by L. M. Carr
“Shane, it’s not like that with them.” She answers my silent question.
Her eyes, green and pure, look at me with such longing. So instead of with words, I lower my mouth to kiss her and use my body to show her just how much she means to me.I declare my love for her because no man will love her as I much as I do.
I make love to her, slowly, needing her to feel my body and my heart until sweat drips down my chest and I grunt my impending release.
“Oh.My.God,” Remy’s fingers claw at my back when I plunge deeper into her, sending us both to the point of no return. I love the way my name falls from her lips before she opens her eyes and smiles at me. “My God! That is incredible.” She places tiny kisses on that tattoo on my bicep. I swallow hard when I notice the look in her eyes. Circles of green reveal so much. Longing, fear, confusion and something that resembles disappointment.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
A sad grin tugs at her lips. “You said you love me.”
“I do.”
“You shouldn’t.” She looks away from me.
“Why would you say that?”
She offers only a quick shrug of her shoulders.
“I love everything about you. I don’t know how or when I fell in love with you, but I did. I think about you constantly. I want to be with you constantly. I’m like a lovesick puppy.” I feel my eyes crinkle with humor.
“I get it if you think it’s too soon, but I’ve learned not to live my life based on a timeline.” I know life can be over in an instant. I lower my mouth to hers. “I’m completely serious about what I said. I love you. There isn’t one thing about you that I don’t love.”
Her tongue darts out and she licks her lips, preparing to speak. “Shane, I want to believe you, but...”
“You don’t believe me?” Her words of doubt
hit hard.
“I found something that I need to ask you about.” She taps my shoulder and proceeds to slide out from under me as she unzips the pocket of her backpack and retrieves a small plastic bag.
“What’s this?” She hands me the clear bag.
I inspect the small round pill as adrenaline courses through my body. Tell her. Tell her the truth. Tell her right now. I clear my throat quickly before a bold-faced lie erupts. “It’s for headaches. My doctor prescribed it.”
“How often do you get them?”
“What?”
“Headaches. How often do you get them?”
“Not often.” Judging by the look on her face, she doesn’t believe me.
“Are they withdrawl headaches?”
Her question catches me off guard and my defense goes up.
My eyes narrow at her accusation. My heart is beating frantically as her question hits too close to home.
“What exactly are you asking me, Remy?”
After staring at me or studying me for a few long minutes, the woman I love squares her shoulders and asks if I’m a drug addict.
A drug addict? What the fuck? “No, I’m not a goddamn drug addict!”
I’m offended and honestly pissed off. “Why would you think that?” I rise to my feet and stand before her.
The difference in our heights is clearly pronounced now.
“I’ve been watching you. You have a temper, your hands tremble and you exhibit symptoms of an addict especially when you pop one of the pills you keep in your phone case. Is that how you get your fix?”
“I’m not an addict.” I close the distance between us and tower over her, looking down at her.
“So you’re a recreational drug user?”
“I don’t fucking do drugs.” My tone is clipped and serious.
She doesn’t believe me based on the rolling of her eyes.
“Who do you think I am? Do you even know me at all?”
“I’ve lived with a drug-addicted mother my whole life. I won’t live with another one.”
“I’m not a fucking drug addict!” I bellow, angry at her accusation of what she thinks I am. I clench my teeth at being mislabeled again.
She winces, turns away abruptly, bracing herself for a hard blow. My eyes widen as my heart splinters; she thinks I am going to strike her.
“Remy.” I reach up and cup her face. “Baby, I would never hurt you. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Shit,” she mumbles, stepping away from me. I reach out and grab her hand, spinning her around and forcing her to sit on the bed. I kneel before her. My eyes roam greedily over her naked body until they travel upward to her face. The beautiful face that has been hit countless times. The beautiful face of the woman I love who will never be touched again by another hand.
Without saying another word, I draw her in with longing eyes as I silently confess how deeply the love I have for her runs. I am consumed. My heart has been hijacked. She’s everything I want and more.
“Remy, I may be many things, but I am not a drug addict. I promise you.”
Her fingers run through my hair, coaxing me to lay my head on her bare legs and so I do. I wrap my arms around her body, close my eyes and surrender to her. The feel of her lips on the back of my head offer comfort, but it’s the accompanied words that spread a sense of peace throughout me.
“I. Love. You.”
My eyes snap open and I move to lift my head, but she holds me in place. I need to see her eyes; they are the gateway, the window to her soul.
Her emerald eyes fill with unshed tears. “Shane, I’ve never said those words to anyone. Not like this. Not with the love I feel for you.” She wipes away the tears that finally succumb and fall. “I’m giving you my heart. I’m giving it to you with all my trust. Please,” she chokes back a sob, “please don’t break it.”
I rise to my knees and wrap my arms around her small frame. “On my life, you have my word.”
My heart is overflowing with emotions. To love someone this much is a blessing and a curse. To hold her heart in my hand knowing I have the power to make it whole or crush it entirely is a heavy burden. But I love this woman and I will protect her even if it’s the last thing I ever do.
