She’s managed to get the doors on the cabinets by herself. The white finish livens the place up, changing the mood to something more positive. There’s a layer of oil on the wood floors that gives off a chemical orange smell. It doesn’t hide how damaged they are, but compared to the walls, they look newly installed.
“We should remove the rest of this wallpaper.” I run my hand over the ripped flower print.
“Teller.” Ella drops my offering into the bucket and slides under the sun. “The open house is today.”
“I forgot about that,” I say, leaning against the fridge.
“I’m not surprised.” She sighs and runs her hands down the front of her shirt. “So, if you must put the tent up, put it in the back … the way back. And make yourself scarce for a while, please.”
Lowering my eyebrows, I tilt my head and ask, “Why can’t I stay?”
“Because you’ll distract me, and I need this house to sell.” Ella crosses her arms defensively, and I hold my hands up in surrender. “Maby’s getting married next weekend. I don’t have plane a ticket. I don’t have a dress. There’s still paint in my hair. This open house means a lot to me, Tell. I want to sell before the wedding, so I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
She’s coming home.
Not to me right away.
But she’s finally coming back.
“When is it over?” I ask.
She inhales a deep breath through her nose and drops her arms. “At four.”
My eyes widen. “What am I supposed to do for five hours? Can I watch TV in your room? I won’t make any noise.”
“No!” A smile bends her lips.
I realize we have an ordinary conversation for the first time since her great escape. No one’s crying. No one’s bleeding. No one’s defensive. We’re easygoing and improving, and the curve of her red-painted mouth triples the size of my ill-fated heart.
Patting my pockets for my cigarettes, I smirk, hoping she can’t see the love-struck tremble in my hands. I wink and say, “I’ll leave, but what do I get in return?”
“Well,” she exhales dramatically, “I won’t burn your tent down with you inside of it.”
I shake my head. “Not good enough.”
Ella glances at me from under her eyelashes, turning her face before I see how pink the flush in her cheeks gets. My triple-sized heart does motherfucking flips inside my chest.
“What do you want from me, Teller?” she asks, occupying herself with the flowers. Ella picks at the tiny leaves and closes her eyes to smell the asters.
“I want my ring on your finger, but I’ll settle for a kiss goodbye.” Shrugging my shoulders, I raise my eyebrows and laugh.
Ella’s neck snaps in my direction, and she narrows her eyes. “Get the hell out of here.”
“Fine,” I say, sticking a smoke between my teeth as I walk away. “But if Trever swings by with his bicycle squad, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A sedan with the real estate company’s name advertised on the back window is parked in front of the house when I return a half hour after the open house was scheduled to end. Being charred alive isn’t how I want to end the day I’ve had. So, instead of inviting myself in to demand the kiss she owes me, I sneak around to the backyard and set up my tent.
I’m shaking it free from the bag when the kitchen light turns on. A blonde woman steps into view, giving me a double take when she notices my tent building skills. Ella’s realtor squints, nearly pressing her nose to the window to get a better look at the trespasser in the backyard of the house she’s trying to sell.
The woman doesn’t know who I am, but with some luck, she soon will.
House-hawker beckons my girl over as she lifts her cell to alert the proper authorities. Ella appears, dismissing me and the bright orange tent before she disappears again without so much as a glimpse in my direction. Her agent lingers for a second longer with a single raised eyebrow before she locks the window and closes the blinds.
Trusting my gut feeling, or heart feeling, or guilt feeling, I give Ella space, even after I hear the real estate agent leave. A full moon douses everything in white light, reducing the stars to dust. Someone’s built a fire, casing the neighborhood with the scent of hickory and relief. And crickets go a cappella, playing a tune louder than the cars driving by or the sprinklers watering the grass next door.
I’m balancing on the edge of consciousness when I hear footsteps sloshing through the damp grass. Pushing up on my elbows, oxygen seizes in my lungs as Ella’s silhouette stops in front of my tent. She doesn’t ask permission to come in, and I don’t want her to.
