Sinful Secrets Box Set: Sloth, Murder, Covet

by James, Ella

  “No hair and a lovely boner.”

  There’s nothing we can do but laugh.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kellan

  “I understand she’s in recovery.” I puff my breath out, wrap my hand around my iPhone. “What I’m asking is if you can have Arethea call me. Right away.”

  The nurse in outpatient surgery makes a growl-like sound. “I don’t know this woman, Arethea,” she snaps. “She may work at this hospital but she doesn’t work in our department. I told you everything I can. Our system shows that Autumn Whatley is no longer in surgery, but is now in recovery. That’s more than I should tell you, Mr. Whatley. You could be anybody. Especially since Mrs. Whatley did not check the ‘married’ box on any of her intake forms.”

  “We were separated. Back together now. It’s not my fault you don’t have current information.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Whatley. Can I help you in any other way?”

  I hang up the phone and walk from the window to the dresser. It’s true, I swore I wouldn’t leave the room, but Arethea swore she would fucking call me. If Cleo’s been in recovery for more than an hour, something’s wrong. I’m going down to find out what it is.

  I have to hold onto the arm of a chair to get out of my black lounge pants and into a pair of jeans that Cleo bought me. I don’t have time for underwear.

  Even though I know I’ve lost some weight, I’m shocked by how easily I can wear the smaller size. When I button them, I’ve got about an inch of slack. Well, fuck. That’s why I brought a belt, I guess.

  Threading the belt through the loops is fucking hard as shit with my hands shaking like this. Drives me fucking crazy. Everything is so damn slow. And it’s so cold in here. What the fuck is that thermostat set on? I pull on a button-up and look down at my chest as I button it. This is the real test of whether the weights I’ve got hidden under the desk have helped me maintain any muscle mass.

  It’s not snug like it was. But it’s not that loose.

  I hope tomorrow I can lift again. Maybe ride the stationary bike, or fuck Cleo from on top. Other than praying to the porcelain god right after Arethea came with a wheel chair for Cleo, this detox hasn’t been so bad. I feel like shit, of course, but that’s to be expected. Feeling lousy, jacking off all day.

  The feeling shitty isn’t new for me. I haven’t felt great since January at least, when I noticed the first signs of the relapse. I’m actually better now that all the blasts in my blood have been killed off by the pre-transplant chemo.

  My heart pounds as I think about the next few weeks. If I remember right from last time, that’s when things get really bad. I hate it when my counts are this low. Always tired. All the fucking rashes and other stupid problems that go along with having no immune system.

  I finish buttoning the shirt and look over in the corner where my shoes are. The door opens and I whip around, so fast I almost lose my balance. I see the front end of a bed wheeled in, and glee and anxiety hit me all at once.

  I feel a deep trough of grief from out of fucking nowhere, that she had to go through this without me. Someone numbed her lower body and dug around her bones, and it wasn’t my hands she was squeezing. I had Arethea give her a letter to read while they prepped her, but that’s nothing. I should have been there. My presence at the surgery is one of many things I can’t give her. I’m such a selfish fuck for what I’m doing.

  Arethea smiles as she wheels the bed through my door. I stalk over, finding Cleo on her side, facing away from me. She’s covered with these horrible white blankets that must be made in some third-world dungeon. I can see her hands clasped loosely out in front of her.

  I’m too afraid to walk around the bed, so I flick my eyes to Arethea’s brown ones. “Why is she on a bed?” I snap. “Is that a hep lock?” I ask, nodding at the IV in her hand. “I thought she would be discharged. What went wrong?” My heart pounds desperately as I walk around the bed and— Cleo’s smiling.

  “Hey you,” she whispers.

  My chest flares with heat. The room tilts. My cock throbs. Fucking withdrawal.

  Arethea starts rolling the bed again, over toward a corner of the room where there’s some empty space for a guest cot.

