by Liz Crowe
“Jesus, seriously, Metin, stop it. I’m… ah….”
“What is it, Melanie? My love,” he whispered just before using his lips on her in ways she had no idea a man could.
“That. Do not. Use that word.” She groaned when he slid fingers into her and teased her flesh. “The ‘L’ one. I am not your love. You don’t love me. You just are…. Holy mother of Christ, yes!”
He groaned with her as she rode out a mind-bending orgasm, then, wiping his lips, he fell back onto the bed. “You got it. No ‘L’ word. But I will use the ‘F’ one. It’s my favorite. Get up here and fuck me, Melanie. Ride me, and let me watch your eyes when you come again.”
“Goddamn it.” She dropped down over him, shuddering when he sucked her nipple and grabbed her hips. “You are impossible. This is impossible. What the hell are we… ah… shit.” Tears threatened. She had no frame of reference for the emotions coursing through her.
“Shh… will you stop talking for a few minutes and enjoy it?” She shifted, and he was inside her, filling and stretching her. “Now, sit up, see how you feel about this.”
“You are….” She gasped at the depth and angle that provided, moving her hips against him as he reached up and cupped her breasts, running his fingers across her nipples. Her brain screamed at her, throwing up all sorts of loud Stop Now signals. But….
“I am… loving this… with you….” The moonlight hit his face then, and tears shimmered in his eyes. Guilt flooded in, filling the spaces left empty from the gut-wrenching orgasm.
“Metin.” She touched his cheek. “We can’t do this to ourselves.”
But he pulled her back down, putting both his hands on her face. “Yes, we can. And we are. But it’s okay. It is nothing more than meeting physical needs. Stop fighting it. Now roll, I want on top.”
Metin sat with his feet propped up on the balcony banister, dressed in shorts and nothing more, staring out into the purple darkness over his hometown. He sipped water and tried not to give into the urge to open a bourbon bottle and drink the whole thing. Warm wind caressed his skin.
He ran a hand down his chest, feeling how small it had gotten, how weak he’d become. So weak of body and mind and will, he’d screwed the woman he left behind in the bedroom, his own dead wife’s sister. He groaned, leaned over his knees, trying not to be sick.
A new low, Metin, truly. This is what rock-fucking-bottom looks like. Take a long, hard gander at it, man, because you own this now. This place where you are so pitiful you would do this… thing… with Melanie… not once, or twice, but three times. And every time it got better, god help him and curse him straight to hell.
He jumped to his feet, put his hand on the railing, and let the wind prop him up. How many times had he been in that very spot, ready to count to three and leap over the side, to sail down in a swan dive of relief, to leave all the shit behind him? His career was ruined. Everything he loved had been taken from him and why? What had he done? The night mocked him with its silence, again like it had since the moment he had kissed his beloved good-bye.
And now?
He turned, facing away from the railing, pondering how much he’d complicated everything by being unable to control himself around Melanie. As if drawn by a magnet, he walked into the bedroom, sat beside her, and watched her breathe. She muttered in her sleep, rolled onto her back, the cover sliding down to reveal a full breast.
Metin took in the lines of her face, the thick brown hair, so unlike her sister’s. Then without another thought, crawled in behind her, needing human contact so badly he ached with it. She let him pull her close, curl his body around hers, and find peace for the first time in what felt like forever.
He woke cold, in body and soul. Listening to the deafening silence of his condo, he found and put on sweatpants. Sunlight streamed in from the wall of windows, and he blinked. The hangover-free, clear head shocked him; he had not felt it in so long. Usually his morning consisted of throwing up, tossing out whatever slutty woman he’d managed to pick up the night before, pain killers, water, and a nap before noon. Instead, he wanted to strap on his shoes and go for a run. Shaking his head, he rounded the corner to the kitchen expecting to see her there. In her place, he found a carafe of coffee, some toast, a poached egg, and a note.
