by Mia Kerick
I drop down on a chair in the corner and kick my feet up on a small ottoman. “I’ll sleep on the love seat. You guys can take the bed.” For a second I marvel at how much I trust this guy—to offer as his bed partner my very damaged sister who is still too traumatized to fully confide in me the details of that terrible night last summer. Looking at Morning’s casual expression as she runs her finger along the top of the tall bureau checking for dust, she’s cool with it too.
But Renzy gets a strained look on his face, which I’m incidentally becoming an expert at reading. My best guess is that his wrinkled forehead and tight lips betray worry or disappointment, or some combination of both, and I wonder if he feels like he’s kicking me to the couch. In any case I don’t like it when Renzy is stressed, so I change the subject. “Let’s order room service.”
“What are the chances Sterling Hills Inn has a bottle of wine that doesn’t suck?” Morning asks, stifling a yawn.
“I was thinking we’d get something bubbly.” I wink at Morning and she rolls her eyes. Then she claims a spot on the right side of the bed near the telephone to examine the menu that’s resting on the nightstand.
Renzy is busy too, looking around the suite with an artist’s focus. This lavish place—with its oak-paneled walls and stone fireplace complete with a crackling fire. Its lush king-sized bed—looking inviting with a white puffy comforter and too many throw pillows—is certainly a far cry from his tiny attic bedroom. Even the brocade love seat in the adjoining living room, on which I’m going to be hunched uncomfortably in several hours, will be welcoming to my weary bones.
“I checked out the menu. Is it cool if I order for all of us?” Morning asks, her head still hidden by the tall, glossy menu. Renzy nods eagerly. He must be hungry.
“Don’t forget the Moët,” I say, my eyes following Renzy as he pokes around the bedroom. He reaches out tentatively and touches the wood paneling on the wall behind the wide-screen television, considering it momentarily, before moving on to peek inside the closet.
“No Moët et Chandon here. It looks like we’re going to be drinking Dom Pérignon. It’s a 2004.”
“That’ll work, Morning. Is it okay with you, Renzy?”
He’s so caught up in whatever he sees in the closet that he just shrugs.
“Go ahead and order whatever you think we’d like, Matin,” I tell her. My mind isn’t on food, though, because it’s firmly lodged on Renzy’s reactions to each new thing he perceives. He steps into the next room as if he’s being pulled by an invisible string, and I’m compelled to rise from the chair and follow him so that I can discover him discovering his environment. He studies the microwave oven and small refrigerator in the kitchenette, and I see his pleasure when he finds that the refrigerator really has been stocked for our convenience, as the description on the internet stated. Renzy pulls out a cold can of ginger ale and holds it up so I can see. As I nod I realize that this small detail is a big deal to him. I suddenly feel jaded because nothing on earth could thrill me like this can of soda from a hotel mini-fridge thrills Renzy.
But I didn’t say no one on earth could thrill me, did I?
In the bathroom, Renzy discovers a bidet, which makes him grin and blush… which makes me hard.
What the fuck is happening to my self-control, not to mention my sanity?
Finally, Renzy makes his way to the porch and stands in awe before the round four-person hot tub—which boasts more bubbles than the champagne we’ll be sipping shortly—and sends waves of steam into the crisp night air. He closes his eyes and takes in the aroma of wildflowers rising from the scented water, and when he smiles, I know I need to kiss him at some point tonight.
“Fifteen minutes until dinner and… oh my God—seersucker and terry cloth spa robes! Better than I’d hoped!” Morning scrambles onto the porch and pushes a plush light blue robe into Renzy’s hands. “Come on, Renzy, let’s go get changed!”
Renzy sends me a “help me, please!” sort of glance, but I choose to ignore his silent plea. “You two go change into those robes and then slip into the hot tub. I’ll wait for room service.”