“Come with me.”
After guiding her into the bathroom, I turn on the faucet, letting the tub fill with hot water while I stand there with her in front of the mirror.
One by one, I name the things I love about her.
“I love this face.” I kiss her cheek softly.
“I love this mind.” I place a kiss on her temple.
“I love this body.” Finally, I kiss her shoulder, meeting her hard stare in the mirror.
I turn her to face me. “You have me. I am yours. I’m not a perfect man, but I will love you with a perfect love. Unconditional. Forgiving. Kind. Whole. All I ask is that you love me the same way.”
Remy tilts her head as a small smile stretches across her face and the tears fall silently. “I will. Thank you.”
She pulls me by the hand as we climb into the tub. She lies back on my chest. My long legs drape over the side of the porcelain to allow room for hers. The feel of her warm body against mine causes my dick to stir and grow hard.
“Hey!” she laughs.
“Sorry. I can’t help it. I’m stupidly attracted to you.” I reach around and fondle her nipple and smile when it tightens at my touch. “See. You can’t help it either.”
I grab the shampoo and lather her hair, pulling the short strands back away from her face. A hint of red peeks through at the roots. “Has your hair always been this short?” I ask, thinking that most women I’ve known prefer their hair long.
“No,” she says after shaking her head. “It used to be really long.”
“Why’d you cut it?”
A sad sigh escapes through her lips. “I didn’t have a choice.”
I sit up stiff as a board, my spine tingling with shock. “Somebody forced you to cut your hair?” We live in the goddamn United States of America not some fucking third world middle-eastern country where women are counted amongst cows and goats. I refrai
n from clenching my hands into fists. I begin the slow exercise of controlling my anger by taking deep, slow breaths and blowing them up into the air.
“No…not like that. It’s just easier to have short hair. It’s a lot easier to work with anyway.”
Her quick dismissal of the conversation sparks interest and curiosity. “If you had a choice, would you let it grow long again?”
“Yeah, someday I will.” She cranes her neck to kiss my chin. “Someday.”
I pull her back onto my chest and again lather my hands with soap. My hands glide around her body, washing her gently. She squirms when my fingers reach the smooth skin between her legs. I nip at her neck and nibble on her ear as I pleasure her with my fingers. A guttural moan of ecstasy releases and fills the small space of the bathroom when her body writhes with an orgasm. Her right arm flies back and lands beside my face. I turn into it and kiss the small tattoo on the inside of her wrist.
“Tell me about your tattoo.” I bite her wrist gently as my tongue begins to lick slowly.
“I got it when I was sixteen.”
I trace the symbol on her slender wrist. “What does it mean?”
“Strength.” Her voice fills with determination and conviction.
My jaw clenches as I try to imagine what she’s seen or been through living with her mother. “And at sixteen years old you felt you needed strength?”
“I did.” She slides her hand and laces her fingers with mine. “I still do.”
“You’ve dealt with a lot. Probably more than most people your age. You don’t have to be strong for me. Let me take care of you.”
Slowly she turns to face me. “See…that’s the thing. I won’t let anyone take care of me. I’m strong enough to take care of myself.”
“What if I want to? You’re going to deny me that opportunity?” I offer a crooked grin, knowing that I’m implying something else entirely.
“Sure. You can take care of that.” She reaches down into the water and wraps her hand around my erection, stroking it gently until I’m hard as a rock. “As long as I get to take care of this.”
I cross my arms behind my head and relax in the tepid water. “Be my guest…”
Later that night as exhaustion creeps in, we finally collapse into bed, our bodies pressed against one another and our legs tangled up. I sleep soundly with the girl of my dreams beside me.
“HEY, DON’T FORGET about Friday night.” I watch her scramble around the room, getting dressed for work. The early morning news announces a drastic change in the temperature for the upcoming week. The meteorologist is concerned about the weather models and will be keeping an eye on a storm tracking up the east coast, heading straight for Cape Cod.
“Friday night?” she asks while applying some colored cream to her face.
“It’s the game I told you about. I’d like you to be there.”
I catch her expression in the mirror and my eyes narrow. “Did you forget?”
“No,” she answers quickly. “I didn’t forget. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“Friday is always Girls’ Night… Just me and Jenna.”
“Well, bring her along.” I’m confused by her hesitation because it seems like an obvious choice. “I really would like you to be there.”
She smiles tightly in the mirror. “Okay, I’ll be there.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to ride your bike in this weather. It’s cold out!”
“I’ll be fine. I’m used to it. Besides, it doesn’t make any sense for you to drive me to the train because then I’ll have no way to get to class.”
“At least wear a helmet.” I kiss her forehead.
“I have a hat.” She pulls a knit beanie on and covers her hair.
“That’s not going to protect you.”
“You’re right, but that’s what I have you for.”
“I love you.” I walk her to the door as she rolls her bike through it. “Let me bring this down.” I snatch the bike out of her grasp and proceed to carry it down the flight of stairs.
“Shane! You’re in your underwear!”
