The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  “That you what?” Parker faces me then, twisting in place. “Say it.”

  My bottom lip quivers with the words I can’t seem to expel.

  “Fucking say it, Melody.” He traipses back over to me with fury on his face. “What makes you sick? That you want me?”

  I shake my head as he advances.

  “Admit it. You want me.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Parker comes to a halt when we’re toe-to-toe, his chest swelling with labored breaths, something savage glinting in his eyes. “You’re lying. You’d let me take you right here, right now, in the pouring fucking rain, like a wild animal.”

  Shudders rip through me, stopping my breath. His gaze slips to my heaving breasts, my nipples tight, nearly cutting through the thin fabric, and when he glances back up… there’s a shift. Something palpable, visceral. I feel it, he feels it, and I think the sky feels it, too, because just then, lightning cracks above us, an aggressive flash of heat that mimics the look in his eyes.

  We pounce on each other.

  I go for his mouth, but he dodges me, biting my jaw instead, then trailing his tongue along my neck as he shoves the straps of my tank top off my shoulders and pushes the fabric down past my breasts. Parker groans when my breasts spill free, dipping his head lower until he’s sucking a nipple into his mouth and I’m arching into him, my body crumbling. My moan mingles with his as my hands frantically fumble with his belt buckle, unlatching it and searching for the zipper.

  Parker bends further and grasps me right beneath the thighs, lifting me into the air and hooking my legs around his waist. I squeak in surprise, but it dissolves into a needy whimper when his erection presses between my legs and he carries me off somewhere, who knows where—I don’t really care as long as he keeps suckling my nipple like that, his teeth nicking the sensitive flesh and inciting my pelvis to grind against the hard bulge in his jeans.

  My back slams into the wooden planks of the backyard shed, and I yelp when Parker starts tugging my shorts down my legs, his mouth all over me, my hands scratching at his scalp and fisting his wet hair.

  The storm rages on around us, or maybe we are the storm. We’re the flashes of lightning, the thunder booming, the dark clouds of destruction hiding the bright moon. The rain pours down and drenches us, a welcoming contrast to the searing heat threatening to detonate.

  My spine bows back when Parker’s finger slips inside me, and I grasp at his shoulders, clawing and digging. “Oh, God…”

  “Goddamn,” he rasps against the shell of my ear, biting at the lobe.

  I hear his zipper unfasten as I thrust against his pumping finger, needing him deeper, needing more. Parker lifts his head from the crook of my shoulder, finding my eyes for one blinding, potent second, before he pulls his finger out of me and flips me around until my front is pressed up against the shed wall.

  A gasp escapes me as the splinters dig into my skin, but I hardly notice because Parker snakes his arm around my midsection, palming my breast with one hand, while the other spreads my thighs apart. Instinctively, I arc my back, searching for him—begging for him.

  His mouth is devouring my neck again, his tongue hot and demanding as he tastes me, sweat and rainwater, his hand leaving my breast to fist my hair and tug it back. Parker situates himself between my legs from behind, the tip of his cock seeking entry. The feel of him there, teasing me, has my body tremoring and aching as I grind against him. “Please.”

  “Fuck, Melody…”

  As the thunder rolls overhead, Parker spreads me wider as his opposite hand curves around my throat, and he pushes inside.

  Hard. Abrupt. Unforgiving.

  Holy shit.

  My cry is muffled when his hand clamps my jaw, two fingers slipping into my mouth, and I bite down. Parker’s forehead drops to my shoulder, his prolonged groan making my skin hum as I slink one arm behind his neck to hold him to me.

  He starts to move, his hips rocking against me, slowly at first, stretching me and making me squirm. His tongue drags along the crest of my shoulder, up to my neck, and he pulls the flesh between his teeth, grunting, while his cock hits deeper, his thrusts quickening.

  I plant both hands against the shed for leverage while his fingers tug my jaw open, and I yelp again, unsure of what hurts, what stings, what’s right or wrong, and what feels so good, the line between pain and pleasure becomes a glorious, permanent blur.

