Unforgiven

by Anne Calhoun

  Her hands slid from his shoulder to the back of his head as he peered up to meet her gaze. “Save that for when I’m making you beg,” she said.

  Heat cracked through him. He curved one arm under her ass and around her hip to part the tender folds of her sex. Maintaining eye contact, he dipped his head and circled her clit with the tip of his tongue. On the second pass her eyelids fluttered, then closed. Her fingers slid into his hair, tightening on his skull when she couldn’t get a grip in the short strands.

  “Please,” she husked, then, “Adam.”

  His name, softly whispered, tightened like a fist around his heart, squeezing emotion into his throat and gut. He inhaled her girl scent and focused on the moment. Nothing more. She was so easy, holding nothing back as he layered pleasure with his tongue until she shuddered and cried out. When she subsided, he found his wallet on the floor, and opened it.

  No condoms. He’d used both of them up last night.

  Motherfucker.

  A stifled laugh from the woman splayed underneath him. “You should see the look on your face,” Marissa said, then reached for her nightstand and opened the top drawer. He reached inside, grabbed a strip of condoms and tore one off. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to go slowly. She winced once, but when he stopped to let her adjust, she flattened her palms at the small of his back and urged him on.

  Who knew lazy could be so intense? His strokes were thorough but gentle, no athletics, not a hint of frenzy. Just him and Marissa, in the dove gray daylight that made her pale skin glow. He watched her watch him, her lower lip caught between her teeth as the pressure climbed his shaft and spine at the same time. His heart pounded crazy-fast, wildly out of proportion to the physical effort involved, but he didn’t close his eyes, not until release pulsed at the tip of his cock. Two more slick strokes and he was the one shuddering helplessly in her arms.

  She stroked his shoulder blades, then traced her fingers up and down his spine, not seeming to mind his weight, or realize he’d shattered into little pieces in her bed. Desperately racking his brains for something casual to say, he took a deep breath and pulled out of her body to sit back on his heels, then got a good look at the clock.

  “Oh, fuck me,” he groaned.

  “What?” She struggled up on her elbows and watched him duck into the bathroom. He ditched the condom, then bent over the pedestal sink to splash water on his face. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

  “Medicine cabinet,” came through the six-paneled door. “What’s the matter?”

  He tore open the packaging like he’d once torn open an MRE after a long, brutal march, and used the thirty seconds he spent brushing his teeth to strive for calm. He dropped the green toothbrush into one of the three empty slots in the silver holder, dried his face, squared his shoulders, then opened the door.

  “I’m meeting Keith at the Heirloom at eight.”

  She quirked an eyebrow at him, then looked at the clock. “You’re going to be late.”

  “Yeah.” He grabbed his clothes from the bathroom floor and dressed. “This won’t take long. I’ll head home for work clothes, then meet you at Mrs. Carson’s in an hour, maybe less.”

  When his head emerged from the open collar of his half-buttoned shirt, she was looking at the rain coursing down the windows. “We’re not siding today,” she said.

  He couldn’t take another day in his mom’s house with nothing to do. “What are you doing today?”

  “Nothing I need help with,” she said as he yanked up his pants.

  “The paneling?”

  She pushed herself to a sitting position and pulled the covers over her bent knees to her chin, a move he knew had nothing to do with the cold. Her gaze drifted from the rain-streaked windows to the five framed pictures of her great-great-grandfather’s yacht. Picture, picture, window, picture, window, picture, picture. The photos’ frames were roughly the same size as the windows. When she lay in bed, she’d see sky and boats above the pale blue wainscoting.

  Daylight gave him a new perspective on the room. The wainscoting was painted in shifting shades of blues he recognized from hours and hours on, in, and near the ocean. The hues lightened to grays at the top of the wainscoting, then returned to blues, this time the paler colors of the sky that deepened to midnight blue near the ceiling. The room’s furniture consisted of her double bed, which really wasn’t big enough for the both of them, but he wasn’t complaining; the nightstand; a single lamp; and a bookshelf. Even from his position at the foot of the bed he could read the spines. Sailing books. Novels. Lots of nonfiction. Biographies, but not about famous politicians or celebrities. My Old Man and the Sea. Adrift: Seventy-Six Days Lost at Sea.

