by Imani King
“We won’t,” shouts Star, and she pulls me along the corridor. I look back one more time at Rowan, and his eyes are locked on my body.
I expect him to look away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just tips his imaginary hat again and his eyes sear straight through mine, like he’s looking through my clothes--or worse, like he’s searching for that core of a woman deep inside, the one whose light got snuffed out a long time ago.
A pinprick of light, like the very beginning of desire, starts deep inside. The flames swirl through me, and I’m left in a state of wonder before I turn back around and try to shut down the idea completely.
Before I start talking with Star, though, I wonder—is it possible that woman still exists?
CHAPTER SIX
I wake to light coming in the windows. It’s been a damn long time since I’ve woken up after the sun rose. I’m usually out there with the horses at four in the morning, cleaning out their stables and brushing them down, checking their hooves for signs of infection and overgrowth.
“You can hire someone to do that for you, Rowan. Why the hell are you always waking me up so early so you can go play farmhand?”
I growl and pull the pillow over my head. Why the hell had I let myself sleep so late anyway? On the floor, I hear Eliza Doolittle waking up and rolling around on the carpet, snorting and snuffling like she does in the morning. She stops like she hears something, and then I hear what she hears. Down the hall, a woman stepping onto the floor and walking into the bathroom, grabbing towels from the closet, and starting the water of the shower.
“That’s right, Eliza. She’s still here, and we can see if we can convince her not to work today.” Eliza’s black and white face appears on the side of my bed, before she trots over to the door and pushes it open. Typical. Eliza’s more interested in our mysterious guest than she is in me.
And I don’t blame her. I close my eyes and think of leading Cadence up the stairs to her bedroom the first night she was here. The shoulder of her tunic had slipped down, revealing a lacy purple bra strap. A jolt of electric tension had risen in my body, and I’d had the instinct to whirl her around and take her into my arms. This cowboy might be a loner in the mountains of New Mexico, but he knows his way around the body of a woman like that. After a month of very little human contact, I’d almost gone crazy looking at her, right then and there.
Even now, my cock grows at the thought. The shower runs on down the hall, and I think of that purple shirt and her paint-stained skinny jeans on the floor of the bathroom. If I could step into that shower with her, well, I’d probably be dumbstruck at first. I’d be watching that hot water stream over her curvy body, over those full breasts and down to her hips and ass. If I’d gotten her that far, I know she’d be wet as hell, and I’d reach between her legs to check just how slick she was. And she’s a woman who looks like she’d be hot for it, moaning when I touched her, gasping when I slipped two fingers deep inside, pressing the base of my palm against her clit and pushing her against the white and gold marble tiles of the shower. Absently, I move my hand to my cock, stroking it beneath the sheets, thinking of her wet, tight pussy gripping my fingers, thinking of watching her face as her eyes widen, as she starts to let go of that tight, distant, loneliness inside.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but it looks like she hasn’t been appreciated by a real man in a long time. At least that’s what it seemed to me, and I’m a connoisseur of fine women. And it’s been a good while since a woman like that walked through these doors.
I may be conceited as hell, but I know for damn sure what I could give to a woman like that. A woman with fine artist’s hands and a full, curved body made for sinning, made to drain a man dry and give his soul back what it was missing. Closing my eyes, I focus on the thought of her mouth, her soft lips against mine, wondering if she would taste as decadent as she looks. I keep stroking myself until I’m hard as a rock, and the images of Cadence are all blending together in my mind. Her lips, those soft dark eyelashes, the flawless skin and the firm roundness of her hips in my hands. I rest on that one image, imagine the feeling of her waist between my hands, thinking of the sound she might make as I bent her over that bed in the guest room and pushed the head of my cock against her pussy, sliding into it, hot and tight and ready for me to own completely.
When I’m lost in a woman, and by God I would be with a woman like that, all I want is her pleasure. I’d move my body against hers, precise and elegant, taking in the feeling of her hot, tight, wetness, listening to every sound she made until I knew she was close to coming. And then I’d ride her hard, wrapping my arm around her and thrusting so that she felt every inch of me, moving my fingers down over the soft roundness of her belly until I reached her sweet mound, finding her clit and circling it with my fingers until she couldn’t contain herself anymore, bucking against my cock, shuddering and sighing. The heat starts to rise in me as I imagine myself coming inside of her, tensing and filling her completely as she moans and swells against me. A jolt sears through me, and my balls tighten as I come, whispering her name to myself.
“Cadence,” I say, and then I moan and come hard, rolling out of bed and heading to my own shower just as hers turns off. I turn on the water and step inside, the release spreading through my veins.
