Fat & Fine

by Mary E Thompson

  Brady yanked his shirt off and let me touch him while he played with the strings tying my top together. Once he’d freed me he let the fabric float to the ground behind me. His hands cupped my breasts, rasping his thumbs over my nipples. “You’re beautiful, Sam. Don’t ever let anyone allow you to feel otherwise.”

  It felt like he was telling me something more than his words said, but I didn’t know what.

  And at that moment I didn’t care. I just wanted Brady. My Brady.

  “You, too,” I said softly, knowing he needed to hear it as much as I did. We’d shared our bodies before, but the reverence in his tone and his eyes told me this time was different. He was different. We were different. It wasn’t sex. It was more.

  Something in my words snapped something within Brady. He kissed me fiercely, hard and demanding, but giving as much as he took. I kissed him back with equal urgency, needing to connect with him.

  Our hands tore at the remaining clothes that separated us. Brady toed off his sneakers and rolled on a condom as his shorts and boxer briefs hit the floor. He reached for me and lifted me into his arms. My legs circled his waist and he slid deep into me.

  Oh, dear god, he felt good. Without knowing it he was fulfilling a fantasy of mine. He surged into me, supporting the weight of both of us. He quickly worked me into a frenzy. I couldn’t stop the urge to erupt around him, but I held back, wanting to feel him within me just a little longer. I needed to feel him, to grasp that this was Brady uncontrolled. This was Brady acting on desire alone. This was the Brady he didn’t want me to see.

  But it was part of the Brady I loved.

  When his fingers dug into my hips I knew he was close. He guided my body up and down his length, his hips surging harder and deeper to hit me just right, so deep and oh so right. I felt the tightness within me, urging both of us along, and his control completely fell away. He pounded into me, almost to the point of pain, which ramped up my need for him. My body went limp as my orgasm began. I couldn’t control myself. I couldn’t stop my body from moving how it wanted. Brady held me, pulling my body tight against his as we both pulsed and twitched and came with matching screams of pleasure.

  Brady collapsed onto the bed, pulling me on top of him. I rested my head against his chest and listened to the beat of his heart. My fingers trailed over his body. I loved seeing Brady out of control, but I knew he was going to flip out any minute.

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have taken you that hard.”

  “I loved it. Every second. It felt so good, Brady. Perfect.”

  “I wasn’t too hard on you.”

  I wiggled my hips, his erection still buried deep inside me. “Just hard enough,” I teased.

  Brady huffed a laugh and tightened his grip on me, but didn’t say anything else. After a few minutes he got up and went to the bathroom, then came back to bed. He tugged me to him and whispered, “Will you stay with me? I need you here tonight.”

  I nodded, dying to ask why he needed me, but knowing he wouldn’t tell me.

  Brady drifted off to sleep, but I laid there wide awake. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong. Brady had always been quiet and intense, but there was something going on.

  A few hours later Brady woke up and pulled me close. He slid inside me, still half asleep, and made love to me slowly, staring into my eyes the whole time. When he fell asleep after that time I laid there and cried, knowing without words that he was saying goodbye.

  And I had no idea why.

  Twenty-Four

  I was so ready to relax. After a long day, and even longer week, I was thrilled to have a Friday night off and happy to spend it with Brady. He sent me a text that morning saying he wanted me to come over for dinner and spend the night. We hadn’t seen each other in three days, when he’d acted so strange. I’d sensed something was going on, but like always, Brady didn’t open up and tell me what was going on. I’d finally drifted off sometime around five that morning and Brady was gone when I woke up, a note saying he’d be in meetings all day.

  He’d sent me text messages every day, acting like everything was okay, so I’d pushed away the thoughts I had about him pushing me away.

  Until I walked into his apartment.

  I could tell something wasn’t right. Lucky met me at the door with a whine, wagging his tail low like he needed to go out. “Where’s Brady?” I asked the dog, as though he could answer.

  Lucky whined at Brady’s name and I started to get really nervous.

