by Ella James
I feel the my throat tighten, and I blink a few times to keep any more water from leaking out of my face. Guarded, I nod, and he steps back as I open the screen door for him, then step back as James’s massive frame fills up the kitchen in my parents’ house.
He closes the door behind him, then turns to me. And in a familiar gesture that hurts my heart, he sticks his hands in his pockets and just glowers for a bit. I’m not sure what the hell the Ice King is doing standing in my kitchen, but he’s taking up all the air in the room.
Neither of us moves for a minute. And then he lets a slow breath out.
“I was waiting at the rehabilitation facility just now. To see Denny.” My eyes must have widened, because he shakes his head. “I wasn’t there to confront him. Or, well…I was, but I knew he was in a wheelchair, that he’s been sick and recovering for a long time. I wasn’t there to make things worse. But I did ask him if we could talk.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine.”
“And he agreed to talk to you? He had an appointment. Denny needs—”
“Darcy, it’s all right. He’s still doing his assessment today. But when I told him I paid off his medical debts yesterday and pre-paid the entire course of his physical therapy and rehab treatment, he was inclined to have that talk. No strings attached, though. I think he knew we needed to have the conversation, man-to-man. To talk about what happened with Annette.”
My stomach tightens as he stares into the space between us. His fists come out of his pockets, and he leans against the counter, pursing his lips.
“Denny says he didn’t know she was married. He didn’t care enough to ask, either.” James’s voice is briefly bitter. Then he swallows and continues. “A one-night fling turned into a casual thing, that’s all. She did call him the night of the accident, on her way down the mountain. She asked to meet him at their usual place. It wasn’t their ‘usual night,’ though, so when Denny asked why, that’s when she let it slip about the blow-up with me. And while they’re on the phone, arguing and driving, she gets into her accident. It happened while she was on the phone with him, and so your brother heard the whole thing, and then he was so panicked, he wasn’t watching the road either. And that’s it. Two lovers, two accidents, same night, different places.”
James looks up at me. “Denny wasn’t terribly confused to have me show up at his rehab. But he looked about to have a fit when I told him about us. He didn’t know anything about you and me. I don’t think he was faking that surprise.”
I shake my head, no longer trying to stop the tears from rolling down my face. “Of course he didn’t! What was I going to tell my brother? That by some sick twist of fate, his sister was delivered to whore for the man he helped betray? I didn’t know how to begin to tell him, or to explain. I still don’t completely understand all of it.”
James and I both wince at my choice of language, but I’m speaking the truth. When I’m about to turn away, reach for more tissue, he crosses the space between us and pulls me up into his arms. I stand there in shock, too stunned to move or even reciprocate. He presses his forehead to my temple.
“You are not a whore. And I know you really didn’t have anything to do with any of this. I let my anger get the best of me. I was sure I’d been betrayed again, and it fucking killed me. And then when you left, I panicked because I did the same thing to you that I did to Annette. Sent her away in anger for hurting me, betraying me, and then she died.”
“Oh God, James, you can’t feel responsible for that! She did that on her own, she—”
He nods quickly, holding me tighter. “I know. But…I didn’t, for so long. And the moment I tried to climb out of the hole I dug myself, you walked in…just perfect, and earnest, and so sweet. Sexy. Everything I could have wanted, and everything I needed so goddamn badly. And thethe second I had a doubt about you, I had to throw you away, as fast and far away from me as possible. I didn’t want to feel this way again for anyone. Didn’t want to open myself to betrayal. But it’s too late. I need you, Darcy. I…I think I’m in love with you. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I don’t need to hear more. I push him away…but only long enough to lift my arms up and latch them around his neck. And when I can’t pull or squeeze any harder, I push my hands into his hair and pull his mouth down to mine. And when that’s not close enough, I try to climb him, jumping up into his arms and wrapping my legs tight around his hips, squeezing with everything I have. After a while I feel a deep rumble. James is laughing, but at least he’s not trying to do anything else silly like talk or breathe. He just kisses me back, and we make it to the table and then down to the floor, which affords a lot more leverage to get these ridiculous clothes off and get even closer.
