by Meli Raine
“I’m such a m-m-mess that I’m in the car, telling you I can’t have sex and crying about it as we’re on our way to get married!” Lindsay says, incredulous. She looks at me with red-rimmed eyes and a wild expression. “Why in the hell would you even want to marry me?”
I kiss her. In the kiss, I pour out my heart, my soul, my anger, all the feelings that make up the impossible answer to her impossible question.
The kiss has to give her a proper response to her eternal why?, and as seconds pass, our lips sweetly slant against each other, my tongue parting her mouth open to say Yes, I love you.
To say We’ll be a mess together.
To say I’ll take you however you’ll give yourself.
To say I do, forever.
By the time the kiss ends, we’re breathless. I taste her tears in my mouth.
I also taste her surprise.
“I love you. I want you. The real you. Not just your good parts. Not just your unmessy self, Lindsay. I want it all. I need it all. I don’t need you whole, but I need the whole you. Can you trust me with that much of yourself? Because I think that’s how this goes. I don’t know, because this is all new for me, too. But don’t ever think that I love you one iota less for showing me all of your moments, dark and light,” I tell her.
“You mean that? Really?”
“I do.”
She’s breathing hard, color in her cheeks, a pink arousal in her skin and an intense look in her eyes that I swear is passion. She’s coming back into focus, the old Lindsay slowly emerging from the dark internal cave where she’s been hiding, waiting for it to be safe to emerge.
That’s my job.
To love her and make it safe.
“Four years ago, I knew I loved you, Drew. But it was an immature love. A surface love. Love was defined by our friends, by Mom and Daddy’s approval, by dinners with your parents and by all the trappings of society and the media. I knew I loved you because we held hands, we exchanged gifts, we went to parties together, we became one word – LindsayandDrew – and because we were a couple who were a sum of all those parts.”
I just listen.
That’s my job, too.
“But this – what we’ve been through, how we’ve come back together, what we’re doing now running off to Vegas, but more important – what you’re saying to me right here, right now. This is...”
“Love. Real love. Anything less wouldn’t be fair to either of us, Lindsay.”
Lindsay
No one tells you that moments like this even exist. I can’t imagine Daddy and Mom talking to each other this way. None of the movies and television shows I watch have couples doing this. Going so deep you touch the bottom of the emotional pool, hoping you can hold your breath long enough to come up for air.
It’s intense and painful, authentic and hopeful. If he means it – truly means it – then I’m the luckiest woman in the world.
Really.
Because what man talks like this?
“I want to marry you,” I say slowly, my thoughts falling in line with my mouth, “because I’ve loved you since we met when I was in high school. And I don’t care about beating Mom and Daddy at their own game, or making you my next of kin. Those are bonuses.”
His lopsided smile makes me want to kiss him again. My shoulder screams when I twist in a funny way. I gasp from the sudden pain. He frowns.
“You okay?”
“Just pulled something in my shoulder.”
“Let’s get to Vegas. Get the license. Find a chapel. And get you to bed.” He clears his throat with meaning. “To rest.”
I laugh. All the earlier churning inside, the worry and the flashbacks that plagued me when I thought about being intimate with Drew, have somehow faded. They’re not one hundred percent gone. They’re not. And yet, they have less power.
They’re less immediate.
Drew is safe. More than safe. In the unbridled comfort of his words, his actions, his unwavering commitment to me, he’s creating a space for me to unfurl.
I’m grateful.
And I’m responding.
As we pull back onto the highway, Drew’s phone buzzes. He grabs it and answers, pulling it to his ear. Then, as if second-guessing himself, he puts it on the console and presses speakerphone.
“Hey Gentian. You’re on speaker.”
“Oh, uh, hi Lindsay.”
“Hi Silas!”
“What’s up?”
“Your cover story is starting to slip. Mrs. Bosworth is upset that Lindsay didn’t invite her to the shopping trip you told them you were taking her on. Says she should have been consulted when it comes to selecting outfits for Lindsay’s potential public appearances.”
“Translation,” I say. “Mom has nothing better to do and is pissed I skipped out on my psych eval.”
Silas coughs into the phone and says, “You said it, Lindsay. Not me.”
Drew should laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he speeds up slightly, pushing the speed limit.
“Stall as much as you can. We need about three more hours. Two to get there, one to get the license and get married,” Drew tells Silas.
“Got it. I’ll do my best.”
Click.
“Really? It only takes an hour to get the license and get married?”
“If the line isn’t long. Half an hour to get the license, then go find a chapel.”
“Will Elvis marry us?”
“You want that?”
“Could you imagine the look on Mom’s face if I show up with wedding pictures with Elvis as the minister?” I can’t stop laughing at the idea, giggling so hard my bruised ribs start to hurt.
Drew laughs, a deep rumbling of amusement. “That makes me want to do it.”
“Do they have Elvis drive-thru chapels? Kill two birds with one stone?”
Drew grabs my hand. “It’s good to laugh with you.”
“So that’s a yes? Drive-thru chapel with Elvis?”
“Anything you want, baby. Anything you want.”
