by Rose Hudson
“You need to know something, Erin. It’s going to be the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done, but I’m going to be your friend. Just like I said I would. But first…,” he brushes his thumb over my bottom lip, weakening my resolve and causing my lips to part. I move my bent knee from in front of me to against the back of the seat, battling between reluctance and willingness, giving him the space to lean the hard press of his muscled chest against mine. My eyes close at the feel of his rough finger against my lips, and I lose the battle of reluctance, sucking in a sharp breath.
“First, I need you to give me this,” he continues and I open my eyes to look into his, seeing the need he speaks of reflected in them. “Just. Once.” His lips graze my ear when he speaks, taking with it the last fraction of my control as it leaves on a whisper. Knowing what he wants and knowing I want it just as bad, I forfeit to willingness and shake my head yes. He doesn’t waste time. Immediately his lips land on mine, not rough or invading like I anticipated, but gentle and deep and consuming all at the same time. His tongue teases the line of my lips but never crosses the boundary. His hands convey desire in their caress on my neck and cheeks, but never leave to roam my body. Taking my bottom lip between both of his, he pulls away slowly, only letting go when the space between the us gets too large. His eyes are deep pools of desire and I pulse under his gaze, wondering if I would ever come back if I stepped, no, jumped off into those deep waters. I force air into my lungs and grasp at particles of my shattered self, pulling in every piece of control I can find among the chaos.
“Sitting this close to you, smelling your sweetness, hearing your laugh, I couldn’t go one more second without it. A piece of you, I needed it and you gave it to me. Thank you.” My heart squeezes at the depth conveyed in the simplicity of his words. Although my knowledge of Patrick is minimal in experience, I can tell by the way his eyes mourn the loss of our physical connection, that his words are genuine and true, but not customary for him. Patrick could have any woman he desires, and whether he knows it or not, could have anything he wanted from me. But all he requests is one kiss. One touch of my lips to his. Not taking, but asking my permission, making it more intimate than if I had given myself to him completely right then and there. If I am honest with myself though, in ways I can’t identify, I had just given myself to him. I had left tiny pieces of my heart on those lips that I would never get back.
I spent the entire time we were at Moe’s trying not to think about that kiss, but failing miserably. Every time he spoke, my eyes drifted to his full lips and I’d have to look away to hide the need I had no doubt was shown in them. Our conversation mostly revolved around the grand opening of GRACE this weekend, and occasionally Ruth. I asked about his boat business and mentioned the fact that Chanin had messaged me about purchasing the warehouse next door to him, getting smiles and simple responses in return before he’d turn the conversation back to me. The amount of attention focused on me almost gave me an uneasy feeling, not in a negative way, just unsure of how to process his genuine interest in my life, but not letting me get away with brushing off his questions like everyone else does. We ate and had a couple of beers, enjoying the live music provided by a local country band, and once getting up to dance. It was almost too much. His arm around my waist pulling me into him, his breath on my neck as we swayed slowly to the music, the electricity between us so strong I wouldn’t be surprised if a force field had become visible to those around us. Too much. Upper hand, Erin.
Bringing our night to an inevitable end and coming to a stop in my driveway, Patrick gets out and walks around to help me out of his truck. He catches my waist and eases me down to the ground.
“Couldn’t take the chance of you falling again, Grace,” he says playfully, quickly removing his hands from my waist, establishing the reappearance of Patrick, my friend.
“Yeah, I kind of need both ankles this week,” I smile up at him, exhaling quietly, hoping he didn’t hear the desperate disappointment in my sigh. “First good meal I’ve had in a while. Thank you Patrick.” Leaning up on my toes I kiss his cheek, not missing the flex of his jaw. I force a smile and walk toward the porch.
“Erin.” I turn at my name from his lips, gathering all those particles of control and holding on for dear life.
“Yeah?” With his back to me, he pushes the passenger side door of his truck closed, holding his position for a long moment before finally turning back to face me.