  Run-of-the-mill obsession all right. At least she was reading about the worst that could happen.

  “And now you’re going to be really late,” she said.

  He snagged his wallet from the floor and slid it into his cargo pants pocket. “He can wait.”

  “That’s not how things work around here,” she said. “You don’t keep Mr. Billable Hours waiting.”

  Ignoring the little dig at Keith’s occupation, he folded his arms across his chest and said, “I’m going with you.”

  “Maybe I’m not going anywhere.”

  Sure she wasn’t. The wedding was days away, and based on that conversation last night, he knew the bank president wouldn’t hesitate to add interest to her loan if she didn’t make his daughter’s wedding perfect. “Great. I can’t think of a better way to spend a rainy day than in bed with you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “It’s eight o’clock and it’s twelve minutes into town.”

  “Marissa,” he said quietly. “Please. Let me help you with the mantel.”

  Making her ask for sex was a joke, bedroom games, but he was dead serious about this. Maybe she was accustomed to doing things on her own so she didn’t have to pay a second set of hands. He’d do this for free, if she’d let him.

  Whether she was worried about Keith getting pissed off at him, or just wanted to get him out of her apartment, she nodded. “Meet me back here when you’re done in town.”

  Breath eased from him like snow falling on a still prairie. “Okay. Thanks. What’s your cell number? I can call you when I’m on my way.”

  “Don’t have one,” she said with a shrug. “Everyone I know lives in Chatham County. They know where I live, and usually where I’m working. I’m not hard to find.”

  “Okay. I’ll call here when I’m on my way.” She rattled off the phone number, the same one her father had when she was a teenager, he noticed, and he keyed it into his phone. Then he strode to the bed, dropped a kiss on her mouth, and jogged to his car through a steady downpour. He pulled into the parking lot of the Heirloom Cafe, a mere twenty minutes late, lucked into a parking spot by the door, but sat in the car for a moment. Through the big front window he could see Keith and Delaney sitting together. Their hands rested on the table between them, their fingers linked, as Delaney spoke in her measured way and Keith leaned forward to listen.

  When Delaney rose, Keith helped her with her coat, then gave her a kiss good-bye. For a split second Adam wondered how much of a relationship depended on that simple thing, a kiss good-bye in the morning, another when returning home. The daily routine he’d never forged with Delaney.

  He waited until Delaney was in her Camry before heading into the restaurant. The bell over the door tinkled prettily, and customers—including Lucas Ridgeway, sitting alone in a booth in the corner—automatically swiveled their heads to see who the newcomer was. The room quieted considerably for a few seconds, then talk resumed when Keith, dressed for his workday in a suit and tie, raised his hand in greeting.

  “Hey,” he said as Adam pulled back a chair. Two menus sat on the green checked tablecloths, Keith’s open to the skillet section. He looked Adam over quickly, then sat back and grinned. “Last night’s clothes? Nice. Anyone I know?”

  Adam pushed the menu toward the waitress who mat
erialized at the side of the table, a pot of coffee in one hand, her order pad tucked in her white apron. “Just coffee,” he said.

  “I’ll take the garden skillet, no onions, and coffee,” Keith said.

  The waitress returned with coffee and a smile for him. Keith watched her, waiting until she left before he leaned across the table. “Come on, man,” he said conspiratorially. “Who was it?”

  “Why? You’re not in the market anymore.”

  “Living vicariously, my friend. My player days are over. The ring’s basically on.”

  “This was on the floor when I got up,” Adam said. It wasn’t a lie. His clothes were on Marissa’s bathroom floor when he got up. “What’s up?”

  “You need to get fitted for your tux,” Keith said. He pulled his wallet from his suit jacket pocket and removed a card. “Here’s the address. The store is in Brookings. Go in for your fitting and make arrangements to bring them back to Walkers Ford the day before the wedding.”

