by Julia Kent
Mike.
Chapter Five
“You’ve never done anal? Seriously?” Krysta’s incredulity scraped at Lydia’s last nerve. On their way to the rec hall for coffee, Krysta had swooped in on Lydia at 8 a.m., stealing her away from what might have been a lovely morning’s lovemaking session. Jeremy was still in bed.
“No. Apparently, I’m the last remaining woman under the age of thirty who is an anal virgin. Sue me.”
“It’s just…hell, even I’ve done anal! And you’re way more experienced than I am!”
“Here lies Lydia Charles, an Anal Spinster. Buried with her Bieber Butt Plug and Mardi Gras Anal Beads. Rimmed in Peace.” Lydia held her hands up like she was reading a gravestone. “You can write my epitaph.”
“C’mon—I’m just surprised.”
“Well, stop being surprised. Now you know the truth.”
“So did you and Jeremy…?”
“No, but he played around a bit at the back door.”
They both giggled.
“What’s so funny?” Miles intersected with their path, coming from his own house.
Raucous laughter was their reply.
“Now you have to tell me what you were talking about!”
“Fine.” Lydia stopped and made sure to have his full attention, eyes locked. “We were talking about anal sex.”
She expected a bright red Miles to stammer and run away. Instead, he shrugged and said, “Anal’s so…last decade. Everyone knows ménage is the new anal.”
Ménage.
This time two words invaded her thoughts in the space reaction was supposed to fill.
Mike and Jeremy.
“Ménage is the new anal?” Krysta choked.
Caleb was steps away from the group as Krysta uttered the words, coming into view just as she said “anal.” He pulled his neck back and came to a halt.
“I miss all the good conversations,” he declared.
“Not so sure this is a good one,” Miles grumbled. “We’re talking about Lydia’s ass and what she puts in it.”
“We were NOT talking about my ass!” she said.
Caleb turned and looked directly at Krysta. “You were talking about Krysta’s ass?”
Krysta turned the color of the tomatoes she’d chopped yesterday. “Not my ass!”
“Then your ménage?” he said, leering.
“My what? I don’t—” Miles and Caleb chuckled as they walked away, heads together, the brothers conspirators.
“Those two!” she huffed, turning to a bright red Krysta, who looked like someone had dumped a cooler full of Gatorade on her.
“Does Caleb think I have threesomes? And anal? What must he be thinking about me?” she groaned.
“He thinks you chop tomatoes well. Don’t read into anything. Besides, you brought it on yourself, talking about my lack of anal sex.”
Of all the moments for her father to appear.
“Lack of…” Pete’s voice died down as if he were speaking in slow motion, the blood draining from his face, suddenly awkward and stammering.
Lydia joined him.
Krysta piped up and rescued them both. “That analysis was really good, Lydia, and I think it will help when I go back to work.”
Pete opened his mouth, an expression of dawning passing over him, welcomed as a substitute for what he appeared to have thought Lydia said. “Ah, analyzing a problem? I hope you get to the bottom of it.”
Oh, Dad.
That comment was Krysta’s undoing. She held one finger up in a gesture of buying time, her mouth bobbing like a fish’s, and then turned on her heel and fairly ran into the rec hall.
“Coward,” Lydia muttered.
“Coffee?” Pete held a paper cup with a lid. “It’s a latte. Just like you like ’em.” She took the cup with gratitude.
“Thanks.”
“Where’s Jeremy?”
“Sleeping.”
“Good for him. He needs a nice, relaxing vacation from…” Pete’s brow furrowed. “What does he do for a living again?”
Has sex on the beach in Thailand and rescues his best friend’s lovers. “He’s an investor. Lives off his money from the dot-com boom.”
“Nice! So he doesn’t work.” Pete appeared to mull over that one. Lydia frowned, willing herself to handle the next question.
“If he doesn’t work, what does he do with himself all day?”
Good question.
