by Harlow Stone
Portia gives him what looks like a scout’s honor symbol. “I’ll be on top of it, Doc. You can count on me.”
His thin-lipped smile says otherwise as he mumbles about getting paperwork on his way out the door.
“He’s such a dink.”
I sputter, “A dink. Really? I may not remember anything, but for some reason I think you would use more colorful language than that.”
She puts her hands up in defense. “Hey, I’m all about the colorful. And on the plus side, since you don’t remember, I’ll get back to using all my colorful language while I’m around you. Just not in front of Cooper. We have a bet going. He doesn’t think I can tone down my sassy swear words before he knocks me up.”
“What’s the bet?”
“I have a weak stomach. If I can go a month without swearing, he has to change shitty diapers for the first month after the baby’s born.”
“Will he not have to work?” I ask.
“Pfft. Oh he’ll work alright, but he’ll do it from home. Cooper runs his own software company, so he can pretty much work from anywhere and change shitty diapers while he does it.”
I nod. “And what happens when he’s not around?”
She smirks. “You’re my neighbor. You live above the shop, which would take about a five second walk for you to come help me with the little spawn.”
“And before you object, you already offered!” she hurriedly throws in.
“I’m guessing I enjoyed the idea of you having a child?”
She shrugs. “Of course you did. You’ll be Aunt Jerri. We’re family, and although it sounds depressing that I’m your only family, we’ve had a good run. No complaints from me. And as far as I’m concerned, you haven’t had any either.”
That’s something else I learned. I met Portia in my early twenties when we were both taking the same night class at a local community college. Apparently I had no family. I bounced from foster home to foster home because my family died when I was young. At least that’s what I told her, but she hinted that I left out a lot. Just as well. It’s not something I liked to talk about.
She said she’d asked me about the foster families, and although I had a few kind words about them, I never really said much more than that. I asked if it bothered her, and she told me that, in a way, it did, but if I didn’t want to talk about it, she wasn’t going to push. We continued being friends in our business class and met a few times to study over a coffee. And as they say, the rest was history.
We’ve been running Eclectic Isle for close to six years now, and it’s practically a landmark in the area. Business is great, and she says I have an eye for all things unique.
A nurse bustles into the room with a wheelchair and tells me that when I’m ready, I can sign forms at the desk and pick up prescriptions. I want to avoid the wheelchair and walk out on my own. But after dressing in the thin cotton pants and button-up shirt Portia brought me, I’ve about maxed out my energy for the day.
The nurse helps me get settled in the wheelchair before pushing me to the release desk. As I sign the release forms, Portia assures me that all the financial stuff has been taken care of, courtesy of Cooper’s credit card. Insisting that I could have paid the bill myself, I argue with her as we leave the desk and head to the elevator. In truth, I don’t know if I would have had the money.
“Do I not have money? Is that why Cooper has already paid?” I ask.
Portia shakes her head and replies, “You’ve got money, babe. But I have no idea where your purse is. I have to call the police station and ask if they have found it in your car. I cancelled the company Visa, since that’s what you usually shop with. Your debit card is with the same bank, so I told them to cancel that too. We’ll pick up a new one this week.”
“Do we not have health insurance?”
“No, Jer. I’m covered with Cooper. You’ve rarely ever had a cold and probably wouldn’t go to the hospital unless you were dying. If you did, you’d pay cash.”
Figuring that’s enough—and deciding that when I go to the bank, I’ll look into my financial situation—we head out of the hospital. Cooper is waiting in the drop-off point with an SUV.
“Ready to get the hell out of here?” he asks.
I smile, thankful. “You have no idea.”
* * *
I take in the sights and smells.
The street is busy but quaint.
The building is clean and not too tall or overwhelming.
Cooper guides the vehicle into a parking spot in front of a cozy, modern-looking shop with large display windows. The sign above it reads, Iclectic Isle in a weathered font, and I press closer to the window to take in as much as I can without actually moving from the vehicle.
“This is it babe. We’ll tour later after we get you settled in,” Portia says.
It’s beautiful. It looks light and airy but warm and cozy at the same time, like some place you would wander into to find treasures and lose yourself for an hour or two.
“It’s lovely.”
She spins in her seat. “It’s your pride and joy, Jer. You spend more time in that shop than you do sleeping.”
I give her a small smile, happy that I have so much passion for something. At the same time, I feel sad because I wonder what else I’d do with my life if the majority of it is spent behind those windows. It sounds like a hobby and a passion, but it also sounds empty and alone.
Much like I feel at the moment.
Empty.
Blank canvas.
Cooper continues and points across the street. “We live there, Jerri. On the top floor.”
I look at the historic building. The third floor is the top floor, and from what I’ve learned from Portia, they live on the entire floor; Cooper owns the building. Apparently, software development is a lucrative career.
Turning down an alley, we come to a stop at the rear of the building. There’s a large garage door, which they tell me is for deliveries, and a small overhang over a set of steps that leads to a door. Cooper pulls up so my door is closest and parks the vehicle.