  “Who else is standing up with you?”

  Keith shrugged. “A couple of guys from college, another couple from law school. It’s no big deal. You need to go to the university before classes start? Kill two birds with one stone?”

  Adam glanced at the card and recognized the store’s name embossed in black on the white business card. It was the same place Delaney wanted to use for tuxes when it was his wedding. “It’s no trouble,” he said with a shrug. “Anything else I need to handle? You want a bachelor party?”

  Keith’s gaze remained steady on his. “I wasn’t going to ask you to do anything else.”

  “You’d have done the same for me, if things had worked out.”

  “I’m sorry they didn’t,” Keith said. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

  Chatter ebbed and flowed around them as Adam met Keith’s guileless blue gaze. Adam remembered when Keith’s family moved into Chatham County. It was sophomore year of high school, and Keith, with his easy manner, quickly made friends in all the high school cliques. Jocks liked him, brains liked him, dopers liked him. Even the hard-core rebels he ran with were drawn to Keith because he seemed so far above high school. He’d graduate, go to college, go to law school, and join his father’s small-town practice. Keith took it for granted, didn’t seem to care if it happened or not. He’d sought Adam out early on, rode along on some of the craziest rides, just as easily had Adam over to play video games or to watch movies. He’d been a good friend, a solid friend, and he hadn’t been there that night. Neither had Delaney.

  One hand on the green-rimmed coffee mug, he slouched back in his chair. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?”

  “Come on,” Keith said. “Your best friend. Your ex-fiancée. It’s awkward.”

  “Multiple deployments are hard on a relationship. Lucky for Delaney she had good people around to help her pick up the pieces. Yes or no on the bachelor party?”

  Keith shook his head. “Delaney’s had weekly meetings with her bridesmaids and her mother for the last three months. They’ve all got color-coded binders. I’m keeping things low-key. Delaney doesn’t need the extra stress. Just get the tux and be at the church. It’s no big deal.”

  “In front of God and Walkers Ford, I’m standing up for your marriage. It’s a big deal to me.”

  The waitress slid a steaming platter of fried potatoes, vegetables, and shredded cheese in front of Keith. “Sure I can’t get you anything, hon?”

  “I’ll take a couple of the caramel buns to go, and two cups of coffee,” Adam said.

  “For sure,” she said and hurried behind the counter.

  “Bringing treats to your lady friend?”

  “If by ‘lady friend’ you mean my mother, then yes,” Adam said. “She loves them.”

  “Oh,” Keith said. “Hey, I know she’s made some wedding dresses, but Delaney wanted to get hers from this boutique in Minneapolis. I hope her feelings weren’t hurt.”

  His mother would have loved the opportunity to work on the couture-style wedding gown Delaney could afford, but that wasn’t an option, even when she was marrying him, not Keith. “I know,” he said. After a pause, Keith tucked into his breakfast. “I’m working on the speech.”

  “For the reception?”

  Adam nodded.

  Keith sat back. “Look, man, nobody expects you to get up in front of all of Walkers Ford and wish us a long and happy future. It’s enough that you’re there.”

  “It’s part of the best man’s job. Unless there’s some reason you don’t want me to do it.”

  The waitress arrived with a white paper lunch sack and a to-go cup of coffee that looked a little like the Starbucks cup Marissa secretly and hilariously coveted. “It’s on me,” she said as she set the bag and cup in front of Adam. “Welcome home.”

  “Ma’am, I can’t let you do that,” he started.

  “Can’t stop me, either,” she said with a smile, and hurried away.

  “Must be nice,” Keith said.

  “Yeah,” Adam said. “The perks are unbelievable.”

  Keith’s fork halted halfway to his mouth. “Hey, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know,” Adam said. He pulled a twenty from his wallet and tucked it under his coffee cup. “Email me the schedule for the rehearsal and wedding day. I’ll get fitted in the next couple of days.” He pushed back his chair and reached for the to-go coffee and caramel buns.

  “So was it Marissa?”