“I don’t know, Dad. We’ve only been dating for a few weeks.” Dating was the closest word she could think of in Pete’s lexicon of terms to describe what she and Jeremy were doing. Fucking wasn’t going to cut it.
But that wasn’t true either. This was more…but what, exactly, was it?
Pete directed their walk, taking her past the newer cabins in the back of the property. A group of bicycle travelers had taken one over, two tents outside around the fire pit, about twenty bikes lined up neatly to one side. Her dad had a soft spot for groups like this and always gave them a bargain.
“You like him?”
“I must.” She smiled into her coffee and took a sip.
“I know you must. I guess that was rhetorical. He’s the first guy you’ve ever brought home since you left.”
“Do you like him?” The question hung in the air like fog. Lydia slurped a sloppy sip and waited.
A half-smile stretched her dad’s face, making him look more like Miles than she’d ever noticed. “You know, I do. He was so nervous when you first arrived, like he was afraid I’d hit him.”
“He has a thing about meeting fathers.”
“What guy doesn’t?”
“Fair point.”
A boy not much older than a kindergartner rode past on a little bike with training wheels, his face lit up with the joy of new ridership. Ding! Ding! He rang the bell on his handlebars and Pete gave him a thumbs-up.
“You recovering from Iceland?”
She sighed. “I’m recovering from life, Dad.”
“You can always come back here. Job’s yours if you want it.” He avoided her eyes.
“I know.” And she did know. Always knew. A job of some kind in the family business was hers for the taking, anytime. Same with a house. Dad would give her the land and they’d build it as one of the outbuildings with a shared mortgage. That was what all her brothers did. Including Luke, though his widow, Claire, had left.
That house stood empty. Lydia would never, ever live in it, though. No one did. Her parents never rented it out, either. They didn’t treat it like a shrine. Just like a ghost house.
Which, in a way, it was.
“Dad.” She stopped and took a long sip of her coffee. Not bad. Nothing like the finer coffee shops in Boston, especially Barrington Roasters or 1369 in Cambridge, but passable for their part of Maine. “Thank you.”
“For what?” He finished off his coffee and smiled kindly at her, a quizzical expression asking her deeper questions than his words could.
“For making sure I always know I can come home and be safe.”
“I’m glad you know that.”
“That kind of safety is rarer than you think.”
Alarm spread across his face. “Did something more happen while you were living in Iceland than you’re letting on about? Because if we need—”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “Nothing like that. Just some life lessons that aren’t so pleasant. Being a fully-fledged human being is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought.”
Palpable relief changed the air between them back to a contemplative calm. “Whew!” He put his hand over his heart. “You scared me for a moment there.”
“I’m sorry.”
Resuming their walk, they meandered over to the shoreline. Pete found a kayak out of place and dragged it next to its comrades, the yellow, scuffed bottoms like giant bananas on the shell-covered beach making Lydia think of a Fellini movie. Or something Sacha Baron-Cohen might make.
“You are my enigma,” he said. His eyes
searched her face. “The one who always wanted to get away.”
“I did.”
He frowned. “Did what?”
“I did want to get away.”
“Past tense? Has something changed?”
“Don’t!” she said, pointing at his face. “Don’t get too excited. You know how contrarian I am.”
“Go away! We don’t want you here!” he barked in jest.
“That’s more like it, Daddy.” They found a spot of the edge of the stone wall that lined the shore, made by ocean tides.
“Haven’t called me that since before you wore a bra.”
“Dad!” She smacked his shoulder. “I’ve worn a bra since I was nine.”
“Then you haven’t called me ‘Daddy’ in sixteen years.” His eyes on the horizon, Pete stared in silence, Lydia joining him. When she was a hormonal teen filled with raging craziness, some days he’d bring her out here and insist they do nothing but stare at the ocean for thirty minutes. On the worst days, he’d have to set a timer, and she would stalk off the second it rang.
Secretly, she loved that he took the time to just be a peaceful presence with her. But she couldn’t tell him that back then.
