For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2)

by Selena Laurence

  Her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, and her wrists jingle with stacks of silver bracelets I got her in India when we performed there a few years back. It’s when she removes her sunglasses that my heart does a double take though. There are circles under her eyes, deep smudges marring the otherwise perfect quality of her skin. Her lids droop and her shoulders sag. I can see how very tired she is, and it slices through me like a knife. I did this, and now it’s up to me to make it right.

  "Tam?" I say softly.

  She yelps and jumps back, spinning toward me, her eyes big and scared.

  I move toward her. "Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s me."

  "Fuck, Walsh!" she exclaims. "You scared the crap out of me."

  "I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really am," I answer, moving closer to her.

  She folds her arms over her chest and juts her chin out. "What are you doing here?"

  I put my hands in my front pockets so I won’t touch her. I have every intention of touching her a whole hell of a lot very soon, but I’m hoping to get her a little more amenable first.

  "I got a call from the movers this morning, so I decided to come up and see for myself what’s going on."

  "Well, you don’t need to worry. I’m not taking anything except my personal stuff—clothes, books, that kind of thing. You can check if you’re worried about it. And I wonder where the hell the movers are anyway. They’re supposed to be here by now."

  "I sent them away," I tell her.

  "What?" She scowls.

  "I sent them away. See, Tam, we’ve got a problem here—"

  "Oh no you don’t." She moves toward the living room, and I follow. "You can’t act like you don’t give a shit about all this for months and then show up at the last minute and interrupt my plans. If you’re that worried about your crap, you can check every box before it goes out the door, but I’m calling those guys and they’re going to come back and move my stuff—today."

  She’s pacing around the living room now, and I’m standing at the doorway watching her.

  "Sweetheart?"

  "What?" she snaps.

  "I didn’t come because I’m worried about my stuff."

  "Well, what the hell do you want then?"

  "I came for you."

  She stops pacing and looks at me, the color draining from her face.

  "You what? What does that mean?"

  I step forward, closing the gap between us until we’re mere inches apart and she’s looking up at me with her tired eyes.

  "I came for you. I came because I love you. I came because you can’t move out of our home right as I’m ready to come back. I came because I realized that I’m far from perfect, but that this is who I am—a work in progress. And I might always be, but you love me anyway. I’ve been waiting to become something—something better, someone more worthy of you—but I don’t know when that’s going to happen if ever, and in the meantime, you’re moving on. Please don’t move on. Please don’t leave me, Tammy. I’m done running and hiding and fighting. Take me back. Please."

  She looks at me, her big brown eyes shining, her mouth in an ‘o’ of surprise. Then, as I watch her beautiful face, smell her sweet scent, and listen to her soft breath, she suddenly bursts into tears, throwing herself on me with such force that I stumble back a step. She winds her arms around me and squeezes for all she’s worth, and she sobs. Great heaving sobs of anguish and pain that split my stupid heart open wide until I’m afraid it’ll never close back up. She cries and cries and cries, and I do the only thing I know to—I hold her, I murmur comforting words in her ear, I stroke her back and her long glossy hair, and I pray that she’ll stop sooner rather than later.

  After a while, I lead her to the sofa and we sit, her head on my shoulder, my arms around her as I continue to rub her shoulder and back. Eventually her breathing calms and her sniffles subside. My t-shirt is soaked on the front and collar, but I couldn’t give a shit as long as she’ll take me back.

  Finally, when it seems that she’s under control again, I pull away and look at her ravaged face. It’s puffy and blotchy and probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

  "I’m sorry," I whisper. "I’m so sorry."

  She nods. "So am I," she says, her voice rough from the tears.

  "We need a do-over. Anything you want, if you’ll just agree to let me try."

  She takes a shuddery breath. "That’s all I’ve wanted this whole time, Walsh. Just a chance to try again."

  "I know," I say, pulling her close. "I love you so much, Tammy. I swear to you I won’t fuck this up. I’ve learned. I know my weaknesses, and I’ll keep fighting to turn them into strengths. I’ll keep fighting for us. I’ll never give up like that again, I swear it."

