What’s on the screen doesn’t matter in the end.
It’s the man who holds me against him, playing with my hair and stroking my shoulder, that makes the afternoon perfect. We rarely speak more than a few words and we don’t move from the couch until the credits roll. There is nothing sexual between us. Nothing awkward. Nothing beyond two people enjoying each other’s company.
It’s a simple afternoon filled with companionship and relaxed silences.
It’s everything.
And that perfection is only compounded when Nate walks me to the door with his arm still around my shoulder.
“Will you come back after work?” he asks in the quietest voice I’ve ever heard from him. “I can’t promise I’ll be up for anything more than another movie, but I’d like to see you.”
Pushing up on my tiptoes, I press my lips against his. “Leave the front light on for me. I’ll be back before you know it.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Nate
I hear Amy’s car pull into the driveaway and I spring off the couch. I’ve been sitting in the dark living room since she left trying to work out how to dig myself out of the hole I’ve managed to get myself into. So far, a solution that doesn’t end with me losing her when she learns the truth hasn’t magically appeared out of the ether.
After I lost the mock-fight with Steve’s fighter, I went home and put myself to bed. The insomnia had been getting worse, not better, as the weeks passed without my medication and I’d been battling flu-like symptoms that seemed to come and go. Combined with the inability concentrate unless Amy was around and my hair trigger temper, I knew that there was something more at play than just the return of my ADHD symptoms.
Turns out that even when you use stimulants like Adderall and Ritalin properly, your body still becomes dependent on them. Stopping cold turkey like I did was a recipe for disaster.
Cue a hard-core case of withdrawal.
I’ve spent the past week at home, trying my hardest to get through it without alerting Jep and Hooligan to what’s happening. I suspect Angelo knows—he’s been conspicuous with his sudden change in routine that includes accidentally dropping by every morning, minutes after Jep leaves, with chicken soup, over-the-counter pain relief, hydrating fluids, and little lectures about fools’ errands, dreams that cost too much, and the wisdom of knowing the difference between giving up and giving in.
No matter how true Angelo’s advice rings, I still need to get through another eight weeks before I can get new meds.
Not that I’ve decided to go down that path either.
Sticking to one course of action isn’t something I’m capable of right now.
“Hey,” Amy breathes her greeting against my chest when I hug her to me once she’s through the front door. “You feel cold. Maybe you should put a T-shirt on?”
My body feels like its burning up to me, so her suggestion takes me by surprise. Leading her into my bedroom, I slip on a Henley and lay down on my bed. The TV in my bedroom isn’t as big as the one in the living room, but it’ll have to do. With Jep out on the town, the risk of him bringing some girl home is too big to ignore.
I don’t want to ruin my night with Amy with that interruption.
Plus, the entire time we were cuddled up on the couch this afternoon, all I‘d wanted to do was carry her to my bedroom and lay on the bed with her so I could properly explore her body. If I’d had the strength, I would’ve made the visions conjured by my imagination a reality.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t managed to muster the energy before it was time for her to go.
“What movie have you picked?” Amy asks after she’s unstrapped her sandals and removed all her clothing except her panties and T-shirt with The Fitness Hub logo. She crawls into bed next to me and lays on her stomach with her body half over mine and her chin resting on the back of her steepled hands on my chest. “Not another action one, I hope?”
Grabbing the remote, I flick on the TV and scroll through the menu. Nothing catches my eyes. The Henley makes me hot, and the material irritates my overly sensitive skin. I gently nudge Amy out of the way so I can sit up. Pulling the shirt over my head, I toss it on the floor, then shuck my sweatpants down my hips on drop them on top of my T-shirt. Clad only in my boxer-briefs, I feel the aggravation caused by the constricting material dissipate immediate and I stifle a sigh of relief.
“Why don’t you pick?” I ask, handing Amy the remote to cover my fidgeting.
“Okay.” Amy sits up, cross-legged on the mattress next to me. After a minute of scrolling, she declares triumphantly, “This one is good.”
When I glance at the screen, I discover that she’s started PS: I Love You. I swear I’ve heard that movie is a tear jerker of the highest level. Amy isn’t the type of woman I would have picked as a fan of crying.
“Are you sure?”
She nods, biting her bottom lip before she gives me a timid smile and retakes her previous position on her stomach.
The movie continues playing, but neither of us pay any attention. Amy seems content to draw shapes on my chest. I keep my eyes closed and concentrate on her touch. Her patterns are random enough to stop the chaos in my head from taking hold, although she maintains enough repetition for me to relax and enjoy her close proximity as well.
“My husband was hit by a car,” Amy blurts out. “He died saving me and our son. Literally threw himself in front of the vehicle and pushed us out of the way.”
My eyes fly open and I angle my head so I can take a peek at her.
She’s not looking at me, instead her forehead is pressed against my upper arm which keeps her face hidden.
“When?” My voice is croaky, filled with an emotion I can’t identify. After some thought, I recognise it as kinship. Amy has been broken in a different way to me, but she has been broken and that’s all that matters.
Maybe she’ll understand if I tell the truth about my ADHD?