“Thank you for letting me be your friend when you deserve so much better.” With that he walks around the front of his truck and gets in, pulling away without another word. Watching his tail-lights fade from the end of my driveway, a ping of regret settles in my chest where anxiety, and lust, and need had been such a short moment earlier, forcing me to understand that having the upper hand isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
THIRTY-FIVE.
That’s how many tiles are on the ceiling of my bedroom. I know this because I’ve counted them at least fifty times this morning, or what’s technically referenced to as morning anyway. When they say ‘it’s always darkest before the dawn’, they weren’t kidding. But they also weren’t just referring to the actual darkness of the sky. Anyone who has had a sleepless night like the one I just had can relate, I’m sure. Your surroundings are darkest, yes. But so are your thoughts. Like the deepest darkest parts of you are merely perfectly timed drill sergeants, only coming out to play cruel and unusual jokes at 3 a.m. when all you want to do is sleep. To just close your eyes and escape from the demons of your day. Of your past. Considering the roller coaster of emotion I’ve been stuck on for weeks, the dark parts of me have gotten plenty of playtime. Dreams and nightmares battle one another for control of my dark hours. Alternating between pictures of lush red curls and soft sweet lips, to bloodshed and solitary cells with locked doors.
The night I stood in Erin’s bedroom and took in the sight of her sleeping, a crushing blow of circumstance hitting me in the heart, I left thinking I would never see her again. I was willing to go to whatever lengths I had to, to insure that we didn’t. I would resign from going to Charlie’s or anywhere it was possible to have a chance encounter with her. Whatever I had to do to keep myself from losing control the way I did at the bar that night, I would do it because I believed that’s how it needed to be. But in the days following, my heart was introduced for the first time to an actual visceral connection and punishing me with the need for more, I knew there was no way I would ever be the same. Sure I could put myself back together because I had done it before after losing everything dear to me, but I knew the pieces of my former self would never fit together the same. Certain pieces would overlap and grind, the friction causing pain and problems that would eventually become unbearable. I knew what I was doing when I went to talk to Chanin and sell her the warehouse, a warehouse I owned merely to establish privacy and boundaries from others. Although I fought with every fiber of my being not to absorb her words and to not make the pull I felt toward Erin apparent to Chanin, I knew she would pave the road leading me back to her. And no matter how strong the part of my brain telling me I wasn’t good for her, my heart and the need to feel the way I felt looking into her eyes, connected to her in a way previously foreign to me, was so much stronger. There aren’t words to describe how difficult it was telling her I was willing to be her friend, to give her time to get to know me, to trust me. But given the fact that she didn’t know the circumstances that forced me to deny her that day in my apartment, and the fact that I had hurt her for no apparent reason in her eyes, it was pain I was willing to endure. If it gives me the chance to be around her, the chance to decipher this need I have for her, then I would be her friend for as long as she’d have me. Although I’ve done plenty of idiotic shit in my life, I’m not an idiot. I didn’t miss the give in her when I pressed against her in my truck. I didn’t miss the returned urgency when she allowed me a taste of her sweet sweet lips. And I didn’t miss the shallow sigh that escaped her when she walked away from me in h
er driveway. But with her, I have to be smarter than my fifth appendage. This insane urge to know her is, for once, bigger than my need to get off and move on to the next.
