Heartless

by R. C. Martin

  Sucking in a deep breath through my nose, I contemplate my next move. I wasn’t finished. Even now, feeling her hot, shallow exhales against my skin, it makes me want to kiss her again. I know that if I look into her eyes, I won’t be able to resist, so I don’t. Instead, I touch my temple to hers, my lips grazing her ear as I whisper in return, “What is it, angel?”

  She shivers against me, her fingers curling around the front collar of my t-shirt as she presses her forehead against my chest between her fists. My hand still buried in her hair, I massage the nape of her neck, wishing I could stand here all night—oblivious to the reality that waits outside of the stadium.

  “Was that…” she starts and then she stops. Tilting her head back, she forces me to look at her as she asks, “Was that so unexplainably amazing because we shouldn’t have done it? Or because we should have?”

  Hearing her give voice to the truth that she was as enraptured by that kiss as I was only feeds the hunger that I have for her; the hunger that feels even more insatiable now than it did before.

  Shaking my head, I give her my honest answer and reply, “I don’t know.”

  “Me neither.”

  Her gaze drops from my eyes down to my lips, and mine follow suit. Bringing my mouth to hers once more, I kiss her softly. Then, murmuring between her lips, I confess, “I want to find out.”

  Nodding, she lifts up onto her tiptoes, kissing me again before she admits, “Me, too.”

  I squeeze her around her waist, reminding myself that it’s getting late. Even thinking about saying goodbye to her and going home to Veronica makes me feel unsettled—unbalanced and confused. I know that I should feel guilty, but so long as I hold Blaine in my arms, all I’m capable of thinking about is her.

  “When can I—god, I can’t not see you again,” she says pleadingly.

  “I know. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Okay.”

  Touching the tip of my nose to the tip of hers, I reluctantly inform her, “We should get going.”

  “Yeah.”

  When she doesn’t let me go right away, my chest swells as a smile plays at my lips. That heady feeling returns, and I don’t stop myself from kissing her one last time—stealing a taste of her before I pull away completely. I take a step backwards, my foot tapping my fallen baseball cap, and I’m quick to pick it up. Dusting it off a little, I slide it on over my head and then hold out my hand. Blaine takes it without hesitation, clinging to me as we make our way off the field.

  “I need to stay behind,” I announce when we’ve returned to our discarded bags. “I’ll walk you out, and Clay will escort you to your car while I make sure the place gets shut down and locked up.”

  She nods her head, following my lead without a word. When we’ve ascended to the main level, I stop her before Clay comes into view. Holding the side of her neck, I allow my eyes to devour her gorgeous face, not sure how long it’ll be before I see her again.

  “I’ll call you,” I promise.

  “Okay,” she murmurs, a small smile lighting up her eyes.

  The next thing I know, she’s up on her tiptoes, pulling me closer. Touching her lips against the scruffy side of my cheek, she whispers, “Best date ever.”

  Then, without another word or glance, she’s gone.

  * * *

  1 If I go out there, I’m going to kiss her, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.

  Blaine

  AFTER CLOSING MY front door and twisting the lock, I press my back against it and shut my eyes. The moment I do, I see him. More than that, I feel him. I remember what it felt like to be held by him. He’s built differently than Mateo. A lot differently. Even merely thinking about his strong bulk surrounding me makes my stomach clench with desire. And the way he touched me? His hands insistently holding me where he wanted me—shit—it makes me short of breath and turns me on even now.

  I let my purse slide from my shoulder, down my arm, and to the floor as my body continues to revel in the memory of Michael. I can almost taste him, and it makes me long for the chance to taste more of him. Not just his mouth, but all of him. Squeezing my legs together, I can feel the dampness of my panties, and an undeniable urge to relieve myself of the sexual tension that still consumes me has me hiking up my skirt.

  My eyes still closed, not wishing to lose sight of Michael, I push my underwear down my legs. Once I’ve stepped out of them, freeing my ankles, I trace my fingers up the inside of my thigh before sliding them through my slick center. I’m still sopping wet, and I shiver, thinking of the man who made me this way.