  Parker’s fingers leave my mouth and sweep down my body until he finds the juncture between my legs, and I press into his palm, a silent plea. With one hand gripping my hipbone, keeping me steady while he slams into me, the other rubs my clit into a delicious frenzy, pulling mewls and whimpers and unabashed moans from my throat.

  His lips dip to my ear, his breathing ragged. “You’re driving me fucking wild… you feel so goddamn good.”

  “Uhh…” It’s all I can manage, his words and hands twisting me inside out, stealing my coherency and common sense.

  Reinventing me.

  I feel myself peaking, climbing, singing and buzzing, while Parker fucks me against the shed in my backyard beneath black clouds and moonlight.

  Like animals.

  As his fingers work me to orgasm, and his thrusts become more feral, my body tenses and thrums, and I break apart into a thousand tiny particles, atoms, and stars.

  My climax nearly cripples me.

  Knees buckling, I crumple forward, while Parker squeezes my breast, tweaking my nipple as a cry of pleasure tears through my throat. He rams into me with violent, frenzied strokes, grunting his release, burying his face into the slick curve of my neck.

  “Fuck,” he grits out, shuddering against me, his palm still cupping my breast while his opposite hand clings to my hip, fingertips biting into the delicate skin.

  And then it’s over.

  His movements temper, and he just kind of holds me for a moment as we both come down from the heady high. It’s nothing but raindrops and heartbeats and heavy breaths as Parker’s grip on me loosens, his head lifting from my shoulder. I feel his heart vibrating into my back, his erection still firm and pulsing inside me, his fingers trailing lightly down my torso, almost a tickle, as he lets out a deep, equivocal sigh near my ear.

  Then he slides out of me, letting me go, and I remain still, partially collapsed against the shed with my shorts dropped to my ankles and a sodden tank top bunched around my middle.

  Rainwater mixes with Parker’s release and spills down my thighs, reminding me that Charlie is no longer the last man to have been inside me. I gave that title to a man who claims to not even like women—who was cruel to me—who didn’t deserve it.

  I gave a precious gift to an unworthy man.

  The realization rips a sob from my chest before I have time to even recover. I slump further against the wet wood planks of Charlie’s beloved shed; the shed that has now been defiled by a painful act of betrayal.

  A betrayal to him. A betrayal to me.

  With limbs quivering with regret, I simply stand there, hardly able to hold my weight and the weight of so much more.

  My eyes squeeze shut, my face hidden behind my hands, when I feel a gentle touch graze the small of my back. Light as a feather at first, barely there at all, until he applies more pressure and rubs his palm up and down my spine, as if he’s trying to comfort me somehow.

  It’s a tiny token of solace.

  A gift in exchange for mine.

  And then he’s tugging my shorts up my legs until they’re secured around my hips, the soaked cotton sticking to my skin like adhesive. I pull my forehead up from the shed, pivoting slowly, facing him. His pants are pulled up, but the belt hangs loose, and there’s an angry nail mark etched into his neck from where I must have scratched him.

  Parker stares at me with a faint wrinkle furrowed between his brows, and I swear there is concern etched into that crease—maybe even a semblance of empathy.

  But it’s all he gives me before pacing backwards, gaze dipping down, jaw
hard and tight like his fists that ball up at his sides.

  And just like that, he’s gone.

  Parker leaves me there against the shed, tainted and torn, reeking of guilt and self-loathing and him.

  And when I awake the following morning to chirping birds and ribbons of sunlight, I’m curled up inside the little wooden shed, body aching, skin filthy, dignity shattered.

  Heart broken.

  —TWENTY-ONE—

  When I wake up the next morning, I have no idea what the fuck is going on. I shoot up in bed, momentarily caught between some sort of dreamland, fantasy, and preposterous reality.

  What time is it?

  Do I work today?

  Did I fuck Melody against a shed last night?

  My dick twitches in my boxers, as if to reply, hell fucking yeah, you did.

  Jesus. Christ.