“Babe, it’s five o’clock in the morning. Trust me no one in this building is awake.”
“Thank God for that,” she says as her eyes roam over my body before dropping to my black boxers. “Because that is all mine.”
She grips the handlebars and leans in to kiss me. “Thank you.”
She pedals away and I shake my disbelieving head at her tenacity. I know she thinks she’s right, but she’s not.
With my eyes cast down and my thoughts far away, I climb the stairs two at time as my erection grows with each step. The sound of a door closing startles me and I look up.My eyes travel up the length of long legs beneath a dark coat until I come face to face with disheveled dark hair and shocked eyes.
“Dana!” My surprise is quite clear. I’m not sure if it’s because my secretary is here or that I’m standing here in my underwear talking to her. “What are you doing here?”
“Shane,” she breathes as her eyes dart around my face and then land on my chest. “Hi. I could ask you the same thing.”
“I live here.” I enunciate each word slowly, pointing out the obvious. “That’s my place.” I nod my head to the door that’s still ajar.
“Do you always walk around the halls half naked?” she asks before grinning seductively.
I look down at the floor before meeting her gaze. “No, I was walking my girlfriend out. She has to be at work early.” Needing this awkward confrontation to be over already, I side step her and push my door open. “I’ll see you later.”
Just as I close the door, I hear her whisper, “Yes, Mr. Davis, you certainly will.”
I jump in the shower so I can get to work early. I have a feeling I might need to talk to Marty about this.
Remy
I PEDAL THROUGH the quiet streets of Boston as people awaken in their beds and delivery trucks make their early morning runs. When I finally arrive at the diner, I have sore legs, but not a single excuse of how I’m going to get myself out of Friday night’s commitment.
“Hey Paco! Where’s the boss?”
The twenty-something-year-old dishwasher nods his head in the direction of the small closet Lenny likes to call his office.
“Morning! What’s going on?” I poke my head through the door and greet him. He’s looking over the week’s schedule and rummaging through a Roledex, looking for a phone number.
“That girl is going to be the death of me.” He slams the wheel of index cards back into the corner. “So irresponsible.”
“Jenna?”
“Of course!” He stands and squeezes his way through the narrow opening, bypassing me to enter the kitchen area.
I follow closely behind. “What’d she do now?”
“She called me this morning to tell me that she wouldn’t be in all week because she was on the way to Logan to catch a flight south. She said something about ‘seizing the moment’.”
My heart drops as my anger rises. “I’m sorry, Len. This is my fault.”
“How so?” he asks as he begins to crack two dozen eggs into a stainless steel bowl.
“She thinks she’s in love and really wanted to see this guy so…”
“Stupid girl.”
I have the sudden need to rush to her defense even though I’m mad as hell that she just up and left us high and dry for the week. “She’s not stupid. She’s in love. Love makes you do stupid things sometimes.”
Ignoring his mumbled rant, I walk through the double doors and pull my phone out of my apron. My fingers fly across the screen with a detailed, nasty message telling her exactly what I think about her plan and thanking her for her selfishness.
The morning rush is overwhelmingly busy; I don’t have a minute to talk to Shane when he comes in. Lenny and I work together and do our best to take care of the customers. As I count the money in the tip jar at the end of the shift, I appreciate the hefty tips left by the regul
ars who understand that we’re understaffed. I just might have enough to pay the extra rent so my mother doesn’t get evicted…just yet. I can only pray she hasn’t added to the ever-increasing debt.
By two o’clock, I’m seated in my chair next to Simon who seems unusually agitated today. I tip my head back and close my eyes, wondering if I could take a thirty second nap before David comes in to begin the lecture. We’re going to be reviewing symptoms of mental health illnesses, being trained on how to identify them.
My professor enters the room followed by the woman I met a few weeks ago. He introduces Dr. Chanel Taylor as our guest speaker and rattles off her very impressive qualifications and her extensive work in the field of PTSD in children. Most of our class was spent on cases of adolescents who suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder but is manifested in a variety of ways. Many of these cases hit too close to home for me. I could empathize with so many of these children who have been victims of their environment. Innocent bystanders, who were abused or abandoned, left to fend for themselves by people who claimed to love them. I wipe away the single tear that escapes.
“As you begin your internships, do not lose sight of what you learned today.” With grace, Dr. Taylor wanders the room, looking directly at each of us. “Do not forget how this made you feel.” She strolls over to where I sit, enthralled by every word she says.
“These children did not choose to have PTSD, but it is our job,” her eyes glance over each one of us, “it is our duty and responsibility, to help them live successfully with PTSD.”
Simon is up out of his seat, heading for the door without a single word as soon as the lecture ends. I call after him, but he doesn’t stop. I snap my eyes from the door to the front of the room to see if David is going to go after him again, but he’s deep in conversation, seemingly mesmerized, with his beautiful colleague.
I take my time packing my bag; I’m in no rush because Jenna isn’t around and Shane’s football practice will be extended since they’re reviewing films to gear up for the big game. I send him a quick text just to let him know I’m thinking of him and that I miss him.