  The kitchen was empty and so was the living room. The only other place he could be was the bedroom, but the door was closed. I’d never been worried about talking to Brady, even though he never said much, but something told me whatever I found behind that door was going to change things.

  And probably not for the better.

  I knocked once and waited. When I didn’t hear Brady’s voice I twisted the knob, not knowing if I wanted it to be unlocked or locked. It turned in my hand and I opened the door.

  The room was dark, but I could see Brady sitting in the corner of the room. He was tucked onto the floor like a child in time-out. One knee was raised and his elbow was anchored on his knee with his head resting on top. In his other hand glinted a bottle. One that was mostly empty.

  Panic settled low in my gut. I didn’t know why Brady didn’t drink, but I knew he never did. It wasn’t time to question why, but even a guy Brady’s size couldn’t put away the better half of a bottle of whiskey without it knocking him on his ass. Since Brady didn’t drink, he would be even worse.

  “Brady?” I said tentatively into the darkness. “What’s wrong?”

  “Go away, Sam,” he answered, his voice harsh and his speech slurred.

  “No, Brady. Talk to me. Why are you drinking?”

  He stayed silent for a few minutes and I wondered if he’d passed out. I had no idea how I was going to get him into bed, or the bathroom if he was sick. Maybe Xander or some of the trainers could help me.

  “You don’t want to be here Sam. Just go home.”

  The anger and distaste in his words lanced me. He could have called me a fat bitch and I think it would have hurt less.

  Okay, maybe not, but his tone hurt.

  “Brady, I just want to help you. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Why?” he asked with clear disdain. “So you can feel bad for me? So you can hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay? Fuck that, Sam.”

  I moved closer to him, finally working my way into the room so I could get closer to him. Touch seemed to be big for Brady. If I could touch him maybe he’d be okay.

  When I got to his side I rested my hand on his arm, but he shrugged me off. “Damn it, Sam. I said go. I don’t want you here.”

  Ouch. I knew he was drunk and didn’t mean anything he said, but he knew exactly what to say to make me feel like shit.

  “Brady, I’m not leaving you like this. Please talk to me.”

  I tried to touch him again but he shrugged me off and stood up. He wobbled but caught himself against the wall. Another swig of the bottle vanished down his throat and fear mixed with the panic I’d been feeling. That wasn’t Brady. He didn’t drink. He didn’t push me away.

  “He’s dead, Sam. My dad’s fucking dead. Is that what you want to hear? He fucking died.”

  I was so confused. I shook my head, trying to understand what he was telling me. His dad died when he was 18, 15 years ago. Maybe it was the anniversary of his death and Brady wasn’t dealing well with it.

  “Is today the anniversary, Brady? Did he die 15 years ago today?”

  Brady never talked about his dad. The only time he’d mentioned him was the day at my parents’ house when he told them about his parents. Since then he’d never mentioned them, and I didn’t ask. Now I wished I had. Maybe I’d be better prepared for drunk Brady.

  “He died today, Sam. Just after noon.”

  Shocked didn’t begin to describe how I felt. He’d
lied to me. I didn’t know why he told me his dad died, but it hurt that he’d lied to me.

  “How? What happened?”

  Brady laughed mirthlessly. His voice was full of anger when he said, “The bastard had cirrhosis. All his fucking drinking finally caught up to the son of a bitch.”

  Brady dropped to the bed, his arm hanging over the edge with the bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. I sat next to him and tried to piece together what was going on. I felt like I was the drunk one.

  “He was an alcoholic? Is that why you told me he died when you were 18? You were ashamed of him?”

  Brady snorted and sat up enough to take another sip from the bottle. “I told you he was dead because I left home as soon as I turned 18 to get away from that fucking asshole. Ashamed of him? No. I just never wanted to speak to him again. As far as I was concerned the bastard died then. I haven’t seen him since.”

  I was getting more and more confused. All I’d figured out was Brady hated his father, he died that day, and Brady was drinking.

  “How do you know he died today if you haven’t spoken to him?”