THANKS TO an excellent fake ID for which I paid a mint, I have no trouble booking this plush hotel room or ordering a couple of bottles of Dom Pérignon. Leaving our hot meals beneath the metal covers on the table, I pop open the bubbly and fill three paper cups from the bathroom. Morning will most certainly wrinkle her nose in disgust at the unsuitable champagne vessel. However, I’m unwilling to risk a broken flute and the resulting potential for injury to sensitive feet.
“Merci, mon cher monsieur,” Morning says, reaching for the cup, after successfully controlling her very predictable revolted shudder.
“Je ferai tout pour toi,” I reply and I mean it. I would go to any lengths for the slightly bedraggled, platinum blonde waif submerged to her upper arms in the hot tub. I see bra straps on her scrawny shoulders, and I’m again amazed by the fact that she’s sufficiently comfortable with Renzy to soak in only her undergarments in his presence. However, it only takes a split second for my dirty mind to begin speculating upon what Renzy now wears to cover his private parts.
I bend down to pass Renzy his cup, and will admit to searching the streaming bubbles to resolve my curiosity—all I need is a glimpse from the perfect angle into the depths of the hot water…. He nods in innocent appreciation, and my gaze is drawn upward to his rather bemused expression that suggests he is wondering, “how did this happen to my simple suburban life?”
“I’d like to propose a toast.” I raise my paper cup and say with a smirk, “To what lies beneath the surface.” I’m certain that Morning and Renzy think I’m referring to what lies beneath the surface of those letters that Renzy gathered from his living room floor. Or maybe they think I mean the secrets Morning hides beneath the surface of her pale skin and passive expression. But my self-indulgent toast is more truly to what lies beneath the surface of the effervescent water in the hot tub—more specifically, the water directly beneath Renzy’s slightly shaking chin, and between his likely trembling legs.
“Come on in, Seven, the water’s fine.” Morning sips the liquid from the paper cup.
“Let me go put the bottle in an ice bucket and bring it out here, Morning. Then I’m all yours.” Although I’m speaking to Morning, I glance down at Renzy, who is looking up at me, his eyes wide. Despite the hot water, he allows a full-body shiver, and I must fight the urge to steady his shoulders with my hands.
I step back to the bedroom where I proceed to prepare the ice bucket. As I work, my mind wanders to its favorite topic as of late: the young man soaking in hot water on the porch. It’s uncomfortable for me to acknowledge that Renzy has taken my mind from my usual set of obsessions: Morning’s mental health, Morning’s physical health, and Morning’s future. Not that he’s caused me to ignore my sister’s needs, just that his presence has permitted me to interact with her more honestly, and perhaps more healthily.
And with less fixation, as there is now another complicated person for me to fixate upon.
I shrug, although there’s no one to see, and before I return to the porch with the Dom Pérignon, I remove my clothes, slowly and thoughtfully. Renzy is about to get an eyeful of tall, blond, arrogant player.
I strip to my black boxer briefs, fold my clothing neatly on the chair beside the door, lift the ice bucket in one hand, and saunter onto my stage.
It looks like tomorrow I will go commando.
SOMEBODY AT the Sterling Hills Wedding and Whatever-the-Fuck-This-Place-is-Called Inn has an old-school Italian grandmother. Morning ordered for us a variety of Italian dishes to share, ranging from basil bruschetta to Gorgonzola butternut squash ravioli to a penne in a fiery arrabiata sauce, all of which are reminiscent of long past unaccompanied weekend voyages to Rome.
Strangely, these Italian indulgences taste far better as I sit here on this king-sized “mansion bed,” in this debatably 5-star cottage suite. I’m bare, except for the plush white towel that’
s wrapped snugly around my ass. And I can attribute my pleasure entirely to the company I’m keeping, both of whom are swathed in powder blue seersucker bathrobes.
I see light in both of their eyes.
Morning is actually eating and smiling.
Renzy has plugged his earbuds into Morning’s ears, and is offering her intriguing samples of Indie music, and laughing out loud without being coerced.
Neither am I the broken one here. I’m whole and strong and in control.
And I’m momentarily fulfilled. Although we haven’t come close to the finish line, I feel as if I’ve succeeded in some small way in fixing my companions. I see sunshine in typically cloudy blue and green eyes.