A few hours later, James is trying to convince me to pack up and come back with him to Harrington’s Ridge.
“Wh-what if I’m comfortable right here?”
And by here, I mean lying back with my legs spread, watching and writhing as he holds me open and makes a very persuasive argument. His palms stroke the inside of my thighs, pressing me wider for his cock.
“There will be plenty of this there, too.”
I lie back and revel in the feel of this beautiful man offering to take me away. I don’t tell him I’ve secretly decided to follow my Ice King anywhere he wants me to go.
I know it’s sudden, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels good and right to be with him. When he kisses me and wraps his arms around me, I feel safe and wanted. Yeah, it’s unorthodox, the way we met—but it’s also amazing. That we found each other. That something that could have been tawdry or unhappy turned into something magical.
“Are you sure you want me to?” I murmur, feeling shy. A tear slips down my cheek, and his face softens.
“Surer than I’ve ever been. I need you, Darcy.” He wipes the lone tear with his thumb, and then he pushes his hard cock into my heat.
I groan.
When I open my eyes, I find him smirking. He thumbs my nipples.
“I hope you missed this the way I did.”
“Yes,” I moan.
“I hope you want this really fucking bad.”
“Yes…” I lift my hips and lean my head back. “I need it.”
“You need to be fucked?” he goads.
“Fucked hard. I need a sexy mountain beast…to fuck me really hard.” I giggle and then gasp as his hard cock fills me completely. “James.” He dips down to kiss my forehead.
“Darcy.”
When we’re finished, and we’re wrapped up each other’s arms, he strokes his fingers through my hair. “Come home with me, Darcy. Bring all your things…and plan to stay.”
I smile, sleepy. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
“Forever?” I peek up to find his eyes surprisingly earnest. I stroke my fingers through his hair and kiss his shoulder.
“For as long as you want. Just call me the Ice Queen.”
The end!
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Do you want to read more? Keep reading for the first two parts of RED & WOLFE by Ella James!
Red & Wolfe
Part One
Chapter One
Red
Dear Grandma,
I’ve never written you before, so this is weird.
Dear Gertrude,
I know you don’t know me, but I know you. Aaaaand I sound like a stalker.
Dear Gertrude,
Hi, it’s me. Your granddaughter. The one you’ve never met. I know it’s been a long time. My whole life, in fact, but
Dear Gertrude,
My name is Red. I am your granddaughter. I’d like to meet you. I know you and my mom were estranged. She told me you didn’t want to see us when I was younger, but it would be nice if you would give me a chance. I’m a writer, like you. Okay, not like you per se. That wo
uld be something of a stretch. I haven’t won a Pulitzer, and I’m not a poet, but I worked for the Boston Journal until recently, when I was laid off. I was a courts reporter, then an art critic.
I don’t have any family except you. I need money. Or a friend. Or both. But I’ll get nothing, because I’m too proud to send this e-mail.
My rent is late. Like…really late. I’m eating ice cream by the gallon and over-using Mr. Happy, my huge, purple, LELO rabbit vibrator. That’s because my boyfriend left me…for a dude. Yeah, I know. It’s fucking weird. It sucks.
I wonder why the hell you and my mom were estranged. She didn’t like to talk about it. I can’t believe you didn’t come to her funeral. Or did you? I’m not even sure what you look like. I think your Wiki picture is about sixty years outdated. Maybe you could visit me in Boston and take a new one.
Wonder if I’ll ever really write you. I doubt it. I bet I get my pride from you, you old coot.
~Red
I slam my Macbook shut and race for the bathroom. The bathroom I’ve been using as seldom as possible, because I’m running out of toilet paper.
I leap over a pile dirty clothes beside my tan recliner, dash past a three-foot tall stack of paperbacks in the hallway, and narrowly avoid tripping on a pair of ice skates before I punch through the bathroom door.