  “She called me,” he growled. “He must have told her about me. She called me this afternoon and told me. She wants me to go to his funeral. Like I owe him anything.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “His wife,” Brady growled like I should have known the answer.

  Wait… his mom?

  “I thought your mom died when you were little.”

  He laughed again, cruelly. “She’s not my mother. My mother was the reason the bastard drowned himself for years. She was on a date with her fucking boyfriend when they got into a car accident. Both of them were killed. My father took it out on me until I got bigger than him and could fight back. Then the bastard started using props. The broken beer bottles were my favorite. A few picture frames. Once in a while he’d throw a knife at me. I got really fucking good at dodging shit.”

  Oh. My. God. I’d wondered since the first time I’d seen him without a shirt if it’d been at the hands of his father, but hearing the truth was a hundred times worse than I could have ever imagined. I didn’t blame him one bit for hating his father. I hated the asshole, too. How could you take your anger out on a child? Fists, bottles, knives?

  “Brady, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Don’t give me that shit, Sam. You knew. I saw it in your eyes when you looked at my scars. You’ve kissed them, like you could heal me, and you wanted to ask. Now you know the truth. I had a shitty childhood.”

  “Okay, yes. I wondered, but I never imagined it was that bad. I’m sorry you went through that, Brady.”

  “Whatever. She said he’s been better. He quit drinking twelve years ago, got sober. They’ve been together ten years and said I have a sister. An eight year old sister. That he was a changed man. A good man. He wanted to see me. To apologize.”

  “Did you know that? Did you go see him?”

  He scoffed. “Fuck no I didn’t go see him. She called me Tuesday, but he didn’t deserve my forgiveness. That bastard doesn’t get to erase sixteen years of torture with two little words. He could have spent the rest of my life apologizing to me and I wouldn’t have forgiven him. He deserved the miserable fucking death he got.”

  I sucked in a breath at Brady’s admission. No one deserved a miserable death, not even a child abusing asshole.

  Brady’s eyes snapped to mine, as much as they could in his drunken state, and he snarled. “Don’t get all high and mighty on me now, Sam.”

  I bristled at his words. He’d never made me feel like I was a snob before.

  “Brady, why don’t you get some rest? Give me that,” I reached for the bottle in his hand, but he snatched it away before I could get to it.

  “Don’t bother, Sam. I’m just like him, you know. I didn’t just get my name from him, but I’m unable to control myself around alcohol like him. This was the whiskey he would always drink before he beat the shit out of me. Did you know the first time he broke my nose he couldn’t even take me to the hospital to get it set because he was too drunk? That’s why it’s still crooked. Of course the other times he broke it he was too drunk then too, but I’d learned how to set it myself. Not too well since I can’t smell anything, but whatever. It’s just another in the long list of things that asshole stole from me.”

  “Brady, you’re nothing like him. Don’t say that.”

  “Oh, but I am Sam. Sam, I am,” he laughed at his joke. “I never should have pursued you. I knew I wasn’t good enough for you. I’m a fucking joke and you deserve better.”

  My heart sunk. Brady was the most confident person I knew. He wasn’t a depressed, self-bashing man. He was a kind, sweet, protective, amazing man. I hated his father just a little more for making him believe those things about himself.

  “Brady, don’t say that.”

  “Did you know I never finished high school? I just left. The day I turned 18 I left for school like normal but went to the bus station. I’d stolen cash from him and had enough for a couple of days. I took a bus to Winterville. My mom grew up here and even though I hated her for leaving me and turning him into a monster, I knew he’d never look for me here. I was at a diner getting dinner when Dave sat next to me. We started talking and he took me in.”

  I really thought my heart was going to break. Brady had been through so much in his life and he was screwed up. He never talked about himself, never let me in. At least I knew why, but it didn’t make it easier.

  “I don’t care if you never finished high school. Or anything else Brady. I… I love you.”