Dawson’s been giving me shit for jumping every time my phone has made the slightest sound over the last three days, and for good reason. Even though I’d like to play it off like I’m not eager as hell to read her replies to my texts, or punch him in the throat for busting my balls about it. The two of us have always had the same end game with women and although he doesn’t know much about why I am the way I am, he knows enough. Working together for ten years reveals a lot, even the stuff I try to hide. He didn’t come right out and question me about Erin today, but he did surprise the hell out of me. I can count on one hand how many times Dawson has ever talked to me about his life. Other than military stories and past experiences working on boats, there has been a comment here and there about his father being an alcoholic or his mom being an idiot for staying with his dad, but that’s it. But today as he was cleaning up to leave he started to tell me about the reason he joined the military, and for the first time I realized I’m not the only one with a painful past. He told me about growing up watching his dad get wasted and beat his mom damn near every day for years until one day when he was seven and he became the new target after trying to stop his dad. This went on for several years before his mother left. She stayed away from his father for almost six months before she went back to him, convinced things would change this time. But in reality the only thing that had changed was his mother. The once funny caring woman that she had been became non-existent, not even appearing behind closed doors or when his father was at work like she had. He tried for years to get his mother to leave for good, but her excuses were endless and usually revolved around money. So, as soon as he turned seventeen and received his GED, he enlisted in the Navy and left for boot camp in Illinois within two weeks, putting half of every paycheck in an account for his mom. In October of 2000 the ship he was stationed on was attacked by Al-Qaeda and after 3 weeks of protecting the wreckage, sleeping on deck in the Yemeni heat of Aden, surrounded by the foul smell of rotting perishables and mind branding stench of rotting human, they were finally air lifted back home. When he arrived at his parents’ house for the first time in three years, still reeling from the attack and even more so the aftermath, he told her he couldn’t take it anymore. He basically told her that if she didn’t leave him and take a chance at true happiness that he couldn’t stand idly by and watch. Since then they speak on birthdays or Christmas and he has only gone home twice in the years he’s been here.
“The whole point of me telling you this is because I know you’re just as fucked up as I am. I may not know details, but I know that whatever happened turned you into the asshole you are today.” He walked over from where he stood against the deck railing and sat in the empty folding chair beside me. “I know it’s hard to imagine, but I was in love with someone once. We met when I was home on leave for a few weeks and she filled a part of me that had been empty for a long time. But what I didn’t know then that I do now, is unlike physical wounds that heal with time, traumatic wounds do the opposite; growing bigger and stronger with time if they aren’t dealt with. At the time I thought she was what I needed and vice versa. But eventually, because I hadn’t processed all the bullshit that happened in my life before her, I just pulled her down with me. Managed to do to her what my ol’ man did to my mom and sucked the life right out of her.” My attention was so focused on him and the words spilling from his mouth that I forgot to breathe, the feeling of shock and pain constricting my lungs for my friend. In all these years I had been so wrapped up in my mission to be closed off and hard, not willing to acknowledge that someone so close to me had went through just as much. Dawson pulls a joint out of his cigarette pack and lights it, taking a deep drag and holding it in for a long moment before releasing a stream of thick white smoke from his lips.
“Now you know why I smoke this shit,” he cocks a sidelong grin and chuckles, playing it off like he didn’t just tell me some truly painful shit. “I’m not telling you what to do cause’ that’s your business. But I am putting my two cents in, hoping you might exorcise the demons from your life before you bring a woman like her into it.”
Nine hours ago. That’s how long ago those words left his mouth and I haven’t been able to get them out since. Tossing and turning, even getting up at one point and taking a run down the beach, anything that might lift this weight of guilt and dishonesty from my shoulders, but so far nothing has worked. I’ve had my phone sitting on the nightstand, looking at it every five minutes, checking to make sure I hadn’t missed a call or a message from Erin, but I hadn’t. Of course not, normal people are asleep at this time. I turn on my side, disgusted that now I not only know the number of tiles, I know that there are thirty vertical lines and twenty-eight horizontal lines. Get the fuck up before you decide to redecorate or some shit. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, I can’t help but pick my phone up and tap on our message feed, the last message from her.
Erin: Yes, Calla Lilli’s are my favorite. Not sure why you ask, but if your planning on sending them I would much rather you donate to charity or something. I love flowers, but they are so expensive and they just die anyway. Waste of money, right? Anyway, I’m finally leaving GRACE, poor Ruth is asleep in the back of the car and I’m beat. Talk tomorrow?
