by Ella James
At work on Wednesday, our receptionist, Carolina, waves me closer when I come to grab a patient chart.
“I’ve got a question,” she whispers between her cupped hands.
I smile. “Shoot.”
“I heard a rumor,” she says slowly. Shit. My stomach flips as she smiles. “Is it true that Gabriel McKellan is your ex?”
I smile, shaking my head—playing it off. “Where’d you hear that silly story?”
“Oh, you know. Around.” She zips her lips, and I smile. “Maybe. Why do you wanna know?”
“He’s a great author. I heard someone say he moved back here to Fate, and I thought, oh could he be single. Then my cousin told me you were married to him.”
“It was a long time ago,” I tell her, tapping the folder against my thigh.
“So was he…you know?” She licks her lips, and I laugh, mostly from surprise.
“Carolina! That was years ago.” A cop-out, but dear Lord, I need a cop-out.
“You know what I heard?” she asks.
I sigh, still smiling in an effort to be patient. “What did you hear?”
“My friend who works down at the drug store said he came and printed pictures of a little girl. His daughter. So I asked my other friend, and she said it’s not his. Her mother-in-law told her it’s all over the tabloids, how he thought he had this daughter, but it wasn’t his.”
It’s a struggle not to grit my teeth. To keep my face neutral as I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s really sad if it’s true. Fate is going to be the worst place for him,” I say with a pointed look at Carolina.
“Yeah. It’s true.” She has the grace to look a little bit ashamed of her big mouth.
I hold the folder up in parting wave. By the time I’m off work that afternoon, I have an idea.
3
Gabe
Cora’s tail wags as she lopes along the wooden railroad tracks. This is the second time I’ve brought her here, down to the running trails around the boardwalk. But instead of doing trails, we veer into the woods and follow the tracks through the tall grass.
The sky is gray today, with clouds that hang down near the top of the tall pines. Real fucking uplifting. I remember these winters from high school. Playing football helped me get through fall, but then it would be Christmas, and I’d get lost in the clouds. Christmas was the worst time of the year. My dad would sometimes try to dry out for a few days—motivated, I guess, by the idea of giving me a nice Christmas. But those days were always awful. He’d stagger around the house with trembling hands, holding his aching head, in the blackest mood, trying to figure out on Christmas Eve what he should buy me. By my senior year—the last time I spent Christmas in Fate—we’d settled on the tradition of him just giving me money. He’d hand over what little he had, ask me to swing by the liquor store on the way home, and send me out.
I have this memory of Dad sending me out to the donut store one Christmas morning. For some reason, he wanted donut holes. Marley was in the line in front of me. I remember that her jacket was shiny and green, almost metallic, and she smelled like something sweet, I guess like that food lotion girls were always wearing back in high school. I remember staring at her long, reddish brown hair…and then her thick ass. Marley always had a fucking awesome ass. Back then, she always seemed a little bit annoyed. Sort of defiant…like aloof, but with some attitude. After I saw her at the donut shop, I would think of fucking her when I jerked off. Her big ass. My hand around it. And the noises she might make.
I’m getting wood right now when Cora barks, and—fuck, a snake!
I jerk her back just as the fucker lunges for her. After that, we backtrack to the nearest open space and head back toward the marked trails.
The running trails are stripes of round, brownish-red pebbles winding through the dense pine forest. Fate’s not big—only 25,000 people live here—so it’s never crowded. But the first time I came down here, right after I moved into Fendall House, a woman jogging past me did an actual double-take, whirling back around to gape at me before laughing and heading on her way. That was before the motherfuckers at Page Six blared the Geneva story to the world. I’m sure one of Fate’s nosey residents got wind of that shit, and by now it’s spread to everyone around these parts.
When Cora and I turn a corner and I hear voices, that’s what I’m thinking about—so I pull my ball cap down over my face. I hear a squeal and grit my teeth. Cresting a slight hill and coming into view on the straight stretch of path in front of me is a little kid. At first, she’s just a streak of color, but then she slows, and I see pig-tails flap around her face. She catches sight of Cora and me and runs toward us.