Is this the solution I’ve been looking for?
Amy continues tracing her designs on my chest, although she is beginning to make her way lower down my stomach. Holding back the questions I have about her husband, I stay silent so I don’t rush her.
“It’ll be two years in twenty-five days.”
I don’t know what to say. Her confession is huge. Before I can settle on my next words, before I can decide if now is the time for my own truth to come to light, Amy speaks again.
“You’re the first person I’ve been with since he passed away.” Her admission tumbles from her lips, then I feel a rush of warm air over my arm as she sighs. “I’m not telling you this to put pressure on you... I just wanted you to know before you found out from someone else.”
Propping myself on my elbow, I use my other arm to pull her into me. “I appreciate that.”
“I like you, Nate. You make me feel safe, but you scare me all at once. That’s why this arrangement works so well. You’re dragging me out of my comfort zone a little more each time we get together.”
For a second, I try to con myself into believing that I’ve heard her wrong.
My brain refuses to cooperate. Her statement bounces around my head like an unexploded bullet—threatening death to my dreams when I least expect it.
“Arrange-ment?” My voice cracks in the middle of the word. “We have an arrangement?”
“Yeah, friends with benefits, or whatever it is you kids call it these days.”
Without another word, Amy extricates herself from my embrace. Pushing against my chest, she forces me to lay flat on my back. My head is buzzing—her comments about being friends with benefits circle my skull like a dirty buzzard sizing up a fresh carcass.
I want to scream at her. I want to shout that nowhere in her rules did she mention that this was only sex. Not once did she tell me that I was nothing more to her than a cock on call. We discussed her need to be home before her son woke. We agreed that she wouldn’t come back to my place more than three times a week. We debated her refusal to ride on
my Harley after she confessed that she’d never been on a motorbike before.
Nowhere in any of that did Amy state we had nothing but a physical arrangement.
She presses her lips to my chest. Then she snakes her hand inside my boxers. Working my length with her hand, she kisses her way down my body. I allow her touch—I revel in it if I’m honest—yet I keep my hands firmly fisted at my sides.
I thought Amy was my cure.
Turns out she is my weakness.
When her mouth wraps around the head of my cock and she bobs her head up and down over my throbbing harness, I hold still, and I remain silent.
If I give into the urge to touch her, I’m going to splinter into a million pieces that can never be reassembled into anything that resembles me.
She’s broken me.
While I was obsessing over her, creating plans for our future and going out of my way to show her that I respected her dedication to her son, she was simply using me as a respite from the loneliness of widowhood.
Chaos reigns supreme in my head. The symptoms of my malfunctioning wiring explode all at once. They take hold of my mind and body. They embed themselves in my soul. The boy I hated when I was fifteen—the out-of-control adolescent I was back then—returns.
He takes control—as much as a hyperactive, indecisive, short-tempered malcontent who can’t concentrate past the next ten seconds can be in control of anything—and he laughs at me while my heart breaks even as my body craves her like an addict craves their next hit.
Amy moves to straddle me, lowering her warmth over my length and taking me inside her body. She works me over with her clenching pussy, bouncing above me until I feel my balls draw up tight and I explode inside her. Once she’s found her own climax, she cleans up our mess and I roll onto my side with my back toward her.
Idly, I wonder how many other men she plans to do that with once she’s had her fill of our arrangement.
Even one is too many for me to handle.
I feign sleep when she snuggles in behind me.
I continue to pretend when the alarm on her phone goes off hours later and she gets out of bed to dress.
It takes every ounce of control I have not to turn over and grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she changes her mind about us and admits we’re more than friends with benefits.
When she kisses the back of my head then sneaks out of my room, I fight the burning shame her departure brings to my eyes.
For a week, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. I thought my reckoning would come in the form of Steve learning about my diagnosis from Hooligan. Not once did I think my downfall would be handed to me by the one person I’d opened myself up to the most.
The only person I considered telling the truth.
A single tear slips out of my left eye.
I hold my eyes open as long as I can, refusing to blink until the burning has left.
My sorrow wins.
I blink.
Another tear falls.
Then another.
And another.
And I cry.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Amy
“The taxi’s here,” Gabbi shouts from the front door.
I reapply my lipstick in the mirror in my bathroom. Running a critical gaze over my reflection, I smile happily after I decide that I’m looking good enough to officially meet Nate’s friends tonight.
The past week has been up and down. He’s still sick and I’ve only seen him once, but I feel good about us. My confession about Jon hasn’t seemed to spook him. He’s answered my texts about our part in Hooligan’s plan tonight. We’re approaching it as a team—like a couple.
I feel confident in what I’ve decided to do after we’ve played our part.
Once Hooligan and Gabbi are safely ensconced back in their burgeoning love affair, I’m going to tell Nate that I want more than our current arrangement. I want to get to know him better. I want to learn what makes him tick.
If all goes well, I want him to meet Max.
I want him to spend the night in my bed so we can have breakfast together.