He poured a cup and sat, clutching the note. Acknowledging he was indeed unhappy to find her gone, he opened it. Two business cards fell onto the counter. One for Rafael Inez, the other for John Patrick Gordon, both emblazoned with some kind of strange poker chip, playing card emblem, and the words, Black Jack Gentlemen. The Soccer Team of Detroit.
Dear Metin,
I’m sorry to have to present this in such a cop-out way, but I simply can’t face you this morning. I don’t know what got into me, into us, thinking we should or could do what we did. I did not come here to seduce you. I came to pass on a message from these two gentlemen. Rafael is the temporary manager of the new expansion team, part of the new US men’s soccer league. The other guy is the money or the guy who finds the money, or something like that.
You need to know that I lay the blame for Alicia and Ayden’s death squarely at your feet. I always have. You sent them out that morning to get you a stupid, unnecessary coffee drink. If they hadn’t done that I would still have my sister and you will not be the giant loser you have apparently become.
Metin’s face flushed, but he cracked a smile. He could practically hear her saying those words in her clipped, terse way.
You and I have no more business together. Don’t get me wrong. You were a great lay. I haven’t had that many orgasms in… well… ever. But as you have said yourself about me, every time I have sex, I manage to screw something else up in my life. I had sex with Scott and ended up married with a kid at twenty-two. I finally got rid of him, ran out and had sex, and now I have two boys. And now—Jesus, man, you’re lucky I’m still on the Pill… anyway. You get me. I know how you feel about me, Metin, that you have never approved of me, or my life, or my attitude about Alicia and her choices. I heard what you said more than once, and I get it. I’m some kind of forbidden, slutty, older sister you had to bed to prove something to yourself. Consider it proven. And consider the message I was sent to give you, delivered.
I hope you find your way out of this black hole. But don’t contact me if you do come to Michigan. As I said, our business is concluded. I’ll let your parents know I saw you and that you have the contact info for this team. The rest is up to you.
Take good care,
Mel
Metin took a long breath, re-read her to-the-point, yet fully-loaded message. Emotions bombarded him from all directions—anger, defensiveness, remorse, guilt, sadness—then circled back to anger again. God, she was such a colossal bitch. Why did he….? He cursed his cock, which had hardened at the thought of her incredible body, her soft lips, the way she would shiver all around him when she came.
Had something to prove, did he? He picked up the cards, still calling down all manner of curses on her. But if she showed up right then, he’d be so relieved; he’d fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness. He knew himself well enough that he did not do “alone” well at all, hence the string of various women he’d run through while still in Spain and here.
But the loneliness he felt right then, deep in his gut, had nothing whatsoever to do with needing a female body near his. That he could make one phone call and procure. No, he required someone to talk to over coffee, argue with, laugh with, get mad at and make up. He may very well want the forbidden fruit of the slutty older sister who he’d fucked, made love to, and depended on more than he realized. He might want her for some of the wrong reasons, but so many more of them were right. She represented so much he missed about his life, in an utterly bizarre way, but still…
He grabbed his phone, fingers poised, ready to dial his house and tell his mother to send Melanie back over when she showed up. Instead, he picked up Rafael’s card and dialed that number, taking a long, deep breath and along with it
, a small step out of the hellish, dark room he’d inhabited for so long.
Chapter Seven
“God damn it, Zachary.”
Mel repressed the urge to shake the kid or burst into tears at the sight of the demolished kitchen when she got home from the restaurant. Neither option viable, really. Nor would they do any good. Ever since she’d returned from Turkey, her body sated, but her mind a whirlwind of remorse, it seemed her older son went ever further out of his way to vex her. She’d discovered long ago that teenage boys were vexatious creatures under the best of circumstances. But damn if the kid didn’t seem determined to write a whole new Chapter in the “angry young man” book.
Tanner rushed into the kitchen to give her a hug. Zach remained slung across a chair in the family room, ignoring her.
“Zach!” the younger boy barked at his brother. “Come clean this up. You said you would.”
“Whatever.” He didn’t move.
Mel put her hands on the counter, counted to twenty, then walked into the family room and stood between Zach and the television. “Zach, did you ever hear from a guy who was going to help you with your scholarship stuff?” She forced her voice to remain level.
