by Dani René
Strange how you can meet someone who burrows their way into your very soul in one night. It wasn't the sex, which at first I believed it was. No. It was so much more than that.
His touch, the way he spoke to me, one moment he was wide open, a gaping abyss of melancholy and guilt, and the next, he would close up shop as if it's five p.m. on a Friday afternoon.
If I'd only found him earlier, a few seconds would've made a difference. Maybe I could've spoken to him. Made him see I wanted to be there.
The shrill ring of my mobile startles me from my thoughts, and I shut the silver door of the refrigerator I still had open. With a quick glance at my screen, I notice it's my best friend.
The problem with speaking to her is she'll know something happened. We've been friends for almost ten years. Saskia has been beside me through everything from braces to my first crush on the most popular boy in school.
All of that was welcome. It was the growing pains most girls go through, but this . . . this is vastly different. I had sex with a man old enough to be my father. A man who's so broken he can't even ask me to stay and have breakfast with him.
His mood swings gave me whiplash. Back and forth.
When the ringing stops, I sigh a breath of relief, but it's short lived. I knew she wouldn't give up. I answer after the fifth ring. "Hey, Kia, what’s up?" I attempt a smile, but it's forced. My voice is rigid with emotion.
"What's wrong, chickadee?" she asks playfully, but there's no humor coming from my end. "Oh no, what happened? Is it your dad? Did he finally propose to Cruella? Oh my God, don't tell me you finally found out that hipster clothes are so last season?" She sasses me with a snort and giggle.
"No," I sigh. "I think . . . I mean, I don't know, but I met someone."
"What?" Her screech is loud enough to wake all the damn cats in the neighborhood. "How am I only hearing about this now?"
"Calm down. I just got home."
"Oh, my fucking God, did you fuck him? Is his cock big?" she gasps down the line, causing me to laugh out loud. This is why she's my best friend. As painful as it is to think about how I walked out on him, I'm smiling because I'm happy. When I think about how much pleasure he gave me, my heart fills with emotion.
"He's older," I whisper, lowering my voice, but I don't see the point since I'm alone. There's something taboo about it, which only serves to send a tingle racing through me.
"Tell me everything, and I mean every-fucking-thing," Saskia orders.
"Ugh, fine," I respond, flopping onto the sofa, pulling my legs up and my feet under my ass. "Well, he owns the hotel chain Darden Hotels," I start, recalling everything that happened last night. And when I say I recall everything, I mean each tiny detail. "He was so loving, so rough, but gentle. He made me orgasm more times than I can count, and I mean, like, the real thing," I hiss down the line, blushing at my own words, at the memory of how my body responded to his.
"And then what happened this morning?"
"Well, that's the thing, he's . . ." I sigh, not knowing what to make of James Darden. He's what? Broken? Hurt? Just an asshole? No. He's not an asshole, at least not all the time. But there's something he's hiding from me. I didn't expect us to confess our life stories, but I wanted more. Just a tad bit more.
"Will you see him again? I mean, you said he felt something too?" My best friend is always optimistic. Which in turn has me wondering if I should be like that too. Will I see him again? I don't know.
"Well, I did invite him for dinner, but I doubt I'll be hearing from him. I mean, it wasn't a date. He didn't say yes." The sadness in my voice is loud and clear. My heart thudded against my ribs when I asked him, when I took the leap into the unknown. But of course, he seemed unsure of what to do. Perhaps that’s all we had, one night of bliss, and now I’m shoved out into the cold again.
"Listen to me, chickadee,” my best friend advises. “Men are assholes, there’s no doubt about that, but when they get a taste of some good pussy, there’s no way they’ll pass up the chance for a second taste," she informs me as if she's the parent educating me on romance and boys. Sometimes Saskia is older than me in that respect, but everywhere else, money and education, I’m the one who schools her.
"Do you have to be so vulgar?" I groan, recalling the dirty words James uttered to me. Each and every one of them made me wet and needy. Craving his touch, I dove in head first, not caring about the consequences.