Pinpointing exactly what changed within me to get to this point is hard. All I know is the day we watched the movie; I felt a connection to him that I’ve felt exactly once before in my life. The way he let me tell him about my husband without peppering me with questions. The consideration he’d shown by allowing me to take control of the love making that followed. It had been the perfect salve to the wound I’d reopened with my admission about Jon.
Sure, his falling asleep straight after we’d made love had stung at the time, but the bright light of the new day had provided the reason I needed.
The poor man is sick.
It wouldn’t hurt me to cut him some slack while he recuperates.
“Jesus, Amy,” Gabbi’s exasperated voice travels through the house. “The cab will leave soon if you don’t get a move on.”
Heading back into my bedroom, I grab my purse, then blow Jon’s picture a kiss. His voice has all but left me head since I confessed his existence to Nate, and I believe that’s a sign that I’m on the right path.
When Max joins Gabbi’s entreaties for me to get a move on, I walk as fast down the hallway as my high heels will allow me. My mother waits by the front door with Gabbi, Max, and Gabbi’s little brother. With her arms crossed over her chest, disapproval radiates from her. I feign obliviousness and kiss her cheek. She’s a bridge I have yet to work out how to cross without drowning.
One thing I am certain of is my belief that I can’t live my life to please my parents.
Jon dying was not my punishment for living outside my parents’ strict parameters for success.
Squatting in front of Max, I plant a kiss on his lips, then I ruffle Connor’s hair on the way out the door.
Gabbi lets me in the taxi first, then she sits next to me. As we head to Nitro’s I try to keep a lid on my excitement. It’s obvious from the changes in her manner of dress to the nervous way she’s holding herself that she’s crumbling under the pressure of resisting Hooligan’s pursuit.
It’s about time.
The daily gifts for herself and her little brother. The notes. The apologies. The sheer volume of care and attention that he’s lavishing on her in an attempt to make amends for his earlier reticence would be hard for any girl to resist—except Gabbi.
My hard-headed best friend is so used to taking care of everything on her own because everyone she should be able to rely on has let her down, that she can’t recognise a sincere person when they appear in front of her.
Hooligan is genuine in his affection for her and his desire to see her cared for properly.
Of that I’m absolutely certain.
If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be doing what I’m currently doing... luring her to Nitro’s so Hooligan can ambush her.
The taxi stops at the kerb out the front of the nightclub. I exit after her and wave away her attempt to contribute to the fare. Hooligan’s taken care of everything tonight—right down to the transport in charge of bringing her to Nitro’s.
Hence my lack of worry that the cab would leave while I preened in front of the mirror.
“Why are we here?” Gabbi rounds on me when she realises where we are.
Her heavy scrutiny intimidates the crap out of me. My face heats and I have to look at the ground before I blurt out the whole plan just to get her to stop glaring at me.
“Well? I’m waiting,” she demands, drumming her fingertips on her arm.
“We’ve decided to speed things up. You’ve been a real bitch lately and Nate says that Hooligan’s even worse. It’s impossible to speak to either of you.” My response tumbles from my lips. The words trip over themselves and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop myself from talking.
A blonde head emerges from above the people lined up at the door, waiting for admittance to Nitro’s nightclub.
“Speak of the devil,” Gabbi groans.
He greets
me with a hug and a kiss, then puts his arm around my shoulders. I move into his side and suck in a deep breath so I can revel in his unique scent. His greeting was perfect.
Another tick in the pro’s column for Nate Harvie.
We argue with Gabbi about going into the club. She’s stubborn, but we wear her down. Although, I’m not sure how much credit I’d give myself and Nate and how much truly belongs to Gabbi’s desire to see Hooligan whether she chooses to admit it or not.
Once she’s capitulated, I give her a hug.
“Shit,” Gabbi muses when she pulls out of my embrace. “Are you two, like, official? Exclusive?”
I nod while Nate shakes his head. Gabbi laughs like a hyena, and I try not to jump ahead of myself and explain to Nate that I’ve changed my mind when he shoots me a look of confusion.
It’s best if I attempt one relationship repair at a time.
Hooligan and Gabbi first, then I’ll tackle Nate.
“It’s comforting to know that I’m not the only one with this problem,” she quips, her eyes glittering with enjoyment.
Nate glares at her. “Enjoy it while you can, ninja girl. You haven’t a clue what you’re up against.”
I elbow him to stop him from elaborating on Hooligan’s plans, and he clams up.
Gabbi watches us exchange looks, then she sighs. “Come on, let’s get in there before I change my mind.”
TWENTY-NINE
Nate
While we wait for the signal from Hooligan, I try to work out what Amy’s game is. She nodded her head when Gabbi asked if we were exclusive, then she shot me a look that pleaded for understanding when I sent her a puzzled look.
I don’t have the patience for riddles tonight.
If I had my way, I’d be at home, still licking my wounds in bed, as I wait like a pitiful freak for the next text message to arrive from Amy. That’s how I’d been all week.
A waffling mess of confusion.
Certain one minute that I was going to ignore her, then responding to her within seconds when she next reached out to me.
Conflict (Black Hearts MMA, #2) Page 14