“You okay?” I ask when I finally see her face. My heartbeat barrels so fucking hard, it shakes the dust from my bones.
Ella kneels on the grass, wetting the knees of the gray sweats hanging from her hips. Moonlight reflects from her glassy eyes, and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as her chin quivers.
“My mom showed up, Tell,” the saddest girl in the world whispers.
I straighten and ask, “What did you say?”
Grief rakes a trembling hand through her hair, pushing it away from the tears sticking to her cheeks. The consequence of heartache knocks Ella back on her heels, and her shoulders fall as she lets burden crush her. It darkens the brown in her eyes and wrecks what’s left of her tenacity, leaving Ella gasping for air and crumbling.
“Apparently, she saw the listing for the house online.” She cries, unable to stop the downpour of emotion from sinking her mood. “She drove by and saw me on the porch and stopped. I didn’t recognize her at first, but then she said my name…”
Pulling Ella into the tent, I wrap my arms around her hard enough to feel her lungs expand against my chest as she sobs. She hammers and claws at my back, crying into my neck in long, painful wails that sever me into pieces.
“Baby,” I say, pressing my lips to the top of her head. “You need to breathe. Take a breath.”
She inhales directly from my lungs.
Her lips taste like salt, and her mouth tastes like tequila. Piercing fingertips turn to soothing, stripping ones. Ella lifts my shirt over my head, and I’m too delirious to stop and ask if this is what she wants. Because this is the only thing I’ve ever wanted.
Ella shoves me back and straddles my legs. Liquor has left her swollen eyes hooded and her cheeks bright red. The ends of her hair are wet from an emotional outburst that’s left her drunk and dwindled most beautifully.
“How much did you drink?” I grip her hips as my last and only attempt at doing the right thing.
“Not enough.” She chuckles, circling against me.
My cock strains against my leg and a rush so rich with craving scalds me from the inside out. This isn’t how it should be—violent, senseless, typical—but it’s exactly how we fucking want it. This is how we’ve always done it.
“Fuck me.” Ella unties the drawstring keeping my shorts up. “Come on, prick. Fuck me. That’s why you came here, right? That’s why you keep coming here. Because you want to fuck me like everyone else does.”
Flipping her over, I spread her legs and grip the front of her shirt, yanking the thin cotton until it stretches and rips. “Fucking bitch,” I growl. “You torture me. You wreck me, Gabriella. You make me fucking miserable.”
She laughs with tears running from her eyes down to her temples. The feel of her skin against mine smudges the lines between true and false. The heat coming from between her legs erases everything but the way our bodies react to each other. My mouth waters, my vision blurs, and the only thing I hear is her voice chanting, “Fuck me,” over and over.
“You asked for this,” I say, forcing her sweats down. “Remember that tomorrow.”
“Do it already.” Ella smacks me across the face, and then she pulls my hair so I can’t look away as I enter her. “Is that all you got? Is this all you can give me?”
I push her knees apart and fill her to the brim, thrusting as hard and as far as our bodi
es allow. Cool calm runs through me with the connection, blessing me with clarity and an anti-anxiety I can’t get from anywhere but inside of her. It’s like being touched by a higher power, golden and righteous and supreme … and unconditional.
Her fingers loosen in my hair and fall to my shoulders, sliding around my neck. Ella melts with me, coming undone one muscle, one limb, one stroke at a time. Our reunion softens the edges of resentment and dulls the pain of rejection. We move together and breathe together, gone in the reminder of how good we are like this.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, pressing her lips to my heated skin between apologies. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tell.”
Dropping my forehead to hers, I lace my fingers with Ella’s and rest our joined hands beside her head. I slow my tempo, wanting to draw it out until the sun comes up. There’s no need to rush; we own the night.
“I love you,” I say.
Ella’s nipples harden against my chest, and she cries against my lips. She’s gentle, sweeping her fingers along my spine, meeting me stroke for agonizing stroke, submitting to me completely.