Pink. This small room looks like the inside of a Bubble Yum bubble. I drop down on the pale pink toilet, let out a sigh, and blink at my reflection. Me: naked in front of an oyster-shell sink, surrounded by pink tile. I look thinner. More like I did in college. And it’s not just the leanness. A few weeks ago, shortly after I lost my job, I hacked myself some brand new bangs. I’m wearing them longish, almost in my eyes, the way I did my senior year at Northwestern. The rest of my bright red hair is long like college, too. Past my shoulders, hanging just over the swell of my breasts.
They look pert right now, and full. I’m an apple, with more weight on my tummy than my legs, and my breasts are a generous “C” cup. I’ve been irrationally proud of this since I hit puberty the summer after eighth grade.
But there’s no point admiring my new, thinner figure or my bust. These boobs haven’t done a damn thing for me lately. Suddenly I can’t even stand to look at my naked body. I tear four squares of toilet paper off the roll and wipe quickly. I flush and look into the basket beside the toilet: six more rolls. That’s not so bad. With any luck, I can make that last three weeks. Maybe more like two. If I run out, I’ll sneak back into the Journal and steal more.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, frown at my freckled, blue-eyed reflection, and pick my way back into the little living area.
Boston is expensive, so when I leased this place two years ago, a studio was all I could afford. And even then, rent was $2,200 per month. My landlord, a ball-cap-sporting, glasses-wearing hipster named Dursey, raised it to $2,250 this past fall. At the time, I barely thought about it. Carl had moved in a few months prior, so I was only paying half.
Now I look around the hardwood den and kitchen area and wonder how long until someone else’s dust is piling in the corners.
I sink into the nest of pillows and blankets on the couch, where I’ve been sleeping since I sold my canopy bed, and ask myself if it was worth it, being ‘house poor.’ I never minded not having a lot in savings, because I never figured I would need it. Before January 30, I spent most of my money on clothes, food, and utilities. Just the basics. I’m not a very materialistic person, which is good, because I guess I’m not very good with money, either.
I glance at the coffee table, where my laptop sits, adorned with stickers I put there in college. I keep telling myself I might have to sell it, too, but honestly, I’m not sure I can. I kind of think I’d check myself into a homeless shelter with it hidden inside a blanket if I had to. I know I’m not a great writer—I’m definitely not famous like my grandmother, Gertrude O’Malley—but I love writing.
Whatever, though.
Enough moping.
I spent the morning job-hunting, the afternoon reading the latest Richard Powers novel, and the early evening typing up a meal plan, just to be sure I make the food in my pantry last as long as possible. I’ve got one bottle of Sauvignon Blanc left, and I’m thinking about downing it. Goes well with everything, even tonight’s dinner: a little bowl of insta-mac and cheese.
I hop up, slip into the red silk robe hanging on the couch’s arm, and walk into the kitchen to microwave the mac and cheese, when my iPhone rings.
I turn a circle, skimming my gaze over the granite countertops and mahogany cabinets, then dash back into the den, where it looks like the women’s section of a large department store has vomited everywhere.
“Damnit…”
I can’t find anything in this—
There!
I pluck the phone from between a cereal bowl and a copy of The New Yorker on my coffee table and see that “Katie Underpants Danger” is calling. My BFF’s name is actually Katie Stranger, but everyone from the Journal calls her Katie Danger, which makes sense because she’s a police reporter. Unlike my amoral self, Katie believes in never going without your underpants, so that’s how she got her middle name.
I press the green button. “Cat-yyyyyy!”
“Red!” Katie has a prim, little old lady kind of voice. She sounds like your grandmother crying out your name from the first row of fold-out chairs at the seventh-grade spelling bee. This makes it super funny when she curses.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask, plodding back into the kitchen.
“I’m at the KSC.” The Kendall Square Cinema, a little mom and pop place in Cambridge. “Ronnie and Betsy and I. And you, if you can come.”
Shit.
