Devils Don't Fly

by M. H. Soars

  I enter the first room I come to and drop her on the middle of the mattress, wasting no time getting rid of her skintight jeans and panties. Her desire is already evident, and when my tongue finds her sweet spot, I groan. She tastes like peaches, smooth on my tongue, sweet in the back of my throat. Fuck, I could feast on her all the day long.

  Using the entire arsenal I have at my disposal—tongue, fingers, and teeth—I have her begging for mercy within minutes. Her fingers are in my hair, pulling the short strands until it hurts. But it’s a good kind of hurt.

  I’m already hard again, so when Saylor screams my name from the top of her lungs, I crawl over her until my cock is exactly where it needs to be, at the entrance of her sweet pussy. She pulls my face to hers for a kiss at the same time her legs wrap around my waist, guiding me in. I try to keep the pace slow, but everything seems overcharged with raw desire. We both come again simultaneously only a few minutes later. We’re finally in sync again and it feels as amazing as it used to be.

  Twenty-Six

  Saylor

  The amps arrived yesterday while we were gone, but this morning, when I couldn’t sleep and tiptoed to the living room, I left them untouched. Oliver is sleeping like the dead, and I want him to have his rest. Instead, I grab his acoustic guitar, bundle myself in warm layers, and venture out into the freezing morning. Dawn is still an hour away at least, and heavy mist surrounds the property. Spooky, but I feel safe with Felix next to me.

  I sit on the bench in front of the house with the guitar propped on my lap. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Frigid air fills my lungs, but it’s clean and crispy, and it invigorates me with an energy I can’t describe. It’s a pity Oliver can’t bear to be in this place; it’s so beautiful and peaceful, especially this early in the morning.

  The only problem with playing outside is cold, stiff fingers. I open and shut my hands, taking special note of how the left feels stronger now. I’ve almost completely recovered sensitivity, and there’s only a little numbness left.

  I try a few chords on the guitar, adjusting the strings as I go until I get to the sound I want. Then I play the new song I wrote for Oliver. It’s a ballad, and it does something to my heart. There’s ache mixed with hope there. The sound is off; I can’t quite get the notes right yet. It’s been too long since I played that it’s almost like I have to relearn how to do it.

  A month ago I would’ve been frustrated beyond reason. Not now. I don’t let my handicap get to me. I’ll keep pushing through until I’m back at the top of my game. I play the song a few more times before I decide on another challenge—my duet with Oliver. I still haven’t listened to the entire song, but I did download the music sheet and memorize it. If I can’t bring myself to listen to the recorded version, then I’ll just have to sing it.

  Ignoring that the guitar intro sounds nothing like it should, I plow through. My heart is hammering inside my chest, and when I sing the first verse, my voice sounds choked. Felix whines next to me, as if he can feel the pain in my voice. Instead of fighting the feeling, I let it take over. I’ve never been moved so much by a song. The parts that belong to Oliver are even harder to sing as I imagine his beautiful voice giving life to the verses.

  Then I actually hear him sing. At first, I think I’m imagining things, until Felix barks twice.

  I stop and turn to the front door, finding Oliver leaning against the frame.

  “Why did you stop?”

  “How long have been standing there?”

  “A minute or so.” He joins me on the bench, sitting next to me. “Shall we continue?”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. It’s one thing to play awfully by myself, but I’m embarrassed to sound so terrible in front of him.

  “The guitar sounds nothing like it should.”

  “So what? Come on, sugar. There’s no one around to judge. It’s just you and me.”

  “You and me against the world.”

  He smiles, melting my heart and my hesitation. Before I resume playing, I lean over and kiss him. I just can’t help myself.

  With his lips still glued to mine, he says, “Nice evasion tactic, but you won’t distract me so easily.”

  “Stop being so irresistible, then.”

  “Impossible.”

  I move away before it really becomes impossible to stop kissing the man.

  “From the top?”

  “Yes.”

