Stray

by Rachel Vincent

  My left arm rested on the arm of the couch, my short fingernails scratching back and forth across the rough plaid pattern. The rhythm of my nails skimming over the raised threads echoed through my head like the beat of a hopelessly unimaginative drummer. For some reason, I found the sound fascinating.

  “I can hear your heartbeat,” Marc said, dragging me from my drunken rhythmic epiphany.

  I glanced at my lap and realized our legs were touching from knee to hip. My shorts ended at midthigh, and I could feel the heat of his skin against mine through the layer of denim covering his leg. It felt so good, so familiar, even after all those years apart.

  “I can hear yours, too.” I turned slowly to look at him, and my eyes were only a few inches from his. A few completely insignificant inches. His breath was warm on my cheeks and on my lips. He didn’t look drunk anymore. Maybe he wasn’t. Just because I’d done a fine job of retaining my buzz didn’t mean he had.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered directly into my ear. His chin rested on my shoulder, bare except for the thin strap of green cotton holding my shirt on.

  “I am?” I could barely speak. My pulse raced in my throat, seeming to say more than my mouth ever had. I blinked, trying to hold my head still as vertigo claimed my attention, surely the result of his declaration rather than of alcohol. Or maybe my head was still, and the room was spinning.

  He spoke slowly, as if to make sure I understood, and each word sent a tantalizingly intimate puff of breath against my ear. “Yes, you are. Loud, stubborn, and infuriating at times, but almost too beautiful to look at.”

  I heard what he was saying, and some part of my brain even processed it. But at the time, his meaning seemed much less important than the sound of his voice, a deep rumble rolling through me, triggering responses in all the right places, the way the rippling surge of an earthquake will sometimes set off burglar alarms.

  “And you came back,” he said, chin stubble scratching my shoulder.

  “I came back.” Something was wrong with that. Damn it, something was wrong with that statement, but for my life I couldn’t remember what. And in that moment, I just didn’t care.

  “I need to feel something real. I need you, Faythe,” he said, his lips brushing my cheek as his fingers tangled themselves around mine, clinging desperately. I heard the pain in his voice, the raw need for so much more than I had to give, and my chest tightened.

  I’d never been needed. Not by anyone, much less by someone whose entire purpose in life was to be strong for everyone else, and I liked the feeling of power that gave me, the feeling of strength. He was asking for my help, and—so help me—I wanted to give it to him. I wanted to make everything okay, and let him do the same for me. I didn’t just want it. I needed it. I needed something familiar, something warm and strong to help me forget and make me feel safe. I needed Marc. And all I had to do was admit it.

  “I need you, too.” It was true when I said it, and even drunk I wondered why I hadn’t realized it earlier. Oh, the miracle of alcohol! Everything that had seemed so terribly, hopelessly complicated when I was sober was suddenly so simple. I needed him and the memory of what we’d been, the memory of something safe, and substantial, and good. Something I understood, when life as I knew it was falling apart at my feet. I understood Marc; he wouldn’t fall apart. For me, he’d hold it together. The least I could do was return the favor.

  He kissed me, and I didn’t just let him, I kissed him back. We fed from each other with an urgency born of starvation, of desperation. I couldn’t touch enough of him, couldn’t reach deep enough to soothe myself, to bury my pain in memories of pleasure. But I could try.

  I hid my face in his neck, drowning in his scent. He smelled like masculinity personified, like musk and unscented soap and something else, something powerful, and dangerous, and exciting. I breathed him in, and the thrilling combination of danger and absolute security tingled through me, igniting every nerve ending in my body. I felt like a kid holding a lit firecracker, wondering if he could handle the charge, and whether or not he’d get burned.

  My hands found his chest, and his found my hair. He pulled my head back and kissed the length of my throat, hesitating just a moment over my pulse, flicking his tongue against my skin as if the thin flesh covering my jugular vein tasted just a little sweeter than all the rest.

  Ohhh, and it did. It must have, because his did too.

