by Freya Barker
“He was stationed on the USS Cole,” I offer when I get back from the kitchen with a couple of beers. Her eyes looking up at me are bright and luminous, and also brimming with tears. Fuck.
“He was ... I mean ... did he die in the bombing? I remember you mentioning the year.”
“Yeah. He never saw it coming,” I volunteer, before quickly adding, “so they tell me.” I’m not ready to tell my part of it. Not yet.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, not shying back from revealing her emotions to me. So fucking strong. The look on her face shows the hurt she feels for me. It makes it easier for me to let the mask fall from my own face, and I don’t hesitate to let her pull me down beside her and wrap her arms around me. This is intimacy at its best and at its scariest. Something pretty alien to me, but from what I can tell, it’s no less strange to Viv. Somehow that makes it less scary.
“Thank you,” I mumble in her hair. “I’m sorry, too. So very sorry.”
We sit wrapped around each other for a while, when the oven timer goes off. With a kiss to the top of her head, I untangle myself and make my way into the kitchen.
“Damn that looks good,” Viv, who followed me in, says over my shoulder as I pull the dish out of the oven. It does. The simple meal of sautéed onions, ground beef, black pepper and potatoes mashed together, becomes something entirely different once baked in the oven. A crisp, golden-brown crust and the blending of the simple flavors turns into something rich and hearty. Most of the work is in preparing the fresh applesauce which, according to my mother, is the only proper accompaniment. I find myself smiling at the memory when I’d once asked her why we didn’t just eat the applesauce that came in a jar. It actually earned me a lick around the ears.
“Takes about as long to peel a few apples, throw in a cinnamon stick and letting it simmer until softened, as it does to get the damn lid off those jars,” was her indignant response. She would’ve been mortified at the easy meals I often buy for myself.
“Tastes even better.” I smile at Viv, gesturing for her to take a seat at the table while I set out the food.
“Oh my God,” she mumbles through a mouthful. “I’m gonna have to steal this recipe. It’s perfect for the pub’s Thursday specials.”
Over dinner, the conversation is easy and light, but once we have the dishes in the dishwasher and a pot of coffee percolating in the kitchen, the silence stretches heavily. I managed to lure Viv onto the wide chaise with me and comfortably tuck her into my side, letting her take the lead on any conversation. It doesn’t take long until she opens with a question.
“How did you know?” she asks, not looking me in the eye.
There’s no reason for me to feign ignorance, so I’m as honest as I can be. “You flinch when anyone calls you Vivvy. You mentioned not having had dreams since you turned fifteen and that seemed pretty significant. I could tell something had happened, but I wasn’t sure at first, until I noticed the way you call your mother, Mom, when you talk about her, but you only call your father, Dad, when you speak to him directly. At any other time you talk about your father. I figured you’d had a major falling out when you hit puberty at first, but then little things started pointing in a different direction.” While I’m talking, she slowly lifts her head and tilts it back to look at me. I cradle her face in my hand and with my thumb wipe away the silent tear rolling over her cheek. “He molested you. Your own father.” I stop and swallow hard, emotion starting to clog my throat, as her head slowly nods against my hand. “A house full of people and no one knew.” At that, her face tightens.
“I tried,” she bites off through clenched teeth. “I started telling Mom when she chewed me out one day when I refused to go for a family dinner. I ran off to my room and she followed me. Demanded to know why I’d become so difficult, but when I started telling her, she cut me off. Told me not to blame my behavioral problems on someone else. I simply said I didn’t like him coming into my room every night—that he made me uncomfortable. I was afraid to say anything more when she wagged her finger in my face, telling me I should be ashamed for creating drama where there was none. Said I should be grateful for growing up with such a loving father and doting brothers. Called me an ungrateful brat.” She chokes out a sob, but behind the tears in her eyes anger shines through.
“How long?” I carefully ask and am almost surprised when she doesn’t ask clarification but seems to clue in effortlessly.