“Dammit, man,” I say as I let the water run over my skin. I know I don’t need to get wrapped up in a woman I don’t even know. After Joanna, it might be better for me to step back into the man I used to be—the womanizing asshole who didn’t give a damn. Even if I could be that man again, I have the sudden and very certain thought that I wouldn’t want to be.
I think of that movie, the one where you can go get the thoughts of your ex erased. Even if I could erase Joanna, I wouldn’t, I don’t think. She wasn’t the one—God, she was far from it, as it turned out. But she showed me part of who I could be. I’m no perfect specimen of a human being, but I know now that I want—I need—someone to make me complete.
After I dry myself off and step out of the shower, I throw on a pair of old jeans and head down to the kitchen. My breakfast might not be as grand this time, but I can keep a woman fed when she’s staying in my house. I can whip up some gingerbread pancakes, and--
I smell burning. Why in the hell do I smell burning? I walk into the kitchen to see Cadence and Eliza Doolittle pressed tight against her leg and wiggling her tail as hard as she can. Cadence is fiddling with my toaster oven, and next to her is a tray of toast. Except that it’s not quite toast. From what I recall, toast isn’t black.
“Damn this fucking thing—goddammit—no, Eliza, seriously, I don’t think you want any of this toast. And didn’t Rowan say that bread makes your skin itchy? Seriously, dog, respect your own food allergies.”
I stand in the door and watch her as she opens the toaster oven, and then closes it again, fiddling with the settings like it’s an alien spaceship that just landed in her backyard. And she’s not familiar with the alien technology. The smile starts on my face, one corner of my mouth turning up, and then the other.
“Shit. Shit.” Cadence kicks the bottom of the cabinet and then hits the top of the toaster oven. “Oh *dammit that’s hot!” Cadence watches her like she still might drop a piece of charcoal toast.
“You’ve got a mighty dirty mouth for someone so classy.” She starts laughing and turned around. There’s a smear of burnt toast on the light gray top she’s wearing, and she’s got on yet another pair of paint stained jeans. And again, no damn shoes. Her feet must be freezing. It’s cold as hell outside, and the tile in the kitchen doesn’t heat up like the rest of the house. I shake my head at her and make a tsk-tsk sound.
She rolls her eyes at me and wipes a good amount of toast crumbs on her jeans. “I was trying to make breakfast. I normally get a bagel with cream cheese at the cafe down the stairs every morning--and well, it turns out that I don’t even know how to make toast. I *thought I had it covered. But I was trying to make coffee while the toast was in the toaster oven, and,
well, it burned.”
I lean against the door frame. “I can see that.”
“And you--you’re not wearing a shirt. Why the hell aren’t you wearing a shirt?” She backs up against the counter, like she’s trying to get as far away from me as possible. She averts her eyes, and I think I can see the faintest hint of red rising in the golden brown skin of her cheeks. If she knew what I was just thinking about, she’d be blushing even harder, and I might not be able to resist going over there and kissing both of those cheeks and then making my way down to the tops of those fine tits that are poking out of that tight gray top. Scoop neck? Is that what they call it? Well thank the good lord for that aspect of women’s fashion. This looks even better than the other wispy things she’s been wearing, showing off those perfect round orbs and the little curve of her stomach.
“Didn’t think you’d be up. I was going to make gingerbread pancakes. It’s December--got me in the mood for gingerbread.” I don’t add that if I can’t kiss her lips or touch her skin, I need something to occupy my mouth. And for me, cooking is it. Who needs green smoothies when it’s Christmas, anyway?
“That sounds a whole lot better than burnt toast and burnt coffee.” She still won’t look directly at me, and those long pretty fingers are gripping onto my counter so tight that I think she might break her knuckles. “Um, why don’t I change my shirt, and--“
“You got another shirt just like that? I like that one.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I bite my lip, trying to gauge her reaction. Laughing nervously, she brushes the crumbs from her top and her jeans and makes a beeline for the kitchen door. Lucky for me, there’s not a second exit out of the kitchen, and her body brushes against mine for a second. A searing hot spark rolls through my body, but I just nod at her and watch her as she walks toward the stairs.
“You need to put on a shirt, or I won’t be able to look at you. It’s distracting as hell.” Her nice round ass jiggles just slightly as she walks up the stairs, and I consider her words, wondering just what she means by distracting.
“There’s a formal fundraiser next Friday night. Come with me. Be my date. No pressure. People already want to meet this artist who’s gotten started on the mural. They like what you’re doing. I saw you incorporating the kid’s drawings and--it’s cool. It’s super fucking cool.” She pauses on the stairs and looks back at me for a second. Quickly, almost imperceptibly, she glances over my body, and heat pulses through me again.
