Bittersweet Melody

by Belinda Boring

  He didn’t say a word, merely obeying her request.

  I couldn’t drag my gaze away from him.

  I couldn’t stop the way the place between my legs throbbed, desperate for my own release. I’d watched porn before with Owen, something that had left me feeling a little weird.

  Not this, though. For whatever reason, each second that passed heightened my own arousal. It wasn’t until I moaned, the sound escaping from deep within me—a mixture of need and desperation—that I realized my thighs were clenched tight together. My entire frame was shaking from how turned on I was.

  Not by the act.

  By him.

  I was in so much trouble.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  I needed to leave.

  Flee.

  Stepping back in a rush to escape, my foot twisted, and I fell, my elbow the first to hit hard against the door.

  “Caylee?”

  Instant mortification flooded me. Still buried deep inside his date, Cooper had stopped and saw me awkwardly trying to go.

  “I’m . . .” There were not enough words in my vocabulary to explain myself. “I’m—” I tried again, my heart beating violently within my chest. “I’m sorry.”

  Turning on my heel, I ran.

  Chapter Nine

  Cooper

  Fuck.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Shock continued drilling through me, shattering every sensation of pleasure I’d been experiencing only moments before. How long had she been standing there? And why the hell hadn’t I heard her come in?

  Despite the jaded attitude I’d developed since returning home—my ‘don’t-give-a-fuck’ arrogance that seemed to ooze from everything I did—there was still a semblance of decency inside me.

  There was no doubt in my mind I was a bastard. I made no qualms about it whenever the name was hurled my way, usually from a female who had misread my attention as something more meaningful. I’d left a string of broken hearts behind without a second thought or glance.

  But there was something in the look on Caylee’s face that tapped straight into that long forgotten side.

  Horror.

  Shock.

  And an element that had left me reeling . . . undiluted desire.

  Caylee Sawyer had fled like the hounds of Hell had been nipping at her heels, fighting to drag her back to their Master for his amusement. It made me feel like shit. Not even a few weeks into our friendship, I’d royally screwed up by being caught with my pants down.

  Literally.

  “You’re not going to leave me hanging, are you?” A woman’s voice jolted me to the present, away from the closed door and back to what I’d been in the middle of. Her skirt was still scrunched up around her middle, her hot pink panties digging slightly into the skin mid-thigh. She had been good—above average even—but there was no way I’d finish. She’d have to find her release with her vibrator.

  Damn, I didn’t even remember her name. Nicole . . . Angela . . . blah blah. In my head, until we’d been interrupted, she’d been Pinky, a tribute to the soft lace thong she’d worn. I wasn’t going to apologize for the oversight, either. She was what she was . . . a disposable distraction.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Tucking myself in and zipping up my pants, I didn’t bother sugarcoating the truth with her. “Feel free to put a drink on my tab at the bar.”

  It hadn’t escaped her notice I hadn’t used her name. “Sarah.”

  “Whatever.” She was already forgotten. I needed to catch up with Caylee and somehow explain.

  “You’re a real douchebag, did you know that?” She was pissed, her actions angry and jerky as she dressed. “I don’t know who you think you are, but a real man doesn’t treat women like this.”

  “Then next time, spread your legs for one.” I gave her a last look, my hand on the doorknob.

  “And for the record, you have the smallest dick I’ve ever seen,” she spat out vehemently, swiping her bag up under her arm and storming toward me.

  “We done here?” I was impatient to get out into the bar and see what kind of damage control I had to do. The strangeness of the idea that I was even contemplating it wasn’t lost on me. This friendship was well on the road to being complicated.

  “I hope you get cock rot and it falls off.” With a glare that could wilt even the hardiest of flowers, Sarah left, still grumbling over what an asshole I was. She was lucky I’d given her what I had. Most times, they came in with fantasies of taming the bad boy rock star, of finding true love and other bullshit. They thought they would be the one to change me—fix what was broken.

  It was always them who left with their delusions reduced to ashes. The way I saw it, that was their fault. Maybe they needed a different hobby. I was no one’s project.

  “Caylee,” I cursed low, beneath my breath.

  Emerging from the staff door, I caught sight of her, Rebecca in tow as they made a beeline to the exit. Part of me screamed to let her go—that confronting her now would only prolong the inevitable. I’d been against all this from the very beginning. I’d warned her, and still she’d pushed. The hero she’d come looking for was merely a fictitious character in her imagination. That Cooper Hensley no longer existed.

  Her leaving would return my life to the precarious balance I’d been enduring.

  Her walking away protected her from being lumped together with the rest of my collateral damage.

  “Caylee.” I found myself yelling, hoping against hope she’d hear me over the jukebox and rowdy banter. Her step faltered, but she didn’t stop. If anything, she raced even faster until they both slipped outside.

  “What the hell did you do?” Marty asked, a tinge of anger to his voice.

  “Nothing,” I answered defensively. He may have been the closest thing I had to a best friend, but hell if I was going to explain myself to him.

  “No, try again. She went looking for you, and then she came back rambling about having to go. What you do with your women is your thing, but you seriously have shitty timing.” So that’s what this was about. He was pissed because the only action he was going home to was his hand.

