I wish I was there to lick your lips.
I read the card over and over, driving the message deeper into my belly, pressing my thighs together, my entire lower half throbbing, responding wantonly to his carefully chosen words. I close my eyes and picture him, kneeling before me, his hands pushing my knees apart, his mouth teasing and nipping at my most sacred parts. He is in my head. I grab my phone.
Sophia is my favorite. Do you have a cheat sheet?
Lucky guess. How was your day, Beautiful?
Better now.
Glad I could be of service. Anything else I can do?
Not from way over there…
Perhaps I could walk you through it.
Not a chance.
You would let me if I was there.
If you were here, you could do it for me.
Touché.
Thank you for the wine.
You are most welcome. I have a flight to catch. Sleep tight.
Good night, Sir. ; )
Elated and energized by our exchange I sip my crisp white wine and scroll through my phone. I want to go out. I need to go out. Excess energy courses through me and my body is humming for a release. I scroll down to Mary and check the clock before calling.
***
An hour later and I am strolling down Main Street, headed to the local bar to meet Mary for a drink and gossip session. Main Street is buzzing with families coming out for the first warm night of the season. Summer is hanging in the air, trees are starting to fill out, and the window boxes overflow with petunias in a rainbow of colors. Ice cream trucks and food trucks line the street, while people visit and children play. I duck into the dingy door of Pasquales and search for Mary. The bar is dark, even though the sun still sits high outside. The walls are covered with graffiti that could be as much as thirty years old. It has been the neighborhood bar here for decades. Worn and tattered stools line the heavily marred bar, while pleather booths run along the back wall. It is comfortable, lived in. The kind of place only a local could love.
“Tell me all about Miami? I want to hear every dirty detail.” Eyes alight with anticipation, it is hard to resist Mary when she is in the mood to gossip. I swirl the scotch around, watching the amber liquid lick the sides of my glass, wrapping its legs around the fine crystal in a liquid dance, the smell of peat and Rhys slowly wafting from the rim, engulfing me in memory. I take a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through me like molten honey, and he is there, behind my eyes, his lips, his hands, his voice. As raw and silky smooth as if he were right here. I have developed a taste for scotch, a taste for Rhys.
“Since when do you drink scotch?” Turning her nose up, she takes a long swig of her Bud Light. Her dirty blonde hair sweeps across her shoulders as she throws her head back, draining the bottle. The faded jean jacket and well-worn Keds speak to her generation. Anxiously waiting for some details, she fiddles with the charms that hang at her neck. A gift from her children, three small silver discs, with differing birth stones that hang from a delicate silver chain.
I have developed a taste for many new things. I cannot suppress the grin that rises from my lips. A fire burns in my cheeks and I know I am beet red, blushing at the thought of the things I have developed a taste for. Knowing she is fishing for a distraction, I launch into the play by play of the trip. Mary and I have always shared everything. For four years now she has been my only close friend. And for two years she has been my editor and boss. She is like a big sister, mentor and best friend all rolled into one. She married fresh out of high school and promptly filled her home with children. Now, ten years later she is the editor in chief of the local paper, member of the PTA, wife, mother and friend. And the unfortunate receptacle into which she allows me to dump all my sadness and baggage. It will be nice to share some good news with her for a change. A nice juicy story to get her blood flowing.
She tips her empty bottle to the bartender, who just happens to be her little brother, Paul. He pops another bud light and slides it across the bar, all the while her attention is glued on the details. The hotel, the partying, the estate on Biscayne, I spilled it all, accept any mention of Rhys. I don’t know why I held back, why I didn’t mention him first. He is the first and only thing on my mind these days. So, why keep it hidden? Why wasn’t I willing to share with Mary? Maybe I am afraid that if I say it out loud, it will sound ludacris. If I share what I have with Rhys will that make it less real? We share everything, Mary and I. I know she would want me to share this. I know things about her husband that I can never unknow, never. I knock back the last drops of scotch, licking the rim of the glass wanting to store the scent, the flavor, the feel of it. Mary is out of patience, glaring over her bottle of Bud.