MORNING HAS convinced us to “snuggle” (her word) on the mansion bed. So, with our new toy, Renzy, bookended by Moreau-Maddox siblings, we watch a lame love story about a notebook. I totally tune out what’s on the wide-screen in favor of closing my eyes and inhaling Renzy’s wildflower scent that I’m fully aware is resultant of his long soak in the hot tub, but is his, nonetheless.
I lean on him, wishing that he was leaning on me, because I want to be big and strong and there for him. But if he’s not going to lean my way, then dammit, I will lean his, because I want the physical contact.
How did it come to this? I’ve been alone in bed with both men and women—all as erotic as they were exotic—models and athletes and players of all varieties. And none has captured my body’s awareness like this Midwestern-nobody man-child who lies between my sister and me.
I can see that Renzy’s eyes are still open, glazed over but still focused on the screen. And I well know the steady sound of Morning’s breathing when she sleeps. She has been coming to my bedroom for comfort and reassurance since she was a little girl with a bad dream. Many times I have tucked her in beside me and told her stories until I heard the same sound of slumber that I hear right now.
And so, in essence, Renzy and I are alone in the room. I’m too honorable to slip my hands beneath his terry cloth robe with my sister so close, but I’m not too much of a gentleman to try for at least a taste of what I want.
“Renzy… are you asleep?” I already know three things: he is not asleep, he is not going to answer me in words, and he is as nervous as a cat in a claw-foot bathtub. But he turns to me.
The television provides enough light so that I can see his eyes and they’re focused on me now. Wide, glassy, wondering… and I hope wanting.
Shall I ask for a kiss? Or would a surprise attack be more efficient?
I lower my head slightly. His hand appears from within the bulky sleeve, and he places his fingertips lightly on the very center of my chest. I suck in a breath, wait for him to push me away, but he doesn’t, and so I breathe again. Instead, Renzy reaches for the bedspread that is down by our feet, and he pulls it up to my shoulders and tucks it in around my chilled skin.
Be still, my fucking heart! Renzy is trying to take care of me when caretaking is my job.
Now is the time to plant my lips on his. I’m sure of it because the urge to kiss him is a flavor in my mouth—it’s honey and almond—marzipan I can mold into any shape and it’s—
When did I close my eyes? And what is this pressed to my lips? Is it the softest, sweetest, most delicate petal of a flower or is it exactly what I’ve been hoping for?
Once again, he’s innocently beaten me to the punch. He has kissed me when I wanted nothing more than to kiss him. And I’m supposed to be the sophisticated and experienced one here. But it’s just so very different with Renzy. I’m so very different with Renzy. And hell, he may have started this, but I’m going to take it from here. I will finish this kiss in a way that he’ll never forget.
I have been given a green light, which was really all I needed.
I take one hand and tilt his head just right, and when the angle is perfect I use my tongue to open his mouth. Holding his face exactly where I want it, I take my time as I explore his lips and his mouth with the tip of my tongue. I savor the honey and relish the almond and mold the marzipan into shapes, with and without names.
When our kiss concludes, my skin is no longer cold. I am warm in ways I’ve never been warm before. I find myself hoping Renzy feels the heat as well.
“I should go to the love seat to sleep, so you and Morning can stretch out,” I say softly, knowing that extricating myself from him will be nearly impossible.
And once again he speaks to me with an action that is clearer than words could ever be. The soft hand on my chest slides right around my back and pulls me against him, and I know he wants me to stay.
As I wait for sleep to come, shoulder to shoulder with this man who I so badly need to fix, I try to tell myself that tonight I got what I wanted from him.
I hadn’t counted on finding what I need.
Chapter Seventeen: Renzy
I STAND under the rainforest-style showerhead and pretend I’m deep in the Amazon, an afternoon rain washing away all my embarrassment. It is not 3:17 a.m. in the Amazon, and I definitely didn’t just wake up from a sex dream that stained my only other pair of boxers while I was crushed between my best and only friends. Nope. All I have to worry about in my rainforest fantasy is finding cover so I can enjoy the view of the canopy without drowning. Oh, and I should probably watch out for malaria too.