Fuck.
“Is this your dog?” she asks, blinking up at me with huge, brown eyes.
I nod slowly, trying to give her a polite smile.
“Can I touch her?”
“Laura,” someone calls. I lift my gaze a spot a man a little older than me on her heels.
“Sure. Her name is Cora.”
“Is she a German Shepherd?”
“I don’t know. I got her at a shelter.”
“Laura. We don’t talk to strangers,” the man scolds. He nods at me. “No offense to you.”
“None taken.”
“This is my Daddy! His name is Keenan and he’s wonderful.” She gives him a brown-nosing grin, and the man gives an embarrassed laugh. “Thanks,” he nods at me, and pulls his kid along.
“Thank you,” she calls as they head off.
I refuse to let myself look on as they walk off, so I look at the ground while Cora whines beside me. I keep moving, just keep walking like it’s fine, it’s cool, like everything is normal, like a man on a walk with his dog, like a regular man on a walk who feels nothing but annoyance that the day is so damn gray.
Like a man who doesn’t want to take a drink or punch a wall or scream.
I blow my breath out. Then I start to run. I’m wearing shitty shoes for running—boots. I take a sort of pleasure in the way they make my feet ache from the first few strides, and later, further down the trail, they rub at spots along my ankles. I run harder, faster as we near the water, and I think of that day Marley first pulled up and I jumped off a spot not far from here, and then I jumped again that other day—to get away from her.
Was that really weeks ago?
I long for Marley with an ache that makes my entire body hurt.
Loneliness is usually a weight, but today, it feels like something sharper.
I was foolish to say “yes.” How short-sighted, how rash, to say “yes” to her crazy plan, to fuck her, try to make a baby with her.
Why do I do these things? Why, why, why—but I know why.
Because I want her.
I want something. I want Marley.
And the punishment for that is feet that must be bleeding by the time I reach the house. Where I find Marley on the front porch, on a white swing that wasn’t there when I departed.
Marley
I can’t help the grin I’m flashing Gabe as he and Cora come up the front walkway.
“Hey.” I’m beaming like a kid, even as Gabe looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. His puzzled face softens as he looks me over. His mouth curves into a little smile.
“Well, hey.” He’s sweaty and breathing hard, so I’m surprised to find he isn’t wearing running gear.
“I thought I’d put a swing up so we can be like those other old, ex couples. Swinging on the front porch swing.” I give him a silly smile, and Gabe laughs as he lets Cora inside.
“Do you mind?” He nods, and I scoot over slightly. “Be my guest.”
He sits down and winces.
“What’s wrong? You look sweaty.”
He looks at his feet. “Blisters.”
“Oh no. Boo.”
He nods once, then looks up at the porch ceiling, where the swing’s chains hang from hooks. “How’d you get this up so fast?” he asks.
I shrug. “Magic.” Then I stretch my arm behind hi
m, resting it atop the swing. “I’m pretty handy when I want to be.”
He glances at me. “You did this yourself?”
“Little ole me.” I shoot him a withering glare, and Gabe makes an uh-oh face. “That’s what I thought. Did you know we ladies can do math and big men like yourself can even…wait for it…”
He smiles, his features cast in gold light from a street lamp.
“WRITE!”
His jaw drops.
“I know, right? English and humanities are for just for girls, but sometimes, maybe once a century or so, boys like you are good at those things, too. I know it blows your mind.”
“Touché.” He laughs, then winces.
“What’s wrong?” I look down at his feet, clad in leather hiking boots. “How’d you get the blisters?”
His mouth tightens, and I watch as he pulls one boot off, then glances up at me, to see if I mind.
“Go for it.”
And then he pulls the boot off, peels his sock back, and my stomach does a barrel roll.
“Oh—Gabe.” His foot is bleeding. He looks slightly gray-faced as he blinks down at it.
“I should get a first aid kit. Or we can go inside. Do you have first aid stuff at your house?”