“Yeah.” He grunted, not meeting her eyes.
“And…?” She shifted to the side, snagged the remote, and clicked the TV off.
“Watching that,” he said, before flopping back into the cushions.
“Tell me how it’s going then.” She sat across from him, determined to keep her own temper under control, to remain the adult in the room.
“I don’t know. He’s got some people coming to film me so I have new clips to send or something… and he knows the coaches at State and Purdue and Georgia Tech.” Zach studied his fingernails. “He’s pretty cool.”
Mel took a slow breath. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Now get up off your ass and clean the kitchen while I take a shower. Then I’ll make us some pancakes for dinner.”
She smiled at the quick flash of happiness on Zach’s face, reminding her of the little boy he’d been—a handful, to be sure, but hers nonetheless. Her sons started razzing each other within seconds, so at least they were in the same room now, which meant Zach had actually done what she’d told him to for a change.
The steamy water hit her skin, washing away the day’s long, hot painfulness. She’d had to fire a couple of servers who were popular amongst the staff but who’d gotten so many complaints from customers she really had no choice. Mel loved her business but hated being the boss sometimes and wished she had a friend or two to unwind with who didn’t hate her guts because—or in spite of the fact that—she signed their paychecks.
As she passed her hands down her body, a shiver of memory made her grip the tiled walls to keep from dropping to her knees. Metin. He’d sent her an email that week, and she’d stared at his name, ignoring the message, afraid of her own responses to him. The whole thing had been so surreal, so amazing and so utterly wrong—she still woke up in cold sweats remembering his hands on her, his lips, and the way their bodies fit together, again… and again that weekend.
Men were off her radar, permanently. The thing with Metin had been a one-off between two people desperate to dispel some demons of memory. She had to ignore him. Even if he did move to Michigan, she’d made it clear he was not to contact her, which he had conveniently ignored if that damn message sitting in her inbox was any indication.
She slipped into clean jeans and a T-shirt and sat at the small table in her room where she kept her laptop, chewing at her lip, finger hovering over the delete button. “Goddamn it, just read the thing. It’s not gonna bite you,” she berated herself as she opened the email sent four days prior.
Dear Melanie,
I need you to know that I’m sincerely sorry for the scene at Alicia and Ayden’s funeral. I got up the morning you left, wanting to talk about that. Instead, I found your fuck-off note, with some really good coffee, so I couldn’t.
I also want to apologize for the things I assumed about you. I am the product of a chauvinistic culture, and one that is brutally hypocritical as well. We expect our women to be beautiful, perfect creatures to the eye, pliable and soft underneath, and when we come up against one who is as hard as nails under her lovely surface… sometimes we act in ways that shame us. I did that to you, for years, without really realizing it. Your sister was that way, too—in her way. And we clashed on many things, but because I loved her so much…. I was evolving, let’s say, thanks to her.
I want also to thank you. I have been in touch with the guys in Detroit and will be in Michigan on Friday, staying through until the next Thursday to tour their facility and meet the players they have in place already. I doubt that I will take the job, however. I don’t know if I can coach, and I’m shocked that they seem to think that I can.
But if you had not shown up here that day, I don’t know where I’d be right now. However you feel about what we did here together, please know that you may very well have saved my life. I’ve spent the last few weeks getting back in shape, detoxing from booze, and generally attempting to get through each day not so angry or despairing.
Yours,
Metin (aka the soccer-playing asshole)
Mel frowned, startled at the sound of Zach clearing his throat.
“Hey, uh, Mom?”
She shook her head, unable to focus.
“There’s someone at the door….” His face remained blank, but his eyes blazed with something she didn’t like.
Her heart pounded as she glanced at the message.
Friday…holy shit, that’s today.
Metin climbed out of the rental car and walked up the sidewalk to Melanie’s tidy bungalow. He’d come there first, on purpose, hoping to clear the air with her in person. She’d not responded to his email, which he didn’t take as a good sign. But he needed her to know how much she’d helped him, whether she meant to or not.