"Come on, Cerys, don't tell me he didn't get vulgar with you." She giggles then, causing me to follow suit.
"Well . . ." My words taper off, knowing she’s right.
"I knew it!" She sounds more excited than I feel. Perhaps I should paint and take my mind off the man from across the road. "Listen to me,” she says, sounding serious for a moment. “He'll come around tonight. Just you wait." I nod even though she can’t see me. Maybe she’s right, but I’m not holding on to hope again, only to be let down. The one man in my life who always lets me down is Dad. I don’t need another one.
"I guess. Listen, I'm spending the day inside. It's way too cold to go shopping."
"That's fine. Daddy dearest has his business associates over for lunch, and I'm playing hostess." Something in her tone hints at an underlying plan.
"Tell me more,” I encourage, knowing my friend does not do things like this for no reason. At least, not for her father's benefit.
"Ha, fine. Daddy's new junior associate at the office is thirty-eight, but he's utterly delectable. He has those dark, brooding features, sorta like Justin Theroux. You know who I mean, Jennifer Aniston's hubs."
"Yeah, the dark and dangerous look. You do realize the dude is probably a psycho?"
"A hot psycho! Later, chickadee, and listen to me. He'll be over there. Just don't get that little heart into the mix. I don't want to have to go on a killing spree. Orange is not my best color. Love you, babe," she chatters, hanging up before I can get a word in. Dropping my phone on the sofa, I head into my studio and quickly change into my painting clothes. A low-cut, white tank top splattered with paint from years of use and small, cut-off shorts also multi-colored from different paints.
A loud banging on the door causes me to leap from the small wooden stool, dropping my palette paint-side onto the white cloth I placed down in case of an accident. Fuck.
I lean down to pick it up when another loud thud on the door has me jolting up. Someone's trying to break in. My heart pounds against my chest, leaping into my throat when I hear a click. They're trying to get into the apartment.
Thinking quick, I grab the paint thinner and race into the living room. I'm about to pull the door open when a voice comes from the other side.
"Open the fucking door, love." His rough, deep growl vibrates through the wood and through me too. Shit!
I cast a quick glance at my clothes, then in the mirror in the hallway. I'm a mess. A fucking colorful mess. But if this is what he wants, he'll have to live with it. I pull open the door, and there, looking disheveled in another one of those expensive-ass suits, is the man who’s been on my mind all day.
James Darden.
"What are you doing here?"
He doesn't respond, instead pushing through the door, knocking the bottle of paint thinner all over my shirt. His gaze is wild, panicked. It roves over me, from my messy black-and-red locks to my bare feet I notice have tiny pinpricks of yellow paint on them.
Immediately, Hank is around his ankles, twirling against the fabric of his suit. But this time, he doesn't even notice my cat. No, this time his eyes are pinned on me.
"James," I utter his name, hoping to break this dark spell that seems to surround him.
"I can't do this, Cerys." His pained words stab me right in the chest, but before I can respond, he continues. "I'm so bad for you, in so many fucking ways, but I can't walk away. I can't not have you in my bed, in my arms. I need you to understand I'm going to fucking break you until there's nothing left of you. I'm going to take, take, and take, until you're nothing but shattered pie
ces. It's who I am. What I do. I revel in your brokenness."
His words fall silent, and there, in his dark eyes, are glistening drops of emotion. Although he doesn't allow them to fall. He holds them close, like he does with me. His one hand on my hip, the other on my face.
His calloused thumb strokes over my mouth, "You're so beautiful with all your color and I'm so fucking dead within my darkness."
"Take my color," I breathe on his lips, watching as he inhales me. My paint-drenched clothes, my dirty hair, and my breath I know is pure coffee. All these things I would normally want to hide from someone, from him especially, he takes it in as if I'm a drug.
"What if I take everything? What if I drag you into my darkness? I'm so fucked up, love. There's so much filth and darkness inside me I don't know what sunshine is. At least, I didn't know until I met you," he tells me earnestly. This is my warning. Run. Go, my mind tells me, but I don't. I stand rooted to the spot.
