by Brynne Asher
I take a step, closing the small distance she created when she dropped my arm. “You’ve got to like one processed food, Maya. No one is that hardcore. You might want to be the picture of health to the rest of the world, but you can tell me. I promise we’ll get back to the torture, but throw me a bone—something.”
Tipping her head, she mulls it over a second before she finally sighs and fesses up. “Fritos.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised, but after two days of harassing her about food, I didn’t actually expect her to say anything. “Fritos?”
“Yes, but not the regular ones, the Flamin’ Hot ones. Are you happy now? Can we finish?” she asks, frustrated.
I don’t even try to keep from smirking when the words fly out of my mouth. “You like it hot.”
As she shakes her head ignoring me, her hands return and I get her touch back. I thought about taking my shirt off before she got here so I could really enjoy it, but I didn’t want to look like a freak. I know I’m definitely toeing that line by hanging around her at work for hours. She doesn’t even know I’ve been stalking her on the surveillance system.
“Your range is improving already,” she says, lifting my arm with one hand while her other is warm on my side.
“Hot Tamales?” I keep on. Since I can’t take my eyes off her face, I get to watch her immediately grin, her beautiful features more relaxed with me than they’ve ever been.
She keeps ignoring me and I lose her touch when she moves to her bag, pulling out an enormous rubber band. She ties one end to the knob of the closet door. “Come here.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. When I get to her, I let her position me because that means I get her hands back.
“Hold this,” she instructs. “I want you to lift from the side, but when you lower your arm, do it slowly. Let those muscles constrict on the way down, too.”
“Mexican food? Spicy Chinese?” I keep on as I lift my arm as high as I can, letting her direct me on how slow to release.
“You’re relentless.” She smiles without looking away from me. Stepping back, she keeps up her torture. “Do twenty of those.”
“Twenty? You like it hot and painful. You’re into some weird shit, Maya,” I tease, hoping to get her to smile again.
I get my reward because she does, and it’s beautiful. Her eyes flare as she does her best not to laugh when she asks, “What’s your last name?”
“Cain, why?” I’m only a third of the way through her reps, and I can’t lie, it’s uncomfortable.
She crosses her arms, looking up at me, her smile genuine. “Grady Cain. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
I look down into her light blue eyes, and enjoy her sincere expression. “It’s because you’re into the pain. Stick with me, I’ll show you how hot can feel good. But if you really need pain with your spice, I’ll do my best.”
I’m almost done with my reps, and as much as it’s starting to burn, it doesn’t keep me from enjoying the blush creeping up her face. Even with her blush, she doesn’t sound embarrassed when she shifts her weight and counters, “I’ve definitely never met anyone like you.”
I finish, letting out a breath of relief, but she doesn’t let me enjoy it for long.
“Now, stand facing the door and do the same thing but pull backward. Then we’ll do the opposite with your back to the door and you can pull forward.”
I turn to face the door and mutter, “Maybe I got you all wrong. I think you’re into inflicting pain on others. When do I get to feel good?”
“Trust me.” She tips her head and crosses her arms, leaning her shoulder into the wall to sit back and watch. “It’ll pay off in the end.”
I look out of the corner of my eye, and don’t lie when I say, “It better.”
She laughs, and I can’t disagree. So far with her, the pain has been worth it.
*****
Maya –
I just got back from a much needed run.
After Grady’s PT session, I can’t remember the last time I’ve needed to run so badly. I’ve been running since middle school. Like everything I ever took an interest in, my mother didn’t mess around.
When I chose to play the flute in the school band, normal school classes weren’t good enough for me. My mother hired a flutist from the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra to give me private lessons twice a week, not to mention all the hours she forced me to practice. Attaining first chair and keeping it all four years at my private high school was no problem. She made sure I was the best. The scholarship offers were proof enough.
I was in the seventh grade when I received some lame award for writing the most creative story and she knew I was going to be the next Hemingway. Many, many hours of creative writing lessons later, I finally rebelled. That hokey award was just that, hokey, not to mention a fluke. I sucked at writing and refused to continue.
Before that it was piano, voice lessons, gymnastics, ballet, and Latin.
It was my gym teacher in the eighth grade who pulled me aside and asked if I had an interest in track and field. I’d never thought about it, but after he called the high school coach to check out my skills—it was on. It took one call to my parents from the coach, and quicker than I could pass a baton, I had a private trainer three days a week for the next five years.
It’s amazing what money can buy you. As a freshman, I placed first in two events at the state tournament. I only got better from there and the scholarships came rolling in, not only for the flute, but also track and field. At the time, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. My mother finally pushed me into something I loved.
Being a runner has an addictive quality. If I go too long without my feet hitting the ground, I don’t feel right. Even after college, it was a great way to work out my frustrations, and there were many.
But tonight, my frustrations are of a different variety.