  He snorted and shook his head. “No you don’t. You love the idea of me. You love the strong boyfriend who can kick the ass of any jerk who is mean to you, but you don’t love me. Just go, Sam. Find someone who deserves you. Find a smart guy, one who can love you back. I can’t love anyone. I don’t know how.”

  Oh, God. I turned my face away from him, not wanting him to see my tears. I covered my face with my hand, stifling the sobs that threatened to escape. He didn’t mean it, he couldn’t. He was just drunk. People said all sorts of things when they were drunk, whether they meant them or not. Brady couldn’t mean the things he said.

  Before I composed myself I heard soft snores coming from Brady. He’d passed out hard. The bottle still dangled from his fingertips but he was out cold. I wiped my eyes and eased off the edge of the bed. He wouldn’t be comfortable in his jeans, but I wasn’t going to risk waking him up trying to take them off. He was barefoot so I didn’t have to worry about that.

  I gripped the bottle and slowly worked it out of his hand. He rolled toward the middle of the bed and curled up with his hands tucked beneath his chin. He looked so small, so young. My heart broke all over again for the boy Brady was, the boy who lived in fear for so many years.

  It was a lot to process, but I understood Brady a lot better having learned so much. Losing his dad was hard, even though he hated the man. It made sense why he’d pulled away from me all week too. If his step-mom had called him it explained why he was saying goodbye the other night while he made love to me.

  But it wasn’t goodbye. He’d be fine in the morning. We’d get through it together. Drinking was a side effect. And he wouldn’t do it again.

  While Brady and I were talking Lucky relieved himself on the kitchen floor. I cleaned the mess up then started on the rest of the apartment. I wasn’t going to leave Brady alone, but I wasn’t ready to sleep just yet. Cleaning always wore me out.

  When the apartment was spotless I dumped out the rest of the whiskey and took out the trash. Lucky and I went for a quick walk, and I was happy to see he emptied his bladder and his bowels before settling in for the night.

  I checked on Brady again, he was still passed out, then curled up on the couch. I wanted to cuddle up to Brady, but he was hogging the bed and I was still hurt from all the things he said to me. I knew we’d get through it, but at that moment it was painful.

  When I woke u
p the next morning I heard Brady in the bathroom. Unsure if he’d want me to see him so sick, or if I could handle it, I stayed out. I brewed a pot of coffee and slid a few slices of bread into the toaster and waited for him to come out.

  A few minutes later Brady came out and froze when he saw me. “What are you doing here?” he asked, not sounding overly thrilled to see me. He probably didn’t remember anything that happened the night before and would apologize when I told him how mean he’d been.

  “I came over last night. You’d been drinking.”

  He nodded. “I know. I also remember telling you to leave.”

  My heart snapped. Literally, it just cracked in half. He was sober and still wanted me to leave.

  “You didn’t mean that, Brady. You were drunk. I didn’t want to leave you alone. I was worried about you.”

  “Don’t Sam, just don’t. I meant what I said last night. I don’t want you here.”

  Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. “Brady, you don’t mean that. This isn’t you. I know you’re hurt, but I’m here for you. You don’t have to be afraid to let me in.”

  He shrugged like it was no big deal. “I’m not afraid, Sam. And I’m not hurt. I just know when something is done and this is done. We’re done, Sam.”

  “No, Brady, don’t say that,” I sobbed, abandoning my desire to keep from crying in front of him. “I love you.”

  He stared at me, his eyes cold and hard. There was no softness in him, no sign of the Brady I knew. He was the cold, unbending asshole I’d thought he was to start with.

  “I don’t feel the same way about you, Sam. It’s over. Please go.”

  He turned from me, dismissing me. Tears poured down my face, but I wouldn’t break down. At least not in his apartment. I’d wait until I got home.

  I picked up my purse and hugged Lucky goodbye then walked to the door. I paused with my hand on the doorknob, unable to face walking away, but knowing I had no choice. I glanced back to look at him. He had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring at me without a hint of kindness. “Goodbye Brady,” I said, then walked out of his life.