“Home sweet home, Jer.” Portia tells me.
By the time I unbuckle my seat belt, Cooper is at my door to help me out. It’s slow moving, but eventually we manage to get my feet on the ground. Once that is accomplished, he guides me to where Portia is, holding open the door. I step into the landing and eye the large staircase ahead with misery.
“I’m gonna carry you up, Jer,” Cooper tells me.
I deflate in thanks, my legs already throbbing from the short trip from the hospital. Portia bounds ahead of us up the stairs as Cooper carefully lifts me. My broken arm is positioned away from him to avoid having it pushed against his chest as we ascend to my home.
The first thing I notice are the exposed beams along the fifteen-foot ceilings. The outer walls are made up of exposed brick and various colorful paintings on canvases that are much fuller than my own. A mismatch of furniture and large-screen television is pulled together by an abstract rug to make up the living space. To the right, a long island with blood-red stools sits in the middle of the kitchen, and adjacent sits an espresso-colored, heavy-wood table complete with high, leather-padded, ladder back chairs. The set looks like something from the Viking era .
There’s a set of patio doors off the kitchen that opens to a rooftop outdoor area, which I plan to explore later. Cooper sets me down between the living area and kitchen. Portia guides my good arm through hers. “This is it: the other half of your happy space. Anything look familiar?”
My eyes roam over the furniture, the art, and the stack of mail on the island.
“It’s beautiful, but unfortunately no.”
She nods, resolute in her words. “It’s okay. It’ll come. Let’s get you cozy.”
She walks us toward a door that slides on a track. It’s heavy and is made of old wood and metals. It’s industrial-looking but warm. It suits the space. On the other side is a bedroom, my bedroom. A low king-size bed sits against th
e only exposed brick wall in the room. The padded leather headboard of the bed sits tightly up against the brick wall, and a nude painting of a woman hangs above. It displays the slope of her neck, her back, and her hips. A large masculine hand rests on her left hip. It claims her, lets you know she is taken.
It’s possessive and beautiful.
The walls are a warm grey. Not too dark, not too light. Stylish lamps anchor the bed on dark nightstands. The bedding is a stark-white, fluffy contrast to the darkness of the room.
It’s edgy yet elegant.
Bold but feminine.
It’s me.
There are two doors in the room: One leads to a modest but functional walk-in closet. I must have an affinity for high-heeled boots because there are many pairs of them. The other door, closest to the entry, leads to the ensuite. Inside, a sink sits below a large vanity, and the walls command a deep golden color that contrasts the dark-tiled walk-in shower. To the side sits a large antique soaker tub.
Portia points to a wooden bench in the shower. “Coop had Walker over to put the bench in. Walker’s a contractor friend of ours. I knew you’d hate one of those ridiculous plastic benches from the easy home store, so . . .” I let her trail off, understanding why Cooper had the bench put in: it’s to help make things a little easier for me when I shower. Apparently I must be picky about what goes into my space. The shower would have looked tacky with a plastic chair or bench; the teak one looks as if it belongs there.
“Thank you, Portia. It’s great.”
She smiles and moves to the vanity. “I put the bags and tape for your cast over here. Can’t get it wet when you shower.” Waving a hand in front of her face, she continues. “That’s all small stuff. I’m sure you’re tired and ready to lay down.”
I nod, wanting to explore. But as intrigued and curious as I am with the space, this is the most activity my body has endured in twenty-five days, twenty-two of which were spent in the coma—three awake in the hospital.
I follow her slowly back into the bedroom, where she already has pillows stacked against the headboard and the fluffy, white duvet pulled back. I sit on the bed and toe off the running shoes on my feet before laying back.
“This is so much more comfortable than the hospital bed,” I moan.
Portia smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t I know it. We bunk in here when we get tipsy.”
Hoping to bring that brightness back to her eyes, I ask her, “Like a slumber party? What about Cooper?”
The mention of her husband’s name does the trick. “Cooper travels sometimes for work—”
“Which is code for, ‘I’m going to Jerri’s where I’ll drink copious amounts of bourbon and wine—not in that order—and drunk-dial her poor husband in the middle of the night while we snuggle in bed cackling like a couple of teenage girls,’” interrupts Cooper from the doorway.
Portia throws a pillow at him. “You are so full of sh—crap, Cooper! You love my late night phone calls.”
He smirks at her. “Close call on the curse words love, and I only love your late-night calls when you’re alone. In our bed.”
The heat in his eyes cannot be missed, and once again I find myself missing the man in my memories. I’ll continue to think of them as memories and not just fantastical dreams until I can prove myself otherwise.
I’m also jealous. Happy for them, but jealous that I’m alone. Or soon to be.
Her laughter pulls me from my misery. “And that, my dear Jerri, is code for phone sex, which I can’t have with him when I’m in bed with you. But we make the most of it. Here,” she says, jogging out of the room. Seconds later, she comes back with a photo album. “I know you’re tired, but I’ll leave these here for you to look at. There are lots of good times in there.”