Chapter 19
Drew
In our one and only wedding photo, Lindsay and I are in the backseat of a pink Cadillac, with Elvis at the wheel.
When we get back home, I’ll have it framed and it will sit in a place of honor on our mantel. For now, it rests on my phone in digital form, ready.
Getting the license, going to the chapel, finding the place with an Elvis impersonator was easy. Kitschy and fun as we rushed to beat the clock.
And then the true spiritual moment happened. I don’t remember what we said to each other, but until the day I die, I’ll remember how Lindsay looked at me. A cord, a line, a tightrope stretched between us, reaching back to the past and extending forward to the future, connecting our two lives into one.
I didn’t think I could love her more.
I was wrong.
While I could have done without Elvis crooning “Love Me Tender” in the background as Lindsay and I said our vows, when all was said and done, it was a fine wedding.
Lindsay is now Mrs. Andrew Foster.
I’m her husband.
And we’re about to not have sex on our wedding night.
“Where are we staying?” she asks as we drive to the Strip. I pull into a private garage, tires squealing on the painted concrete floor. I slow down.
“I booked us a room under an assumed name.” I point to the hotel’s sign.
She laughs. “Mom thinks this place is gaudy and tacky. Perfect!” I’m not sure how Monica got “gaudy” from the most expensive hotel on the Las Vegas Strip. Then again, Lindsay’s mother lives in a world of her own making.
Thank God her daughter is in Realityland, where I can be with her 24/7.
I chose this place with some hesitation. It’s big and glitzy, with people watchers everywhere. On the other hand, the resort is accustomed to hiding celebrities. Security in this hotel has a protocol. We’re Will and Helen Jones from Tulsa, Oklahoma.
It doesn’t hurt that one of
the assistant directors of security was in my unit in Afghanistan on my first tour.
The private elevator takes us straight to our suite. I reserved the best I could get on short notice. A woman like Lindsay won’t notice. When you’re raised with money and power, you only notice what’s not there. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t care if I took her to a campground or a no-tell motel. She’s been through so much. She’s still shaky on the inside. Sticking to what she knows – and giving her the luxury I want to give her – is the safer choice.
Making Lindsay safe is my lifelong job. Her physical safety is assured.
Time to work on the emotional side.
“I ordered room service. I figured we’d be starving by now.”
“We wouldn’t be hungry if you’d agreed with my idea,” she teases as she gently sits on the edge of the bed, wincing and rubbing her bad elbow.
“Even I have limits, Lindsay, and having Elvis drive us to McDonald’s for a wedding meal in the drive-thru wasn’t going to cut it. Besides, you know we have to avoid surveillance cameras.”
“Right.”
Tap tap tap.
She looks at the door, then at me. I shrug.
“You are a well-oiled machine,” she marvels.
The image of a well-oiled Lindsay triggers something in me. I walk quickly to the door, hyperaware that she’s on a bed, we’re in a location where we have all the privacy in the world, and she’s my wife. As I tip the staff person and roll the table-cart into the room, I give myself permission to feel the never-ending passion I’ve felt for her all along, but kept in check.
Out of respect.
Out of a sense of knowing she needs time.
But damn it, if she keeps looking at me with those sweet bedroom eyes, I’m not sure I can hold off much longer. I don’t want to scare her, or make her feel like she needs to have sex before she’s ready. I don’t. But she’s given me more and more reasons to want her as she peels back all the walls, one by one, on this trip.
She’s a feast of love.
And I’m a starving man.
“Is there anything on the menu you didn’t order?” she jokes as I reveal all the dishes, one by one.
“They had fried alligator, but I thought that was a bit too much.”
She smiles at me. A yawn catches her unaware, her face stretching, neck creamy and long, marred by small, healing scratches and a bruise that bisects. It’s where John’s arm nearly crushed her windpipe. Three or four images from that horrible day power up my internal adrenaline, making my skin crawl.
If I can have moments like this, where my body reacts to my own memory, what is Lindsay’s hour-by-hour existence like?
I watch her dip lobster in melted butter. She stuffs a piece carefully in her mouth, avoiding the healing split in her lower lip, then groans with pleasure.
Damn it.
This is having a physical effect on me.
And then I realize it’s okay.
It’s fine.
It should.
She’s my wife. The love of my life. We’re done running. We’re done fighting off the demons of the past. We literally killed them, one by one.
Together.
Now it’s time to live.
I grab my own lobster tail and dig in.
The only taste better than this is Lindsay.
Lindsay
I eat all the things. I do. I just keep eating and tasting. I’m stalling.
Not like stalling when I was kidnapped. Back then, I stalled to give Drew time to find me.
Now I’m stalling to avoid giving Drew time to touch me.
This is so stupid. I feel encased in cotton, my stomach exploding from cheesecake topped with blueberry compote.
Drew yawns, stretching like a man whose blood has been pooled for too long, needing to move and race, heat his body and give him relief. We’re more relaxed with each other than we’ve been since I came home from the Island.
We’re also tense as hell, because we know what should happen next.