  I went there with every intention of unveiling my Zephyr alter ego, but I couldn’t do it. I choked, and I couldn’t spit the goddamn words out. Why?

  Don’t know.

  Maybe because I’m a coward.

  Maybe because everything would change.

  Maybe because Melody wants me right now, and the moment she finds out who I really am… it won’t be about me anymore.

  It will be about him.

  Him and his goddamn heart.

  I have no clue why that even matters—why something so drippy and sentimental would actually matter to me—but I can’t help but feel smothered by the realization that I don’t want to lose her.

  And I would… I’d lose her.

  So, apparently, the logical next step was to fuck her silly in her backyard to ensure that I’ll never dig my way out of this giant, endless hole of mind-numbing madness and fuckery.

  Solid plan.

  Utterly masterful.

  Scrubbing a palm down my face, I heave out a sigh of frustration, blindly reaching for my phone to check the time and gauge damage control.

  Shit.

  It’s already after ten A.M., and I have more house projects given to me by Owen’s thirsty mother, so I need to get the fuck going. But a text from Melody sent an hour ago steals my motivation. I swallow down a hard lump as I swipe it open.

  Melody: You just left me there.

  My heart stutters.

  Fucking hell.

  Was I not supposed to?

  Were we supposed to cuddle and spoon? Talk about shit? I don’t fucking know.

  I scratch at the bristles on my chin, entirely overwhelmed by not knowing what the hell I’m doing. This is new territory for me—all of it. The sex, the false pretenses, the feelings. It’s new for her, too, because now that I know Melody is Magnolia, I have more insight into her life.

  She’s never been with anyone else before.

  Only her husband.

  And now me.

  Her stain, her shameful mistake, her mark of Cain.

  Now that I think about it, I suppose leaving her alone, half-naked in the rain after screwing her brains out, was probably a dick move. But I thought that’s what she wanted—for me to get the fuck away from her. She was literally sobbing with regret.

  My thumb taps with agitation against the side of my phone while I consider a response, but nothing comes to mind. I’m not equipped to handle this shit. I’ve never had to fix anything before. What does she even want from me?

  An apology?

  An explanation?

  To meet for coffee and chat about our feelings?

  I’m not exactly sure what she’s looking for, but I know what she deserves.

  The truth.

  The truth about Zephyr.

  But I’m too much of a pussy to give it to her.

  So, I turn off my phone, hop in the shower, and start my day.

  “Why don’t you fight back? Too chickenshit, or did you eat too many Twinkies and it’s too much effort to move?”

  When I pull into the Jameson’s driveway and jump out of my truck, Owen is getting pushed around by some piece-of-shit kid in his front yard. Cruel laughter spills out of the tall, gangly bully, sporting a buzz cut, too-baggy jeans, and a smirk that I’d love to punt right off the prick’s face. But I don’t because I’d probably accidentally kill him, and prison time isn’t on my bucket list. Not that I have a bucket list—bucket lists are for hopeful optimists, and I’m more of a cynical killjoy—but if I did, orange jumpsuits and horny inmates would not be on that list.

  Owen stumbles back when the ass-wipe gives him a forceful shoulder shove, not making any attempt to defend himself. He just stands there with his head bowed, cheeks as red as his bloodshot eyes.

  I abandon my tools and approach the scene, flooded with an odd urge to intervene. “Hey. Asshole.”

  The smirky kid loses said smirk when his head flicks over to me, and he steps back. “We were just messin’ around. It’s all good.”

  “Looks to me like you were being a douche-waffle.” They both stare at me, blinking, so I turn to Owen. “You all right?”

  He lies with a timid nod.

  “We were just playing,” Douche-Waffle insists, scuffing his sneaker against the grass.

  Pursing my lips together, I nod, giving a flippant shoulder shrug. “Can I play?”

  Douche-Waffle noticeably gulps, fidgeting. Owen watches with interest.

  I don’t wait for a response and saunter over to my truck, snatching up a tire iron from the bed and heading back over to the two boys. Then I stand there.

  I just… stand there.

  Silent and menacing, my eyes locked on Douche-Waffle.