  “We’re trying to concentrate here,” Ethan grumbled from the floor, momentarily breaking the spell. I pulled away from Marc long enough to glance at my brother. He looked disappointed for a moment, but then he nodded at me as if something had been decided.

  Had something been decided?

  Before I could think it through, Ethan turned back to the video game, his thumbs executing a complicated series of movements on the controller even as he spoke. “Get a room.”

  A room. That was a great idea. My room was occupied, but Marc’s was empty, and it was right upstairs. We kissed all the way up the steps, and only his grip on the banister and around my waist kept us moving forward instead of tumbling to the hardwood floor.

  We paused on the landing at the top of the stairs, where he pinned my hips to the wall with his body while he pulled my shirt off, tossing it to the floor. His motions were hurried, frantic, and I understood the reason. If we hesitated, we’d have to think, and neither of us wanted to think. We wanted to feel, to lose ourselves in something all-consuming, something powerful enough to block out reality, and the pain and fear it would inevitably bring. And together we were explosive.

  Before, that had been part of the problem, but now it was the solution. It was the fireworks-in-the-sky, forget-your-own-name, can’t-feel-your-toes solution to all my problems. At least for the moment.

  We stumbled past the bedroom Vic usually shared with Jace, and I barely registered the sound of slow, sleep-regulated breathing. By contrast, Marc’s breath was hot and fast, almost a pant. His room was at the front of the house, the last one we came to, and he was impatient by then. He picked me up, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, rounding my spine so I could reach his ear with my tongue. He moaned as he carried me into his room, barely pausing to kick the door shut before setting me gently on the floor.

  The hardwood was cool against my bare feet; it acted as an anchor, tethering my body to the ground as my head floated far above my shoulders. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the feel of his hands running all over me, ridding me of the encumbrance of my shorts, the restriction of my bra. Dropping to his knees, Marc wrapped his arms around my waist, resting his head on my stomach as he clung to me, trembling silently.

  I gasped to feel him lift my breast, bringing as much as he could into his mouth. He pulled gently on my nipple, his tongue hot against my skin, his mouth demanding. I moaned, burying my hands in his hair, my head thrown back and my eyes closed.

  His hands trailed down from my waist, easing my panties over my hips. The thin cloth hit the floor seconds before he picked me up and tossed me onto the bed. I had a single moment to think as I heard his zipper go down and the soft brush of denim against skin as his jeans followed suit.

  In that moment, everything threatened to cave in. Without Marc there to reinforce them, my defensive walls were crumbling, succumbing to the pressure of outrage and fear.

  But then his face appeared over mine, and his weight dropped onto me, heavy, and warm, and so very real. He propped himself on his elbows and I stared up into his eyes. Yellow specks sparkled in the deep brown of his irises, glistening through a layer of unshed tears.

  “I’m scared,” I whispered, wrapping my legs around him.

  “Me, too.”

  I felt how hard his heart beat and knew it was the truth.

  He moved against me, then inside me.

  I exhaled, letting go of more anguish than I’d known I held. I closed my eyes, and my own tears spilled over, running down my cheeks to dampen my hair and his sheets.

  Then he said my
name, and suddenly there was no room for pain, no room for fear. Marc took up all the room there was, in my head, in my heart, and inside me. He filled me, not just with himself, but with memories of what we’d been, of what I’d given up.

  My fingers skimmed the lines of his arms, up over his shoulders, then down his back. When I got to his hips, I added pressure, urging him on as I rose to meet him. Marc matched my pace, apparently eager to spend his pent-up energy without breaking anything. He couldn’t hurt me. Even better, considering my recent delve into all things human and fragile, I couldn’t hurt him.

  When I finally remembered to breathe again, our combined scents overwhelmed me. I was suffocating on the very aroma of hunger and need—an exhilarating blend of his, mine, and ours—and I never wanted another breath of fresh air. The smell of sex itself was almost enough to bring me, screaming, to the edge.

  Already panting, I put a hand on Marc’s chest, begging him with my eyes to wait. I wasn’t ready. Not yet. I needed much, much more.

  He smiled, a trace of satisfaction glinting in his still-damp eyes. He altered our rhythm, watching my face as he slowed, moving deeper with each stroke. Marc remembered what I liked even better than I did.