  Dragging my fingers through my hair, I was half tempted to see if she was still outside waiting for a taxi. The knotted sensation in my gut grew with each passing second. “Then why didn’t you try to stop her?” I thundered. “I was on my way out.”

  “Why were you even busy, Coop? You invited her here. You couldn’t keep it in your pants?” He’d known exactly what I’d been doing. Usually, it wasn’t an issue. We all had our fun, and if it hadn’t been me in that office, it would’ve been Marty. It was practically a tradition—the two of us notorious for taking advantage of the willing and eager.

  “Why do you even give a shit? Are you seriously busting my balls over this?” I eyed him suspiciously. It wasn’t like him to get bent out of shape over a missed opportunity. “If you’re that determined to get her into bed, I’ll drive you there myself.”

  I couldn’t believe we were standing here arguing about it. No pussy was worth it.

  “Dick move, bro.”

  “And?” I still didn’t get it.

  “What you did tonight wasn’t right. Admit it.” When I didn’t reply instantly, Marty took it as my silent agreement. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but she should be off-limits. If you can’t give that girl what she wants, cut her loose. Don’t toy with her feelings. She’s not one of your conquests.” He was slightly out of breath as his impassioned speech came to an end.

  For the player Marty was, he also had a code—one I’d obviously violated tonight. Damn if I didn’t feel another wave of guilt.

  Despite what I’d initially thought, he was right. Caylee was different, even without our common connection with Owen. It was her. Something about her—an unknown factor I still couldn’t put my finger on.

  “Why do you care?” I asked, defeated. He was my link to humanity, the one who remin
ded me that hearts shatter easily—that not everyone lived on the edge of perpetual numbness.

  “Because you’re acting like a dick and someone has to.” The roughness from earlier, the annoyed tone that lit a fire in his eyes, had diminished. “She matters. I don’t know what you did, but you need to fix it.”

  “She walked in on me with . . .” My mind went blank. Shit, I’d forgotten again.

  “Sarah.”

  I barked out a sharp laugh. “How the fuck do you know that?”

  My bewildered look must’ve struck him as funny because his expression changed, dissolving into humor. Rolling his eyes, Marty shook his head. “Not all of us are oblivious. She’s been sniffing around you for a while. You seriously don’t remember?”

  I didn’t. Maybe it was the alcohol or the fact that sometimes their faces seemed to blend into one another. Either way, there was no excuse. Now that things didn’t feel so dire, I realized my mistake. “Damn.”

  “You might want to lay off the booze. Just saying.” Marty slapped my shoulder, gripping it tightly.

  That wasn’t even an option. It was hard enough being sober working for my brother. Alcohol kept me sane. It dulled the voices from the past. “I need to go talk to Caylee.”

  “She’s long gone, bro. I’d maybe let her sleep on it, too. Give her a chance to recover from seeing your ugly ass. Trust me, it’s not a pretty sight.” His quick comeback lightened my mood even more, but not before I let out a loud groan of embarrassment.

  Scrubbing my hand through my hair, I was beyond tired. “What a mess.” Suddenly, I wanted to be far away from here. For the first time in forever, I wished that I was someone else.

  Someone better.

  I was changing. And standing there, surrounded by strangers, ever so softly, a tiny piece of my heart thawed.

  ****

  Three weeks later

  Anyone would think I was a raging alcoholic.

  Staring down into the rapidly filling shopping cart, I’d have a hard time convincing them I wasn’t. Well, that I wasn’t much of one, and that if they looked at it the right way, it was actually medicinal—life saving even.

  Who was I kidding? I didn’t give a shit. People could think what they wanted. It’s always easy to judge from the outside when you didn’t have to live with the chaos below the surface. It wasn’t the first time I’d been given a disapproving glance or an expression filled with curiosity and sympathy.

  If there was one thing I hated, it was that look of pity. The one that silently said, “Gee, get your shit together.” In the beginning, when I was still taking everything personal, that expression was enough to reduce me to one of defense. It left me wanting to grab the person and shake them, to scream for them to take the guilt, the nightmares, the anger and see if they’d do a better job with it.

  Let them find a way to make the pain stop.

  Let them deal with the aftermath of Afghanistan.

  Let them convince themselves they didn’t just kill their best friend.

  But even then, those reactions were mild compared to those who did know what I was going through. That look of pity was soul crushing. It contained the weight of the universe.

  Someone had to go fight for their freedoms. Someone had to go and make the hard decisions.

  It was those who liked throwing one word around—four letters that acted like salt on the emotional wounds that festered and oozed.

  Hero.

  They considered me a hero. When paired with unshed tears and a gentle touch, it was hard not to pull back and correct them. In the beginning, I would, desperate for others to understand why that one word was the worst thing they could ever say to me.

  A hero didn’t leave friends behind.

  A hero saved.

  I was a far cry from being a hero, but I realized they didn’t say it for me. It was all for them. If that’s what they needed to say in order to not feel so helpless, if that’s what gave my service meaning, so be it.