“Who’s the guy?” She demands, plunking the bottle to the bar.
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“The guy? It’s clear there was a guy. Look at you,” she says, waving her hand about in the air between us. “You are glowing, you are drinking scotch? Hello, who drinks scotch? Rich men and drunks, that’s who, so which is he?” She crosses her fingers “God, I hope he’s rich!” The glimmer in her eyes tells me she is teasing, but a tiny pang tears at my heart from her sentiment. It didn’t even matter who he was to some people, he was rich. That’s what he is, who he is. Well, he isn’t that to me. His money is not what I think of when I think of Rhys. No, I think of all the delicious things he did to me, the ropes, his mouth, just being with him. But who am I kidding? We were in a mansion, surrounded by luxury. He treated me to everything. His money had everything to do with what happened between us. The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth and a knot in my throat. Was I really so shallow? Did I really care about Rhys or was I just swept away by all that he has to offer? I don’t want the answer. I push all the doubt to the back of my mind.
“He was amazing! It was amazing. One of Matthew’s friends, the best man actually.” She rolls her eyes at the cliché of it all, and I concur. “He took me out for coffee to this little Cuban place and then to his family’s house on Key Biscayne, which is where the wedding was. Oh, Mary, you should have seen it! I have never seen anything like the way these people live. The house was amazing, the wedding was flawless. He even lent his father’s yacht to Olivia and Matthew for their honeymoon. They are cruising around the Mediterranean as we speak, on a private yacht, can you believe that shit? I felt so out of place, so poor!”
“Honey, everyone is poor compared to people like that. We just have to remember to be thankful for what we have. Now, back to the boy. Did you sleep with him? Are you going to see him again? Tell me please, I am an old married woman, you owe me this.”
“He asked me to stay with him after the wedding. We holed up in his mansion and fucked like rabbits. It was amazing!” I bounce a little on my stool, the last sounds coming out in an excited squeal.
“Was he good to you?” Skepticism and concern are all over her face.
“Oh yes, Mary, so different from what I am used to, so different. He was so good.” I drag out the word, wanting to emphasize how very good it all was! I cannot hold back the smile that threatens to tear my face in two. The thought of how good he actually was could set me on fire and reduce me to a blathering idiot.
“Well, I am glad you finally had a good experience. I was worried that Collin had ruined you forever. I mean the ideas he planted in your head. Just thinking about it makes me want to slap him. I am happy for you, honey.” She pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, a motherly smile upon her face. “You deserve it. Now tell me, what’s his name, this mystery lover, will you see him again?”
“His name is Rhys.” I bite down hard on my bottom lip to stifle the pleasure that jolts through me at his name crossing my lips. “Rhys Slate.” I watch Mary’s eyes grow into the size of melons, bulging from her head. Shock and awe seep from every pore as she chokes on her beer, slamming it to the bar. She sputters and slaps her chest, making a scene.
“Rhys Slate?” she demands.
�
��Do you know him?” I ask, shocked and worried by her reaction.
“Of course I do. He is like, an international billionaire playboy. He is covered in all the gossip columns. You really need to get out more, Sophie. I cannot believe you don’t know who he is!”
“Well, I know now.”
“Wow! Rhys Slate. When you move on you do it well, I will say that for you, Sophie. We will have to run a story about him now, maybe a little blurb about your time in Miami.” She muses to herself tapping notes on her phone. “Oh golly, look at the time. I am about to turn back into a pumpkin, sweetie. It’s a school night.” She sings, picking up her purse and flushing out her keys. “I am so glad you had a nice time. Glad you got a good roll.” She winks and the fine lines around her eyes crinkle, her blue eyes shining in the dull light of the bar. “I will see you tomorrow, we’ll have lunch and you can finish telling me all about your new, rich boyfriend!”