“I don’t have a damn thing to wear. And I don’t do well--I’m not great in polite company. I’m very weird and artsy. And I curse. A lot.” She has a look on her face like she’s absolutely determined to convince me that she shouldn’t do this, and a shadow of annoyance that I’m still standing here, not wearing a shirt.
“I’ll take care of what you wear.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I will, though. I’ve got a social secretary just for this purpose. And she’ll love picking out a dress for you on short notice. She’s good at that shit. And as for the cursing, people around here aren’t fancy like they are in New York. They don’t give a shit if you curse. Look, I just did it. No problems here.” I shrug and watch her face.
“Fine. But get dressed. And is there a normal car to take me into town? If you’re making me go to this thing, I need to get cracking on the mural.”
“I’ll get the Range Rover geared up for you. No limo today?” She smiles, and it immediately brightens her face. She turns and walks up the last four or five stairs.
There are plenty of corners of this woman that I don’t know, that I haven’t explored. But that smile makes me want to, makes me want to know her. Hell, I already want her. But I have a feeling that there’s more to her, even beyond the mesmerizing and intelligent woman I’m getting to know.
Hidden depths, that woman has.
And I think I’d let her burn my toast any damn time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I spend the next week getting the outline of my mural together with Star, the resident artist. Her mural shows the sunrise over the mountains surrounding Ruidoso. Throughout the hills are tiny, detailed houses, each with smoke rising from the chimney and a white picket fence in every yard. The colors of the sunrise blend together in a riot of pinks, oranges, and blues seeping in from the top of the wall. “Waking to a brighter day,” the banner reads, sprawled across the landscape in matching colors.
With Star and occasional input from Rowan, she and I design the night sky with drawings from the children that Coming Home has helped superimposed over the mountains and the stars. “Coming home to a safer night,” it will read. She and I start on the painting together on Thursday while Rowan is back at the ranch, tending the horses and chatting with board members, state politicians, and community organizers.
As Star and I begin to paint the background in dark blues and purples, the day warms up and we strip down to our long-sleeved shirts, both stained with paint. Star is a quiet woman, reserved and thoughtful. But when she speaks, her words seem to hold gravity--and if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have the incredible design we built together. We paint in silence for over an hour, and then she looks at me for a while before she speaks.
“You told me what brought you out here before--that you wanted to work on a special project, to give back to a small community during the holidays. But it must be hard to be away from your family right now. They’re in New York?”
“New Jersey.” I keep mixing the blues and purples in a large bucket, making sure the polymer sinks into the paint so that it will stay bright on the wall in the dry air and the dust that comes in the summer. “And yes--I just wanted to do something different.” I glance at Star, and she nods slightly. Her hair is as pitch black as mine, but it’s stick straight, and stray pieces flutter around her face in elegant waves as we work.
“Nothing more than that?” She smiles at me, but it’s more encouraging and kind than bright and cheery. Her nose crinkles slightly, but on her it looks elegant instead of cute.
“No—I—“ I pause and keep painting the night sky, imagining what the stars looked like the first night I arrived in New Mexico. Since then, Rowan and I have fallen into our routines, almost like we’ve known each other for years. “I had a miscarriage. After IVF. My last embryo.” Tears sting my eyes, but they dry quickly in the light wind coming down from the mountains. I look over to Star, and she’s nodding like what I’ve said is completely ordinary—or expected.
Unlike everyone else in my life, she just stays silent, her body poised like she’s ready to listen. All the other people I’ve spoken to--my parents, my sister, even Anna--have fallen all over themselves to apologize, like it’s their fault I can’t get pregnant or carry a baby past six weeks.
“And my husband--my ex-husband for a year now--he left before we even did the last three transfers. I don’t think he could take it. All the loss, and all the debt, and who we’d become.”
“Some people can’t bear the important things, Cadence.” Star starts to mix yellow and white for our veil of stars. We’ll add some into the mix of blue and purple today, and more--many more--next week.
“He didn’t fully understand the ‘for better or worse’ part. They should put in a ‘for fertility or infertility,’ but they don’t tell you this shit before you get married. We were young. Really young. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t work.”
“Sometimes there aren’t reasons. Some people say that everything happens for a reason. But I think shitty things just happen. They’re woven into the fabric of life.” Her voice is measured and comforting, and there’s no need to respond. I start on the green for the mountains and mix a gray-hued white for the snow-capped peaks of the mountains.
“Is that white good?” I ask her after a while of painting and mixing and going back to painting again.
She nods. “It looks like the snow. Not too bright, but not off-white.” She pauses and dips a brush in the paint to look at it. “You
’ll be at the fundraiser tomorrow, right?”
“Yes. Will you?”
“I will. My husband’s coming up from the reservation. I take it you’re driving in with Rowan?”
I laugh. *Driving in with him. A tactful thing to say. “Yes. Yes I am.”
