Pull

by Claire Wallis

  I return the backpack to the closet and take the gun down to my car, swapping it with the one already under the seat. Then I go back inside, into Emma’s apartment.

  She’s still sleeping. In fact, she hasn’t moved a muscle. Her breathing is shallow and quiet, and her skin is still glowing. I open the bottom drawer of her nightstand and put the gun—her gun—back inside. Where it belongs. I won’t touch it again. I’ll apologize in the morning for even taking it in the first place, and then I’ll promise her that, from here on out, the gun will always be there when she needs it. Just like me.

  I slide my jeans off and climb back into bed with her. Heat radiates from her body. The entire bed is warm, even the places she isn’t touching. I lay my head back onto the pillow and close my eyes.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Emma and I spend Sunday catching up on life. After breakfast, we run to the grocery store and drop off her dry cleaning. Every minute with her is entertaining and worthwhile. It makes me realize that I can do this. I can do normal. I can do what everyone else does and not feel like I’m missing something bigger. As long as it’s with her.

  Then, when evening comes, we do laundry together. How domestic. The basement laundry room is a disaster. The laundry tub is completely clogged and one of the three dryers is missing its door. Who the hell steals a dryer door? I mentally tack “fix up the laundry room” to the week’s to-do list for Carl. When Emma sees the mess, she teases me about how the maintenance guy must be shirking his duties to let it get this bad.

  “Some girl is probably distracting him,” she says impishly as her hands gently lift and fold a pair of her underwear. She’s moving super slow, deliberately teasing me with her eyes, her words, and those goddamn blue panties with the black lace trim. When they are folded, she puts them down softly on top of the pile.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I think maybe he likes being distracted.” As the words come out, I walk around the table, to where she’s standing. I can’t wait. I need to touch her. I put my hands on her hips and turn her around, lifting her up by the waist and sitting her on the table. I spread her knees open with my hips, step between them, and grab her by the back of the neck. Her skin is already warm and she’s looking at me with hazy, half-hooded eyes. “And if she’s lucky, he’s going to have his way with her right here in this filthy laundry room.”

  “Don’t you think he’ll get fired for tinkering with the clientele?”

  “Tinkering?” I tease, holding her face a mere inch from mine.

  “Tinkering.” Her expression is smile-less and smoky.

  “He’ll tinker with her whenever he damn well pleases, wherever he damn well pleases.”

  “Atta boy,” she says, now half smiling.

  I draw her face to mine and put my mouth over hers, holding my hands against the back of her neck so she can’t pull away. Her mouth is slick and welcoming, its warmth only an iota more intense than that of her skin. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, pressing into it with greed and fire. I press back, sinking my tongue against hers, brushing my hands up through her hair onto the back of her head. Within seconds, I feel myself harden, and I push my hips into the V of her open legs. A small, needy sigh rushes out of her as she rubs her crotch against mine in a series of slow, hard sideways wiggles. Every time she moves, a pulse of want dashes through me. She reaches up and grabs one of my wrists from behind her head. When she has it in her grip, she draws it down and places my hand between us, down to where she’s rubbing herself against me. She moves my hand up and down over her. I press my palm and fingers against her, touching her slowly through her jeans. She groans again and kisses me harder, greedy and forceful. I flip my wrist around and press the heel of my hand against her body, grinding it against her in deep, long vertical strokes. My fingers are pointed downward, swiping against her ass, spreading out over the seat of her jeans. She moves her bottom to the edge of the table.

  She’s going to come just like this. In the laundry room, fully clothed, and hot as sin.

  And I’m going to make her. I’m going to bring her there without ever touching her skin. With one hand. Damn. She tilts her hips forward, meeting my hand with every stroke. Her lips break from mine, I think to concentrate on breathing. I hear her every exhale, each one needier and more frantic than the one before. I move my other hand from the back of her neck and put it down on the table, holding me steady while keeping her body in place. She’s panting now, her ragged breaths jumping across—and into—my skin. Then both of her hands overlap my one, the one stroking her. They force me to push even harder, dig the heel of my hand deeper, lash at her with even more ferocity and greed. A minute later she comes. Her legs straighten down to the floor, toes pointed and knees shaking. Her back arches and her head drops back, exposing her neck to my mouth. I bend forward and run my tongue from her collarbone up to her ear, licking and kissing her fiery skin. Her jugular pulses against my lips, and her pelvis curves in waves against my hand. It’s a long time until it passes through her, and when I finally see her body still, all I want to do is the exact same thing, over and over again.

  Before I know it, she is off the table and on her knees, unzipping my jeans and putting my hands on the back of her head. She sucks me, deep and slow and purposefully. Her hands grip me and follow her mouth’s every move. Her tongue laps at me in slick strokes, each one more intense than the last. Each one sending me a message of reverence and desire and purity. My hands hold her there, around me, but her eyes are looking up at mine. She’s watching me watch her, and it makes me want to fuck her face even harder. She doesn’t slow or even flinch when I push myself deeper into her mouth, when I put one of my palms onto her forehead and grab her bangs with my fisted hand. She drops her hands to her sides and I pull her head to me over and over again, fucking her mouth like it is the most beautiful goddamned mouth I have ever been in. And it is. It is so goddamned beautiful. So goddamned right. She sucks and swallows me deep into her throat every chance I give her. And the whole time, she’s watching me, with those eyes, looking up at me from down on her knees. Love is not a strong enough word for what she is to me. She is my savior.