“Two years,” she whispers, shame now staining her cheeks with a fiery red. “I was almost seventeen when Nolan came in late from a date and saw him coming out of my room. He looked right past my father at me, I was crying, had the sheet clutched to my chest. He asked what was going on, but his eyes kept staring at me. My father told him I’d had one of my nightmares and had woken him up, but I could tell Nolan didn’t really believe him. I didn’t say anything, I just shook my head. The opportunity was right there, but I kept my mouth shut.”
I shift my hand so I can tilt her head. “Not your fault,” I tell her simply.
“But I could’ve—”
With a sharp shake of my head I cut her off. “Not. Your. Fault. Whatever you’ve told yourself over the years, you bear no responsibility for anything that happened to you.”
Her almost imperceptible nod shows me it’s not the first time she’s heard this.
“Pam tell you that, too?”
She snorts in response. “In no uncertain terms.”
“I bet. What else did she say?”
A slight sparkle lights up her eyes as she turns her body slightly, so her torso is draped over my chest. “She said I should stick close to you.”
“Wise woman,” I say, sliding my hands down her back to the back of her legs and pulling her up to straddle me.
“I don’t want to talk anymore.” Viv pushes slightly off my chest and tilts her head to one side, sporting a little mischievous grin.
“You sure?” I want to know, a bit hesitant to get physical considering the topic of conversation we just abandoned.
“I’m sure,” she says firmly. “I want to feel good, and you do an excellent job of making me feel good.”
“Hmmm, I have some thoughts on how to do that.” I slide one of my hands up her back and push her down toward me, reaching up to slide my mouth over hers. Despite the earlier heavy subject matter, she seems eager to slide her tongue in my mouth, and just like that all the blood rushes from my brain to my cock. With our mouths fused, our breaths tangling, and our tastes blending, it doesn’t take long before the heat between us spikes. With both our hands exploring, it’s a matter of minutes before pieces of clothing start coming off. First my shirt, then hers; her naked breasts rubbing against my bare chest feels so fucking amazing, it makes the hair on my arms stand on end. The slight scrape of her fingernails across my skin, skimming my shoulders and down my back, the perfect balance of pleasure and pain. A moan slips from my mouth as soon as her lips pull back from mine.
“I want to see you,” she says, sitting back and trailing the tips of her fingers through the hair on my chest. A little flick of her fingernails over my nipples has me hiss in a breath. I’m fighting the urge to take over, but I don’t want to interrupt the control she is taking. Instead, I lay my head back against the seat and simply watch her. Every thought and feeling clearly visible in her face. The light tip of her mouth when she sees my body react to her touch. The dilation of her pupils and faint flaring of her nostrils as she tentatively slides her hands up and runs her fingers through the beard that has grown in the past few weeks. Finally when she follows the trail of hair from my chest down to the waistband of my jeans, the tip of her tongue appears between her full lips. The red blush that starts between her breasts and covers her chest and neck, a testament to her state of arousal.
Fuck it. With a twist of my body, I have her flipped onto her back. One tug and her pants and panties are down her legs. I lift one of her feet from the tangle around her ankles and push her legs wide open to my view. Swollen and s
lick, her pussy is damn near irresistible. So why the hell bother trying? Slipping her legs over my shoulders, I slide off the couch and to my knees. There is no teasing, just my mouth latching onto her core, tongue searching for and finding entrance. Letting the scent and taste of her permeate my senses. Fucking delicious. My nose gently slides from side to side over her clit, which has her bucking her hips for maximum friction. She’s already close from the sound of her moans, so I ease back, letting my fingers take the place of my tongue and my lips settle over the hard little nerve bundle. All it takes is a little twist of my wrist to reach that soft spot deep inside her, as I suck her clit into my mouth, and Viv falls apart.
Before the walls of her pussy even stop massaging my fingers, I pull them out as I guide my body up and over hers, and slide inside her still pulsing body.