  My fingers are practically frozen so I rub my hands together. Oliver captures them between his, bringing them closer to his mouth to blow hot air on them. Once they don’t feel stiff as a board any longer, I try the guitar again. The intro still isn’t right, but it sounds a little better than before. As I progress through the song, my anxiety lessens. When Oliver joins me, it feels like this moment is the final piece that makes us whole.

  The song is over too soon, but the energy it created remains. I lock gazes with Oliver and know he’s feeling the significance of this moment too.

  “I love you.” Truer words have never left my lips.

  “I love you, sugar. I always will.”

  His hand finds the back of my head to guide me to his waiting lips. The guitar is suddenly gone from my lap, and in the next second, Oliver pulls me onto his. Cold lips suddenly turn fiery hot even though we’re in no hurry this time. My tongue dances with his sinfully slow, which proves to be even sexier than the frenzied kisses we shared in the last couple of days. I taste complete happiness, and it’s the most intoxicating flavor in the world.

  Oliver stands, carrying me without breaking the kiss. Heat has already pulled between my legs, anticipation leaving me dizzy. I’m high on his touch, wanting his mouth everywhere on my body.

  The noise of a car approaching interrupts our glorious moment. Headlights break into our bubble of happiness. Without putting me down, Oliver turns around. Felix begins to pace in front of us, barking as if he’s pissed about the interruption too. Mercifully, the headlights are turned off once the car parks in front of us.

  Charlotte emerges, and it’s only when she stops in front of us that I see her tear-streaked face.

  “Ollie, Father is dead.”

  OLIVER

  I put Saylor down and ask Charlotte to repeat the news. She does, and yet my brain can’t seem to grasp the meaning of her words. It takes me a minute or two to recover from the shock, and then I don’t know what I should be feeling. Contradicting emotions battle within my chest: sadness, relief, even happiness. But the most overwhelming is a sense of failure. I failed to be the son my father wanted me to be. He made that crystal clear the last time we spoke, and that’s the final memory that will trump all others. Not that I had a great deal of pleasant moments to remember with the man.

  “Ollie, can I do something?” Saylor touches my arm, concern etched on her pretty face.

  “I need to see Nana.”

  “Of course.”

  “She was talking with Dad’s doctor when I left. Mum’s locked herself in her room and won’t speak with anyone.”

  “Maybe I can try,” Saylor offers, but both Charlotte and I know it’s no use.

  “Thanks, sugar, but that’s okay. Mother has a penchant for the theatrics. She’ll get over it soon.”

  Saylor frowns and I realize my comment was a little insensitive. She can’t possibly know that my parents’ marriage was a loveless one.

  I pull her to me to kiss her forehead. “Let’s change and head to the main house.”

  “Can I wait here with you? I-I can’t be in that house by myself right now.” Charlotte hugs herself, reminding me of when she was just a little girl and found out her brother had died. I couldn’t offer comfort to her then, not when I was so consumed by guilt.

  I let go of Saylor and walk toward my sister, pulling her into a tight hug. She buries her face in my chest and starts to tremble. “It’s going to be okay, Char.”

  Through sobs, she says, “I can’t believe he’s gone. I didn’t even have the chance to talk to him. Why didn’t he wan
t to see me?”

  I keep my mouth shut. I’ll never tell Charlotte what our hateful father said in that room. She doesn’t need to know her own father didn’t give a shit about her.

  Fuck that man. I’m glad he’s dead.

  Twenty-Seven

  Saylor

  Everything happened in a blur following the news of Oliver’s dad’s passing. He tried his best to maintain a detached approach, taking on the most practical tasks of organizing the funeral and dealing with the family’s lawyer. Charlotte didn’t care with pretense, and she let the world know how badly she was hurting. I couldn’t be certain, but it seemed the man had only been hateful toward Oliver. That made me resent him even more.

  Call me a bitch, but I couldn’t empathize with Charlotte’s pain. For starters, my own father was garbage, so I couldn’t relate. And then there was the fact that the man treated Oliver horribly. So yeah, good riddance.