  I come in her mouth, feeling the hot wetness surge out of me and straight into her. I let go of her hair and brush her cheek with the back of my hand. She keeps her eyes on mine as I drop out of her mouth and watch her swallow. I look down at her as I zip back up, suddenly realizing that the past few months with her have been more amazing—more epic—than anything else I’ve ever done. Ever. The idea settles into my bones, bringing me a new, energizing sense of purpose. A new sense of self-control and contentment.

  Emma is my new epic. My new rush. She is a new, more perfect, more grown-up, reason to be. With the realization comes a gratification I’ve never felt before. How had I not seen it before? How had I not recognized this new power she gives me?

  She’s right. I am done with the old me. I am done needing him and what he does—what he did. I know it is true now. All the doubt washes out of me and all of her words, the pure simplicity of them, make complete sense. She is my savior, and because of her, redemption is not only possible, it’s already happening.

  It is her gift to me.

  Chapter 32

  Matt—Present Day

  At poker on Tuesday night, David is different. I notice it the moment I walk in with Devon and Nate. Yes, there is a fresh vibe permeating the new game space, but for some reason, I don’t think it has anything to do with why David looks like a gamecock, roused and on display. The place is more open, more professional, less basement-y, but David himself looks more open, too. More alive and more purposeful. From the moment we walk into the room, it’s crystal clear that David is the man in charge. He’s the one calling the shots. I think he’s always called the shots, but now he wants everyone to know it.

  For the first time since he met her, I don’t think David’s confidence has anything to do with Emma. Her bailing
out of work yesterday morning and asking to borrow my car under the guise of having to “go do something for David,” might mean they still have some things to smooth over after Friday night’s fiasco. She wouldn’t tell me what she was doing and she asked me not to mention it to him, but from the look on her face as she listened to her voicemail, it wasn’t something she was looking forward to. I hope David hasn’t managed to screw anything up.

  Before I take my place at a table, I scan the room, checking out the space, searching for all the things that are different. I see a lot of familiar faces, both players and dealers, but some of the tables are new; they’re slightly larger and there are a dozen more of them than there were before. There is a stage with a DJ at the front, and a long, glass-topped bar on the right side of the room. The bartenders are new, too. Beautiful and new. One is blonde and the other brunette. I think I need a drink. I catch Devon’s eye and tip my chin over toward the bar, wordlessly telling him I’m going for a drink. He gives me a quick nod and splits off toward the table where Nate is already sitting.

  As I casually make my way across the room and over to the bar, I watch David. When someone comes over to him to swap a wad of cash for chips, he raises his palms and then points a finger to a pair of teller’s booths at the front of the room. There are two guys already waiting there, presumably to buy chips of their own. The women behind the glass are as drool-worthy as the bartenders. It makes me wonder where they hide these people during the day because I sure as hell never see anything remotely like them at Panera or Jiffy Lube. Everything here is clean and shiny. From the looks of it, this game has morphed from a shifty back-alley show into a high-class, professional-grade operation seemingly overnight. Kudos to David for making that happen. Illegal or not, the whole thing is pretty incredible.

  When I get to the bar, I realize I don’t see Carl in the mix. It stops me in my tracks because Carl is the one thing that is constant at this game. I wonder where he is. Or what he did to get himself uninvited. But then, before I can think too much about it, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It squeezes me roughly as I turn to see who it is. Brad is standing next to me with his left hand on my shoulder and his right hand resting on the bar. He’s wearing a sideways smile and a black eye. It makes me nervous.

  “Hey,” he says coolly.

  “Hey,” I say back, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my wallet.

  “No need for that.” He turns to the bartender in front of us. “Hadley, see that Matt here gets whatever he wants. On the house.” She nods at him and then turns to me. Damn, she’s even hotter up close. Inside my head, Jennifer Lawrence crosses her arms over her chest and glares.

  “Rum and Coke, please.” I’m leery of the hand still on my shoulder but enjoying the view as Hadley walks away.

  “So,” he says, releasing my shoulder and taking a deep breath, “sorry about the other night.” The words come out, but he doesn’t look the least bit sorry.

  “No worries,” I say cautiously. In addition to his black eye, he’s got several faint bruises on his face. Any money says they have something to do with David and whatever happened after he and Emma left me on Friday. I decide not to mention them.

  “Hell of a place, isn’t it?” He turns around and leans his back against the bar. Hadley delivers my drink with a smile and heaving breasts. Jennifer rolls her eyes as I drop a ten-dollar tip on the bar before turning around myself.

  “Yep,” I answer. “Looks like you guys are quite the success.”

  “Shit. It’s got nothing to do with me. This is David’s thing, man.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure you’ll all be reaping the benefits.” David moves around the room for a few long seconds before I add, “I heard David took quite a licking on Friday afternoon. Some junkie, huh?”

