Something Else

by Nia Farrell

  Anna still has Nico one evening a week on music writing night, but the rest of the time, he’s pretty much mine. He is immensely likable. Smart. Witty. Intuitive. Charming when he wants to be social. Quiet when he needs to be alone. He’s an artist, after all. Introspective and occasionally riddled with angst. His element is air, to feed my fire and stir my water. Like the atmosphere and the cosmos beyond that, he has layers and layers still waiting to be explored.

  His body and face are things of beauty but his hands are what tempt me and intrigue me the most. Large, strong, and capable, they are conduits of electricity, tenderness, and talent. It turns out, he made the flute that he brought to the Irish festival, a custom order that he was delivering to the guy vending Irish whistles near the main stage. Nico crafts, plays, records, and occasionally performs.

  I love to listen. I love even more to watch him dance at powwows. In turn, I do my Irish step-dancing for him, less to keep in practice than in hopes the sight of my bouncing B-cups will crack his defenses and break him free long enough to get down and dirty with me before the wall goes back up.

  So far, no luck.

  This Saturday, we’re doing a one-day holistic fair at a nearby community center. It’s small, sponsored by a New Age shop whose merchandise will dominate the first bank of tables inside the door. Spaces are at least affordable, allowing us to come away with cash in hand instead of losing money after expenses—gas and hotel and prohibitive vendor fees. For twenty-five dollars each plus ten percent of sales, Nico will have a booth with his CDs and flutes, and I’ll be one of the readers.

  Setup takes us half an hour, once we’ve checked in at the registration table and found our spaces. We’ve done this enough to have it down to a fucking science. The weather is a bit cool and the forecast calls for light rain, which means people will be looking for something to do indoors. Attendance is good, and the chair opposite me stays warm. During one reading, I recognize a tune carried by the PA system and smile to hear Nico’s performance. He’ll spend half an hour away from his booth, but the resulting sales are well worth it.

  The thirty-minute hourglass sands run out. My client leaves. For once, no one is standing, waiting, giving off vibes of impatience that would disrupt a reading if I didn’t shield my booth. It doesn’t take a witch to do that kind of stuff, just a basic understanding of energy work. Indulging myself, I close my eyes and smile. For a long, stolen moment, I get lost in Nico’s music.

  I open my eyes to meet his. Intense, curious, bemused, as dark and deep as the winter solstice night. His black eyes are the same shade as the length of his careless mane of hair, the unholy thickness of his long curling eyelashes, and his three-day-old growth of facial hair—the kind of beard that, Anna tells me, is optimum for eating pussy and will absolutely drive a woman wild.

  He’s tall. Six-four, I guess, mentally comparing him to a boyfriend from college who was about as useless as my degree in English. Four years of higher education just to work at a bookstore. At least there’s an opportunity to turn people on to good literature.

  Right now, he’s turning me on, with his leather biker’s jacket, leather pants, scuffed motorcycle boots, and caramel cheeks still ruddy from his early November ride. He looks part white, part Hispanic. Earthy as a fallen angel and just as elemental, built like a cage fighter and all Alpha male.

  He stands there for a long, promising moment, opens his jacket to reveal the bag of takeout food he’s smuggled in, and offers a half-smile of regret. I’m not big on begging God for anything but all I can think is: Please don’t let him belong to someone else.

  A pimple-faced teenager plops in the chair, a rude but timely interruption. I offer my Latino angel a consolation prize. “Later?” I breathe, speaking too softly to be heard above the noise of the crowd and Nico’s music but trusting that he’ll feel it anyway.

  Please come back and find me. Find us.

  Somehow I make it through the reading. The kid has some serious shit headed his way unless he changes things. His choice, but I gain satisfaction knowing that I’ve given him fair warning. It’s the same thing his parents have been telling him, but where he’s been tuning them out, he actually listens to me. He’s carrying over enough karma without adding to it, although I don’t tell him that. I want to, but a whisper in my ear tells me no, that he’ll learn on his own when the time comes. Hopefully in a kinder, gentler way.

