by R. K. Ryals
He smiled. “No need to park in the fields I take it. I’ll be back.”
I watched as he finished gathering up the supplies before loading them up in his truck, the back of his shirt sticking to him despite the chill. He was closing the tailgate and about to climb into the pickup when I stopped him.
“Hey,” I called out.
He froze, his hand on the open driver’s side door, his gaze swinging to mine.
“I’m not okay,” I told him. “I will be, but I’m not right now. I think … maybe we should start feeling comfortable enough with each other to share that kind of stuff.”
His head inclined, and a smile lit his eyes. “Checkers and cherry pie,” he said. “That pie sounds like a really good idea.”
As he drove off, the twilight swallowing his truck, I found myself laughing. Such a strange leap in emotions, from a rage-filled scream to laughter.
Maybe Heathcliff was good for me.
Like cherry pie and checkers.
Chapter 13
Heathcliff was really bad at checkers. Or maybe Uncle Gregor and I were just really good. Either way, Heathcliff had lost three games against Gregor and two against me, a whole cherry pie demolished, before the night caught up to Uncle Gregor. His weary eyes met ours, an unspoken apology written in his gaze.
Standing shakily, he teased, “I think I can admit defeat when I need to.”
Heathcliff stood with him, the empty pie tin on his lap falling with a clang to the floor. “Let me help you.”
Uncle Gregor started to wave him away, but then paused, a pained expression pinching his features. “You know, I think I would like some assistance.” He glanced at me. “Hawthorne, there are some pills on top of the fridge in the kitchen. It’s the only bottle there. Can you bring those to me?”
Heathcliff offered Gregor his arm, leading him carefully through the living room and into the hallway as I scurried to the kitchen. My hands shook as I reached for the bottle on the fridge. The pills were for pain, and my heart hurt as I carried them to my uncle’s bedroom, a glass of water in my other hand.
“These?” I asked upon entering the room, even though I knew the answer.
Uncle Gregor sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging. He accepted the bottle, shaking a pill out into his palm before swallowing it with the water I’d brought.
“That should do it,” he said, his voice cheerful.
Lying back, he pulled the blanket over himself before rolling to his side, tensing as he pulled his knees into his chest.
“Do you need me to stay?” My voice shook despite every effort to keep it level.
I was beginning to see a change in myself. Days past, I’d sat at the table with Uncle Gregor and talked about my fear of his dying. Today, I’d been angry about it. Now I was determined to help him through it. Fear, anger, and the need to nurture. Maybe they were steps in the grieving process, maybe they weren’t, but they were changing me. I was seeing life differently.
Uncle Gregor peered up at me, his lips thin. “Go on to bed, Hawthorne. I’m okay. I promise.” His eyes pleaded with me. “There’s going to be a point when I’m going to need you,” he added. “Right now, I think I’ve got this.” He winked, trying for his usual offhanded, debonair manner, but his closing eyes ruined the effect, his brows furrowed with pain.
Heathcliff touched my arm, his eyes sad. Together, we left, the sound of the door shutting behind us too loud in the hallway, as if it were cutting me off from Gregor in a way I was afraid to admit. Cancer, I was beginning to learn, didn’t just rob a person’s voice, it often took away a person’s ability to understand things about the people he/she was losing.
“Come on,” Heathcliff soothed.
Taking my hand, he led me to the stairwell, our feet soft on the stairs as we made our way to bed. The shutting door was just as loud in my room, the sound an echo in my heart. Two shut doors, too little time.
“You want to talk about it? Cry maybe?” Heathcliff asked, shifting awkwardly. He looked so out of place in my room, his uneasy stance endearing. He didn’t have to be here. He didn’t have to keep coming back, but he did. He’d made an investment in me, and he was keeping his promise.
Maybe that’s what made me do it.
“I’ve cried too much. There have been too many tears lately,” I whispered, my hands going to the hem of my shirt. Slowly, I pulled it over my head and threw it down, my eyes on the floor.