He shakes his head. When his gaze rises to meet mine, his blue eyes are just a hint too round.
“I’ll go grab mine, so you don’t have to do the stairs to my place.”
He blinks, losing that vulnerable look. “I can walk up,” he says, sounding normal.
I’m not sure if that means he doesn’t want me in his place, so I say, “Okay. That works. But I don’t mind going to get it.”
He looks at his foot again, then shrugs. “If you don’t mind.”
“I’ll be right back.”
My heart is pounding double-time as I hurry upstairs and pull the first aid kit from underneath the bathroom sink.
When I get back downstairs, I find the swing empty and the front door slightly ajar.
“Hi there,” I call softly as I walk in.
I look down the long, dim hallway, dotted on each side by doors to various parlors and libraries. This house was empty for most of my childhood, its regal doors opened for holiday or Pilgrimage tours, all the furniture and décor kept as close to period as possible. So I wonder what area Gabe lives in. I find out when he appears in a doorway toward the end of the hall.
“Got this first aid kit…” I hold it up.
“Thanks.” I follow him into a beautifully appointed bedroom done in mostly pink and olive green.
The bed, freshly made and clearly never used by him, is lacy and pillow-laden. I wink as he hoists himself up on the mattress. “Like your style.”
“Real men love lace.” He grins.
“Especially a certain kind,” I murmur, as I drop down on my knees in front of him.
“Shame to see you there for this,” he says, and my chest tightens so much, I can barely speak to whisper, “You should take care of yourself.”
Both his socks are off now, exposing quarter-sized raw spots on both sides of each foot, at the widest point, up by the base of his toes. And still, Gabe’s feet are beautiful. When we were living out in Vegas, someone asked him to be a foot model. I drag my eyes away from them and flick my gaze up toward him.
“Did you wash them, by chance? Like with soap?”
“I did.”
Another flicker of my eyes toward him reveals a Gabe who’s looking unexpectedly delicious, with his curls and flannel button-up and long-lashed blue eyes peering down at me. His lips curve in a panty-melting smile as he wiggles his toes.
I laugh. “Good. That means I won’t need to put this alcohol on. Just Neosporin.”
“Thank you, Doctor Roberts.”
“Of course.” I squeeze some ointment on his foot, surprised to find that just the act of touching him is making me sweat. C’mon, Marley. Get a handle on it. “So you don’t mind my addition to the porch?” I ask as I put ointment on another spot.
He shakes his head. “You know my stance on porch swings.”
I smile, because I do. Gabe has always loved porch swings. He told me once the one on his dad’s house was the only thing he liked about the place when he was growing up.
“How’d you get it by Miss Shorter?” he asks.
“Welllll.” I laugh. “I’m going to have to take it down for Pilgrimage tours in the spring. She thinks it would compromise the home’s elegance. I believe that’s an exact quote.”
“Fuck. She’s not doing the tour of homes at Christmas, is she?”
“No. Thank God. You didn’t clear that with her before moving in?” I tape the first bandage to his foot and give him a chastising look. “C’mon, Mr. Famous. Can you even imagine the number of rubberneckers that would line up down the street to see your lair?”
He rolls his eyes. “No one gives a shit about an author, Marley.”
“I do,” I murmur, as I press the second Band-Aid on.
And then, softly, suddenly…his hands are on my head. He smooths his palms down my hair, pressing his hands gently on the sides of my face.
I freeze in the act of grabbing another Band-Aid. As I shut my eyes, Gabe’s hands stroke my hair. I can barely draw a breath as his big hands caress me. When I tilt my head toward him, I find his eyes both soft and intent.
“I was missing you,” I confess in the silence of the old house.
He nods once, and then his fingers come under my chin—a call to rise—and I do, standing between his knees.
“I still feel like I know you,” he says, as his hands stroke from my shoulders down my arms. His hands encircle my wrists as his eyes burn mine.