The stars don’t need to hear her tender moans. The moon doesn’t deserve them. The universe didn’t fight as hard as I did. I cover her mouth with my hand because those sounds belong to me, and the sky won’t rob me of them.
We come together in a greedy knot of limbs and tongues and things better left unsaid. Ella’s pussy contracts around my dick and I can’t get close enough, emptying inside of her. I drill into her until the blankets wreck, and I’m drained.
“I love you, too,” she says after I’ve collapsed on top of her. “I love you the most, Teller Reddy.”
My eyes open the next day, offended by the harsh sunlight coming through the tent door that’s been left wide open. I sit up and look at my phone for the time, surprised to see it’s almost noon. Ella’s not with me, even though I remember we fell asleep beside each other during the night.
Barefoot and bare-chested, I make my way to the house to find it locked up and shut down. I knock on the door, ring the bell, and try to peek through the windows, but no sight or sound returns.
The ring of my cell phone jump-starts my heart, and I answer it without looking at the name.
“Yeah.” I pat my pockets for a pack of cigarettes I left in the tent and stand at the end of the porch, wondering how far Ella got this time.
“Mr. Reddy, this is Diana Murry from St. Helena Realty,” a voice too bright to be genuine greets me. “I’m sorry for the late response, but I got the message about your cash offer for the Mason house.”
Before
“Where are you?” Teller asks.
Looking through the cracks in the stall, I make sure I’m alone in the restroom before whispering, “Hiding. I’m supposed to be shadowing a nurse right now, not on the phone with you.”
“Then why did you answer?” I can hear the smile in his tone.
“Because I’m a moron,” I say, unlocking the stall door and stepping out. The uninviting mint green paint on the walls and freezing temperature of the air make me feel like I’m in prison talking on a stolen cell phone. Prison might be better than following the head nurse while she does rounds. I’m the first person she looks to when bedpans need to be changed. “And because I’d rather be anywhere than here.”
The tattered hems of my scrubs drag on the floor, snagging under my shoes. My reflection in the mirror displays exactly how exhausted I am and how hard nursing school is. There’s not enough concealer at the makeup counter to cover the bags under my eyes, and the meals I’ve skipped due to stress, homework, or simple forgetfulness have flattened my normal curves.
At least my lipstick is on point.
“Come downstairs,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I sweep my bangs out of my face, only to let them fall right back into my eyes. They hide the signs of my imminent demise. “You’re here?”
“Yeah, I need to apply for a residency, so I came to talk to—”
“On my way.” I hang up the phone, not caring who he came to talk to, and I stick my head out of the door, looking both ways for the nurse in charge. When I don’t see her, I make a run for it, zooming past patients, phlebotomists, and whoever else crowds this place.
I shoulder check X-ray techs, and zigzag through occupational therapists, respiratory therapists, and physical therapists until the elevator is within sight.
“Wait!” I shout, holding my hand out in front of me as I sprint toward the closing doors. My arm slides inside just in time for the elevator to ding and reopen solely for me, much to the dismay of my fellow riders. “Lobby, please.”
The sound of my heavy breathing fills the small space as we plummet toward the earth one floor at a time, stopping along the way to unload and load people.
“We’re full,” I start to say, pressing the Close button before the elevator doors can open upon its new destination. “No room, sorry.”
When we finally land in the lobby, I make damn sure I’m the first one out, continuing my sprint down the hall. It won’t be long before Nurse Bedpan notices I’m not there to do her dirty work, and I want to be far, far away when she does.
There’s a place for me in the medical field and in this hospital, but it isn’t anywhere near grown men and their bodily functions.
Kids are okay. They’re cute. And they mostly smell good.
I’m in such a hurry to get around the corner to find Teller that I don’t notice my shoes have come untied until I trip on my laces and crash face-first into an unsuspecting bystander. My victim and I are a pileup of apologies, sharp elbows and knees, and smeared lipstick.
