by Megyn Ward
Forty-eight
Cari
When I get out of the shower, Patrick’s nowhere to be found. For a second, I think he left. Then I notice the front door to the apartment is wide open, the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs along with the sound of the jukebox cranked up—21 Pilots. My favorite. Beneath the thumping beat of the music, I can hear the rain.
In my room, I dry quickly and take my hair down from the sloppy bun I threw it up in to shower. Inspecting myself in the mirror, I notice a few flecks of paint that I missed and I rub at them, trying to scrub them off. Finally, I give up and get dressed, pulling on a pair of clean underwear, the skimpiest I can find, and a soft yellow T-shirt dress, worn thin from years of wear.
Plaiting my hair into a quick braid, I secure it with a hair tie before taking another cursory glance in the mirror. No make-up. My hair barely combed. Bare feet and a dress that I should’ve tossed out years ago. I grimace at my refection and consider changing. A nicer dress. Make-up. Maybe take a few minutes to do my hair. It’s what I’d do if I were going on a date with a guy like Trevor or James. I’d spend a solid hour powdering and perfuming myself to perfection.
I sigh, reaching down to catch the hem of my dress, intent on changing.
Just as I’ve got the dress halfway off, the music downstairs goes quiet. “You’re beautiful—now get your ass down here before your food gets cold,” Patrick yells up the stairs, his voice thick with laughter. He can’t even see me and he knows what I’m doing.
Embarrassed, I drop the hem of my dress.
When I walk into the bar, Patrick’s by the front door, wearing a pair of track pants and nothing else, hunched in front of a neat, double-stacked row of sandbags lined against its bottom. “Where did you get sandbags?” I ask, looking around for signs of water damage. Everything looks fine.
As soon as he hears my voice, Patrick stands and turns toward me. “My uncle learned his lesson with Hurricane Sandy,” he says. “He keeps them in the office.” His gaze, traveling the length of me, reminding me I didn’t put on a bra. “I put them down before I left on my run this morning. They’re holding up.” Inches from me, a slow smile spreads across his face. I think he’s going to kiss me but he doesn’t. True to form, Patrick keeps surprising me. “Told ya so,” he says softly, his hand reaching up to lift the loose braid of my hair off my shoulder.
“Told me what?” I say, swaying into him a little, trying to get him to kiss me. Touch me. Anything that will tell me that everything is still okay.
Rubbing his fingers along the length of my braid, he gives it a gentle tug, pulling my mouth to within a breath of his. “You’re beautiful.” He grins at me, his lips brushing against mine briefly, too brief to be called a kiss, before he takes a step back. “And your food is cold.”
He leaves me there, unkissed. Untouched. Completely off balance. I watch him walk away, skirting around the bar to disappear into the small kitchen behind it. “Sit down, Cari,” he calls from the kitchen, like he knows I’m still standing here. Like he knows I’m confused and likes it that way.
Because I feel like an idiot, just standing there, I take a seat at the bar. Looking around, I realize that while it looks and sounds like Armageddon outside, things in here look relatively normal. “How do we have power?”
“Paddy, again,” he says, the words squeezed around a laugh. “After Sandy he invested in a generator big enough to power the whole block.” Patrick appears behind the bar, a plate in his hand. “Lucky for us.” He sets the plate in front of me with a small flourish. On the plate is an omelet stuffed with veggies, a pile of perfectly crispy bacon and wedges of buttered toast. “All we have in the fridge upstairs is blueberry yogurt and bottled water. And ketchup.” He gives me a lopsided grin, the one that shows me his dimple and loosens the hinges in my knees, holding a fork out to me in his outstretched hand. “Neither one of us has been very focused on food lately.”
He isn’t wrong. Still, the observation makes me glad my chest is covered because it suddenly goes hot. I clear my throat and take the fork. “This looks really good,” I say, using the tine of my fork to lift the edge of the omelet. “Is there—”
“Mushrooms?” he says, leaning in close to swipe a piece of bacon from my plate. “No. You’re allergic.” He says it like he’s reminding me, chewing thoughtfully. “And the toast is sourdough. Extra butter.”
