by B. N. Toler
“You okay?” he asks timidly.
Why do I want to cry right now? I can’t quite place my finger on it, but suddenly the tears start falling. Connor scoops me up and as ridiculous as I feel having him carry me, I can’t deny it feels good to be in his arms. Once we’re in the kitchen, he sits me on my feet and pulls out a kitchen chair for me to sit on.
“I think we need another drink,” he grumbles. Clearly, he’s still a little riled up too. He’s angry, but I can’t help thinking that some of that anger is directed at me.
I take a seat as he grabs the bottle of Jack from the freezer and joins me at the table. He doesn’t speak, just twists the top off and takes a long swig. Then he slides the bottle to me. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand before taking my swig. When I start coughing from the burn, he drags the bottle back toward him.
“I’m sorry you had to . . . get involved with that,” I whimper.
Connor takes a deep breath as if to calm himself, before taking another sip.
“Are you okay?” I ask, hesitantly.
“I’m an asshole is what I am,” he answers. He stands and grabs the dishtowel from the counter, handing it to me before he sits again.
“Why are you an asshole?” I ask as I wipe my face.
He runs a wide palm down his face. “Because I wanted to kick that guy’s ass.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” I admit. “Even though he kind of deserves it.”
“Is it true?” Connor asks.
“That he deserves to get his ass kicked?”
“No,” he answers sternly, his tone telling me he means business, that whatever he’s asking is important to him. “You guys haven’t . . .”
It takes me a moment to figure out what he means. Sex. He’s asking if Vick and I have had sex. “Yes,” I answer, my voice hoarse. “We haven’t done more than kiss.”
“But you were going to . . . tonight?”
Shame floods me. I was. I was going to sleep with Vick tonight. That was the plan until blondie showed up and derailed everything. But what makes it worse, is I pretty much told Connor I wanted him tonight. What in the hell is wrong with me? How could I go from planning to sleep with Vick to fantasizing about Connor? What kind of harlot am I? “Yes,” I reply honestly. “Guess it’s good his ex showed up and saved me from a huge mistake.” I’m crying again, holding my face in my hands. Connor pulls me from my chair and seats me on his lap, holding me.
“I’m sorry he hurt you, Demi.”
I meet his gaze and shake my head. “That’s just it,” I weep. “I’m not crying because he hurt me or broke my heart, I’m crying because I almost slept with a man that I didn’t love. I was just going to do it to . . . feel something,” I sob. “I just wanted to feel . . . good.”
Connor doesn’t respond, and I wonder if he’s trying to think of the best thing to say.
Now that the floodgates of my emotions are open, there’s no stopping it. “I’m so tired of feeling so . . . alone. I want to be touched, I want to be loved, I want to ache for someone so I can feel that moment when they ease it from me.”
I don’t care how wrong or slutty it is. I know I will tomorrow. I know I’ll regret it tomorrow. But right now, I want to feel. Right now, I want to feel Connor. I stand and face him, shimmying my dress up a bit, before seating myself in his lap again, straddling him. His breath hitches, his hands timidly resting on my hips.
“Demi,” he growls my name.
I press my forehead to his as both of us breathe heavily. The moment is . . . intense. I’m straddling him. He’s just as shocked as I am.
“I don’t know what’s happening here,” I admit. “Between us, but . . . I lied to you.”
“I know,” he says, simply.
“I was there that night. I remember everything.”
“I know you do.”
“How?”
“You asked why Roxy didn’t join us for breakfast the next day. You remembered someone showed up, so I knew you were lying. She never showed up.”
The thought of Roxy reminds me that Connor isn’t a single man. He’s taken. I move to stand, but his hands pull my hips back down. “What’s wrong?”
“We can’t . . . I mean, you’re involved with Roxy.”
“No, I’m not.”
“But she . . .” I pause. Am I really about to admit that I know Roxy stays over at his apartment often.
“She?” he questions.
“She spends the night with you. You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. We’re friends.”
“With benefits?”
“Just friends, Demi,” he states, adamantly. “I haven’t slept with anyone since the day I got out and the only reason I did that . . .” he pauses and shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“Tell me,” I demand. I know he’s talking about the red head that served us at the restaurant we ate at the night I picked him up.
Meeting my eyes, he says, “There was no fucking way I could ride all the way back to Colorado next to you without . . . fuck,” he groans. “This sounds so shitty.”
“Say it.”
He swallows hard. “I don’t know how to explain what it was like to walk out of that fucking prison and see you standing there. It almost felt like a cruel joke, ya know? I go from being surrounded by stinky-ass men, to find this goddamn bombshell waiting for me to take me home. And no matter what I thought of you or how I wanted you, it wasn’t an option. You were Blake’s wife. And even telling myself all these things, I wanted you. I’d just met you, but I wanted you so fucking bad. And it wasn’t because I’ve been locked up for eight years, and you were the first woman I’d been close to in a long ass time. It was you Demi. You . . . feel like home. I knew it the moment I saw you. You’re a pillar, a rock. And it’s all I’ve ever wanted. So I hooked up with the waitress because I needed to take the edge off, try to clear those thoughts from my mind.” He lets out something between a snort and a laugh. “But it didn’t work.”