  With the appearance of my Latino angel, I feel the shift in my own energy, like he’s a generator crystal that’s amplified every sense, common or otherwise. My zipped perceptions are razor sharp, dead-on accurate, and delivered with lightning speed. When half-hour readings go to twenty minutes, I start giving discounts and the line never ends, not until the ten-minute warning that the fair doors will be closing soon.

  At five p.m., one of the New Age shop assistants starts walking the aisles, clearing the crowd and the room’s energy with a ringing pair of Tibetan tingshas. I smile my thanks when she manages to herd the last hopeful from my queue. I smile bigger yet when I see that my angel has returned.

  “Hi,” I say, sounding rather shy for someone who’s had no problem all day, delving deep into other people’s lives and issues.

  His lips tuck upward. He nods his head toward the back of the room. “I promised my cousin that I’d help her. Lena says it’ll take an hour.”

  Lena. Pretty face, rocking bod, bedroom hair, tats. Amazing silver jewelry and unique leather goods. “I like her.” Actually, I envy her. I have gifts, but Lena has the skills to make her visions a reality. It’s what sets her stuff apart.

  “She’s got to get home. Sick kid,” he explains. “Daddy’s challenged enough when Ariana’s a healthy two-year-old. I’ll be free once Lena’s on the road. Will you be around? I can meet you somewhere. We could grab a bite to eat. Talk. If not tonight, then later.”

  Déjà vu. Six months ago, I’d said nearly the same things to Nico.

  I suggest O’Toole’s, two blocks east. “Do you know it?”

  He nods grudgingly, clearly not a fan of the Irish pub. Sensitive to his inner turmoil, I offer an alternative. “Or Jerry’s?” It’s a local bar and grill, edgier than a sports bar and just shy of a biker bar.

  God, his smile. I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  “Jerry’s,” he says. “In an hour or so.”

  I’m still processing when Nico comes to check on me. He’s moved our vending van and already has his stuff loaded.

  I’ve done almost squat.

  “Hey.” He touches me, sliding his darker fingers up my ivory arms until they reach my elbows. When his thumbs start rubbing circles in the bend of each arm, my root chakra kicks into overdrive, and my fucking knees grow weak.

  “He’s here,” I whisper, damn close to trembling. “He’s meeting us at Jerry’s after six. Please, help me pack so we can go get a table.”

  That time of night, especially on a Saturday, there’s usually a line out the door one or two blocks long. I know I have spiritual helping hands at work when we get there and are seated at a booth in the quieter back with only a fifteen-minute wait.

  I’ve said nothing more to Nico about Lena’s cousin. It occurs to me that I never asked and he never offered his name. We’ll all know each other soon enough, and way beyond first name basis.

  Just thinking about what’s coming makes my panties wet enough to stick my dress to the worn wooden bench beneath me.

  Our waitress, Cherry, slides coasters on the table and sets down our drinks, a bottle of pseudo beer for Nico and a glass of orange juice for me. I don’t want anything, either brewed from nature or crafted in a chemistry lab, to dull my senses tonight. No alcohol. No soda. Juice and water it is.

  A menu sits to my right, waiting for him to show. Across from me, Nico scans both sides of the laminated page and sets it down, his decision already made. I take longer, wrestling with my baser meat-loving self when I know I should shun it, but really, where’s the fun in that? I turned vegan once in h
igh school. It lasted all of two weeks, but I stayed quasi-vegetarian for three years. Dairy, eggs, and seafood gave me the protein I craved, but it took cutting out the warm-blooded meat to raise my vibration and get it to where I needed it to be.

  Because that’s when the dreams started.

  Visions of the past lives that we’ve shared.

  Memories of the three of us.

  Poised on the brink of our next go-round, I have to wonder why we keep coming back like this, like frigging musketeers. Is it because we’re stronger together, or dysfunctional apart? Jesus, I’d like to think I don’t need them, but I know how much stronger… hell, how much more everything I am since meeting Nico. My body thrums to think of what it will be like to have both of them with me.

  In me.

  Fuck.

  When Nico smiles, I realize I’ve let it fly free. It flies again, out of my mouth, towards the door, where Lena’s cousin stands, scanning the room. He feels me. Sees me. Disappointment flattens his smile when he notices Nico’s head and he realizes that we won’t be alone. Squaring his shoulders, he comes anyway.