I nod. “Thanks, Portia, for everything. I’m gonna try to get some sleep now; that trip kicked my ass.”
I give her a small smile. But from the look on her face, I know she sees through it.
The trip isn’t what knocked me on my ass.
It’s the unknown that’s doing the kicking.
Chapter Seven
“You have to stay here, Jerri. You have to. I can’t keep you safe if you don’t.”
His pleading falls on deaf ears. I don’t want to stay here.
Not without him.
I don’t want to do this alone.
“Would you listen to me, Lock? I don’t want to be here without you! I’ll go wherever you want me to go, do whatever you want me to do. I just want to be together,” I cry.
Unfortunately, that falls on deaf ears too.
Only this time, they’re not my own.
This time they’re his.
“I won’t tell you again, Lass. You know why I can’t stay with you. I can’t do what I need to do if you don’t LISTEN, Jerri.” He scrubs a hand down his face and squeezes the back of his neck in frustration as he looks to the sky, presumably for answers that I doubt he will find.
He continues. “Why must you be so stubborn? Why can’t you trust me? Trust that I will do anything, anything”—he draws it out—“to keep you safe. And you being with me, wherever I am, is not safe for you, Lass.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat, straightening my spine. Be it my stubbornness or my pride, I don’t know, but I can’t have him leave me. Not this time, not again.
Because it hurts too damn bad.
I open the door and head into my small apartment above the laundromat. It’s tiny and always smells like fabric softener. And it’s safe.
That’s always his requirement for wherever he leaves me.
That where I stay is safe.
I go to shut the door, but his large body blocks it as he follows me into the apartment. I turn, prepared to tell him to leave, to get the hell out if he can’t take me with him. To never come back.
But I don’t.
Because that’s the sick part of this fucked-up relationship. I can’t ever leave him. And even though he doesn’t admit it, he can’t ever leave me.
We’re dependent on each other. We’ve needed too much from the one another other for so long that we don’t know any other way. We don’t know any other person.
Sure he’s had others. I’ve had others too. But that doesn’t change the fact that we always come back to this.
Him and me.
Locklin and Jerri.
And that’s why when he slams my back against the door and crushes his lips to mine, I don’t tell him to stop. I don’t tell him to leave, get the hell out, stop breaking my heart—to never come back.
No. I don’t do any of that.
I let him wrap my waist-length hair around his large fist so he can devour me.
Heart.
Body.
Mind and soul.
And when he guides my leg up around his waist, I enable him further by unzipping his jeans and releasing him from the confines of his boxers.
Because this is what we do, him and me.
We fight.
And then we fuck.
And then he does the same thing he always does, the one thing that breaks my heart more and more each time.
He leaves.
But that doesn’t stop me from wrapping my other leg around his trim waist.
And it doesn’t stop him from pushing my skirt up and impaling me with the force only a man of his size can achieve.
Large, strong, sure.
It doesn’t stop any of it.
I moan. He’s so good, I couldn’t hold it in if I tried.
I shiver when he touches me because it’s him, the only man who has ever brought endless goosebumps to my skin and pleasure—real pleasure—to my body.
I kiss him back, tasting and devouring, consuming everything I can of this beautiful man before he goes.
Because this will be the last time.
This time, I tell myself, I need to be strong.
Not for me.
Not for him.
But for the child
he doesn’t know that’s growing inside me.
So I push and I pull.
And when he groans into my neck, “Fuck me harder, Jerri girl,”
I do just that.
We fuck and we fight and we pull and we push.
And when his hand comes between us, his thumb making delicious circles on my little bundle of nerves, his mouth moving in rhythm with his cock, we explode.
Two souls forever, stuck together, and perhaps too afraid to break apart.
He settles me back on the ground, forehead to forehead, our heavy breath mixing together.
“I care for you deeply, Lass,” he whispers across my lips.
Never, “I love you.”
Never, “More.”
Because Lock does not give more.
“Stay,” I plead with him again. The stinging in my eyes lets me know tears are soon to fall. I won’t let them, I rarely do.
But they’re coming.
It’s been a month since I’ve seen him, and there will most likely be another before he comes back again.
So I give him one more chance, one more plea, one more shot at a forever.
Because as much as it hurts me to walk away, I know this is not just about me anymore.
It’s about him, or her.
It’s about something greater than the both of us.
Warm, full lips press against my forehead, then my nose, last my mouth.
“I can’t,” He whispers against my lips.
I turn my head, duck around his body, and head toward the bathroom to clean up. I don’t turn around; I just ask the other question I always want the answer to.
“How long?”
I wait for him to reply. His answer will be my timeline, my countdown to when I need to have my stuff gone and moved.
“A month, possibly two. I’ll text you.”
I nod and close the bathroom door, knowing I won’t get the text—because I don’t plan on keeping the phone.
And I have no plan to see him in a month, or possibly two, because I won’t be living here.