  Let them brandish it about like a magical wand, believing it would make everything miraculously better. That was their truth—a way for them to walk away without another thought. If it helped them sleep at night, good for them.

  I kept my rants to myself.

  I kept my own two words inside: Fuck. That.

  I saw it for what it was. A lie wrapped in good intentions.

  For a moment there, I’d thought Caylee was going to use it. The fact she hadn’t was probably why I relented and agreed to be friends. There’d been many looks of sympathy, but for some reason, hers had been different.

  Caylee.

  I still hadn’t called her, and she’d been pretty quiet on her end. It was like we were both locked in a stalemate—waiting for the other to make that first move. Considering it was me who’d screwed up so royally, I knew it was up to me to at least text her, opening up that line of communication. But how do you start that conversation?

  So . . . You caught me fucking?

  Sorry?

  Like what you see?

  Wish it were you?

  That last thought jostled me. Where the hell did that come from? The disturbing thing was the idea of having Caylee beneath me, her body laid out for my pleasure, made desire stir in my groin. That wasn’t what screamed danger—I had that reaction to most females—it was the smile that curled my lips whenever the notion struck. Unfortunately, it struck a lot more often than I cared for.

  It was hard to keep her at arm’s length and remember who she was and why she was off-limits when I wanted to bury my cock in her. When I caught myself wondering what it would be like to run my fingers over her soft skin, my tongue dipping and tasting every inch of her.

  Maybe I should wait another week or two before I call her. I cringed, shutting down that damn line of thinking before it got me into any more trouble. For extra measure, I added another bottle of vodka to my cart. I needed to nip this shit in the bud.

  Friendship or not—attraction or not—I would never know what Caylee felt like, her name in my mouth as she whispered mine, her body spent from hours of lovemaking.

  Damn. I sounded like a chick.

  I didn’t make love.

  I fucked.

  “Cooper?”

  Speak of the devil, or in this case, the woman I couldn’t quite dismiss from my mind. “Hey,” I answered, surprised to see Caylee behind me with her own cart. As she pulled up beside me, I wanted to hide the contents I was purchasing.

  Too late.

  “Wow, I think you forgot a few things from the food pyramid, Cooper. You might want to add some fruit and vegetables to that—” She paused to look at the ten bottles of various spirits and two boxes of beer, humor dancing across her features. “I heard balanced eating is all the rage right now.”

  “Well,” I drawled, grateful that she’d managed to hide the judgment from her voice. I was used to it, but not from her. A chuckle rose up from within, and I struggled to hold it back, the sound coming out like a strangled cough. The irony wasn’t lost on me. If there was anyone on this planet who deserved to level me with their contempt and superiority, it was her.

  I’d cost her her future and happiness.

  It was me who’d destroyed her world.

  Damn, I need a drink. Clearing my throat again, trying to ease the sudden scratchiness that signaled it was time to drown my thoughts out, I shuffled back and forth. “If you want to get technical, the vodka is made from potatoes, and the beer—” My mind scrambled to remember the ingredients. “It has grains and shit.”

  My comment made her burst into laughter. It took everything I had not to lean into it like a fool seeking relief. I didn’t deserve it.

  Completely unaware of the effect she had on me, Caylee took another glance at my cart before bending over her own. I all but groaned at the sight. Whatever the hell this was, I would crush it before it sprouted and grew. Douse it with freaking gasoline and set this attraction on fire.

  “There you go.” Her excitement broke thr
ough my self-loathing as she placed a bag of red grapes amongst the glass bottles. “I feel a little better now.”

  I was speechless. I had to shut this down. She was unraveling everything. It wasn’t anything Caylee said in particular. It was more the feeling of impending doom that came when I saw her. It was that whisper in my mind that told me she held the power to break down all my carefully constructed barricades to keep the world out and my guilt in.

  This had to end.

  Hating myself a little more, I retrieved her offering and dropped the bag back into her cart. “I don’t need your help, Caylee.”

  The gruffness in my response startled her. Good.

  Her sigh was barely audible, more like a soft caress, and I steeled myself against it. “Cooper . . .” Just that one word chipped away at my resolve.

  “This is who I am,” I added, wanting to reinforce that if she thought I was some project to fix, we would end this right here, right now. The sooner she accepted it, the easier it would be.

  Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips as frown lines appeared on her brow. Standing there, surrounded by shelves of my preferred choice of self-medication, I ignored the last thought I wanted to entertain—that she was my new addiction. I could totally fall into her and lose myself. It was also in that moment that I realized she would be a greater weapon to punish myself with. What better way to pay penance than torturing myself with the one I had the most to atone for?

  Sure, my idea of penance didn’t lead to forgiveness or any form of absolution. I was beyond that. I’d killed and murdered. I’d failed to keep those under my command safe.

  “Cooper?” Once again, her voice broke through the downward spiral. How the hell did she do that? “Where’d you go?”

  There was no mistaking the look of concern plastered across her face. Sounds from the grocery store crashed over me—the radio station playing over the loud speaker, a mother one aisle over telling her kids to quit running around and stay by her, an employee with a red vest and name badge directing an older gentleman to where the toilet paper was. I’d spaced out, again.