  Smoldering, as Melody would say.

  He glances at Owen, as if asking for help, but Owen only quirks an amused grin as he keeps his attention on me. Douche-Waffle glances at the tire iron. “Um, what’s that for?”

  I don’t reply, I don’t blink, I don’t flinch.

  I just stand.

  And stare.

  Basically, I intimidate the fuck out of this kid until he almost shits his pants, then bolts.

  Slapping the tool against my opposite palm when the bully is out of sight, I shift my focus to Owen, who looks totally impressed, like I just taught a llama how to play the harp. “Don’t let that punk mess with you. You’re too cool for that shit.”

  “You think I’m cool?” Owen asks, appearing wide-eyed and awestruck as he smacks his bangs out of his face.

  “Definitely. You’re cooler than me.”

  “No way. That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Making model cars is a lot cooler. I think you’ve got me beat.”

  His face lights up with a big grin, cheeks stretching wide. “I guess the Kamikaze is kind of cool. Want to see the new one I made?”

  “Sure.”

  Stopping at my truck to gather tools for the day’s projects, I follow Owen inside the house, trying to ignore the little pang of contentment that hums inside my chest. I’ve been feeling it more than I care to admit—something like happiness.

  It’s been brewing on and off for a little while now, pumping through my blood and defrosting my icy veins, seeping into untapped parts of me. Parts that have been dark and hollow for a long ass time. I’ll notice it when Walden curls up beside me on the couch, or when Owen looks genuinely happy to see me, or when Bree stops by with random gifts and tells me about her day.

  I’ll notice it when Melody smiles at me. When she laughs. When she surprises me with cupcakes. When she shares her starting points.

  When she looks at me like I fucking matter.

  Yeah, I’ve been feeling it a lot lately. I’ve been feeling it since I met her.

  As I set down my toolbox and make a pitstop in Owen’s room, he brings out the new model car and tells me all about it, eager and enthusiastic, filled with pride. His whole demeanor shifts from insecure and beaten down, to… seen.

  For a moment, I’m transported back in time to that foster house after years of feeling lost and transparent—broken apart so expertly, I had withered away to dust. All it
took was for one person to notice me. To stick up for me. To care. Bree’s kinship was the one link I had to humanity, my only sense of purpose, and while she’s probably the solitary reason I’m still alive today, so much damage had already been done. I was irrevocably branded with these scars and iron-clad weights, molding my future into the desolate dark hole I’ve come to embrace.

  So, maybe I see a little of myself in this kid.

  Maybe I want him to have a fighting chance—a chance to rebuild before there is nothing left of value to extract from the rubble.

  A starting point.

  “Parker?”

  I’m moving towards the doorway to start my work when I pause, giving him my full attention. “Yeah?”

  Owen tilts his head to the side, deep in thought. His little tongue pokes out to wet his lips, brown eyes as wide as saucers. Then he wonders innocently, “What’s a douche-waffle?”

  —TWENTY-TWO—

  One week.

  One week of radio silence from Parker and Zephyr, and Parker has the nerve to show up to this meeting as if nothing were amiss. As if we didn’t have raw, passionate sex in my backyard seven days ago. As if he didn’t just leave me there alone in the rain, ignore my text, and refuse to make any follow-up contact.

  Anger surges through me like a white wave, tingeing my cheeks pink. He’s just sitting there, one seat over, his legs sprawled out in front of him like usual, arms crossed. I don’t think he’s looked my way all meeting, which is unusual. Even when I gave my starting point, my throat catching, my tone trembling, he stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable.

  Good.

  I’m glad he can’t bear to look at me.

  Unfortunately, I don’t seem to have the same kind of willpower. My shameful eyes can’t stop peeking his way, drinking him in, from his scuffed, tan work boots to his tousled mess of dark hair. His eyes look tired. Ambivalent. The muscles in his arms flex and strain every so often, reminding me of how they felt wrapped around my body, holding me close, clutching me tight—making me feel things so unfettered, I’m still in disarray.