As the silence deepened, she relaxed into it, the scent of the ocean filling her nose and lungs, cool and salty, the smell of home. Coffee finished, she bounced her legs against the stones and just watched the waves.
“You know I love you, Lydia.” Pete’s voice came out gravelly, and when she turned she caught a tear in the corner of one eye. He wiped it away and looked at her with a trembling smile.
“I love you too, Dad.” Pete wrapped his arm around her shoulders and she pulled into the hug, his aftershave the same, her daddy unchanging, secure and, like the ocean—home.
Jeremy woke up alone. In a giant wet spot. And cold.
It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but the last time had been six years ago, in a Malaysian youth hostel, asleep on a wood pallet on the floor, and he’d pissed himself in his sleep.
This time was decidedly better.
No Lydia. Where had she gone? No note, no sound of rumbling around, no gurgling of a coffee maker. Just the cold air, the wet sheets, and a raging morning boner that called out for her.
Sigh.
This whole sex-twice-a-day thing was all too easy to get used to. Now that his dick had come to expect it, when it wasn’t happening he was at attention—yes, sir!
Grumbling, he pulled the warm covers back and searched the ground for last night’s clothes, throwing on a very rumpled set of pants and four layers of shirts, shivering as he made himself a small pot of coffee, throwing in extra water and grounds in hopes that Lydia would come back soon and join him for a hot cup of joe and a hotter taste of Jeremy.
That was a threesome he’d enjoy.
Speaking of threesomes, where the fuck was Mike? Booting up his computer, he checked email quickly.
No Mike.
He checked his phone.
No Mike.
He almost called Mike’s mom back in Indiana, but paused. Hiding from the world was Mike’s call. Once he and Lydia were done here and back in Boston, though, he’d hunt the asshole down and find out what the fuck he was up to, because disappearing on Lydia and the world was bad enough.
Flaking out on his best friend was inexcusable.
A quick look at CNN showed him nothing about Mike, though there was a small blurb featuring an unmistakeable picture of Diane, toothy and tight. “Reality Show Confirmed For CEO’s Plaything.”
Holy fuck.
Dodged a major bullet with that one.
Lydia still had no idea—and if Jeremy had his way, she never would—that Jeremy had brought Diane into this to become a backhanded savior. Mike, too. Sometimes secrets mattered. Once in a great while, it was better to save a relationship through deception than truth.
As much as it pained him to think that way, he had to live it.
And live with the consequences.
Dressed, caffeinated and social media-ed out, Jeremy opened the door and strode with purpose to the rec hall, assuming he’d find Lydia there.
No Lydia, but Sandy was at the cash register and waved as he walked in.
“Latte? I can make you one.”
“No, thank you.” He patted his stomach like an old guy. “I had some coffee back at the cabin.”
She looked confused. “I just saw Lydia go down to the beach with Pete.”
He grinned sheepishly. “I slept in. Slacker.”
Sandy laughed. “Just enjoying your vacation.”
Vacation? He always slept in. But let the woman think whatever she wanted. “I think I’ll head down there.” Pete he’d gotten to know over the past few days, but Sandy remained a bit of a mystery. Polite and kind, she kept her distance, though he had no reason to think she didn’t like him. Unlike Pete, though, while she was friendly and effusive with her kids, there was a guardedness in her that made him stay on his toes around her.
“Can you grab that empty barrel and take it down for me? Someone dragged it up by accident and if we don’t leave it down there the only other trash can gets to overflowing,” she said, pointing to a blue plastic barrel with a black plastic bag poking out around the top.
“Sure.” He picked it up easily in one hand and began the journey, feeling her eyes on him as he walked down the path to the main beach. What was it about mothers? Fathers were easy. If they didn’t like you, they said so. To your face.
Moms were more insidious. Like his own had been.
A few kids on bikes screeched to a halt as the dirt turned to sand, dumping their bikes and running toward the water, careful not to touch it. This was a beach in name only, as far as Jeremy was concerned. The soft pink sands of Bermuda or the white sands in Florida were what he would call a beach.