We hold two realities at the same time. When I do that with other people, it feels surreal. When I do it with Drew, it feels true. You can have conflicting emotions about something and not have to pick one or the other. Both are part of who you are.
So I can want Drew at the same time that I’m afraid of my own reactions, afraid to be bombarded by too many memories – physical reactions – from what happened with Stellan, John and Blaine.
I’m starting to think that the only way out is through.
Through Drew.
“Bath?”
His one-word question makes me jump slightly. I’m deep in my own thoughts. He’s staring at me intently, halfway between me and the bathroom. If he keeps looking at me with that smoldering gaze, then the parts of me that are still lingering, wandering behind the others in some strange, distant land, are going to quickly catch up.
“A bath? Sounds heavenly.” I hear the shake in my words. As I stand I groan, my stomach full of goodness.
His phone buzzes. So does mine, simultaneously.
“Ignore it,” he says, voice neutral.
“But -- ”
“Silas has strict orders. No calls for me. I have my emergency phone if it’s life-or-death. Those aren’t.” He crosses the room and puts his hands on my shoulders, rubbing them slightly, his thumbs moving in seductive circles that stoke a fire in me. “Let’s take a bath.”
“Together?”
He bites his lower lip, then frowns. “Or alone, if you want.”
“No, no!” I stammer. “We can, together.” I look at my sling. “I just don’t know...”
“Wait till you see the tub. I requested one with an accessible door.”
“A bathtub with a door?”
He motions toward the bathroom. When we walk in, I see.
Drew has truly taken care of all the details.
The bathtub is enormous, and taller than usual. It has seats in it on opposite ends, and a small door that he opens with a flourish.
“This is a bathtub for old people,” I say, chuckling.
“We’ll be old people someday,” he says with a shrug. “And we’ll do it together.”
I try to imagine him with silver strands in his brown hair, with age lines (never wrinkles, Mom says – just age lines...) and that older, sophisticated look men acquire. He is my husband.
Mine.
Forever.
A rush of desire overwhelms me, plucking my breath, making me ache for him in a way I didn’t think I could feel ever again. It’s all coming back now. My diamond ring sparkles in the low light of the room as Drew pulls me into his embrace, whispering in my ear.
“If this is too much, say so.”
“It’s too much,” I say, “but I love it. I love you.”
He kisses me, searching and sweet, then bold and strong. Every embrace is at an angle, my arm a third wheel in our relationship. As the kiss ends, he reaches for my shirt, unbuttoning the front buttons, working carefully.
“Can I help you undress?”
“Yes.” I’m not shy, to my surprise. Just skittish, a little cold, and covered with aching reminders of what happened to my poor body. Once he has me fully undressed, he motions for me to sit inside the bathtub on one side, then he quickly makes himself nude, climbing in to the other seat, turning on the faucet.
“We sit in here and it fills up around us?” I marvel. He grabs a hotel-provided container of bubble bath. Sickly-sweet vanilla scent fills the air, bubbles foaming instantly in the shallow water at our feet.
“Yes. We just wait. As the water rises, our bodies acclimate, and then we enjoy. Like foreplay,” he jokes, but there’s no smile on his face.
Just desire.
Within minutes, the water is up to my breasts, threatening to get my shoulder wet, so he cuts off the flow. My breasts bob in the bubbles, the feeling of soaking divine. I’ve only taken showers with plastic bags all over my arm, so a bath is a piece of heaven.
A bath with
Drew is even better.
“Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“What if I changed my mind?”
“You did?”
“Well, what if?”
“You can do that. You have all the control.”
“Actually, you changed my mind.”
“I did? How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on, Lindsay. You have to tell me so I can do more of it.”
“I really don’t know. You didn’t do it on purpose. You just...did.”
“This is really unfair.”
“Why? Oh! Oh, I mean, if you’re not interested...”
“Oh, I’m interested. Trust me, baby. I’m interested. I just want to know what I said to make you change your mind.” His toe finds mine under the water. He brushes it lightly, all along my calf, to my knee, then gently up my thigh, halfway, until I shiver.
“It wasn’t one thing. I can’t explain it. You just...well, you were just you.”
“And being me made you...” He moves swiftly across the water, bent before me, face to face. His hands are on my thighs, waiting.
“Want you.”
“Oh. Damn, Lindsay,” he says as he sighs. “That may be the most honest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I think that one time I called you an asshole I was more honest.”
“Hey!”
“You told me to give you the whole me.” Using my one good arm, I spread it wide in a boasting gesture. “This is it.” My bad elbow slips and almost dips into the water, but I save myself.
“I didn’t know name calling would be part of it.”
I give him a coy smile.
“What name do you have for this?” His fingers creep slowly up my side, making me relax, making me close my eyes and tip my head back, accepting his touch. He cups one breast, not moving once he has it in his hand. Just feeling, exploring, touching.
Taking his time.
I’m surprised by how much I want him. Back in the hospital, I’d given up on ever being close to anyone again. That sense of being so dirty and used, turned into an animal, a device, an object moved around by other people to meet their goals made me want to crawl into a hole and just live the rest of my life alone.