  Thanks to my strong feelings toward Dr. Frank Best, I was stuck in limbo. I didn’t know what to say to Charlotte or Adeline that wouldn’t sound fake. My only solace was that Oliver didn’t shut me out completely. At night, he let me soothe away the stress and pain he was trying so hard to hide. We made love until our bodies couldn’t take anymore, until we were utterly spent.

  Things only improved when Liv and Sebastian arrived for the funeral. I was glad to have my best friend with me, and Sebastian’s presence did wonders for Oliver.

  The day of the funeral finally arrives, which means we’re only a day away from leaving all of this behind. I never yearned more to escape from a place than I do now.

  Upon Lydia’s insistence, the wake is to be held at the family’s property. This is the second time I’ve attend a funeral—the first was for Sebastian’s parents. The difference is glaring. Here, there isn’t a single person weeping in silence, not even Charlotte. It’s like no one cares that Dr. Best is dead. Charlotte is more withdrawn than ever, but I feel that has more to do with the presence of her ex than anything else. When he tried to offer his condolences, she stiffened as if his proximity caused her harm. Something about her reaction resonated with me, and I’m making sure to keep an eye on the guy from now on.

  The room where the wake is being held could be called a ballroom. It probably is a ballroom. It’s spacious with tall windows and a high ceiling, yet I feel smothered. It’s like the air around me is oily and it sticks to my skin.

  The open casket sits on a dais, a small podium with a mic in front of it. Fancy chairs have been set into rows, leaving an aisle in the middle. Flower arrangements frame the seating area but do nothing to cheer the place up.

  Oliver sits next to me stiff as a board, his hand clutching mine in an iron grip. In his other hand, he holds a piece of folded paper, the speech he’s been asked to give by his mother. The family lawyer addresses the crowd first, saying all the right things about Dr. Best before he calls Oliver up. My stomach is in knots. What could Oliver possibly say about a man who denounced his own son? Oliver notices my stare and winks at me before standing. He throws a quick glance in the open casket’s direction, then turns to the assembly.

  His face is stoic and devoid of emotion. He looks like a god of death wearing his dark suit and somber expression. Staring down at the paper in his hand, he takes a deep breath before facing the room again. He opens his mouth but no sound comes forth. His eyes narrow instead and it seems his face has gone even paler. A murmur behind me has me turning on my seat. Standing in the middle of the aisle is a young man with light brown hair and a face almost as striking as Oliver’s.

  “This is a private event,” Oliver addresses the newcomer.

  “Ollie, don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Harry.”

  What? Harry? The supposed dead brother?

  A second goes by before Oliver’s mother lets out a shriek and collapses on her chair. The lawyer catches her in his arms. The murmurs become louder. Oliver holds on to the podium as if he too needs support to remain upright.

  Someone grabs my wrist tight. It’s Adeline. I had forgotten I was sitting next to her. Her face is ashen.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper.

  “I need to go to my room.”

  I’m torn between helping the elderly lady or going to Oliver. Liv comes to the rescue and says she’ll take Adeline, who’s in too much of a daze to refuse.

  Oliver is still frozen when I touch his hand. “Ollie?”

  Two large guys wearing dark suits emerge from out of nowhere and grab the intruder by his arms. I hadn’t realized there was security here. They’re ready to drag the man out when Oliver tells them to stop.

  Ignoring me, he strides down the aisle, stopping in front of the man.

  “How can that be? They told me you were dead.”

  The man closes his eyes for a brief second before looking at Oliver again. “It’s a long story.”

  “How dare you interrupt this private and difficult moment, trying to pull a scheme.” The lawyer strides toward the group, fury twisting his face. “Take this con artist out of here.”

  “I’m not lying. Ollie, tell them.”

  Oliver stares at the stranger for what feels like an eternity before he finally says, “I would like to have a word with him in private.”

  “You can’t be serious. Harry is dead, Oliver. And you just lost your father. You’re not thinking straight.”

  “I said I would like to hear what he has to say, so back the fuck off!”