Heathcliff inhaled sharply. “What are you doing, Hawthorne?”
I swallowed hard. “Do you have any sort of protection on you?” My cheeks flushed, but I fought against nerves and embarrassment, my gaze coming up to meet his. He was staring at me, his eyes flicking from my face to my chest and back again.
“Hawthorne …” His words trailed off, his forehead creasing. “What are you thinking? Because I’m having a hard time trying to process your thoughts.”
My hands fell to my jeans. “Honestly? I really do want to make love to you. Maybe it’s crazy, especially now of all times, but I think about it more than I should.”
Heathcliff stepped toward me, his hand diving into his pocket to pull out a faded leather wallet. “My parents own a gas station.” Flipping the wallet open, he tugged a foil packet free. “I always have protection on me. Easy access.” Throwing the condom onto the bed, he pocketed the wallet and took another step forward. “Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
“I need more than that,” he said.
My eyes searched his. “Have you done this before?”
He nodded. “Twice.”
It was the honesty in his gaze, the easy way he told me the truth about his experience that made my decision for me. Fumbling with the button and zipper on my jeans, I pulled them past my hips and stepped free of them before I lost my nerve, my underwear and bra the only thing left.
“I’m sure,” I told him. He stared, and I fidgeted. “But I don’t know what I’m doing.”
His gaze softened, and he closed the distance between us until his feet met mine. Neither of us wore shoes. They’d been discarded before the checkers and cherry pie, and there was something oddly thrilling about our bare toes touching.
He’d showered and changed after our work that afternoon, his work top replaced by a T-shirt. His hands went to the hem. With one swift motion, he threw it onto the floor next to mine. His jeans followed, leaving him in a pair of black boxer briefs.
“Now we’re even,” he said.
His hands cupped my face, his head lowering, his lips meeting mine. There was something different about this kiss. It was rushed and hard, full of passion and frenzy, but also nervous and careful. Our tongues clashed, and my hands came up to cover his.
Our bodies were touching now, his height and build shadowing mine, one of his hands falling to grip my hip.
The back of my legs hit the bed, and I realized we’d been moving toward it, his lips working their magic on mine, clouding my thoughts. My entire body burned, a roaring inferno of raw nerves and sensation.
Heathcliff’s hand found my back, his fingers undoing the clasp of my bra. It fell open, and he worked the straps down my arms, his lips never leaving mine, as if he knew baring my breasts for the first time would be embarrassing for me.
“Last chance,” Heathcliff murmured against my lips, pulling away so that he was looking down into my face. “Last chance to say no.”
In response, my hands fell to his waist, my fingers tugging at his briefs. My hands shook, and he helped me, his hands joining mine as he stepped free of the underwear. I couldn’t make myself look past his chest, my eyes locked on the muscles there.
Gently, he pushed me down onto the bed, rolling over just long enough to tear open the condom he’d thrown onto the comforter. Then his hands were on my waist, working my panties down past my hips and knees until I could kick them free.
Once again, his lips met mine, his hands roaming my body, pausing at my breasts before dropping lower.
“It�
�s okay to touch me,” he breathed against my mouth.
Embarrassing heat infused my face, my hands coming up to grasp his shoulders before moving lower, my fingers gliding over his biceps to his chest and down his stomach before stopping at his hips.
He was touching me now in places no one had ever touched, and I squirmed, gasping against his mouth.
“That’s it,” he breathed.
Sensation racked me, and my body rose up off of the bed. His tongue tangled with mine, growing more demanding as my body pressed against his hand. His fingers picked up speed, and I cried out.
“It’s too much,” I whimpered, my lips pulling away from his.
“It just feels that way,” he promised, his eyes on mine. “Just wait.”
And then it hit me, a tidal wave of sensation that had my fingers digging into his waist, my breath catching.
Heathcliff shifted, his weight settling between my thighs, using the indescribable moment to push inside of me.