  Each time our bodies met, sparks tingled through me, racing across my nerve endings in violent jolts of pleasure bordering on pain. My fingers curled at his hips. My nails sliced through his skin.

  Hissing, he arched his back, but his smile never faltered.

  The sharp tang of blood filled my nostrils, adding one final layer to the bouquet of scents forming the foundation of my lust. I held him tight, smearing wet streaks across his spine. I arced into him, desperate for one more touch, one last powerful thrust that would bring us both peace, however temporary.

  Marc knew what I needed. He tangled one hand in my hair and pulled my head back, opening my mouth. He thrust into me, hard. His lips covered mine, swallowing my scream of release and claiming it for himself.

  He pounded against me over and over, fighting for control. My nails carved fresh gouges into his shoulders, and that was all he could take. He shuddered against me, moaning into my mouth. And finally he collapsed on top of me, his cheek against mine, his lips brushing my ear.

  “I love you, Faythe,” he whispered, still inside me. And then, so quiet I could barely hear him, he said, “Don’t leave me.”

  Eighteen

  Holding my breath, I tried for the third time to roll out of Marc’s grasp without waking him. No luck. Every time I moved, his breathing quickened and his eyelids fluttered, as if he’d wake up any moment. Even asleep, he’d tried to make sure I couldn’t get away; he had one leg draped over mine and one arm around my waist.

  I groaned, and clamped one hand over my mouth as Marc shifted in his sleep. His leg slipped off me, but the weight of his arm across my middle was still very real. Biting my lip in concentration, I took Marc’s wrist gently between my thumb and forefinger. I lifted his arm off my stomach, barely stifling a sigh of relief as the pressure on my bladder eased. When his next breath came, deep and relaxed, I lowered his arm to the bed between us as he exhaled. Finally free, I made myself wait through two more torturously slow breaths before easing silently off the mattress and onto the floor.

  The moment my feet hit the ground, my eyes flew to the clock. Green segmented numbers stared at me in the dark: 4:34 a.m. That was weird. The color, not the time. My alarm clock numbers were red, which always made me feel anxious and hurried, like I was late for something every time I woke up. The green numbers were calm and soothing, assuring me that I still had a couple of hours left until dawn, yet I tottered on the thin, sharp edge of panic.

  According to the clock, I’d gotten maybe three and a half hours of sleep after Marc and I collapsed onto his pillows, mercifully too exhausted to think. But now, standing naked in the middle of his bedroom, I could do nothing else.

  Now look what you’ve done, Faythe, I thought, staring down at Marc’s sleep-relaxed face. You’re not going to be happy until you’ve screwed up not only your life but everyone else’s too.

  But that wasn’t quite true. I wouldn’t be happy then, either.

  I needed to think. And I needed to pee. My bladder was quite insistent on that last part and had, in fact, woken me up to take care of business. But since I wouldn’t be coming back after my trip to the bathroom—to gain any kind of perspective, I needed to distance myself from the problem—I’d have to get dressed. Unfortunately, my clothes were nowhere in sight.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I made myself concentrate on the order of last night’s events. Each flash of memory felt like someone ramming a fist through my chest to squeeze my still-beating heart. And if it hurt me, I could only imagine what it would do to Jace. Or to Andrew. Shit, what about Andrew?

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I hadn’t been thinking anything; that was abundantly clear. It had also been the whole point. I’d given my brain the night off, abandoning my body to the mercy of hormones and alcohol. And grief. The truth was that I’d needed comfort, and so had Marc, and we’d found it in each other. As wonderful as that had been, the unbelievable freedom of letting go, of giving myself completely to someone willing to do the same, morning would bring to light the inevitable consequences of what I’d done. But I wasn’t ready to face them. Not just yet.

  So where the hell were my clothes? I peeked carefully beneath the edge of the sheet draped across one of Marc’s legs and twisted around the other. Aha. Found my shorts. One article of clothing down, and only three more to go.