  I wince, even if his outburst wasn’t aimed at me. The security guys, realizing Oliver is the new boss here, release the young man’s arms and back away.

  “Let’s talk in Dad’s old office,” Oliver says, and it doesn’t escape my notice that he’s already accepted this stranger as Harry.

  I’m hopeful and at the same time scared. It would be beyond miraculous if Harry had been indeed alive all these years. But what kept him from coming forward until now?

  I’m terrified of what the truth will do to Oliver’s mind.

  Twenty-Eight

  Oliver

  I don’t know what to think as I stare at the man in front of me. My brain is shouting that he can’t possibly be my brother. He’s dead—that’s what everyone told me. Though the details of what happened to Harry are hazy in my memory; I was so stricken with grief and guilty that it was hard for me grasp the meaning of the explanation given to me then.

  Despite his animosity toward the newcomer, I asked Charles Cowell, the family lawyer, to be present during this meeting, not trusting myself to ask intelligent questions. I keep staring at the man, trying to find vestiges of my younger brother in him. There’s a picture of Harry on the desk, and my gaze bounces from the frame to the guy nonstop. There’s a resemblance, I can’t deny that, but I’m afraid to believe the story only to have my hopes crushed if this guy proves to be a con artist like our lawyer believes.

  “What makes you think you are the deceased son of Dr. Frank Best?” Charles starts.

  “I’m Harry Best. I’m not lying.”

  The lawyer laughs without humor, then throws a glance in my direction that says he’s not buying this bullshit.

  “If you are my brother, where have you been all these years?” I ask.

  “I don’t remember much about the day I disappeared. I vaguely recall you scowling at me, then me running away. That’s when Elliot Jenkins hit me with his car. That part of the story I was told.”

  “Wait a second. Isn’t there a Jenkins living nearby?” I turn to Charles.

  “Yes, ten minutes from here.”

  “Yes. We’ve been neighbors all this time,” Harry adds.

  Bloody hell. I’m already thinking of him as if he’s my brother.

  I glare at him. “If Elliot Jenkins hit you and you survived, why didn’t he contact us?”

  I’m afraid to know the answer. What if Harry had been held against his will? Bile rises in my throat at the thought.

  “He panicked. He had been drinking that day and would’ve lost his doctor’s lice
nse if he’d come forward. He brought me to his place and took care of me. I survived. Later, his wife got attached to me. She had just lost her only son to a terrible disease, so they kept me and raised me as if I were their son. They convinced me that all my previous memories had been a figment of my imagination. I knew it wasn’t so, but I figured I would be doing everyone a favor if I just disappeared forever.”

  Guilt eats at my insides. If what this man is saying is the truth, I’m still responsible for this mess.

  “I didn’t mean to snap at you that day,” I say.

  He gives me a rueful smile and I see it then, the six-year-old Harry in that expression. I don’t want to believe it—it’s almost too convenient to be true—and yet I can’t stop the hope that surges within my chest.

  “I know that now, but to the mind of a six-year-old who idolized his brother, it felt like I wasn’t wanted. But it wasn’t only because of you that I chose to stay with the Jenkinses.” He pauses, throwing a quick glance at the lawyer. “They were the opposite of Mum and Dad. They doted on me, paid attention. They were the loving and devoted parents I always wished for.”

  Charles scoffs. “Oh, that’s rich. I’ve never heard so much horseshit in my entire life, and I’m a lawyer.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” Harry continues.

  “So, the Jenkinses didn’t keep you as a prisoner?” I ask.

  “No. It took me months to recover. When I was finally able to ask about you, Mum, and Dad, the Jenkinses told me I was confused, that I must have hit my head. I planned to run away, but like I said before, I liked living with them and in my mind, if the family I was supposedly imagining really existed, they would be looking for me.”

  “You had a funeral,” I choke out.

  “I know. I visited my headstone not too long ago.”

  “If you really are Harry Best, then you won’t mind submitting material for a DNA test,” Charles cuts in.