After Grady spoke to me in a way no one has before, I needed to run. I’ve never had the luxury of thinking about another man, not when the only one in my life oppressed me from the young age of sixteen. He might not have been outwardly oppressive and controlling until a few years ago, but when I look back on it, it was there. All the signs I didn’t know to see because I was young and infatuated—I thought I was in love. It didn’t help that our mothers basically set us up for a long, happy, privileged life. Hell, I’m sure they thought they’d have grandbabies by now.
Somehow, as the years passed, it didn’t feel right. That’s when things started to fall apart, because not only did I get pressure from him, but from his family and my mother, as well. I’d hit my breaking point. I was done. It was over, damn the consequences. And the consequences were as big as they could be.
Warm from my hot shower, I pull on a tank with my favorite lounge pants. I’ve got music going from the small TV Addy provided when I moved in.
I still can’t believe my luck, happening upon Addy and Whitetail. I needed a place to settle and some income. I’d blown through all the cash I was able to withdraw before I left. No way have I chanced using a credit card. They’d find me in a flash.
The extra job and furnished place to live was like a miracle when I needed it most. It’s private here and I finally feel somewhat safe. Not completely, but it’s more than I’ve felt in a long time.
Right when I was about to make something to eat, there’s a knock at my door. It’s not late, but it’s late for anyone who’d knock on my door here at Whitetail.
Morris comes by every once in a while to check on things at my bungalow. His wife, Bev, stops by a couple times a week if she’s made too much for dinner, insisting it will go to waste. These plates of leftovers are always hot and
right out of the oven. Deep down, I know these meals aren’t extra food, but just her excuse for trying to take care of me, and that feels good.
All my lights are on—it’s going to be hard to make an excuse not to answer with the TV going. I go to the window and lift a slat to peek through the wood blinds I keep closed tight all the time. I see a car I don’t recognize—a midsize sedan—pulled up to the small porch, parked right next to mine.
Another knock, but this one’s more insistent. Damn, I wish I had a peephole.
It’s been months, I need to quit freaking out and making things out of nothing. In the beginning, I swear my mind played tricks on me everywhere I went.
More knocking.
Trying to talk myself into being rational instead of the hyper-paranoid freak I’ve turned into over the last few months, I go to my purse and grab my prepaid cell, just in case.
When I flip the deadbolt and turn the lock, the knocking immediately halts. I barely crack the door and look through, when my heart drops.
Fuck!
“Maya, wait.”
But I don’t wait. I use all my might to slam the door, but he’s faster and stronger. He always was.
He catches the door and pushes.
“No!” I scream, but it doesn’t matter. I’m in the middle-of-nowhere Virginia, no one will hear me.
“I need to talk to you,” he hisses.
He wants to talk, my ass. It always starts with him talking.
I made it months without them finding me. Even though it seems like forever some days, there are others where it still feels like I only left yesterday. When I escaped, I had no idea what I was doing. I guess I should be happy it lasted this long, but there’s no fucking way I’m going back, much less back to the way things were. Over my dead body—literally—will I return to that life. I’ll shout it from the rooftops if I have to, and I’ll enjoy every second of it, knowing it’ll be my demise.
Now that he’s here, knowing he’ll never leave me be, I have no choice but to face him head-on. I open the door halfway, the cold air from the December night flooding through me in my minimal state of dress, but nothing chills me like seeing him again. Standing on the porch of my bungalow, he’s a completely different person than he was the day I met him all those years ago.
Weston was eighteen, only two years older than me. It was at a political fundraiser my parents were hosting for a state senator, and he came with his family. Weston was young, handsome, charming, and sweet. Even though he was off to college the next month, it didn’t matter—he ensnared me in his web. Being young and oh-so stupid, I never fought it. I did all I could to wrap myself up tight in him.
He’s even taller now, and has always taken care of himself. He’s built, and would be incredibly handsome to any female. But not to me. Not any longer. Over the last couple years, his beauty has grown ugly. Standing before me, staring at me with his deep brown eyes, his perfect wavy black hair, with his perfect bone structure, and framed by his perfect mouth—he’s never been uglier.
“I never want to talk to you again, Weston.” I seethe, trying to calm my voice, yet still giving away the fact my heart is racing out of control.
He looks down at me while keeping his hand on the door to hold it open. “We have to talk. Everyone is worried about you.”
“How did you find me?” I need to know where I went wrong.
“It doesn’t matter.” He softens his voice in a way I know is a crock of shit. “All that matters is we found you and you’re okay. Your family misses you—I miss you, Maya. It’s time to put this behind us and come home.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” I somehow find a way to strengthen my voice. Weston shifts closer, but I put my hand to his chest and push. “You’re not coming in. You need to leave.”
“Maya,” his voice tightens. “We can work this out. I thought we were until you left. Let me make it right for us. I can do that if you give me the chance.”
“Right. I’m not young, stupid, or naïve anymore.”