“I feel the same,” I whisper. And this time it’s me who leans in close and kisses him. I thread my fingers through his hair and wrap my hand behind his head and hold him to me, as Gabe’s arms come fast and strong around my back.
Not just sex, my mind screams. I don’t feel like this is only sex and baby-making.
Gabe leans back and pulls me down atop him, and oh God, he’s gorgeous: all big shoulders, wide, hard chest, and forceful, almost frantic kisses.
I rub myself against his bulge, and he groans in my mouth.
“I need this,” he says, when I pull away to pant.
Me too. God, I need his mouth on mine. I need his scent, I need his scratchy face…I need his careful hands and thrusting hips and big, responsive cock. I need the way the rhythm of this hastens into frenzy and he’s suddenly on top of me, he’s nipping at me, pulling off my clothes. His head is in between my legs and God those curls… I arch up off the bed, just so I can tug at them—and Gabe works me back down; I spread my legs and can’t help moaning, so much moaning.
Everything he does sets me afire, until I burst into a molten flame…and then he’s kissing up my belly. Then he’s whispering “you’re beautiful.” Gabe’s rough cheek is on my hip and he’s kissing my ribs and it’s not like the other times.
I let myself caress his hair and smooth my fingertips over his cheek, and he groans—not because of sex.
I rub his hair, and he makes low sounds in his throat.
“I always wanted you,” I whisper as he kisses up my sides. He unbuttons my blouse, shifts my breast out of my bra, and takes my nipple in his mouth. I arch up.
“Everything…about you,” he says between sucks, “is delicious.”
My nipples are so achy, I feel a clench of pleasure-pain down to my core. I start panting…writhing—so much so, Gabe chuckles.
“Marley, Marley,” he murmurs as he makes me shake and shiver.
I can only moan.
And then, when I think I might come just from this, he rises up on his knees and works his pants down his hips. His dick boings just like a Tumblr .gif, and I reach out to touch it, and Gabe puts his hand around mine, guiding as I stroke him. His eyes slip shut, and when I’m leaning down to take him in my mouth, he urges me onto my back, dips two fingers into me, and, after spreading my slickness all
around, wedges his cock’s thick tip inside me.
As he pushes slowly in, I moan. I’m so…full.
I moan again, and then I’m filled with all of him. It’s too much—“God!”—almost too much for me to bear. And Gabe starts pumping right then.
“Marley…Marley, Marley…” As he fucks me, and I moan and whimper, he breathes my name like a prayer. Then we’re both moving too fast for anything but panting. His cock stiffens. I think he’s close—and I’m close, ready to explode…I’m holding back so I can wait for him, and then I don’t have to. I can feel him come undone, the way his warmth fills me, and I burst underneath him, groaning like a captured animal.
For one long moment, our eyes meet, and his are liquid and unreadable. Then he pulls slowly out, covering my pussy with his hand after he does, as his eyes shut for just a breath.
His eyes pop open. “Fuck, is this okay? For the—in case we’re—”
I smile. “It’s okay,” I whisper. I curl on my side and rub the bed beside me. “Lay down with me. I’m cold.”
And there he is behind me, his big body cupping mine, and I can feel his long, not-flaccid cock against my backside, even as he drapes an arm over me and presses a kiss my shoulder.
“I don’t want to fuck this up for you,” he rumbles.
I grab his hand, kissing the fingers. Does he mean like physically? No, of course he doesn’t. He must mean he doesn’t want to mess up what we’ve got going. He knows the baby is important to me. Fucking outside those strict perimeters opens up all sorts of other doors. I close my eyes. I know this. “You’re not,” I hear myself whisper.
Somewhere in me is a box of space where everything is organized and logical. Where I know I’m putting everything at risk by doing things to cheer him up, by bandaging his feet and toying with his pretty hair. But all the rest of me is infinite, and yawns around that tiny space. All the rest of me cannot be told. Can only take and feel and need.
I turn around and run my hands over his glorious shoulders. I let myself look at his face, like really look, and when I do, it’s easier than anything to see the sadness on him.