-
By the time we are curled up in my bed, it is two hours and a couple of orgasms later and the coffee has long gone cold in the pot.
“What’s that little statue?” her sleep-heavy voice mumbles against my chest. My eyes move to the little blue figure of a siren I picked up a few weeks ago, sitting on my nightstand.
“That’s my siren.”
She lifts her head off my chest to give it a long look before finding my eyes. “She’s lovely.”
I gently urge her head down to rest on my chest and press a kiss to her forehead before I answer.
“That she is, my love. That she is.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Viv
“Need a pick up?”
Owen doesn’t waste any time on hello, but as is his custom, gets right to the point.
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m meeting with my brothers and Mom at the house in an hour to discuss my parents’ situation. Not something I’m looking forward to. Not because it’s likely we’ll have to suggest selling the house to finance some of my father’s care; I think Mom knows it’s inevitable. She’s mentioned before she wouldn’t mind downsizing. No, I have butterflies going rampant in my stomach because I have to tell her, Aaron, and Nolan about Frank. I’m afraid it won’t be pleasant.
Pam gave me a good boost yesterday morning, after carefully helping me talk through the events that led up to the first time my father crossed the line. I was shocked to find it was much earlier than that fated night of my fifteenth birthday. I’d been eight years old, and he made it a habit to bring me some hot milk before he went to bed. Something that had lingered after I’d had a bout of night terrors a year or two before. He could always calm me down enough to be able to fall asleep again. The routine of him bringing me a hot drink a few hours after I’d gone to bed, helped me overcome the fear of going to sleep. I had gotten into the habit of waking up around the time he’d come upstairs. The milk and his soothing words helped me settle into a deep sleep through the night.
That night, when I was only eight, he’d pulled down the blankets and had run his hands over my shoulders and down my arms. Told me what a big girl I was growing up to be as he slipped up my pajama top and ran his fingers over the tiny little bumps of my nipples. I recalled him saying how it was a father’s responsibility to look after his little girl and make sure she grew up to be a woman the whole family could be proud of. I never thought anything of it. Never had cause to distrust the man, who for years had made sure I could sleep without fear. It was right there, not at fifteen, but already at eight that the lines between wrong and right started getting blurred. Before I even had a chance to learn the difference between the two.
The shock at that revelation made me even angrier, and Pam called a halt to that topic, claiming I’d had enough for the day. She was right. After giving me some tips on how to handle this morning’s conversation, I was emotionally exhausted and glad to lose myself in the demands of yesterday’s crowd at The Skipper. Saturdays are always good for business, especially with the patio open, and time just flew by. Ike came by, and I chatted off and on with him during the night. Nothing too revealing. Not until he walked me home and I asked him to stay.
I could tell from the tension in his body, he was struggling to hold on to his anger when I told him about what had become clear to me that morning. I have to hand it to him, he held whatever he was thinking to himself and simply listened. Only spoke up when I mentioned I was nervous about opening up to my family about one thing, but not yet the other. He offered to come with me, to be my back up. At first I turned down his offer, but after a decent night’s sleep in his arms, I changed my mind.
“No need,” I tell Owen. “Ike is coming with me.”
The silence on the phone is deafening. If I’m honest, it’s not really a surprise my announcement doesn’t go over well. Owen’s first introduction to Ike is not one he’ll likely forget.
“Why? Does he think he needs to protect you? From us? We’re your fucking family, we protect you. He sounds like a controlling asshole, Viv. Probably not much different from that other loser you picked.”
I let him rant, knowing that if I opened my mouth now, it would be to blurt out that my so-called family was nowhere to be found when I needed their protection.
“Is that your brother?” Ike walks into the kitchen and points at the phone I’m holding away from my ear. Every word Owen is spouting is clearly audible, and from the tight look on Ike’s face, he’s less than impressed. “Want me to deal with him?” he asks with a set jaw. I just shake my head and give him a small smile in thanks.