  He’s willing to share me if that’s what it takes.

  And it will.

  It will.

  Having the two of them, belonging to them both—how can I settle for anything less?

  Chapter Three

  Nico stands and offers his hand. “Nicolas White,” he says warmly. “Grace’s friend. Please, call me Nico.”

  Friend.

  It’s amazing what one small word can do. The difference in Lena’s cousin is palpable.

  The threat neutralized, he grasps Nico’s hand and shakes it. “J. T. Santiago.” He flashes a look my way and imparts his great secret. “Jesus Tomás. My mother can be clueless.”

  For a moment, I see the problems it caused him. In grade school. High school. The military—at least until he became a SEAL. He earned his initials and respect, but facts are facts. He was named at birth for a savior and an apostle. One knew his mission and his worth; the other was riddled with doubt.

  His mother is more intuitive than he’s willing to admit.

  The SEAL thing intrigues me. While I’m processing that and memorizing his smell—wind and leather, exhaust fumes and musk, Nico does the honors. “J.T., sit, please. We haven’t ordered yet. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  At what sounds like a double entendre, I snap my gaze up to meet Nico’s and see that he knows it, too. J.T. is our chosen one, but how much will it take to dispel his doubt? Surely he’ll feel this… this thing—whatever you want to call it—that we three share. How can he not feel it, when its reconstruction has been building between us, bridging us since birth?

  The conversation starts with basics. How young I am, how old they are. We were born four years apart: J.T., then Nico, then me. I know enough Chinese astrology to understand the significance. Four years and eight years mean optimum compatibility. Nico and I have already figured our version of Asian medicine wheel signs. He’s the shaman’s turtle in the North. I’m a phoenix in the South. Traditionally, J.T. would be a white tiger or green dragon. Instead, he feels like a black jaguar. My guides whisper that he’s still making payments on karmic debts incurred in a past life priesthood.

  The three of us end up ordering burgers. Half-pound Angus beef monstrosities. Rules forbid sharing but at the end of the meal, black foam sandwich squares will haul home tomorrow’s lunch in the small coolers that we pack for fair dates.

  J.T. gets a non-alcoholic beer to match Nico’s. Neither of them drinks and drives. There’s no way that J.T. will down a true brew and risk riding his Harley home.

  “Where’s that?” I ask, trying my best to keep my fact-finding overt. Sitting next to a psychic isn’t ideal for keeping secrets, and he has them. God, does he have them.

  “Newton,” he says. J.T. tells us that he co-owns a martial arts dojo here in Franklin and a gym where he lives, half an hour from here in the opposite direction of Posey, the quaint, touristy town nearest our lake. Posey is a solid forty-five-minute drive. Not exactly close—but doable, if we can convince J.T. that the hour-plus drive is worth it. The commute might actually work in our favor and make it easier to persuade him to move in with us.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Right now we’re feeling each other out, getting to know each other, establishing a pecking order. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s on top and who’s on bottom. The question is how Nico fits into the equation. He’s been quiet about past lovers, male or female. In a show of solidarity, he has been celibate since meeting me, so we’ve both been doing without while waiting for J.T. A bigger hardship for Nico, I’m sure—although a psychologist might have a field day with little ol’ virginal me, listening to me rant about missing something that I’ve physically not yet experienced.

  Soul memories can mindfuck, I tell you. Twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes. I remember them all.

  J.T. notices my submissive traits. I keep my eyes down and let the two men lead the conversation, listening more than talking. And I notice his Dominant traits. He pays attention to my needs, making certain Cherry finally brings the glass of water that I ordered when we first got here and asking if my burger is cooked the way I like it. He compliments my hair. my flowing New Age dress, and asks me the standard getting-to-know-you questions.

  I tell him where I was born, where I went to school, where I work, where we live.

  “You need to come out,” I tell him. Please, please, please. “It’s too cold for swimming, but on warm days, the fish still jump. Or we could kayak.” We have two, but a neighbor has several that he rents to campers, fishermen, and the occasional waterfowl hunter looking for a better way to retrieve downed birds.