This? This was a tract of land that abutted the ocean. Land covered with broken rock and cracked clam shells. It was ugly and bereft of beauty, though you could stare out at the water and the horizon to get a meditative fix. Beach? Pfft.
He dropped the barrel where Sandy had asked and took careful steps on the rocks, ankles strong in his boots. Out in the distance he saw them, sitting on a nature-made rock piles, Pete’s arm around Lydia in a sideways hug.
Hmmm. Maybe he shouldn’t interrupt. That looked like a Norman Rockwell moment, and the last thing the new guy wants to do is ruin one of those. Dads eat that shit up once their kids are adults. Especially the only girl in the family. If Pete wanted to grasp at fading moments of Daddy’s Little Girl, putting a dent in that special moment would be the kiss of death.
He already had four of her brothers watching him carefully. Pete was an important counterbalance, and Sandy was neutral. The woman was inscrutable.
What to do with himself now?
Bzzzz. “Holy fucking shit!” he muttered, jumping high as his cock began to hum.
Not cock. Phone. Okay, his phone buzzed in his front pocket. He hadn’t had a text in days, the feeling foreign. Sliding it open, he saw a text from Mike.
I’m alive, it read.
Even Jesus only took three days to reappear, Mike, Jeremy wrote back, pissed. Where you been?
Closer than you think.
What does that mean?
You’ll see me soon.
You OK?
Fine. How’s Lydia?
Sharp inhale. Running frantic fingers through his overgrown hair, Jeremy paused and waited before even thinking about putting his finger on that screen. How’s Lydia? Well fucked. How’s Lydia? Still not over you. How’s Lydia? About three days away from having me confess my love.
How do you think she is? was all he could type back.
You taking care of her?
Only one safe way to answer that: Yes.
One minute. Two. Three. He stared at his phone, and just as he was about to crack and write the next text, a single word appeared on his screen:
Good.
“You seen Jeremy?” Lydia walked into the s
tore and asked her mother, whose ass was poking up in the air as she bent down to clean the lowest shelf of some antique pie holder that currently housed various novelty candies.
“Nope,” said her mom’s ass. “Not since he went down to the beach to find you.”
Sandy’s clipped tone bothered Lydia. A lot. Krysta walked in, looking completely wiped. “What’s up with you?”
“Caleb. He won’t stop riding me.”
Smirk.
“The man’s appetite is voracious.”
That got Sandy to stand up quickly and pay attention.
“And I keep asking him to touch my melons, and when he does he says they’re not good enough.”
“He what?” Sandy gasped.
Krysta stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out in a frustrated puff. “I’ve spent the better part of three days in that kitchen doing whatever he tells me, and all he ever has me do is work. Work, work, work. He is a machine.”
“A machine,” Lydia repeated, crossing her arms over her chest.
“He won’t let up.”
“He won’t,” Sandy added with sympathy.
“I give him what he wants and twenty minutes later he wants more!”
“More,” Sandy and Lydia said in unison.
“And now he wants me to spend more time on his balls.”
Sandy gagged as Lydia gave Krysta one of those looks. Krysta winked back. Aha.
“His balls?” Lydia could play along.
“He says I need give them as much attention as his cock.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Sandy sputtered. “Krysta, I know we’re all adults here, but this is just too much!”
“We shouldn’t have barbecued chicken and a fresh fruit plate with melon balls?” she asked Sandy sweetly.
Confusion filled her mom’s features, making Lydia bite her lips to keep back laughter. “Oh. That kind of…”
The store phone rang. Sandy’s relief was tangible as she scampered over to answer it. Lydia walked over to Krysta and elbowed her in the boob.
“That was mean!”
“Your mom deserved it. She’s done nothing but try to matchmake. Caleb’s oblivious. He just loves having me as a kitchen slave.” Krysta groaned.
“Dobby loves her master.” Lydia was enjoying this, even if she had her doubts that Caleb could see the awesome woman under his nose. Her best friend and her brother together? That would be…interesting.