He can’t hide his frustration, he never could for long. Controlling his emotions isn’t his strong suit, so when the next words pass his lips, they’re harsh, abrasive, and curt, just like he’s proven to be. “This shit is getting old. It’s time to come home and get over your fit.”
My fit?
Fuck him. How dare he describe my cutting things off from him, his family, and even mine for that matter, as a fit, after what happened. But just when I was about to lose it, I hear a familiar voice. “Maya?”
Weston jerks, surprised by the voice coming from out of nowhere. He turns, dropping his arm from my door, giving me a clear view of Grady standing close. In our heated conversation, we didn’t even hear his approach. Between all the rock, gravel, and twigs lying about, it’s usually impossible to make a move without causing a ruckus.
Grady glances Weston as if he’s an animal at the zoo he’s grown bored of looking at because he’s seen him a million times. He doesn’t appear surprised to see a man standing on my porch, nor does he feel the need to explain his presence, appearing out of nowhere, and at this moment of all times.
But I don’t dwell on any of this. I’ve been found and I know what that means, it was clearly explained to me before I left. According to them, I have two choices. Conform and accept the truths that were hidden from me for years—or be considered a liability, that being worst of the consequences. But it doesn’t matter—conforming and accepting will never be an option.
I decide to create a new option for myself, that being delay the inevitable.
Looking up into Grady’s inquisitive blue eyes, I do the only thing I can think of at the moment, even though it’s a risk. I reach out to grab Grady’s hand on his good arm so as not to hurt his shoulder. The moment my skin touches his, he quickly wraps his hand around mine, and I don’t have to work hard to pull him to me. He comes willingly, but when I grasp his sweatshirt in my other fist, his eyes flare with surprise for only me to see. I don’t get to contemplate them long because I surge up on my toes, pressing my body to his firm one, and put my lips on his.
I barely have a chance to put my plan into motion when I feel a big hand in my wet hair and his strong arm round my lower back. Where I only planned on giving him a quick peck to get Weston off my doorstep, Grady has turned my intended brush of the lips into a kiss for the ages.
My back arches. As his strong arm pulls me close, and grasping my wet hair, he tips my head. I immediately open my mouth for him and he answers, his tongue dipping inside as his lips move on mine.
My body, which has reacted to Grady in so many ways the last few days, does something it’s never done. Since I’ve met this man, he’s made me nervous, excited, frustrated, and even tingle. But right now, the impossible happens. While being kissed by only the second man in my life while the first one watches—I relax.
I simply melt.
“What the fuck?”
Even Weston’s irate tone doesn’t affect me.
Grady pulls back enough to look into my eyes with his intense ones. “You okay?”
I tell him the truth, plus some, hoping he gets the message because I need him to play along to buy some time. “I am now that you’re home.”
His face doesn’t change, he gives nothing away, but I do get a squeeze before he murmurs, “Good.”
“Who are you?” Weston demands.
I get another quick kiss from Grady before he turns, but doesn’t let me go. He pulls my front into his side and I’m tucked under his good shoulder. He holds me tight, and it not only feels good, but he’s warm, and I just realized I’m freezing from standing here in the night air with hardly anything on.
Grady looks down at me and sounds bored when he tips his head toward Weston. “Who’s this guy?”
“Weston MacLachlan. Remember, I told you about him?” My heart beats rapidly, hoping this goes well enough to get Weston off my porch so I can really figure out what to do next.
“Ah.” Grady nods as if we’ve had many lengthy discussions about Weston. “You said he was a pain in the ass, now I see what you mean.”
“Get your hands off my fiancée,” Weston growls before looking at me. “Maya, what the fuck?”
My body tenses and I tell Weston what I tried to tell him for months. “I’m not your fiancée and haven’t been for more than a year now.”
“You are,” Weston insists. “Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s a phase. You’ll get over it when I get you home where you belong.”
“You were being nice, baby.” Surprised by his endearment, I look up, but Grady is staring at Weston. “He’s a bigger pain in the ass than you let on.”
I know Weston well, and he’s getting close to losing it. That’s never a fun experience. “I’m not going to tell you again, asshole. Get your hands off my fiancée.”
“She said she’s not yours,” Grady counters.
“She is,” Weston growls.
Grady, who’s remained cool, calm, and collected, shrugs, as if he couldn’t give a shit. “Well, that’s gotta be weird for you then, seein’ as I’m sleeping with your fiancée.”
Oh, shit. That was not a part of my plan.
Weston’s whole body goes rigid, and just when I think this could get really bad, another voice joins our fray. “Everything okay, Maya?”
I have to crane my neck to see him since Grady has me tucked tight to his side, but it’s Crew. He might’ve been talking to me, but he’s staring straight at Weston.
I open my mouth to speak, but Grady gives me a squeeze and answers, “We’re good. Although, it’s getting late and we’d like to get to bed, but this guy won’t leave.”
Crew stands with his arms loose at his sides, relaxed, yet weirdly focused. “Who’s this?”