“Mary! He is not my boyfriend. I’ll probably never see him again.” The thought hurts and I reflexively rub my chest, wishing it didn’t twist into a knot at the thought of never seeing Rhys again.
“All the more reason to spill the beans. Love you.” She taps the bar with her keys nodding at her brother as she rushes out the door.
“I will see you in the morning.” I sit back on my stool, swirl the melting ice and think about not seeing Rhys again. I left Miami knowing that we had no reason to see each other. But that was before, before he insisted on staying in touch. Reaching out into my daily life by way of a quick, disarming text, but is that really enough to think that our ending hasn’t come and gone? We were over the moment he put me in the car, we were over when we fucked in his chair. I could feel it then, I must remember it now. Suddenly I want nothing more than to be home, wrapped in his tee shirt. I leave a twenty on the bar, say goodbye to Paul and slink home, left raw by Mary’s truth, and my inevitable denial.
Once I get home, I check my phone again, but nothing. No messages. He did say he had to catch a plane. I pull the shirt that I snagged from Rhys’ drawer out of my dresser and pull it on. The feeling is immediate, warm and safe. The shirt smells like his room, like him, a heady cocktail of cologne, sea air, and his sweat. I scroll through my new phone to find a music app. A playlist springs to life, Breaking All the Rules. He makes his presence known at the most perfect time. Just when I want to feel him, he is there. I smile to myself and hug the phone before starting the music.
La Vie en Rose plays softly in the background, while I slide all the windows open to coax a cross breeze and lie down. The air is stagnant and hot. So dry that it rattles in my lungs, like sand. The darkness and heat conspire to put me right to sleep. A restless, dream filled sleep. I toss and turn, seeking relief from the heat. The heat from the early summer sun, and the heat between my legs. I ache for Rhys, wishing he were lying next to me, running his fingers over my hot, sticky skin. The thought helps me to drift, deeper.
I feel him slide in behind me, his arm curling around me, pulling me close, his chest softer than I remember. I surrender to the dream, curling into him, humming my delight. His hands move over my hips, pulling me closer. His fingers are a little too strong, digging deeply into my flesh. I writhe in my sleep, rolling against him. He whispers, hot against my ear, “You missed me.” Pressing his hips into me, grinding against me, he is rough. I smell juniper, and the sweet, metallic twang of gin. My eyes fly open and I try to roll away, but he crushes me to his chest. He is drunk, and his hands are all over me.
Chapter 24
“Get off of me!” I struggle against his vice grip, trying to get away, but he just pulls me in tighter. I kick and flail until I can land a blow hard enough to make him release me. I kick him, hard, in the shin over and over with my heel until his hands soften just enough. Biting into his arm, he shrieks and shoves me off the bed. I fall to the ground in a heap, tangled in sheets and pillows. He crawls to the end of the bed as I struggle to my feet. Grabbing a fistful of my hair and pulls me to him, trapping me between the bed and his body, hovering above me, wavering slightly.
“Who did you think I was, you slut?” He pulls my hair tighter, forcing me to be nose to nose, the stench of Tanqueray and Swisher Sweets assaulting my senses. He crushes his dry lips to mine, scratching and burning my mouth. He is sloppy and angry. He bites my lip, drawing blood, and then licks it away. He pulls my head back, anger raging in his droopy, drunken eyes.
“You had some fucking stranger come here and throw me out of my own house? You bitch!” He throws me to the ground, and falls back on the bed. I hit the floor hard, and struggle to get up and get away from him as quickly as possible. What the hell is he talking about? He sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, mumbling to himself about keys and red-headed bastards. I back away, trying not to draw his attention. He shakes his head violently and focuses all of his rage on me. It flares in his eyes like a wildfire, out of control, unpredictable. He stands and stalks towards me, emitting toxic fumes and anger with every drunken step. I leap to my feet and turn to run, but he winds his stubby fingers tightly around my arm and yanks me back. It feels like he is trying to rip it off, he pulls with so much force.