I had never replied because there were so many things I wanted to say in response, but most of them crossed the line of friendship, so I just didn’t say anything at all. I wanted to tell her that nothing was too expensive for her. I wanted to tell her from now on she could call me and I would pick Ruth up from the store and take her home. I wanted to tell her that I wish I could be there to carry her up the stairs and put her to bed, make sure she was safe until she went to sleep. But I didn’t say any of that. Instead I just forced my ass downstairs and eventually ended up on the weights, anxious to burn off some of this pent up need, confusion, and frustration toward myself. I look at the clock. 4:00 a.m. She did say talk tomorrow. I do a quick Google search and find the picture I need, pasting into the comment box of our thread and typing out my message as I head downstairs to start the coffee pot and stretch before Dawson gets here.
Patrick: Since you ruined my surprise I had to come up with a solution. Congrats on the grand opening. I know with you involved it will be nothing short of perfect.
“So we have one hull repair scheduled next week and that’s it,” Dawson asks from the chair in front of my desk. “Is it me or is business slowing down earlier than usual this year? Hell, we usually stay busy until Thanksgiving at least.”
“Yeah, but we haven’t had to buy equipment this year, and I just sold the warehouse to Erin’s boss, so our bottom line actually comes out better compared to last year.” Dropping the pencil I’d been using to balance October’s records, I lean back in the rolling chair and shoot him a satisfied smirk. He leans up from his slumped position and places his elbows on his knees, removing his cap and scratching his head.
“So you went through with it? Last I heard you didn’t want to mix business with pleasure.”
“That’s not what you heard because pleasure wasn’t on the table.”
“Is that right? So you’re saying it is now?” His mocking laughter echoes against the concrete walls. “Dude, it’s me you’re talking to. Pleasure has always been on the table where sweet Erin is concerned.” I ran my hand down my face and glared at him, hating that he razed me about this when I was so damn frustrated about it in the first place.
“What do you want me to say Dawson? That I’m attracted to her? Of course I am. Have you looked at her?” I stood and took the bottle of Maker’s Mark from the bottom drawer of the file cabinet in the corner. No sleep all week and enough sexual frustration to fill this room, had me spun tighter than a two-dollar watch. I needed a nap, but right now I’d settle for a shot. Or two. Not even bothering to locate a glass, I opened it and bubbled the contents, the amb
er liquid coating my throat as it burned the lump in my throat down with it. Dawson sat with his arm now propped on the arm of the chair, index finger over his lips that turned up slightly at the corners. I took another long pull from the neck of the glass bottle before sliding it across the desk to him. Shaking his head and gripping the bottle as he slid it off the desk into his lap, he drank through intermingled chuckles. “You know me. You know this is not what I do. Ever. If you’re expecting an explanation, well, your shit outta’ luck cause’ I don’t even know what the hell’s going on.” Dropping my head to the desk, I grip my hands around the back of my neck in frustration. Dawson clears his throat and I lift my head slightly to peer at him. This time there was no shit-eating grin. Instead, it held the same seriousness it had last night.
“I’ve already gave you my advice, right or wrong, you have it. Believe me, I can more than see the appeal. But I’ve never even seen you ask for a chick’s number, you’ve always been a one-stop shop. But I guess if her pussy’s that magical- go for it. Just know you’re gonna’ end up telling me I was right in the end. A woman like that doesn’t do one-nighters,” he lifts the bottle to his mouth, stopping short to get in one last jab, “and I don’t think you’re ready to divulge whatever is in Pandora’s box.” I rub at the calluses on my palms, glancing up through lowered brows in time to catch him cock a one-sided grin. And the shit-eater is back. “Wait a goddamn minute. What was that? Are you telling me you haven’t even fucked her yet?” His laughter rolls uncontrollably this time. I lift the bourbon from the desk and tighten the lid, rolling my chair over to put it back in the drawer as I pelt him with a handful of paper clips from the bowl on my desk.