Veggie omelet with bacon and sourdough toast. Extra butter. It’s what I order when we go to Benny’s for breakfast—besides pancakes, of course.
“Are you sure Declan’s not back there?” I joke because he remembered that I’m allergic to mushrooms and that I like sourdough toast with extra butter and for a second, I can’t handle it.
I can’t handle him. How perfect he is. How beautiful. How this is all going to end as soon as he remembers he can do a hell of a lot better than someone like me.
He seems to know it too, because he backs off with a smile. “Declan’s not the only Gilroy who knows his way around a kitchen.” He shoves the rest of his bacon in his mouth and wipes his hands on the bar towel slung over his shoulder. “Finish your breakfast, I’ll be back.”
I dig in while he heads back upstairs, disappearing long enough to make me wonder—and a bit nervous—about what he’s doing. I’m halfway through my breakfast and about ready to go look for him when he comes back, hauling both of our laundry baskets down the stairs, mine balanced on top of his.
“What are you doing?” I ask, dropping my fork to slide out of my seat. “You don’t have to do my laundry.”
He drops the baskets and laughs. Really laughs. “Cari, I’ve been doing your laundry for the past six months—” he says it the same way he told me I’m allergic to mushrooms. Like he’s reminding me. “one thong at a time.”
Picking up the baskets again, he heads for the office where his uncle keeps a stackable washer and dryer. As he passes by me he pauses long enough to press a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth. “It’s still raining outside,” he says softly, reminding me again, looking straight into my eyes for a moment before he continues on his way. “Finish your breakfast,” he calls over his shoulder before he disappears into the office. I boost myself into my stool and pick up my fork.
Doing what Patrick says seems to be habit-forming.
Forty-nine
Cari
After the load of laundry is started and I’m finished with my breakfast I help Patrick clean the kitchen. Standing next to each other at the sink, he washes while I dry. It’s nice, the two of us like
this.
It won’t last. It can’t.
The thought has me bobbling the plate in my hand and he reaches out to take it from me before I drop it. Break it.
Drying the plate, he puts it with the rest of the clean dishes. “You okay?” he says, bending his knees a bit so he can look me in the eye.
“What?” I take the bar rag from his hand and turn away, pretending it’s because I want to wipe down the counters when I really want to do it get away from the way he’s looking at me. Like he can see right through me. Knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Yeah, just—are you sure your uncle is okay with us using the kitchen like this?” I lean over the prep area, wiping its spotless surface clean.
He doesn’t answer me right away and I stop what I’m doing to look at him. “Are we going to get in trouble?” I ask, looking around the kitchen, suddenly worried that we didn’t put things back the way we found them.
He grins at me and shakes his head. “Trouble?” He takes the bar towel from me and tosses it in the sink. “No. We’re not going to get in trouble for using the kitchen.” He takes my hand and pulls me through the door, toward the pool table. Letting go of my hand, he stoops to stick a key into the side of the table, releasing the balls in a loud, clanking rush. “Loser folds,” he says, straightening himself to choose a pool cue.
I’m better than the average pool player but Patrick is a shark. We both know I’m going to end up folding laundry but
I take the cue he’s offering me. “You’re on.”
An hour and three games later, Patrick dumps a basket of warm, clean laundry onto the pool table. “Get busy,” he tells me, fishing a random sock out of the pile with a shit-eating grin.
“Get busy,” I mimic him, picking up one of his T-shirts, matching its corners carefully before folding in half. He laughs at me before digging in to help me.
“No one likes a sore loser, Cari,” he tells me, folding a pair of my yoga pants.
“No one likes an asshole either,” I shoot back, arching an eyebrow at him and he laughs, tossing a sock at my face.
“You do,” he says, pointing at himself, laughing. “Exhibit A.”