“Are you fucking someone new? Is that who you had toss me out? I knew you were a whore. That’s why I moved out in the first place.” He slurs and spits into my face as he talks.
“You didn’t move out! I kicked you out, you cheating son of a bitch! Twice, and I will gladly kick you out again. Now let go of me!” I try to pull my arm, but he squeezes it so hard and twists until I am backed up against him. My wrist is going to break if he doesn’t let go. He tries to kiss my neck and my stomach lurches into my throat, it makes me sick. I swing around and slap him with my other hand. My palm burns and a loud crack echoes through the hall, he releases me to quell the sting. I break towards the door. I need to get outside. I have to get outside. Panic wells up inside of me, threatening to choke me, slowly robbing me of precious breath. My legs have turned to rubber, I feel like I am moving in slow motion. Every step takes an eternity, my feet heavy like stone. I reach the door and throw it open, running at a dead sprint into the courtyard. I turn back to see if he has followed me out. He is ten steps behind me when I run headlong into something hard as a rock, and fall back on my ass. I look up into the cool, impassive face of Charlie. Holy Hell, Thank God! He offers me a hand, pulling me to my feet just as Collin catches up to me. Charlie swings me behind his back, taking a defensive stance against Collin.
“Are we going to do this again?” Charlie taunts Collin. Again? They know each other. Flash of Charlie in Rhys’ office that first day. The keys, the red-headed bastard.
“Sophie?” I hear him call my name before I see him get out of the car. Shining like a dark knight in a navy suit, he rushes to me as he sees Collin swing at Charlie.
“Is this the guy?” Collin pushes against Charlie, trying to stare down Rhys. “A fucking Town Car? What does a slut have to do to land a wallet like you?” Collin spits bile-filled insults, but I squeeze a Rhys’ hand, silently begging him not to engage. “He looks like a pussy licker. How did you like the taste of my cock?” Rhys’ eyes go black, cold and dead. He looks through Collin, rage marring his carefully crafted façade. “You know what man, she is all yours.” Collin throws his hands up, swaying back a step.
Anger seeps from every pore and Rhys snaps, he drops my hand, shoves Charlie out of the way and drives his fist straight into Collin’s face, crushing across his left cheek. He falls back for a split second before landing another blow square in his gut. Charlie falls back and watches, shielding me from the melee. Why doesn’t he stop this? Collin doubles over and Rhys drives his fists into him repeatedly, rapid fire, rage rolling off of him in violent waves, his fist pounding broken flesh, over and over. The dull sound of cracking ribs and angry growls fill the air. A slight whimper escapes from the bundle of clothing and flailing limbs that is Collin before Rhys winds up for one last blow. His eyes are vacant, his fist is bloody, and he is s
ingular in purpose, unreachable. Fury mingles with the blood that oozes from his broken knuckles and he sinks Collin to the ground with a crushing blow to the side of his head.
He turns and grabs my hand dragging me towards the waiting car, Charlie following two steps behind us. I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip, his fingers digging into my flesh, pulling at my heart.
“Rhys, please. You are hurting me.” I try to stop, to drag him back, but he lifts me from my feet so easily, and hands me over to Charlie, a perfunctory exchange between two bullies.
“Get her into the car,” he commands, flexing his bloody hand, examining the damage. He is icy cold and deliberate as he slips from his jacket, rolls up his sleeves and removes his watch, slipping it into the pocket of his designer slacks.
“Rhys, please don’t!”
Charlie casually strolls to the car with me trapped against his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist, my feet dangling like a child. “Charlie, put me down!” I command, pushing against his stone chest. His family mask is firmly in place, and I am no match for his brute strength. But I cannot let Rhys hurt Collin. I cannot let him risk anything for me. I kick and flail, trying to free myself from the vice grip of Charlie’s arms, landing a kick square to his shin. He flinches before swinging my legs up over his arms, cradling me like a helpless baby.
Whisper (The Voice trilogy Book 1) Page 22
