it doesn’t come back.

  I make it to the common area outside of Livvy’s building and grab onto the back of a bench, lurching around it until I’m in position to sit down. I’m winded and my hands are shaking as I rub over my leg, cursing the pins and needles crawling over my skin. I flex my right leg, relieved to see that it obeys my command and lifts a few inches off the ground. The pain when I do this is sharp but I don’t care about it.

  It’s the lack of feeling, pain or otherwise, that I fear. The pain is a old friend.

  I pull my phone out of my purse and check the time. Another hour until Livvy is done and there is no way I can pull her out of a final. I’ll sit here and wait, grateful that the weather is fine and the sun is warm on my shoulders. I shift on the hard bench, adjusting my position to ease the pain in my back, gasping when it jabs me deep. I almost double over with it, my hand in a white knuckle grip on the arm of the bench.

  “Carlisle?”

  A large body blocks the sun and I shiver with the loss of warmth and the aftershock as the wave of pain subsides. I gulp in air, slowing down my pants as I fight to gain control of the pain like they taught me in pain management class. I open my eyes, noting the sticky wetness of tears on my lashes, and find Mateo looking down at me.

  His expression immediately morphs into concern and he drops to one knee beside me. He reaches out and touches my hand and I grab it, holding on as if he can keep the ground under my feet.

  “What do you need?” he asks and I almost cry at the relief I feel knowing he is here.

  “My leg.” I motion to the traitorous limb and wince as another wave of pain hits me. “It hurts. I need to get home but I can’t walk.”

  “Do you need an ambulance?”

  “No.”

  He stares at me for a few seconds before squeezing my hand. “Can you wait here while I get my car? I’ll take you home.”

  “I can wait.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He leans in and brushes a soft kiss against my forehead before he goes and I whimper at the loss of the comfort his presence brought me for those few seconds. I sit on the bench, practicing my yoga breathing and cursing the fact I usually skipped yoga in favor of watching Saved by the Bell episodes with Livvy. Fuck you Zack Morris.

  A blue car pulls up to the curb and M
ateo hops out, slamming his door and then running over to me.

  “How do you want to do this? I can carry you but I don’t want to hurt you.” I look up at him, horrified by the suggestion and it must be so apparent that he chuckles a little. “Okay, I won’t carry you.” He kneels down by me once again. “You’re tall so you might be able to link your arm around my neck and I can support you that way. It will look like I’m copping a feel but I think my reputation can take the hit.”

  Even through the pain, he makes me smile and I nod at his suggestion. “Let’s try that.”

  Mateo grabs my right arm and loops it over his shoulders, his left arm tight around my waist and we slowly rise to a standing position. With him supporting me, I don’t have to put any pressure on my right leg and the pain subsides a little.

  “Is this okay?”

  “Yeah, thank you.”

  “I would say my pleasure but it will be all yours in a few seconds.” We make slow progress across the quad and he nods towards his car. “That’s a fully restored 1964 Chevy Impala with a convertible top and I feel like I should warn you that you might have the urge to fall in love with me once you ride in her.”

  I laugh, rolling my eyes at his ridiculous banter. “I think I can resist.”

  “I wouldn’t rush to judgment.” He leans over and opens the passenger door, hooking my legs behind the knees and lowering me into the seat with the grace of a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. I flail a little at being man-handled but he looks at me and shrugs. “It sits low to the ground and I figured it would put too much strain on your leg to get in the regular way.”

  He shuts my door before I can reply and sprints around to his side and slides behind the wheel. I buckle my seatbelt as he starts up the engine and I can’t help the “ohhh” that escapes my mouth when the huge engine purrs and vibrates the entire car like one of those massage chairs at the mall. The leather is supple and hugs every part of me and the chrome shines so much I can see my reflection in it.