  Then I lean my head down and I press my lips to hers. She makes a sexy little noise in the back of her throat, and I crack open the rest of the way, my heart pouring out of me and into her. I give her every last bit of me, holding nothing back. My tongue slides in between her plump slick lips and I groan.

  "God, I want you," I say, my dick hardening to steel.

  "Yes," she gasps.

  I continue kissing her, a frantic tangle of teeth and tongues and lips, her soft skin giving beneath my hands as I lay us back on the sofa. I tug on the tiny straps of her dress, immediately tearing one of them loose.

  "Aw, hell," I mutter as I do the same to the other.

  I yank the top of the dress down, baring her braless breasts. I look down at them and my breath catches in my throat. "Fuck," I sigh. Her nipples are like mocha against her olive skin. They’re hard and big, beckoning me like sirens. I dip my head and draw one into my mouth, and ecstasy can’t begin to describe the feeling, the sensation, the taste of Tammy.

  She clutches my hair and sighs. I can feel the tension leaving her body, I can hear her heart speeding, and she rubs her thighs together as her breathing increases.

  I run one hand down her side until I find the hem of her flouncy dress. I flip it up and coast my palm along her smooth, firm thighs. When I reach the little string that holds her underwear together on the sides, I give a sharp tug and tear the fucking things right off.

  "You’re ruining all my clothes," she pants as she reaches between us, heading for the button of my jeans.

  "You don’t need them," I growl as I lick a circle around her belly button and the little gold hoop she has in it. "New rule number one—no clothes for the next forty-eight hours."

  "Ohhh," she gasps.

  She’s still struggling with my pants, and I finally say, "Hold that thought," as I stand up and pull my shirt off, then my shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers.

  She lies there, her poor dress bunched around her waist, and looks up at me from under inky lashes that hide her expressive eyes.

  "Sit up," I order. She does, and I gently unzip the back of the dress then pull it over her head as she lifts up her arms for me.

  Tammy DiLorenzo nude is an honest-to-God work of art. She could model for painters and photographers and be the muse for a whole slew of love ballads. But the world will have to live without that because she’s mine and I’m not going to share this part of her with anyone.

  She lies back down, and I follow, stopping to lick from one ankle all the way up to one earlobe as I go.

  "This is my favorite earlobe," I tell her.

  "What’s wrong with the other one?"

  "Nothing. It’s my favorite too. When I’m on that side, it’s my favorite. When I’m on this side, this one is."

  She laughs softly and wraps her hand around my erection, making me shudder against her.

  "Holy fuck, sweetheart. You might kill me if you do that much."

  "I want to feel you in me, Walsh. I need us to be us."

  "Anything you want."

  I reach down between her legs and run my finger through her folds. She’s slick and hot and so ready for me that it’s all I can do to keep from blowing my load like the teenage boy I once was with her.

 
I move onto her fully, and she bends her knees, spreading her legs wide. She arches her back, pressing her breasts into my chest and sending a frisson of sexual energy from my head all the way to my toes.

  I have my elbows next to her head, and I run my fingers through her hair as I whisper, "Open your eyes, Tammy DiLorenzo."

  She blinks up at me, and then our gazes hold. I start to slide into her and she moans. "Oh, Walsh, God."

  I keep watching her as she looks back at me. I press in deeper, enveloped in her heat and the soft sensation of her walls. Then I begin to stroke in and out. We keep our eyes on one another, and as I rock inside her, I say everything I feel—how I love her, how she’s my life, how I’ve never wanted anyone else. Finally, as I feel my balls tighten up, she swells, surrounding my dick with heat and sex. I push into her hard, holding still as she pulses around me, sobbing out my name while I fall right after her.

  I know, in that moment, that I’m finally home.

  Tammy

  I’M LYING in the king-sized bed at my house. Our house. The one Walsh bought for us. I’m naked as can be, and Walsh is beside me, my head is on his chest, his hand is slowly stroking the little patch of skin under my left breast.

  "Mmmm," he rumbles more than really speaks. We’ve made love about four times in the last two hours, and I think we finally need a break. "It’s good to be home," he says quietly.