A tall young man answered the door. Metin smiled. The boy did not return it.
“Hi, Zach, you have certainly grown… um, remember me?” The kid didn’t move or blink. He simply stood, blocking the doorway. “Metin?” He stuck out a hand.
“Yeah, I remember you. Why are you here?”
“I’m, uh….” He was at a sudden loss for words. His head pounded. He needed a drink, to go home, to avoid this whole scene at all costs. But he squared his shoulders not about to let a surly teenager intimidate him. “I’m here to meet with some club owners about coaching. Is your mother at home?” He smiled again while gritting his teeth.
“Who’s at the door, Zach? Oh… wow.” A younger boy appeared, a young, male, carbon copy of his mother. His dark eyes flashed. Then he barreled past his brother. “Metin! I missed you!”
His strong hug brought the sting of tears to Metin’s weary eyes. He held onto the boy, letting himself have a moment of happy memory before the darkness beckoned.
“I missed you too, Tanner,” he said into his hair as Zach disappeared inside. “So, I’ll ask you. Is your mom home?”
Tanner led him into the house, past a giant, slobbering brown bear he claimed was “just a Labrador named Bruce,” and they sat at the small kitchen table. When Melanie appeared, the urge to sweep her into his arms was so intense it confused him, but he realized he’d never do that again, not if her eyes were any indication of her frame of mind now that he’d actually shown up.
He had come to thank her in person. Nothing more. But the way he wanted to do that, to kiss her, right in front of her sons, made his skin flame hot. Alicia’s face wafted across his memory, as usual, and his pulse raced.
“Hey, well, um, I just now read your email so… ah….” She ran her hand through her wet hair, her discomfort palpable.
Zach stood at her shoulder, his jaw clenched as tightly as his fists. “Mom, why is he here?”
Metin stayed quiet, despite his urge to smack the kid upside his disrespectful head.
“He’s here to interview for a coaching job.” She
spoke to her son but stared at Metin. “That’s all. He wanted to stop by and see you boys. Since he hasn’t in… so long.” She slumped into a chair. “Relax, Zach. And if you can’t, then go outside or something.”
Tanner bounced up and down in his seat. “Metin, why don’t you play for Real anymore? I saw when you punched that ref! That was totally awesome!”
“No, Tanner, that was a bullshit thing to do, especially since he was drunk off his ass—again.” Zach spoke for him.
Metin raised an eyebrow. The tension between mother and son was so thick he could visualize it shimmering and poisonous.
“Zach, enough. Metin went through a very tough time, you know that. Now back off… go somewhere else, and let me talk to him a minute.”
“No, Zach is right,” he said, putting a hand on Mel’s that lay, jittery on the table between them. “I acted badly and as a result, no decent club will touch me. I did it to myself. But I’m doing a little better now. Not great. But better.”
He smiled at the boy and then faced Melanie. But he stopped short at the expression on her face and spent a moment second-guessing his motivation for coming here before he did anything else. Her dark gaze was somber, unhappy, and not a little bit pissed off. “Um, so, anyway.” He took his hand off hers and sat up straight, collecting his thoughts. “I’m thinking about coming here to coach that expansion team in Detroit.”
“Wow! That would be so awesome!” Tanner’s voice broke in the way of boys becoming young men. “I heard Rafe Inez is in on that, too. Didn’t you play with him once? And they got Nicco Garza to play for them. You guys really hate each other, don’tcha?” He quivered with excitement, his grin comically wide.
“Shut up, you idiot,” Zach growled from across the room. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Metin won’t stay and coach a team of nobodies like those Black Jack whatevers.”
Mel looked so utterly exhausted, Metin had to bite the inside of his cheek not to pull her up and into his arms, something he absolutely would not do. He had come there to make peace, to establish himself as a friend, or at the very least, rebuild a small part of his family again. It had taken him weeks to get past what he and Melanie had done, and while his body hadn’t felt so right with a woman since Alicia, he wouldn’t pursue it any further.