  Nico seconds the notion. “Sure,” he says, lifting his beer in a toast. “Bring your stuff. Spend the weekend. You can have my room. I’ll take the couch.” His choice of words reminds J.T. that, so far, we are only friends.

  Hopefully, that’s about to change.

  The warmth in Nico’s eyes makes me wonder if he’d rather share his room—his bed—with J.T. alone. It would let the two men bond before adding me to the mix. The trouble is, I can’t get a handle on J.T. What’s he up for?

  I need J.T. to want us. Both of us. I want what I’ve seen. What I’ve dreamed about. The three of us sharing a bed together, sometimes with me between, sometimes with Nico. When we looked at properties, a master suite large enough for a California king was at the top of our list. So far Nico’s been sleeping there alone, just him and those big, talented hands of his, fisting himself into oblivion.

  But I can almost hear J.T.’s doubting Thomas. The man doesn’t trust himself. I sense the same darkness he does, the part of him that makes him afraid he’ll cross a line and hurt someone.

  Wounded spirit. And not just in this life.

  Nothing that simple.

  Nothing that easy.

  Not that healing PTSD is ever easy.

  Suddenly, I see him, struggling, hurting, lost. Crippled with “soldier’s heart” in an alternate-reality past life that we shared, he’s also suffered shell shock in wars that he fought without us. With the vision comes the knowledge of why we are here this time. To help him mend. To help him heal. He’s been trying to dispel the darkness when he needs to embrace it. Harness it. Learn to live with his shadow self.

  I can almost feel his collar on my neck and see the ink on Nico’s.

  I exhale softly and commit. “Or my room,” I offer, looking up when Nico stiffens. It’s all he can do to remain silent and passive, but he’ll do it because he’s the beta male here. Two alphas and me? We’d end up tearing each other apart.

  J.T. locks his gaze on mine and cocks his head, considering. “You sure you’re ready for me?” he asks as he slides his hand beneath my skirt like a heat-seeking missile. He has his answer when he finds my panties soaked. “What about Nico?”

  “I…We…” Words are lost when he slides a finger between my pussy’s swol
len lips and his thumb finds my clit.

  “J.T.” Nico makes sure he has his attention before dropping my bomb. “She hasn’t been with one man, let alone two. Not yet. But it’s what she wants if you’re interested.”

  Wow. He didn’t just say that, did he? My temperature raises two degrees thanks to the fucking full body blush I’ve got going on.

  “Seriously?” J.T. stops his finger where it’s at, gripped to the first joint by my exceptional tightness. He looks at me, skeptical, his black eyes revealing nothing but the roiling heat of a man on the edge of conflagration. He lets out the thinning leash that he’s struggling to hold onto and pushes into me until he’s knuckle-deep. Pulling free, he brings his finger to my lips and inhales sharply when I suck my juices off him, knowing what he wants and giving it to him without one word being spoken.

  “Fuck, yeah.” He pulls out his wallet and tosses enough bills on the table to cover the three meals and tip. “Let’s go.”

  He follows on his bike until we reach the entrance to our property. I get out of the van and tell him to ride ahead so he won’t be eating our dust this last half mile.

  “Get on,” he orders.

  I obey, gathering my skirt and mounting the bike by the brake lights of the van like it’s something I do every day. I clutch my shawl to secure it and smile at Nico as we pass, relishing the vibration between my legs, the heat from J.T.’s body, the scent of leather, and the feel of washboard abs when I slide my hand around to hold myself tight against him.

  Minutes later, the Harley is parked under the roof of the woodshed and we’re hauling cash boxes and coolers through the front door. J.T. likes what he sees. Stone and wood and a Southwestern color palette, earth tones and turquoise and terracotta. Our biggest splurge (besides the on-demand tankless water heater) is satellite television and internet. The living room’s modest forty-inch flat screen gets a workout during hockey season.

  The adjacent wall boasts a massive fireplace. Nico gets it going, less for the ambiance than to take the chill off the room and let everyone get comfortable. I kick up the thermostat so the rest of the house warms up, too. Eventually, J.T. will want to take off his jacket. I cannot wait to see how well my vision matches reality.