The moment I hear a break in the angry monologue, I get back on the phone. “You done?” I ask coldly and am met with silence. “I hope you are, because I need you to hear this: Ike has my back, because I asked him to have my back. This is the last time you get to go off on him, because you go there again and I will disown you so fast, you won’t know what hit you.” I can hear him muttering on the other end but I don’t give him a chance to respond. “As for the low opinion you apparently have of me, given the shit you just threw at me, I promise you, you will eat your goddamn words one of these days.” With that I hang up and brace my hands on the counter. I feel Ike walk up behind me and slide his arms around my waist, tucking my back tight against his front.
“So fucking proud of you, babe. You were right, you don’t need me to deal with him. I wouldn’t have been able to do a better job.” His voice is low and gruff as he buries his face in my neck.
I slowly turn in his arms and he immediately lifts them to cup my face in his hands. I can feel his breath brush over my face as he softly rubs my nose with his. “You’re good for me,” I mumble. “Too good. I’m just waiting for you to run out the door screaming. My life is such a mess, I don’t know why you put up with it.”
“Shut up.” The words are crass but his tone holds nothing but kindness. “I’m forty-two years old and have been allergic most of my adult life to anything resembling a relationship. I tried not to let you matter, but you did from the moment I watched you sling beers that first night. Couldn’t believe my fucking luck when I put my mouth on you and felt your body respond. Only reason I let you go that first morning was because I was hanging tight to the no-strings method I’d been applying to any encounters I’d had to that point. I just didn’t realize I was already too far gone.” He kisses me softly, stroking his thumbs over my jaw. “I can’t throw a switch and turn off the feelings you bring out, my love. It just doesn’t work that way.”
It’s the second time I hear him call me that. First time was last night, just before I drifted off. I had dismissed it then as a slip of the tongue. A platitude, if you will. Hearing it from his mouth again, in this context, suddenly registers. He really fucking cares about me. He doesn’t seem to see the mistakes I’ve made—the coward I’ve been—or perhaps he just doesn’t care. He sees me for who I am. I press a grateful kiss on his lips.
“Thank you for that. For the record, I can’t throw the switch either. And I wouldn’t want to.”
Ike
The drive to her parents’ house is quiet, both of us deep in thought. When I notice Viv
wringing her hands in her lap, I reach out and cover them with mine.
“Nervous?”
“Terrified,” was the quiet answer.
When we pull up to the house, we have to park on the street, since the driveway is full. At least it’s good for a quick getaway. Looks like all the brothers are here already, and one I haven’t met yet, pulls open the door when we approach. With an eyebrow raised he pointedly looks at my hand, holding tight to Viv’s.
“You must be Nolan,” I decide to take the wind from his sails. Successfully, judging by the flash of surprise on his face.
“You have an advantage here. You seem to know exactly who I am, but I have no clue who you are.”
Ah. A challenge, and one I don’t even have to touch, because Viv instantly gets in his face.
“Knock it off, Nolan. I’m not some fire hydrant you need to piss on to mark your territory. Pretty sure the others have filled you in on exactly who this is, so back off.”
Apparently amused by his sister’s vehemence, he lifts his hands in a defensive gesture. “Whoa, little sister, no need to take my head off.” Then he turns to me and sticks one of them out. “You must be Ike. I’ve gotta say, I’m surprised you let my sister fight your fights for you.”
I shrug my shoulders and put a smile on my face as I stare him down. “I wasn’t aware I was fighting. Besides, I love seeing her in action.”
“Okay, knock it off, you two,” Viv interrupts. “We’ve got better things to do than to shoot the shit in the doorway.” With that she steps into the house, pulling me behind her, her hand squeezing the blood from mine. The whole scene gives me a first-hand look at how she covers up her fears and insecurities with her tough exterior.
In the dining room, Viv’s mother and other brothers are seated already, and a pretty brunette walks in from the kitchen with a tray. Setting it down on the table, she immediately reaches a hand to me.