  “So he says. I wasn’t there, but I do know Franklin. He’s a real motherfucker.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, David looks no worse for the wear. You, on the other hand…” As soon as the words are out, I regret them. Brad turns to me with a new, self-satisfied grin on his face.

  “David’s a little overprotective of his girl. This is what I got for being twenty minutes late to Cam’s place on Friday night.”

  “Wow,” I sigh, twisting my mouth in faux disgust. “He must be over it, though, ’cause otherwise you wouldn’t be here, right?” I’m thinking about what happened to Brad the night he called a bet with Emma’s shoe. I’ve never seen David lose it like that before. Especially not over a girl. The dude’s got it bad for her—that much has been clear from the get-go.

  “I guess. But the asshole let me sweat it out for a couple of days first. I only heard about what happened with Franklin when I got here. Shit. I didn’t even know if I was supposed to show up tonight. I was on fucking pins and needles about what the hell to do. Ever since he met Emma, the dude’s been totally insane.” He pauses and takes a deep, introspective breath. “It’s fucking nuts what a woman will do to you. And who would’ve thought David would fall just like the rest of them? After Lucia, I didn’t think he’d ever speak to a woman again. Screw one, yeah. But never fall for one. But Emma, though…damn. I can sorta see why he fell, you know?”

  “Try sitting in a cubicle with her every day.” I hate myself for saying it, but it’s true. David would wring my neck for even thinking those words, let alone saying them out loud. And to Brad.

  Brad drops his chin to his chest and exhales, shaking his head from side to side and not saying a word. We stand there with our backs against the bar mentally commiserating for a few moments before I decide to talk again.

  “Yeah well, you almost got a fist to the face long before David got a hold of you.”

  “What? When?” he asks with narrowed eyes.

  “When you knocked on Emma’s door. We thought you were someone else. I almost opened the door and started throwing punches.” It isn’t true, of course, considering my thoughts were more “hide in the bathroom” than “kick this guy’s ass,” but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “I thought you two looked a little deer-in-the-headlights when I walked in. That’s why I thought maybe you’d tried something on her.”

  “Hell no. Do you think I have a death wish?” I point out. He laughs a single, loud laugh and tilts his head back over the bar.

  “No. No, I don’t. Trust me, I know all about David and his jealousy.” Now he’s thinking about his shoe bet, too. Only I’m sure it isn’t with regret. “Who the hell did you think I was?”

  “We thought you were her brother.”

  In my peripheral vision, I see his back and neck stiffen and his eyebrows rise in surprise. It’s like I just poked him with a sharp stick.

  “Her brother?” His voice is thick with curiosity.

  “The dude’s an asshole,” I say. “And Emma doesn’t want him in her life.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he says after a brief pause. “He’d be a fool to ever show up here. David would cut off the man’s nuts and serve them right back to him with a side of fries.” He has no idea how right he is.

  “True. But now do you see why we looked like a couple of deer in the headlights?” I ask, still feeling the need for validation.

  “I got ya,” Brad says with a nod. A sharp second later he adds, “I gotta go. I’m on door duty in a minute.”

  I reach over and shake his hand just before he walks away. “See you,” I say to his back, wondering why I’m forgiving Friday’s Sir Lancelot jabs so easily but happy we’ve managed to move past it. Brad takes over as doorman, and I head to the front of the room to buy chips from one of the glass-encased Barbie dolls.

  For the rest of the night, I try my damnedest to get Hadley the Bartender to smile at me. Every time I head to the bar, I crack some stupid joke and success is mine. I’m not so good at the flirting thing, but I can rock a good knock-knock joke like nobody’s business. By the end of the night, I’m half-rocked myself. So rocked, in fact, that I give her my number. She lets me program it into her phone. When Devon and I lea
ve at two a.m., I look back at the bar. She waves goodbye and smiles at me again. I blush like a virgin in Vegas. Stupid skin.

  Chapter 33

  After Anna

  I am standing on this bridge, filled with a deep and logical clarity. A sense of satisfaction that is at once wildly arousing and yet also completely calming. It’s a feeling that is untamed and yet perfectly justified. It’s pure and righteous and unfiltered. It could even be called epic, if only in a private and convenient kind of way. What I did was right. It was the only thing that could lighten her. It was the only thing that could bring peace. To both of us. This needed to happen. For Anna. And for me.

  While it’s true that it’s the end—the end of a person who lived beneath a constant, all-consuming shadow of paranoia and fear—it’s also a beginning. A release. A liberation. This is the only thing that could free her of the burden her own mind had become. Her acceptance of this as the truth was the best thing that could have happened to her. It was the thing that made it right. The thing that validated all of it. The thing that, in the end, truly set her free.

  But her acknowledgement of this reality wasn’t made with words; it didn’t have to be. It was made as relief washed over her face when I told her that doing this would make Thomas go away. It was made the moment I saw a glimpse of real freedom in her eyes. The moment I saw the first hint of solidness and sanity and strength I’ve ever seen in her. It was made the second she believed my promise. My promise that Thomas would leave her alone. If she would just jump.