“Whoa there.” Strong hands set me straight, and a smooth New York accent puts me under a spell. “You okay? Where you goin’?”
After smashing my nose on his pecks and leaving my face print on his shirt, my eyes fill with tears. I look to the innocent who caught the brunt of my brainlessness for a reaction, but it’s like squinting through a fishbowl and impossible to tell if he’s mad or not.
“Did I break you?” I ask him, checking my nose for blood. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I think I’m okay,” he replies. His accent makes me smile.
Blinking away the tears, I finally look into a blue set of eyes that are a trace away from being too large for his face. Curls rest on his head like a halo, and a perfect pair of lips bend into a smile above a small chin. A spark of appreciation flickers inside of me, and I blush.
“Your scrubs didn’t survive,” I say.
He looks down, stretching the ruined cotton away from his chest to get a better look at the damage I inflicted. A perfect transfer of my lips made the cut, and he’ll never get the pinkish rouge out of the fabric. But it’s the nose print that traps me in a crate of red-hot embarrassment.
“I’ll pay for it,” I blurt out as my cheeks roast. I reach into my back pocket for the wad of cash I stuffed in there this morning. “Will forty dollars cover it?”
New Yorker chuckles. “I don’t want your money, girl.”
Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “What do you want then?”
He shrugs. “Your number?”
Thanks to his pronunciation mingled with his killer smile, I’m ready to offer up my social security number, my credit card number, and my school ID number just to keep him talking. Never in the history of words has a person been reduced to mush over a couple of syllables like I am right now.
My thighs are weak.
My knees are weak.
My ankles are pathetic.
If I trip again, he might catch me with his chest for a second time. I won’t let go. I’ll wrap my legs around him like a spider monkey and cling.
“Sure,” I say, but we don’t get that far. I sense Teller’s presence before his arm slides across my shoulders, bursting my dialectal lust bubble. My thighs, knees, and ankles toughen up; it’s my heart that fails.
He may as well pee on my shoes like a dog to a hydrant.
>
The boy with eyes as blue as the ocean won’t get my number today—or any other day if Teller decides our head-chest collision was anything more than an accident.
“There you are,” Teller says. He tightens his arm around me and presses his lips to the top of my head. “I was about to leave.”
I roll my eyes. “No, you weren’t.”
Prick laughs out loud, closing the hypothetical door between the trespasser and us with my lipstick on his shirt. Tell squeezes me against him like we’re old chums not currently stumbling our way to the friend zone from the land of It’s Complicated. It’s all I can do not to throat punch him and compromise his manhood in front of the new guy.
“She’s a fucking riot, right?” Teller says. There’s a cigarette behind his ear and fresh ink on his forearm. There’s no place in this hospital for Teller Reddy, but he’ll make it his anyway.
That’s his thing. He’s the riot.
“Do you two know each other?” the outsider says.
Teller isn’t swayed by the accent like I am. In fact, he acts like nothing but static spewed from the guy’s mouth. “She’s my wife,” he says.
“No,” I groan. “I’m not.”
His arm weighs a thousand pounds around my shoulders, but the weight of my mortification is a whole lot heavier. As long as I let him treat me like a possession, Teller won’t stop. It’s a behavior we found twisted comfort in as soon as we met, to the point where good intentions got lost in recklessness. We’re a bad habit gone rogue, but it’s time to reel this crap in.
I drop to my knee to tie my shoe, liberating myself from Tell’s vise-like attachment. “This guy had the misfortune of being in my way. I killed his shirt,” I explain, loop, swoop, and pulling. I look up and pretend innocence. “I don’t think I asked your name.”
“This is Joseph,” Teller cuts in before Joseph can speak for himself. He sticks the Marlboro between his teeth but doesn’t light it. Not even he would dare light up in a hospital. “He wants to do his residency here, too, so I gave him a ride. He doesn’t have a car.”
Sever (Closer Book 2) Page 6