  I found my bra dangling from the closet doorknob and my panties peeking out from under the bed. Dressed but for my shirt, I searched the room frantically with my eyes but saw no sign of the green halter top I’d put on after my marathon bathing session the day before.

  Marc grunted in his sleep and rolled over onto his side. His hand landed in the warm hollow my hip had occupied moments earlier, and a fresh surge of panic flooded my body. I grabbed the first piece of cloth I found and pulled it over my head. It was the old, black Aerosmith T-shirt Marc had worn the day before. It still smelled like him.

  The shirt was huge on me, effectively hiding my shorts, but it would have to do, because I had to use the restroom. Immediately.

  I eased open the door, crossing my fingers against squeaky hinges, and slipped into the upstairs hall. The hall was more like a big rectangle, with the stairs rising up from the center and one door on each of the four walls. Three of the doors led to bedrooms and the fourth was the bathroom. That was the one I needed.

  And there, on the floor between the landing and the bathroom door, lay my shirt, a crumpled pile of green cotton triggering the memory of how it got there. Images and sensations roared over me as I remembered Marc pressing me against the wall while he pulled the shirt over my head. The memory was still powerful enough to send tremors down the length of my body. My stomach clenched in dread and confusion. What the hell am I going to do about Marc?

  The sound of running water came from the bathroom, and I froze, three steps from my shirt. Someone else was up.

  The door opened, and I tensed. Jace stepped out. I stopped breathing. Completely.

  At first, he didn’t notice me. The hallway was dark, and—like me—he’d probably thought everyone else was asleep. He smiled when he saw my face, but his expression wilted as his gaze traveled over my tousled hair and down the front of Marc’s shirt, to my apparently bare legs.

  “Jace…” I began, desperate to explain, but no words came to follow his name.

  He knelt to pick up my halter top. “You lost something,” he said, and the cold quality of his voice made it clear that he didn’t just mean the shirt. He threw it at me.

  My shirt landed on my head, covering most of my face. I couldn’t bring myself to pull it down until I heard his bedroom door close.

  Faythe, you coward. My shirt hanging limp from one fist, I glanced at Jace’s door, then at Marc’s room. I’d made a mistake. It was understand
able, and a good one, as far as mistakes go, but nothing had changed. At least not for the better. I wasn’t home by choice, and I couldn’t stay to be with Marc any more than I could stay to be with Jace. One round of consolation sex wasn’t enough to change that, no matter how well it had worked. Or how good it had been.

  My bladder pleaded with me to go into the bathroom, but I couldn’t do it. I had to get out before Marc woke up and wanted to talk. Or do anything else. I dropped my shirt on the floor and took the stairs two at a time.

  Ethan’s obnoxious snoring greeted me on the bottom step. He lay sprawled on the couch, one arm dangling over the side. Great. There was nowhere for me to sleep. It didn’t matter, though, because I couldn’t have stayed in the guesthouse anyway. But I had to go somewhere.

  My mind grasped at possibilities while my eyes roamed the room, and I knew what to do when I saw what lay unattended on the counter, amid a jumble of empty bottles, lime rinds, and sticky glasses: Jace’s keys. I hesitated for a moment, my fingers hovering over the Kentucky Wildcats key chain. Then I grabbed it and ran for the door. The keys were mine. I’d earned them.

  I had a brief moment of doubt in the driver’s seat of the new Pathfinder when it occurred to me that Jace would never forgive me for taking his car, in spite of our bet, because I’d promised both him and Daddy that I would wait. But he’d never forgive me for sleeping with Marc either, so what did it really matter? Besides, I wasn’t running away. I just needed to drive around and think. I’d be back before anyone woke up, and with any luck, they’d never know I’d left at all.

  As quietly as possible, I pulled past the house, relieved when the headlights shone on Owen’s truck, parked in his usual space. He’d made it home safely.

  At the end of the driveway, I rolled down the window to push the button on the automatic gate opener. But then I hesitated again. Beyond the gate, a narrow paved road separated our property from a small patch of forest. Several miles down, the road intersected a highway, and from there, I could go anywhere I wanted. Anywhere at all.