I tensed, and his hand slid up to my cheek, cupping it, his eyes capturing mine. “Give it time. If we were in a hurry this wouldn’t work.”
It was such an odd sensation being joined with someone, his body easing into my body, warm and uncomfortable at first, like a large hand trying to squeeze into a too small glove.
“It hurts,” I admitted.
He inhaled, his bare chest pressing against mine, his jaw tensed, and I knew he was holding himself back. “You tell me when you’re ready,” he whispered.
His lips fell on mine once more, our mouths and tongues dancing, his hands cradling my face before sliding into my wild, tangled hair. My hands skimmed his sides and back, my fingers gliding over ribs and corded muscle. The kiss deepened, and my body responded, his hips pressing further into mine as I writhed beneath him.
Pleasure and pain. That’s exactly how I’d describe my first clumsy attempt at lovemaking. Heathcliff took it slow, never forcing me into a rhythm I wasn’t comfortable with, his moans low against my ear with each agonizingly beautiful, yet painful inch forward.
His head rose, his damp forehead resting against mine, his breath fanning my face. He was making this about me, and the sudden realization slammed into me hard, firing my blood.
Inhaling sharply, my almost murmured, “This isn’t going to work” came out as, “I’m ready.”
He exhaled shakily, one of his hands falling to grip my bare hip, his body slowly retreating from mine only to return to it, one thrust after another, each one easier than the last. At first, it wasn’t magic, it was simply skin against stretched skin, painful and uneasy, wet and uncoordinated. We kept trading laughter and gasps, from humor to cover the embarrassment to winded pants from unexpected pleasure.
I can’t say exactly when it changed from that to something more, but it did.
He’d pulled himself up onto his arms—his biceps bulging, his forehead creased, the new angle applying pressure where there hadn’t been any before—and I gasped, my lips parting. The pain was still there, but there was also something more.
His gaze found mine, his eyes reading the desire there, his hips moving faster, harder. My hands found his arms and gripped them, as if holding them would ground me somehow.
Sensation built, waned, and then built again. We were both reaching for something, our gazes falling to where our bodies joined, the sight making it more strikingly real, his body rising and falling into mine.
“Clare,” he breathed.
He shifted again, the friction so painfully sweet it was almost unbearable, the sensations building until my body came apart, muscles clenching where they’d never clenched before, and for the first time, I found myself calling out, “Max.”
With one final thrust, he joined me, his gratified exhale meeting my cry. He collapsed on top of me, keeping his weight distributed enough that he wasn’t too heavy, his damp skin resting against mine, our bodies still joined but cooling. Our mingled breaths were rushed and uneven, our chests rising and falling.
“God, Clare,” he gasped, rolling so that I was resting now on top of him, my cheek falling against his damp torso, my ear against his heart. It thudded loud and quick.
The moment seemed both too awkward and too perfect for conversation, as if words would spoil it somehow, making something so unique and beautiful into something clumsy and wrong. I didn’t want it to be either of those things. I wanted it to remain special and different and new.
Heathcliff must have felt the same way because there was nothing except the sounds of our ragged breathing as our pulses slowed.
Silence stretched for so long, I thought Heathcliff had fallen asleep when he suddenly asked, “Are you okay?”
His voice startled me, and I inhaled. “I’m okay.” Sore, but okay.
Silence, and then, “You called me Max.”
My lips twitched. “Yeah … I guess I did.”
“Do it again,” he demanded, his voice low.
My head lifted, so that my gaze met his. “Max.”
The way he stared at me made me uncomfortable, and I let my fingers splay across his chest, pressing gently. “You know, I think people look at sex all wrong.”
Heathcliff grimaced, the moment broken but not forgotten. “Now is really not the time to get all philosophical on me, Hawthorne.” He shifted, and I moved so that he could roll to the side of the bed, his hands dropping to his waist. I knew he was discarding the condom, and I kept my gaze averted.
“Seems perfect to me,” I said.
He laughed.