We fall into another stretch of silence, sorting and folding our laundry, this one heavier than the last. He folds one of my sundresses. A pair of my underwear. I watch him, standing there bare-chested, track pants slung low on his hips—so perfect I want to cry—purposely picking my clothes from the pile so he can fold them for me. Mushrooms and toast. My favorite songs on the jukebox. Doing my laundry. It’s so normal I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating—not because he’s coming on too strong or because he’s smothering me. Because I know that sooner or later, he’s going to figure it out. That girls like me don’t belong with guys like him. That he can do better. That he is better and I don’t want to wait until I’m comfortable and secure for the other shoe to drop. I want out. I want it over. Over and done with.
“I sneak my panties into your laundry on purpose.” From the corner of my eye, I can see that my admission stalls his hands for a second.
“Sadly, touching your underwear is the highlight of my week,” he says, shooting me a lopsided grin.
Because making things worse is sorta my things, I keep talking. “I don’t forget my lunch,” I tell him, gaze focused on the Oxford I’m folding. “I leave it on purpose so you’ll bring it to me.”
The grin on his face dims a bit. “I like taking it to you.”
I snatch another one of his shirts from the pile. “I know my robe is see-through. That’s why I wear it.”
His hands go still around the pair of shorts he’s folding. “I figured.”
“I went out with Chase to make you jealous.”
I’m almost relieved when I see him drop the smile completely. “Anything else you want to get off your chest?”
Anything else? There’s plenty. I could go on for days and days about how calculating and manipulative I’ve been. A million reasons he should run from me, as far and fast as he can. “I walked in on you in the shower on purpose because I knew what you were doing.” I reach out, pluck something random from the pile in front of me. “I heard you say my name.”
He sighs, nodding his head. “Why are you doing this?” he finally says, tossing a matched pair of socks onto his pile of clothes. He looks wary, like I’m an animal who might try to bite him. “Did I say something—do something wrong?”
“I like assholes, right?” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “I must be pretty fucked up if I can only get hot for guys who treat me like shit, right?” I point at him. “Exhibit A.”
“That’s not—” It’s like I spit on him, his head jerking back on his neck, mouth slightly open like he can’t decide what to do or say next. Finally, he makes a choice. “I don’t want to do this.” He reaches out to cup my face. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”
I raise myself on my toes to press my mouth to his, reveling in the way he stiffens for a moment, like he’s not sure it kissing me back is the right thing to do. It spurs me on. Makes me bold. Slipping my tongue between his lips, I lick and tease his mouth, my hands sliding down his back, my fingers playing at the waistband of his pants, slipping inside to grip his bare ass, pulling Patrick as close as I can get him. Pushing my breasts against his bare chest, the thin cotton of my dress abrades my swollen nipples until he gives in. Groans into my mouth.
It sounds like my name.
Without breaking contact, I turn us so he’s leaning against the pool table. The movement seems to rouse him and he drags his mouth away from mine. “Wait,” he says, eyes squeezed shut, breath heavy in his chest, hands gripped around my arms to set me away. “Let’s just take a—”
I slip out of his grip and sink to my knees, snagging the elastic waistband of his track pants, taking them with me, exposing his rock-hard shaft. Before he can stop me, I reach out to wrap my hand around the base of his cock. “Cari,” he groans, a low, animal sound, half encouragement, half warning.
I ignore the warning, raising myself on my knees so I can run my tongue along the ridged line of tendon between his stomach and his pelvis and his abdominal muscles contract, flexing hard before he shutters out a curse. “This isn’t what I meant,” he growls at me. “We don’t have to—”
I run my tongue up the length of him. “You said you didn’t want to fight,” I say before taking him into my mouth, opening wide, pulling him in as deep as I can, I relax, taking deep breaths through my nose, forcing my throat to relax to accommodate his size. When I’ve taken him as deep as I can, I flatten my tongue, giving him a long, hard suck while bobbing my head, licking every inch of him I can reach while my hand does the rest, stroking and pumping against the base of his cock.
“Oh, fuck…” He shifts backward, hands braced against the side of the pool table, arms locked straight, hips flexing instinctively against the suction of my mouth. “Cari…” He leans forward a bit so he can look down at me. The second we make eye contact, his cock jerks in my mouth. “Stop,” he gasps even as one of his hands reaches down, threading through my hair to lightly cup the back of my head, encouraging me to do the exact opposite.