"Then take it. I want you to take what you need from me." I nod, smiling up at him, giving him what he wants. I lean up on my tip toes and plant a chaste kiss on his lips. I expect him to devour me, to ravage me, but he doesn't. This time, he slowly savors the kiss, his tongue dips into my mouth, licking against mine in a tangle of desire.
"I'm scared of breaking you."
"I'm already broken," I confess.
He doesn't touch me anywhere by my face and the gentle grip he has on my hip. Holding me like a glass ornament that could break at any moment. I feel it in the kiss. I feel every emotion he's tried to tell me. This morning, when he had me bent over the sofa, it wasn't a fuck. No, he was trying to tell me what he's saying now. That even though we've known each other for less than forty-eight hours, this is real.
His warmth sears me when he moves his head away, so he can look at me. Everything he’s trying to say is right there, in those intense eyes.
His offers a small smile, pleading with only his stare.
But then he begs.
"Don't leave me. Give me a chance."
11
James
I’m an idiot.
That thought sang loud and clear in my head over and over and fucking over again all day long. Lorenzo Ricci, during my meeting, droned on about views of the Grand Canal thoroughfare and sunsets that could make you weep. I’d tried to be present and excited about something I’d wanted for so long, but all I could do was force a smile here and there.
I’m simply a shell now.
And the only person who can fill me with life is her.
Cerys Youngblood.
“Don’t leave me. Give me a chance,” I repeat, my voice gruff with unfamiliar emotion.
She tenses, her bottom lip quivering, and I realize I fucked up. I had a chance at something good and perfect and real, but I crumpled it in my fist just like I do everything.
“Cerys,” I plead as she steps away from me. I reach out to her, but she doesn’t touch me back.
“Your mind must be a terrible place,” she murmurs, her paint-speckled face scrunching as though it pains her. “So why must you spend so much time there?”
I blink at her and swallow. I have no answer.
When she turns, I follow her through the living room and into a studio. She walks over to the canvas she’d been painting and points at it. It’s every bit as beautiful as artwork I’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on before. Except this painting is real. It’s climbing past the fibers, dripping onto the floors, and sliding my way. Taunting and mocking. The painting is me.
My eyes are closed in the picture. Brows furled together as if in excruciating pain. Two fists gripping bars in front of me as though I’m imprisoned. My mouth is parted and red is smeared across my face. Her lips. Red lipstick that belongs to her is the only evidence she exists in my dark, awful world.
“You let it control you,” she says, her voice biting angrily at me. “Big, strong, beautiful James Darden lets memories dictate his every action and move. You’re a puppet, James. This”— she gestures at the art— “controls you. Pulls your strings and makes you dance these dark little jigs.”
Her hand falls, and she regards me with a furious glare. I wilt under the anger she wields like a sword.
“I’m done . . .” She trails off, her lip wobbling. “I’m done watching this show.”
Hanging my head in defeat, I let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Which is why,” she states, her voice softening, “you’re going to get your ass in that kitchen and let me make you a grilled cheese sandwich. You’re going to tell me about yourself. You’re going to listen to me tell you stories. Stupid stories. Silly stories. Sad stories. We’re done with this little production you’ve been the master of.” I lift my gaze to meet her searing stare. Strong. Confident. Brave. Her lips quirk in a cute lopsided grin. “I’m running this show now.”
I have no words.
I simply stare at the brilliant angel blazing her light my way. All my shadows and darkness are being chased away by her. I’m not sure I want to know the man—the real man—who hides behind it all.
She disappears into the kitchen, and I have no choice but to follow. By clipping the strings she claims control of me, she tied them to her own fingers instead. I follow her because I have no choice. But if I did have a choice, I’d still follow.
I pull out a chair and sit. Awkward and uncomfortable at first in the cozy kitchen. But as I look around, I relax. The table has some wear and tear, the chairs don’t match, and yet I find myself calmed by it. Soothed by chaos and imperfection.