  “Not there,” I snap. She turns. I wave at my bed. “I don’t want her in that crappy cot at all. It looks like shit. It’s a fucking slab of metal with a lumpy mattress and four wheels. Put her in my bed.”

  Arethea smirks at me, and the smirk turns into a smile. “I see papa bear,” she teases.

  Cleo’s eyes are on me. “I want to stay here for right now. It’s okay. Just come and see me. I want to hold your hand.”

  I feel like an ass for not being by her side already, but I want this right. I move my bed over, so Arethea has room for Cleo’s cot between my bed and the half-wall where the desk is, so if we’re both lying down, Cleo is facing me.

  I sigh, then run my hands over her hair. I lean over and kiss her forehead.

  I give her the pink fleece blankets that I used to wrap the brick when I brought it to her at the Tri Gam house, and then her pillow, and then a stuffed sloth that makes her grin.

  “I love him. And you.”

  “I love you too.”

  I wish I didn’t. I wish more that she didn’t. But who the fuck can change these things?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kellan

  October 10, 2014

  I just got the news that Cleo’s angel marrow is engrafting. I kiss her head and pull her against me, even though she’s sleeping. After the orgasms I gave her this morning, she was worn out. When she wakes up an hour later, I’ve got her chicken pizza waiting on the table.

  She hangs another sparrow as she eats the pizza.

  I watch from the love seat by the window. “What’s that one say?”

  “You might think it’s cheesy.” She smiles.

  “Try me,” I tell her.

  “Okay.” She wipes a strand of hair out of her green eyes. “It’s by this author named Louise Erdrich. Honestly, I don’t know her, but I saw this one on Tumblr, and I love it. Ready?” She holds up the unfolded paper. “It says, ‘You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on Earth. You are here to risk your heart.’”

  I blink as heat fills my chest and throat. “Is that what you think?” I ask softly.

  “Of course.” She laughs, and steps over to rub her hand over my beanie.

  I’m tired as fuck today, like every day lately, but I’ve got discipline left over from my football days. I drag myself over to the stationary bike, and ride until my ribs and shoulder ache. Cleo tries distracting me by reading dumb news from a celebrity gossip web site.

  When I’m done, she helps me down and wipes my face with a cool towel. I fucking love this girl so much.

  I tell her that.

  She reaches up to touch my bald head, which for some reason, she’s decided that she loves. We watch a Game of Thrones episode while I struggle with my dumbbells. I try not to feel like a loser when I don’t finish the workout. Too tired.

  I sleep so much the next few days.

  One afternoon, after a nap that lasted all morning, I wake up with a temporary tattoo—a blue butterfly on the inside of my wrist—and Cleo blowing bubbles, cackling as she waves the bubble wand above me. “Are you high enough to appreciate them?”

  I laugh. “Are you?”

  I’ve been taking tincture every day. Willard knows and doesn’t care. He says whatever works. And it does work. I’m weak regardless, but at least this way, I’ve been able to avoid the opiate painkillers. Either way, I won’t remember most of this in a few months, but at least with the marijuana tincture, I’ll be able to enjoy it as I live it.

  Later, as we lie in bed watching HGTV, my mind cycles back around to that though. I realize why it stood out.

  …in a few months.

  I stroke Cleo’s arm and offer her a glimmer of the hope I’m feeling right now.

  “When we get out of here,” I whi
sper to her hair, “I’ll take you all over New York.”

  * * *

  Cleo

  It’s the first comment he’s made about us leaving here. I take it as a good sign, and I’m glad I do. We have a great night, wrapped up in each other’s arms, sharing stories from our childhoods. It’s perfect time—and so damn short.

  The next day, Kellan gets the mouth sores I’ve heard so much about. His mouth and stomach hurt so much he’s shaking in my arms as he tries not to swallow. Within a few hours, Willard brings the pain pump back.

  But I know what to do for him this time. I know what comforts him. And I know how to wait.