“Really,” I insisted. “People make it all about love. I’m not saying it’s not important to love. It’s just that sex is kind of special on its own, too.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t seem to make myself stop. “Like this really incredible mind meld, only with bodies rather than minds.”
Heathcliff rolled back onto the bed, his arm pulling me against him. “Okay, first, are you really comparing sex to a mind meld?”
I flushed. “I read a lot of my uncle’s old Star Trek books growing up. Think about it, though. It’s an incredible connection even if affection isn’t involved.”
He froze. “Are you saying you don’t love me?” he asked.
An odd expression crossed his face, and I stared. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just … wait. Are you saying that you do?”
Our gazes locked. There was no reply from Heathcliff, but I didn’t need a response. I saw what I needed to know in his eyes, and the pulse that had begun to slow, picked up speed again.
He cleared his throat. “So sex is kind of like a mind meld, huh?”
He stumbled on the words, and I jumped on them. Anything to dispatch the uneasiness between us. It was another lesson I was learning. Feelings are fast. Try to outrun them, and they catch you.
“More like a body meld,” I amended.
He chuckled, his fingers running down my arm until they met my hand. “Did you read comics, too, growing up, or just books?”
His fingers laced with mine, and I glanced at our joined hands. “Oh, I read comics. All kinds. I might have a thing for Captain America and Thor. I also have a girl crush on Rogue.”
“Ugh!” Heathcliff groaned. “Whatever. The real badass superheroes are definitely the Hulk and Superman.”
“The Hulk?” I snorted. “Let me guess. You chose him because he’s big, mean, and green?”
“Two words for you.” Heathcliff’s face was suddenly nose-to-nose with mine. “Hulk Smash!”
I grinned. “Two words. Anger management.”
Heathcliff chuckled, and then fell silent. After a moment, he inhaled. “Hawthorne—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I interrupted.
His fingers tightened around mine. “You do realize this is going to change things between us?”
My gaze fell from his. “We have until the end of the year.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell he was weighing his words and thoughts carefully by the way
his fingers clenched and unclenched around mine. “My family gets together a lot on the weekends, especially now.” He paused, and then blurted, “I’d like it if you came. Not all of the time. I haven’t been going myself these last few weekends.” He shifted so that my body leaned heavily against his. “I wouldn’t quit doing the work I started here. It would just be a family gathering or two. Maybe more time at the creek?”
My heart did odd somersaults in my chest. “It depends on my uncle … but I’ll come.”
Our fingers fell apart, and his hand found my face. Lifting my chin, he searched my gaze before dropping a gentle kiss on my lips. “Just remember, Hawthorne. Rough roads are often easier to travel with someone who knows the road.”
I frowned. “At some point the road is going to end.”
He didn’t disagree. “Yeah … it will.”
Chapter 14
By morning, Heathcliff was gone, the empty place in the bed next to me and my sore body a reminder of something new, incredible, different, and scary. I’d had sex with Max Vincent. I’d shared more with him than I’d shared with anyone, and the fear was creeping in, doing its best to convince me I’d been wrong to trust him. My gut told me my fear could screw itself.
Outside, the sun sparkled on frost—January quickly dissolving into February—and I stumbled out of bed, blushing at the sight of the blood on my sheets before rushing to the shower. Clean and dressed for school, I tore the linens from my bed, rolling them up before replacing them with the spare sheets I kept in the top of my closet. The soiled ones I took to the laundry room, pushing the white fabric down into the washing machine before pouring in bleach.
“A little early for chores, isn’t it?” Uncle Gregor called from the kitchen.
I jumped, the top of the washing machine slamming shut, the sound too loud in the still morning.
“Do you ever sleep anymore?” I called back.
His chuckle followed, the laugh stopped short by a groan.
I made my way to the kitchen, my feet stopping just beyond the alcove, my gaze finding my uncle’s stooped back. He sat at the table, his head bent, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. Dark circles marred his eyes. A steaming cup of coffee sat in front of him, the smoke curling upward like wicked fingers ready to strangle him.