I look down at my junk, which is perking up at the memory of my dream.
Jesus, guy! Didn’t you already have your fun?
I had to wash out my underwear in the sink and lay them on the counter to dry. It seems Seven stripped his off too at some point, because they’re hanging on the rack where the hand towels go.
Anyway, it was a pretty sexy dream. Just me and Seven in the hot tub, both of us totally naked, and breathing wasn’t an issue when we went underwater together. I’ll let you imagine what we got up to down there.
My cock twitches again. I could jerk off, but I don’t. Instead I hang out under the warmth of the shower until my fingers start to prune up and then I decide to leave my tropical fantasy for reality.
I switch off the showerhead.
I’m really glad Morning’s here. Just lying next to Seven was tempting enough, never friggin’ mind the kissing. Jesus, that kissing made our first brief brush of lips look like… I don’t know! Some clever cliché.
I have a feeling we’re hurtling toward something—something awesome, something awful. Who knows. It’ll probably involve a shit ton more kissing, though. Things like that happen when you’ve never been allowed to drive before and now you suddenly have a license and you’re handed the keys to a Bugatti, so you put your foot on the floor and—okay, screw the analogy. Seven makes my heart pound. He makes me hard. I want to do things with him. And I have a feeling he wants to do things with me too.
So slow is probably good.
Slow is sensible.
Fuck.
I don’t know why I’m being so sensible.
I definitely wasn’t sensible in that dream.
Dream Renzy was bold and Dream Seven was willing.
I move my underwear to hang on the rack above the heating vent next to Seven’s and creep back into the bedroom in my robe. Moonlight streams in through the window, casting its glow over Seven’s sleeping form. His face is shadowed, but I hear his even breathing.
He’s so distractingly close that after all that, um, erotic thinking I don’t immediately realize Morning’s side of the bed is empty. But then I see that the covers are thrown back and there’s no one there. I swallow. We’re all alone.
I’m naked except for this robe, my chaperone has disappeared, and all I have to do is slip into bed next to Seven and kiss his neck….
But instead I turn and run.
Well, not literally, that would be really weird. But I walk quickly out of the bedroom, feeling along the wall to guide me into the large sitting room. It’s warm, but dark with the curtains drawn. The only light comes from the fireplace.
When our fire died down earlier in the night, we b
anked the ashes so we could get it going again in the morning. The embers are still glowing eerily. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I see Morning is sitting in front of the fireplace, her knees against the hearth.
I walk over and sit down next to her. It takes a while for her to acknowledge me and when she does, she doesn’t look at me.
“I left the bed for you guys,” she whispers.
I nod. Somehow I had a feeling that’s what she was doing. It’s a weird thought, since there’s a billion reasons she might not have been in the bed, none of which involved her giving us the space to get it on. Maybe that’s why I “ran,” because it freaks me out how in tune she is.
“I heard you guys kissing earlier. I thought you might want to be intimate with Seven.”
I’m pretty sure my blush goes straight to my belly button.
“But you should be careful, Renzy.” Her voice has taken on that hazily ethereal quality. I’ve only ever heard it at the Take Back Our Power meeting or when she’s high. She doesn’t sound like herself. “My brother has had a lot of lovers, and I don’t want him to hurt you.”
A stab of jealousy hits me right in the chest, which is pretty shitty of me. What right do I have to be jealous of Seven’s past? He’s not mine and I’m not his. Still. I really don’t like it. “A lot of lovers” sounds like… well, like too many.
Wow.
A kiss and a half and I’m suddenly a jealous person?
I’ve spent my entire life watching people from afar, watching my sisters with their friends, watching my parents interact with everyone but me, watching kids at school take the everyday interactions for granted, but I’ve never felt jealous of them before. Even when they had all those things I wanted, I never faulted them their fortune. But this? This makes me jealous.