  The question was too casual to be casual. “What makes you think that?”

  “My amazing powers of deduction. The two of you disappeared that night at Brookhaven.”

  “That’s your evidence,” he said.

  A masculine grin flashed in Keith’s tanned face. “Why the hell not? She’s hot enough. Hotter than in high school. Got a look in her eye that tells you she’s an emotional freak show but the ride will be hot as hell. Shit taste in men.”

  “She turn you down?”

  “Twice,” Keith said without blinking an eye. “Told me to go fuck myself the second time. Girl never did like me. She liked you, though.”

  Adam looked around the restaurant. No one paid the slightest attention to their conversation. “What do you mean, ‘shit taste in men’?”

  “Her reputation’s worse than in high school,” he said. “First Chris, just like you but with an ’85 Mustang instead of the motorcycle, and just like her, all talk, no action. Then there was the stained-glass artist who did the windows in Brookhaven, then a guy from Mitchell who specialized in plaster restoration we all thought was gay, but apparently wasn’t because he was around for a while. Those were just the guys who lasted more than a night or two.” He laughed, the tone of the chuckle knowingly regretful, the way people did when they were about to say something cruel disguised as advice. “Marissa will make your bathroom or your kitchen or your sun porch look like something out of Architectural Digest, but she had a string of men teaching her what she needed to know, and she paid them the old-fashioned way.”

  A fire-breathing dragon of rage swooped up in Adam’s torso, beat leather wings at his temples, clawed under the skin of his hands and forearms. He wanted to roar, rattle the Heirloom’s windows, scorch Keith to ashes with flames and fury, but clamped down on the beast clawing and snorting fire in his chest.

  But you, old pal, didn’t have anything she thought was worth learning, did you?

  He swallowed hard because he was sitting in the Heirloom Cafe with his best friend. His best friend. Swallowed again, but the dragon stuck in his throat, sharp, bitter edges of wings and claws burning and scratching on the way down. “I’ll get the fitting done ASAP.”

  A beat passed, then Keith shrugged and said, “Thanks, man. Hey, stop by the house some night. Mom and Dad want to see you.”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “Later.” He collected the paper bag and coffee cup in his left hand and pulled his keys from his pocket as he walked away.

  Lucas stood just outside the Heirloom’s door, a cup of coffee
in one hand, his phone in the other. Adam didn’t fool himself into thinking Lucas’s seemingly relaxed attitude meant he’d missed the nuances of his conversation with Keith. “We really should get that beer sometime soon,” Lucas said, then looked up, a hint of humor in his eyes.

  Adam gave a short laugh. “Yeah. I’ll call you.”

  Back in the Charger, he stared bemusedly at his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. He shook out his hands, felt the muscles and tendons ease slightly. When the acid crawling up his esophagus receded, he started the car and turned into Main Street traffic, heading for home.

  His mother was dressed for work in slacks and a blouse in a shade between green and blue. She didn’t say anything when he walked into the kitchen, but the relief was clear on her face. “Hi, Mom,” he said, then held out the white bag.

  She took the bag and gave him a wry smile. “Time was, you’d sneak out, come through that door, hungover and reeking of cigarette smoke after I’d been to church without you, and ask me what was for supper.”

  He’d been hell on his mother from the time he could walk until his induction into the Marine Corps, maybe the only institution short of prison that could have disciplined the wild streak out of him. “That’s breakfast,” he said.

  “One for you and one for me,” she said as she peeked in the bag.

  He’d intended them both for her, one for now and one for later, but thought better of it. “Let me get a shower first,” he said and headed into her sewing room to grab cammies, boots, and a thick USMC sweatshirt from his duffle. The light was on over the sewing machine, and fabric spread out on the cutting table with a dress pattern half-pinned to it. “I’m heading out again in a few minutes,” he said as he emerged from the bedroom.

  “Where are you going?”

  Her tone was curious, not judgmental. “I’m going to help Marissa get the pieces she needs to repair the mantel at Brookhaven,” he said.

  She smiled. “That’s nice of you, sweetie.”