  Swirling my fingers around my clit, I pretend that he’s in the room with me—that he wants me to touch myself; that he wants to watch me come. I whimper as I fill myself with two fingers, coating my hand in my arousal. As I begin to stoke the passion that was awakened in me tonight, I reach up and palm one of my breasts over my t-shirt and bra. Frustrated that I’m still wearing so many clothes, I stop what I’m doing to yank the shirt off of me. I drop it to the floor, discarding my bra as well, never once opening my eyes.

  Pressing my back against the door, I imagine how turned on Michael would be if he saw me like this—if he could know how hot he makes me. Continuing to stroke myself with one hand, I pinch and pull at one of my peaked nipples with the other. I’m still so worked up over that kiss, it’s not long before I can feel my orgasm start to rise to the surface. I pump my hand faster, the heel of my palm grazing my clit, and I moan loudly.

  I come remembering the way he kissed and licked my neck, my body shaking with the most powerful release I’ve ever managed to find on my own.

  “Oh, god—Michael,” I whisper, the walls of my sex tightening around my fingers.

  It isn’t until my body starts to relax that I become fully cognizant of what I’ve done. My eyes fly open, and I stare into the darkness of my apartment, looking up at the moonlight pouring in from the windows and casting a spotlight on my empty bed—the empty bed I share with a man whose name is not Michael. The desire that swam in my belly a moment ago gives way to something else—something close to guilt, but more painful.

  Shame.

  I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes welling up with tears as the truth settles in my heart. Like my body’s climax has shattered the illusion that I’ve been lost in all evening, reality washes over me like a tidal wave.

  I’m a cheater.

  As I quickly gather my clothes from the floor and hurry toward the bathroom, all I can think about is cleansing myself of the evidence of what I just did. I start the shower before rushing into my closet to deposit my clothes into my hamper. When I’ve returned to the bathroom, I don’t even bother checking to make sure the water is hot before I step under the spray. My heart aches as I think about Mateo. The entire time I scrub my body, I think of how oblivious to this whole night he is. My lie weighs heavily on my shoulders, and I feel awful.

  I hate knowing that the consequences of my actions will cause Mateo pain. I’m fully aware that if the situation was reversed, I’d feel betrayed and heartbroken. To go behind his back, to hide from him—I cannot deny that it’s wrong. I’m aware that in this moment, I don’t deserve to feel sorry for myself, but I cry anyway. The pain that’s tangled up inside of me, it’s unlike any that I’ve ever felt before. It’s messy. Complicated. Confusing.

  I thought I loved Mateo. I’m sure that I did. Yet, I believe with my whole heart that you don’t cheat on someone that you love. Except, I don’t know when I stopped loving him. Maybe I haven’t. Maybe life isn’t as black and white as I once believed. The ache that I feel, the regret that mingles with my guilt, it speaks of a tenderness I still have for him. My boyfriend. He’s my boyfriend.

  The worst part is, while I’m ashamed of myself for what I’ve done, I’d be lying if I said that I regretted a single second of my night with Michael. I wouldn’t take it back. Not any of it.

  Is it possible to regret the pain you’re sure to inflict but not regret the actions that caused that pain
? How can I regret that kiss? How can I regret the most incredible moment I’ve ever shared with another human being in my entire life?

  Burying my face in my hands, the spray of the water beating on my back, I close my eyes and see Michael. I want Michael. As awful as I may feel, as shameful as my actions might be, and as fucked up as this entire mess is, I’m certain of one thing—I can’t not see him again.

  DAD GRUMBLES AT the television, but I don’t hear what he’s saying. As I sit with my legs stretched out along the sofa, ignoring the plate of food in my lap that I’ve barely touched, I stare at the screen.

  I’m lost.