I cup his face with my hands and press my mouth to his. What starts off soft erupts into a hard, passionate kiss, with both of us clawing at one another. I rock my hips, rubbing against his erection. His hands move up, lifting my dress, before finding my ass cheeks and squeezing. I reach down and pull at the hem of my dress, intending to pull it off, but he stops me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask breathlessly.
“I need . . . this to happen when we’re both sober. I need to know this is really what you want.”
I stare down at him, still rocking against him, unable to stop myself. “I want you. I’m not drunk . . . well not that drunk. I swear.”
Taking my hand, he kisses it softly. “Then let’s take our time with this. Eight years in prison taught me a thing or two about patience. Sometimes when you wait for something, it only makes it that much sweeter when you get it. Something tells me I’m going to want to see and feel every single minute of you, Demi. And it’s going to be so fucking sweet.”
And my heart flutters.
He pulls me down and kisses me softly. “Can I sleep with you tonight? No sex, I just want to feel you against me.”
“I’d like that,” I whisper. I climb off his lap, and we hold hands as we walk upstairs together. He leads me into the master bedroom, and I want to say no. I don’t want to sleep in this room with him, but oddly enough, a sense of calm washes over me. I can’t explain it, but somehow, it feels right. Maybe it’s morbid, but something deep inside of me tells me Blake would be okay with this; that he would want this for us. Connor strips down to his boxers while I change into a nightshirt in the bathroom. He’s already in bed when I come out, so I crawl in next to him and curl into him. We’re spooning and since having him half-naked in my bed is the purest form of torture, I have to punish him a little too. We’re spooning, and as my body fits his, I wiggle my ass against him.
“Demi,” he growls, low and throaty, his erection pressing against me.
“I was just g
etting comfortable,” I lie, a smile in my voice.
He inhales deeply and mumbles something under his breath about me being the death of him.
I chuckle, enjoying the thought that even if we are both riddled with want for each other, basking in desire that won’t be sated tonight, at least we’re in it together.
“Goodnight, Connor,” I whisper.
“Goodnight, babe,” he mumbles against my shoulder before giving it a chaste kiss.
And then, for the first time since Blake passed away, I find immense peace and sleep better than I have in years.
In Connor Stevens arms.
I wake up just before dawn, the morning light leaking into the room. Connor is passed out cold. We’re in the same position we were when we fell asleep; big spoon, little spoon, and I know his arm must be asleep. I gently move away from him and climb out of bed, needing to use the bathroom. Stopping, I stare at him for a moment. All of those tattoos. He’s like a walking canvas. I close my eyes and suck in a steady breath. I don’t know what’s happening between us or where it will go, but I do know sleeping in his arms last night was everything. I tiptoe to the bathroom, and when I’m done, I head downstairs to make us a pot of coffee. It’s funny how the idea of drinking a cup of coffee in bed with him excites me so much. I guess sometimes it’s the simple things in life.
The pot is brewing, and I’ve just pulled down two mugs when I hear a knock at my back door. Through the glass pane, Wendy gives me a sheepish smile. I frown, sad that even with our disagreement she felt she had to knock. Opening the door, I give a halfway friendly smile.
“You didn’t have to knock,” I tell her.
She nods once, her eyes dropping to the floor before rising to meet mine again. “I wasn’t sure. I thought you might . . . I don’t know. Hate me.”
“I could never hate you,” I clarify. We’ve never been in this place before; the place where family/best friends have a problem that has affected their relationship negatively.
“Can we talk?” she asks.
“Have a seat,” I motion to the table before walking back to the pot. “Cup of Joe?”
“Please,” she answers.
Once I’m seated across from her, she sips her coffee hesitantly, careful not to burn herself. I say nothing. I just wait and let her take the lead. Finally, her gaze meets mine, her eyes riddled with tears. “I’m sorry, Demi.”
I nod once, reaching across the table and taking her hand in mine. “I’m sorry too. I just . . . wanted to help. I should have been more delicate about it.”
“We had him tested,” she admits. “It was only testing through the school. He hasn’t been medically diagnosed yet. You were right, though. He’s high functioning autistic.” Her last words come out on a sob, and I quickly switched seats so I could sit next to her and hug her.
“I went to the library and looked up autism and took some questionnaires online. The results all came back strongly suggesting he might be autistic. So I called the school like you said, and they were able to get him in with the county’s behavioral specialist.”
“I know it seems like the worst thing in the world.” And it does. Most parents go through this; the feeling of hopelessness. And it’s not just parents of children with autism. It’s any parent that finds out their child has an enormous feat in life.
“I just can’t believe I missed it. How did I miss it?”
“You have five kids Wendy. I mean, cut yourself some slack. What’s important is we know now, and we can move forward and get him the help he needs. The younger you find out and start getting him help, the better it will be for him.”
“Jeff is beside himself. He just can’t accept it,” she whimpers.
I hug her tighter. “He will. In time.”
“I’m so sorry we were such assholes to you. Will you forgive us?”
“Of course, I will. I love you and the kids. And I’m here to help in any way I can.”