Katie keeps inviting me out, and I keep having to tell her ‘no,’ because I can’t afford it. I bite my lower lip. I’m going to have to tell her something like the truth, or she’s going to think I’m dodging her.
I sigh. “I would love to come with you guys, but I’m running a little low on funds.” I twirl a lock of hair around my finger, figuring there’s no need to elaborate. I’ve been nine weeks without income. I’m footing the entire bill for an apartment I used to share. I’m also having to use a bunch of my unemployment money paying for an emergency room visit after spraining my ankle ice skating at the Frog Pond New Years’ day.
“Oh, okay. Well I see. I’m sorry.”
I shrug, adding water to my mac and cheese. “I didn’t mention it. And no problem. Is tomorrow Saturday? Yep, tomorrow’s Saturday. Come by on Sunday. We’ll go…I dunno. We’ll go walking or something. Something super cool. And tell Ronnie and B I’ll see them next week at Hugh’s.”
A few minutes later, I’m sliding the phone into the pocket of my robe and pouring cheese powder into my steaming noodles. I stop to pop the cork on my last bottle of wine before I even stir the powder in. It’s Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc: my favorite, which I used to buy maybe too regularly. I take a long swig from the bottle and pinch my lips together.
My robe vibrates. The phone. Katie again.
“Red, OMG, I forgot to tell you! True Crime channel, twenty minutes! Can you DVR for me? They’re doing a special on James Wolfe, and Rob told me they’re using some footage from the Times!”
“Sure.” I nod. “No prob.”
“Thanks, Red. And hey…we miss you.”
“Ditto. TTYL.”
I hang up before I can get all dumb and emotional. I see Katie at least twice a week, and the rest of the gang at our Wednesday night bingo game at Hugh’s. I have nothing to cry about.
Except that I don’t see them every day.
And this week, I realized I can’t even afford to go to the MFA to see a traveling collection of “W” paintings. A few months ago, I’d have gotten a private tour. Shit, I might have even gotten to meet the reclusive “W.” Okay—maybe not, but still.
I take a long chug from the bottle. Then another. I stir the powder into my noodles and swallow a few bites, followed by another gulp. It tastes so
fucking good. God, I’ve missed drinking.
I miss getting drunk.
I take my bowl and bottle into the den and find the True Crime channel. I’m greeted by a close-up of an attractive guy with shaggy-looking dark brown hair; cold, dark brown eyes; and a mean jawline. Total serial killer material. Only I’m pretty sure this guy only killed his wife. Maybe her lover, too. I don’t remember. I was working here at the Journal when Katie worked this case as an intern with The New York Times. I didn’t know her until the next year, when she came on as the new cops reporter at the Journal.
I was hired first, and still, I’m the one who got canned.
“Who cares, Red?” I tip back the bottle to shut my bitter self up.
I sink back into the couch and listen to the sad story of one James Wolfe, a privileged upstate New Yorker who married a celebutant and longtime family friend. Her name was Cookie. Seriously—Cookie. I drink my way through the story of their debauched marriage: ménages, swinging, maybe a little bit of BDSM. Naturally, our murdering homeboy was the dom. I listen to college friends of both James and Cookie; officers who worked the crime scene; and the senior crime reporter for the Times. I think that guy was Katie’s superior.
I soak up details of the trial, reacquainting myself with familiar courtroom terms. When I hear the word “redirect,” I start to cry. It’s not logical. It’s silly. But suddenly I miss my old court beat. I pull my computer into my lap, and just to torture myself, I go to the MFA’s web site, where I scroll through “W.”’s breathtaking nature paintings. I cry a little more at ‘Self Portrait of an Owl.’ That one has really nice colors.
I slap a mental headline on my distress: ‘Canned reporter chokes to death on $20 wine’
A few minutes later, when I hear how James Wolfe walked free, I actually do choke. From there, I slip back into my crying jag. Why do some people have things easy while others don’t? Some people get murdered. Some people get fired. Some people starve to death. Kids get cancer. I hate life.