  I read, one book after another: romance novels, mysteries, and poetry. I touch myself under the covers, rubbing the sole of my foot over Kellan’s leg, as if that will make him more involved.

  A whole week passes in this state: Kellan sleeping, giving me dazed, heavy-lidded looks, and leaning on me like a California redwood as he lurches to the restroom.

  I get good at origami sparrows. After the aching quiet of his first few days asleep, I accept losing him to the Dilaudid again. Because I really think I’m going to get him back.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cleo

  October 12, 2014

  For eight days, Kellan sleeps. On the ninth day, his mouth and throat seem better, so Dr. Willard starts to wean the pain pump.

  The following few days amaze me. Kellan’s blood counts started rising—like they should—while he was on his Dilaudid vacation, but until Dr. Willard cut the dose, I didn’t get a chance to see him doing better.

  After a week spent mostly in bed, I thought he’d be too weak to even move—and he is weak. We walk down the hall the first night he’s awake again, his arm intertwined with mine, and have to stop a lot of times for him to catch his breath.

  We have to wear face masks when we leave the room, so I can’t see his mouth, but I’m pretty sure he smiles almost the whole time. We make a big show of looking at the pictures on the wall when he’s tired and needs to stop, and when we’ve walked enough to see them all, he stops and tucks my hair behind my ear as he catches his breath.

  “You’re pretty.”

  I tug his gray beanie down around his ears and kiss his chin. “You are.”

  His happy eyes look sleepy. We walk back to his room with our arms around each other, Kellan’s free hand pushing the IV pole. Arethea whistles as we reach the door.

  “The two love birds,” she teases, in the soft Brazilian accent that I’ve come to love. She smiles at Kellan, then touches his cheek. “Up and moving. Onward, onward!”

  She comes into the room with us, and when she leaves, we stretch out on the bed together. I tug Kellan’s beanie off.

  I swear, his lack of hair makes his eyes stand out more. All the weight he’s lost hones his features in the best possible way—showing off his beautiful bone structure. No one has ever looked so perfect. Now that he’s awake again and able to reciprocate, I can’t keep my hands off him.

  * * *

  Our next endurance exercise is the following morning, when we go down the hall to the kitchen to cook eggs and toast.

  Kellan insists on eating a few bites, even though all he’s required to eat today is TwoCal and three cups of yogurt. We walk the halls for longer than I would have thought possible.

  Kellan tells me where he grew up, in this cottage overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He tells me about a trip he took to Georgia with his family when he was little. About his first kiss—a girl named Molly, in the coat closet in his first grade class—and about his peewee, middle school, and high school football days.

  He tells me about how his mother was an artist who got breast cancer. He says it “got her” fast. His dad was stunned.

  “He felt like he failed her.” It sounds like Robert Sr. withdrew from his kids emotionally, but he tried to watch over them anyway. A control thing, I guess. The result was he used a heavy hand and little of what felt like love—and things are still that way. Kellan tells me he came here late the first night Kellan was here.

  “He just…stood by the bed. I was…wearing oxygen or whatever. Because I’d had so much Dilaudid, and I wasn’t used to it yet.” I nod as we look out the window of our room. Kellan’s shoulders rise as he inhales. They sink as he exhales. I lean against him. “He did one thing. He messed with the oxygen tubing. Adjusted it or whatever. And then he left.”

  “He didn’t say a word?”

  I watch him swallow. Watch him struggle.

  “It’s okay.” I take his hand. His longer, stronger fingers lace through mine. “It doesn’t matter.” I rub my lips over his knuckles. Then I press his hand against my cheek.

  “He said you’re an asshole,” Kellan rasps. “And assholes win.”

  I blink back tears.