“Mom taught me how to make these when I was ten. I was so proud that I learned how to cook I made them for every meal. Each night, I forced my parents to eat grilled cheese sandwiches until one day my mom had had it. She told me enough was enough.” She looks over from the pan where she’s cooking and grins. “She taught me how to make grilled ham and cheese then.”
My lips tug at one corner when she snorts with laughter.
“Mom died five years ago and . . .” She shrugs, but I can hear the pain in her voice. “I’ve been lost without her.”
A chair scrapes, and it takes me a moment to realize I’ve risen from my seat. It’s like I crave to comfort her on a cellular, subconscious level.
“Sit,” she orders.
But I can’t. I need to touch her.
Stalking over to her, I rest my chin on her head and watch her as she cooks. The smells are heavenly, but the way she works away without a worry in the world is even better. I want to roll around in this ease that seems to hover around her like a sweet fog. I want it to cloak me too.
“The key to cutting a perfect grilled cheese sandwich,” she explains as if I have been wondering all my life about these things, “is a good spatula. This metal one is the right size and kind of sharp.” She slides the sandwiches onto two plates, and I watch with amusement as she uses the spatula to cut the sandwiches in two rather than using a knife. Hot cheese melts from the center, and my stomach grumbles.
She laughs, and my chest clenches with joy. “That’s what I thought, big boy. Sit down.”
Reluctantly, I pull away from her and take my seat. She flits about the kitchen grabbing chips and pouring milk. Eventually, she takes her seat beside me.
She babbles on about her friend named Saskia and a show called Big Brother and how her cats Beavis and Butt-Head came to get their names. I try to listen but only hear bits and pieces. I’m too busy staring at the crumbs on her lips, desperately wanting to lick them off.
“Pop quiz,” she announces.
I blink at her in confusion. “What?”
“For someone ultra-focused, you sure do retreat inside of that head of yours. Are you paying attention to me?”
“You’re all I see.”
Her lips spread into a wide grin. “Okay, fine. I’ll let you off the hook because that was really sweet.” A blush blooms across her cheeks. “Come. I want to show you something.”
She walks. I follow.
Inside her messy room, I should be twitching and angered. I’m a clean freak by nature. Messes and me don’t mesh well. Yet, this messy, crazy, horribly dressed girl is in my world wreaking all kinds of havoc, and it’s addictive. I don’t want it gone. I want more and more and more of it.
“Get comfy,” she instructs. “We’re going to watch movies and cuddle.”
I let out a snort. “I don’t cuddle.”
Her hands go to her hips, and she juts them out to the side as she arches a brow at me. “You do now, Stalker Darden.” Then she waves over at the bed. “I’ll be back.”
I strip down to my boxers while she showers in the bathroom, and my mind races. I’m in unchartered waters here, and I’m fucking sinking. The thought of climbing out of her lumpy bed and dressing in an effort to retreat back to my comfort zone is strong.
But then she prances back into her room, beautiful and brilliant and bright, and I’m resuscitated. No longer drowning. No longer panicked and confused.
I’m mesmerized.
Her robe is silky and transparent. I can see the shape of her naked body underneath perfectly. She starts a movie and then climbs into bed with me. Her legs tangle with mine as she settles herself at my side.
My cock is rock hard, and my heart is galloping.
I want to pin her down and fuck my crazy into her. Make her see it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. It can’t be wiped away by a movie called The-motherfucking-Notebook.
But her sighs . . .
Goddamn, those sighs.
Happy. Content. Relaxed.
I want to breathe them in and live off them.
“Cuddling,” she explains. “You’re supposed to relax. It’s supposed to calm you.”
With her palm splayed on my bare chest, I can feel my heart beat slowing. She remains still, and I find myself engrossed in the movie. A fucking movie. It isn’t until the credits roll and my little snorer drools on me that I realize—I can do this. I think. I fucking hope. I’ll try my damnedest, that’s for sure.