I don’t stop, my hand gripping and stroking his shaft while my tongue skims along the head, gathering the salty drops of pre-cum that weep from its tip. “Fuck, Cari…” he curses again, fingers tightening in my hair to pull me back, tipping my face up so I can look at him. “You’re pushing me.”
A thrill shutters through me, remembering what happened the last time I antagonized him. I want it again. To snap his self-control. To catch a glimpse of what’s lurking behind Patrick’s calm, good guy exterior. To feel it pounding into my bones. Taste it in my mouth. Hear the growl of it vibrating in his chest. Feel its echo in my own.
Gaze locked on his, I pull against the grip he has on my hair, locking my mouth around the head of his cock, pulling him slowly into my mouth
“Goddamn it,” he groans, the fingers wrapped in my hair jerk painfully tight for a second before flattening against the base of my skull, his other hand falling off the pool table, to wrap around the base of his cock.
“Suck.” The demand sounds like a curse, punctuated with a thrust of his hips that bumps the head of his cock against the back of my throat. I do was he says, licking and sucking while he fucks my mouth with short, fast thrusts.
“I’m gonna come in your mouth,” he warns me low and guttural, loosening his grip on my head so I can pull away. Instead, I wrap my free hand around the back of his thigh, pulling him closer. His harsh, ragged breathing and the wet suction of my mouth, the only sound between us.
“Cari—shit…” The hand around his cock tightens into a fist as the first thick, salty stream hits the back of my throat. I keep swallowing, each pull of my throat triggering another release until he’s gripping my head with both hands now, eyes squeezed shut, hips jerking and shuttering against me. When he’s finished, I rock back on my knees and wipe my mouth clean. I know he’s watching me, his hooded green gaze sweeping over me before settling on my lips.
Despite having just come in my mouth, he’s still hard. Like he’s nowhere near satisfied. He stares at me for a moment, his jaw tense and ticking against the clench he has on his teeth. Finally, he seems to make up his mind about something. About me and I have to lock down the part of me that wants to apologize. Take it back.
“Stand up,” he says, leaning back against the pool table to watch while I comply. As soon as I
’m on my feet he issues another order. “Take it off.”
I hesitate a fraction of a second, long enough to see another warning flash in his eyes. God help me, it makes me wet. I pull my dress over my head and drop it on the floor. The cool air hits my nipples and they stiffen instantly, my breasts growing heavy, tender beneath his hooded green glare.
Pants still around his thighs, Patrick’s reached down to wrap a hand around his cock, still wet from my mouth. He slides his hand down slowly, from head to base while I watch, transfixed. “Is this what you want?” The words are soft, his chest rising and falling slowly. Calm. Controlled.
Angry.
“Yes.” And it is, but not like this. I want what we had before—the two of us, moving together. His breath on my neck. His hands in my hair. The rain outside my window lulling me into a sense of security that won’t last. Can’t last.
This way is better. I understand it. Can control it.
Survive it once it’s gone.
Without warning, Patrick reaches for me, his fingers wrapping around my wrist to jerk me toward him, clamping a hand around my neck to bend me over the pool table while the other reaches between my legs, pushing the wet crotch of my panties to the side to press two of his fingers against their juncture. My hips jerk against the pressure of them, trying to take them in and he growls again, low in this throat. “You don’t have to make me angry, you know,” he tells me, giving me what I want, stroking his fingers so deep inside me I cry out. “If you want it rough, all you have to do is say so—I’m a nice guy, remember?” He keeps fucking me with his hand, long, fluid strokes that turn my knees to water. “I’m more than happy to accommodate.”
Without warning he pulls his hand from between my legs and wraps it around the crotch of my flimsy, lace panties. Giving his arm a quick, violent jerk, he rips them in two. “No more fucking underwear,” he growls in my ear while the hand on my neck slides down the length of my back to grip my hips, pulling them away from the pool table. I feel his fingers dig into my ass cheeks, spreading me open while he leans over me. “Say yes, Patrick,” he tells me, the head of his cock pressing against me like it has a life of its own. Like it can’t wait to get inside me.