  All morning, he tells me all about himself. How much he loves the ocean. How he wants to smell the salty air, and how he scuba dives. How he can cure my fear of deep water. How we can fly kites over the sand. We sit on the love seat, looking at the city, and I shift so my legs are wrapped around him, and he lies between my legs. He’s looking at the ceiling and I’m stroking his shoulders when he talks about last time he was here. How Lyon’s room was right by his, down on the pediatric transplant floor, and he could hear his brother and Whit laughing while he laid alone in his room.

  “I didn’t like the bed,” he says, quiet. “That’s why I didn’t get in it at first.”

  I nod, pretending I’m not shredded, and blink back my tears. “You’ve got me now.” I rub his neck. “The bed is the best place.”

  We move to it to watch a show, and even during that, he’s open in a way he’s never been before. He shares his thoughts and makes some jokes. He puts me in between his legs and folds himself around me from behind.

  He falls asleep just after lunch and I tuck the fleece blankets around his shoulders, then curl up beside him. I’ve gotten used to napping, too.

  I wake up to find him leaning his cheek in his palm, watching me. I lift my head and realize his other hand is stroking my hair.

  I stick my tongue out, then grin, because I kind of love it—his attention. “You watched me while I was sleeping?”

  “Only fair.” He smiles.

  I run a finger over his cheek, where the bruises from the wreck are almost gone. “I guess so. I could probably sculpt you now, as much as I’ve watched you. I drew you lots.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Is that right?”

  I smile and nod. “You want to see? I’m not much of a sketch artist, but you might get a laugh.”

  “Yeah, let me see.”

  I go to the desk for my portfolio briefcase, and when I open it, I find three yellow legal pads. They’re filled with Kellan’s handwriting. I whip around toward him.

  “What are these?”

  I look back down and notice a sparrow tucked into the briefcase. It’s folded badly. “You did this?” I flash a grin at him.

  He just smiles, and I bring the things back to the bed. “Shall I unfold it? Did you write on the inside?”

  His mouth twitches a little with his tired smile. “Look and see.”

  I unfold it to find a quote I wrote myself.

  “Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.” –e.e. cummings

  Kellan’s familiar penmanship is below.

  One night you fell asleep and you had written this but hadn’t folded it. I crumpled it up and threw it under the bed. You didn’t see it there for a day or two—or maybe one, or ten—but I found it again yesterday in the night stand drawer. I think I understand it now.

  I understand, a little more, why this happened to me. Or if not that, I see the parts that are good. (Hint: The good part is all you).

  The notebooks are from after last time, when I was at my family’s cabin upstate. After you wrote me back the first time, I wrote you every day. At the time I thought it was because I was so lonely. I had a hard time after Lyon’s death. I couldn’t leave the cabin
much. These notebooks got me through. But now I think I somehow knew you would be mine. Maybe I could sense the way things ended up. I find I kind of like to think that.

  I love you, Cleo Baby. Thanks for making things make sense.

  I look up at him through tears in my eyes. “That’s beautiful. I love you too.” I wrap my arm around him and he wraps his arms around me. His hand cradles my head against his chest. His lips come down on my hair.

  “The notebooks are yours. You don’t need to read them right now. But they’re yours. I wanted you to have them.”

  I lift the notebooks out. I was wrong at first glance; there are three of them, not two, and they are filled completely, back and front of every page. I blink against my tears. His tongue laps at them when they fall.

  I cover my face. “Sorry, I’m being stupid.”

  His hand rubs over my hair as his voice rumbles near my ear. “Not stupid. Tell me why you’re crying.”

  “It makes me sad that you were lonely.”

  He laughs, a rich chuckle. “Cleo baby... Don’t do that. I’m trying to say it helped. Writing to you. Made me better. That’s what you are. You’re my medicine.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cleo

  October 15, 2014

  “Oh my God, how did you knoooow? Chocolate caramel sea salt cupcakes. Mmmmm.” I swallow a bite of moist chocolate cake and luscious icing and flop back onto Kellan’s lap. “Total mouth-gasm.”

  He arches a brow. “You want an orgasm in your mouth?”