  I realize that I have to tell him, but I’m scared to lose this moment. I want to savor it, try to trap this feeling so deep inside me that I’ll never lose it no matter what happens in the next few minutes.

  "There’s something we have to talk about," I say as I lean up on one elbow so I can look down at his face—his beautiful face that I love so very much.

  He reaches up and runs a hand along my hair, tucking a piece behind my ear. "I imagine there’re a lot of things we need to talk about, but let’s take a little nap first, huh?"

  "This…this can’t wait. It’s really important."

  I see a line appear in between his brows and his lips tighten. "Okay. Do I need to be worried here?"

  I sigh and sit up all the way, turning to face him and tucking my heels under my butt. "It’s major, and I’m scared it might change your mind about us."

  "Fuck," he says as he sits up as well, pulling the sheet up to his waist and bending one knee up so he can rest his elbow on it. He looks at me, so serious. "Tam, if there’s been someone else sometime in all these months, I’ll understand. I mean, we weren’t together. It’s not like what happened before, and I understand how lonely you were and how scared—"

  I place my two first fingers against his lips. "Shhh," I hush him. "There hasn’t been anyone else. There will never be anyone else."

  I can see the breath he was holding leave his body, and he leans his face into my hand, relief washing over his features. "Okay," he tells me as he looks up. "Then whatever it is, we’ll get through it. Just give it to me straight."

  I take a deep breath and plunge in. "After I was in the hospital last summer, they needed to figure out what medications to give me."

  He nods, his eyes warm and encouraging.

  "They needed me to be off of any other medications. I had to kind of let my body become a blank slate, you know? So they could figure out the best dosages and everything."

  "That makes perfect sense," he says, nodding. "Sweetheart, are you worried that I care about you being on meds? Because I don’t. All I care about is you being healthy and happy. Whatever the doctors and you decide will help with that is fine."

  I smile at him, my heart aching just a little. "I know. I know you’d never judge me because of that. But being a clean slate meant no birth control pills, Walsh. I haven’t been on birth control since last September."

  His eyes widen a little and he breathes out a long, low whistle. "So, all this"—he gestures to the bed—"was unprotected? But I mean, what are the odds, right?" He runs a hand through his hair. "And can’t you get like a morning-after pill or something? Or will it interfere with your meds?"

  I look down at the bed and clench my hands together. "It’s not today that’s the problem. It was five weeks ago at Mrs. Stallworth’s," I tell him quietly.

  "Wait—what? Are you afraid you might be—"

  "I am, Walsh. I’m pregnant." I finally raise my eyes to his, terrified of what I’m going to see.

  And what I see are the same warm, supportive brown eyes I looked into fourteen years ago in that algebra class. They’re velvet and chocolate and heat all rolled into one. Then I look lower and see the corner of his mouth lift up, and before I know it, he’s wearing a smile that’s as wide as the sky outside.

  "Walsh?" I question, not sure what he’s thinking.

  "You’re pregnant?" he asks, wonderment in his voice.

  I nod.

  He looks down at my hand. "Where’s your ring?" he asks.

  I finally took it off when I got back from Texas, trying so hard to tell myself that it was for the best and I’d get used to life without him.

  "It’s in the drawer." I point to the nightstand.

  He crawls over the bed and opens the drawer, withdrawing the black velvet box before he scoots back over to where I am.

  He gets up on his knees in front of me and opens the box. "Tammy DiLorenzo," he says, grinning. "I gave you this ring once before, and you wore it for a long time. Too long, really, without the ceremony that should go with it. Will you put this ring back on today and swear to me that you and I will walk down an aisle somewhere before our beautiful baby is born?"

  I put my hand out, my heart beating frantically with joy. I swallow, the emotion so overwhelming my voice trembles when I say,"Yes, Walsh Clark, I will."

  He slides the ring on my finger and then kisses it just like he did the first time he asked me. Then he tosses the box across the bed and leans down to my stomach.

  "Did you hear that, dude? She’s going to marry me. Your mom. And when you pop out of there, we’re going to be a family."