She sniffles against my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I see Connor enter the kitchen, quickly tugging on his T-shirt realizing that we’re not alone in the house. When Wendy pulls away, she gives Connor an embarrassed smile as she wipes under her eyes. “Hi, Connor. How are you?”
“I’m good,” he answers with a sideways smirk. “You doing okay?”
“I am now,” Wendy says, squeezing my hand.
“There’s coffee,” I say pointing behind me.
“I’m going to head out and get to work, but thank you anyway.” He nods once at Wendy to say goodbye and rushes out the back door not giving me a second glance.
I frown, wondering what just happened. Is he freaking out? Or is it he’s embarrassed Wendy is here?
“So how was it?” Wendy asks, her previous sad expression having drained from her face, replaced by one of curiosity. She sips her coffee, watching me carefully.
“How was what?” I get up and head to the fridge, pulling out some fruit I cut up the day before and placing it on the middle of the table. Grabbing two forks, I plop back down in my seat beside her.
“I know he was upstairs. And I want to know everything.”
“Nothing happened,” I mumble around a piece of cantaloupe. “Just two people sleeping.”
“So you guys are . . . together? What happened to Vick?”
“A wife and kids happened,” I snort.
“What?”
Wendy stays an hour, and I explain the Vick drama, and where things are with Connor. According to her, she knew Connor and I would end up together all along.
“We’re not together,” I point out. “I don’t know what we are, actually,” I say thoughtfully. “I guess we’re feeling things out.”
“Well, keep me posted,” Wendy adds.
“Can I get the girls tonight? I’ll keep them until tomorrow evening.”
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Wendy sighs. “McKenzie is driving me nuts. I swear teenage girls are the devil.”
We hug once more, and I tell her, “Bring them over around two, okay.”
“Sure thing. See ya then.”
I clean up the dishes and fruit and head upstairs to shower and dress. When I come back down, I look in my fridge to see what I need for the girls tonight. I’m short on everything. When the screen door creaks and slams shut, I jump.
“Sorry,” Connor says, holding his hands up. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” I shut the fridge and face him as he leans against my counter.
“You rushed out mighty fast this morning,” I note.
“Wendy was crying, and I thought I was imposing. And I thought . . . never mind.”
“No. What?”
He scratches the back of his neck and mumbles something.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I thought . . . maybe you woke up and snuck out to avoid me.”
My shoulders droop with his admission. I hurry to him and wrap my arms around his waist. “I came down to make coffee for us.” I chuckle. “I had this romantic idea that we’d snuggle and drink coffee in bed together.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Well, Wendy showed up, and we ended up sitting down to have a much needed chat.”
“Everything okay?” he asks, brushing some hair from my face as she stares into my eyes.
“It is now. But just so you know, I’m very sober right now. And I still want you.”
His arms move around me and squeeze me to him. “Slow and steady,” he whispers as he grazes my cheek with a kiss. “What are your plans today?”
“Actually,” I pull away from him, “I’m keeping the girls tonight.”
“Babysitting. Nice.”
“Wanna join me as I venture into town and buy enough junk food to feed an army?”
“I think I’d like that.”
We decide to make a day of it and stop by to visit Grams. I’m not sure if she could tell by the smiles on our faces when we looked at one another or the way we couldn’t seem to drag our eyes away, but I could tell she knew something
was going on between Connor and me because she grinned from ear to ear the entire time and kept waggling her eyebrows at me.
Afterward, we grabbed lunch and went to the grocery store.
“Damn, I loved these when I was a kid. Grams would never buy them.” He holds up a box of Lucky Charms, and I laugh.
“They’re so gross.”
He scoffs at me. “Clearly you have no taste buds.”
“Well, throw it in the cart, good sir. I’m sure the girls will love it too.”
He tosses the box in and rushes me, jerking me up and spinning me, kissing my neck as he does.
“Demi?”
Connor stops spinning us and drops me slowly to my feet as we stare at, none other than, my mother.
Shit.
“Hey, Mom,” I manage to squeak out.
“Hello, yourself,” she mumbles as she cuts Connor a lethal look.
“Mom, this is Connor, Blake’s cousin. Connor, my mother.” I motion my hand between them as I speak, my tone clearly lacking enthusiasm. I just know she’s going to humiliate me.
Connor holds out his hand to shake hers, but she just looks at it, then fixes her gaze on me. My face heats with embarrassment. I can’t believe how rude she is. I mean, I can, she’s an asshole, but I’m mortified by her behavior.
“It looks like you two are . . . close,” she notes with one judgmentally arched eyebrow.
Looking back at Connor, I smile. He looks severely uncomfortable. “We are,” I boast. I’m proud to admit that, too. Connor Stevens is mine.
“You know she could do better,” she spits, turning her attention to Connor.
“Mother,” I hiss. Looking around us, I notice there are three other people in this aisle with us, having stopped their browsing of the shelves when they heard my mother.
“You’re jail trash. Nothing like Blake.”
“Stop it,” I order, stepping in front of her. “How dare you talk to him like that.” My heart is pounding as anger rushes me. A fierce need to protect Connor; defend him takes over. “He’s a good man, and he is my choice and if you don’t like it, feel free to stay away from us.