  Yes. We are.

  Walsh

  I COME offstage, sweaty but happy, buzzing in the best way from the satisfaction of playing good music with my friends. Tammy’s waiting for me at a table up front near the stage, and I lean down and give her a juicy kiss, savoring the taste of her lips. No alcohol ever tasted as sweet as my wife’s lips, and these days, whenever I taste her, it takes me back to that moment four months ago when she said, "I do," and made my life complete.

  "That was great you guys," Tammy gushes as she squeezes Jenny’s hand and smiles at Mike and Colin.

  Colin gives her a lame attempt at a smile in return. He’s been off all week and won’t tell us what’s up. We all figure it’s got something to do with Marsha though since he refuses to so much as set foot in The Bronco when we’re in town. We all sit down, and the waitress brings big mugs of water, an O.J. and club soda for me, and a beer for Mike.

  I look at Mike’s beer for a moment, and I stop, assess, consider whether I wish I could have one as well. Most days, the answer is, "No." That doesn’t mean I don’t still have cravings, but they’re much fewer and farther between. If I get one, all I have to do is remember the sound of my Little Dude’s heart beating in that exam room the first time I heard it and the craving vanishes. The idea of failing Tammy and our child is something I cannot even comprehend. For whatever reason, Tammy has chosen me—has always chosen me—and I’m determined to be the best possible me I can for the rest of our lives. I won’t fail her or our child as long as I have breath left in my body.

  "So how’d repeating that last refrain feel to you, sunshine?" Mike asks Jenny as we all settle in and the after-performance adrenaline disperses a touch.

  "You were right," she says, rolling her eyes and winking at Tam and me.

  "See?" Mike says, grinning. "I’m getting her trained."

  "Michael, so help me, I’ll get a new guitarist," Jenny threatens.

  I lean over to Tammy and whisper, "Do you think if they finally did the dee
d they’d quit bitching at each other?"

  She laughs, and I use the proximity as an excuse to plant another kiss on her lips while I rub her tummy under the table.

  "Little Dude been kicking anymore tonight?" I ask.

  She turns and gives me one of her looks that would slay most men but just makes me laugh. "How do you know its Little Dude and not Little Dudette?" She raises one eyebrow.

  I shrug. "I just do," I say. "Father’s intuition or something."

  She snorts. "And what, the woman whose body is actually doing all the work wouldn’t have a better sense of that than the sperm donor?"

  "Sperm donor?" I rail. "Excuse me, Mrs. Clark, but I have been at every single doctor’s appointment, read the entire ‘What to Expect’ book, and spent hours singing to your belly. I have a relationship with Little Dude. We talk. We’ve got plans."

  Tammy’s mouth opens up to give me a rejoinder, but Mike interrupts her. "Will the two of you puhleeze just log on to the damn portal and find out the sex already? You have this same fucking argument every night and it’s getting really old. If I have to listen to it one more time, I might hit something."

  "Chill out, man," I tell him, amused like I always am when I manage to piss off Mike. "Not everyone is as impatient as you. And we don’t have the argument every day."

  "Well," Jenny says, her cheeks turning pink, "I didn’t want to say anything but…" she trails off.

  "Oh, God." Tammy drops her head onto her arms on the table. When she looks back up, she says, "Are we really that bad?"

  Jenny bites her lip but nods as Mike and Colin both holler, "Hell yes!"

  Tammy looks at me, embarrassment washing over her features.

  I scratch my head. "Shit. Sorry, I guess."

  "Just log on," Mike repeats.

  Tammy looks at me questioningly. We’ve refused to log on to the portal with the baby’s ultrasound picture and gender listing, and I think—for me, anyway—it’s because I’ve needed time to adjust. As much as I love Tammy, as much as I love Little Dude already, this wasn’t planned. I wasn’t prepared, and sometimes in life, it takes a while to catch up. With the gender a mystery, this child has somehow been less real. Sort of a virtual baby. But once you know gender, once you can actually select the name, buy the right clothes, imagine what he’ll be like at two or five or ten years old—well, that’s a game changer. Am I ready to change this game?