  Watching the camera pan out across the outfield, I wonder if I’ll be able to look at a baseball game the same ever again. Every time I try to focus on what’s happening during the inning, I remember sitting next to Michael in the empty stands of a different stadium. There were no awkward silences as we ate—only stories, and laughter, and that feeling that comes when you know there’s no place else you’d rather be. We both felt it. I’m sure of it. If I harbored any doubt, that kiss destroyed it.

  “Dammit, Lulu,” dad grunts.

  I only hear him because the TV is now muted—something he never does during a game. I turn my head and find him scowling at me from his recliner. His plate now resting on his side table is empty, as is his water. I think about getting up to go get him some more, but he speaks before I can move.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “What? What do you mean?” I ask dumbly, reaching up to sweep a nonexistent stray hair behind my ear.

  “You’ve been mopin’ around since you walked in the door. You’re playin’ with your food, even though I know your mother taught you better than that, and now you’re ignorin’ me when I call your name.”

  For a second, I feel like I’m ten years old again.

  “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Well, shit, Lulu—I know you didn’t hear me. I’m tryin’ to figure out why the hell not.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I mentally kick myself for being so transparent. Though, after the restless night I had, I’m surprised he didn’t ask what was wrong with me as soon as I arrived.

  My phone pings from where it sits on the cushion beside my leg, and I jump as it jars me from my thoughts. I reach for it without delay. Except, before I can turn it over to see who it is that’s texted me, my guilt and shame tangle my stomach in knots. Setting the phone down with a frown, I fight the urge I have to see who it is. Avoidance is my best option right now. To look would only open the door to disappointment. Admitting that I don’t know whose name I’d wish to see makes me feel like a terrible person, so I pretend like I’m not interested in conversation at the moment.

  “Baby girl, if you don’t start talkin’…”

  I suck in a breath, shifting my focus back onto my father. I had forgotten that we were in the middle of a conversation. Now, his raised eyebrow and impatient stare let me know that I just had an audience for my little show, too. Our gazes locked in a silent standoff, I make up my mind to confide in my old man. At least a little. I’m struggling right now, and I could use some of his fatherly wisdom. Without mom around, he’s the best I’ve got. While no one can take mom’s place, he’s pretty damn good and certainly nothing to scoff at.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I move my plate onto the coffee table and shift so that my legs are curled up beneath me. As I lean my elbow against the armrest, I fidget with my fingers, avoiding dad’s gaze as I try and think of what to say.

  “Now, Blaine, you’re tryin’ my patience.”

  I shrink back a little at his use of my first name. He so rarely uses it. When he does, I know he’s about to be stern with me. Not sure how to ease my way into the topic, I blurt it out instead.

  “Did you ever think about cheating on mom?”

  He flinches, his eyes growing wide in disbelief before his brow scrunches in offense. “Tell me you didn’t just ask me what I think you did,” he grunts.

  His response makes my chest ache, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. The last thing I need right now is for my dad to judge me. I’ve pretty much got that covered on my own. Not knowing where to go from here, I don’t say anything at all.

  “Blaine Luella—”

  “God, dad, I didn’t mean anything by it,” I murmur, staring down at my hands. “I know you would never hurt mom. I know that. Just—forget I asked.”

  Acknowledging that my father is a good man, who only ever showed respect to the woman he loved, causes me to feel like a failure and a disappointment all wrapped into one. Remembering what I did last night, unable to deny that I’m craving Michael’s kiss even now, it makes me want to cry.

  “Baby girl, look at me.”

  When I don’t, I hear it as he leans forward in his chair before he growls, “Did Mateo—”

  I don’t allow him to finish, knowing it’s not fair that I let him drag Mateo’s name anywhere near the mud when I’m the one at fault. “I met…someone,” I whisper. My nose tingles as my eyes grow blurry with tears, but I force my next words out anyway. “I don’t know what to do, dad.”

  “Lulu, baby,” he says on a sigh. “I think you do.”

  I shake my head in disagreement, not ready to admit that he’s right.

  “Baby girl, you do.” He leans back in his chair, and I hear it as he scratches at his scruffy cheek. After another pause, he goes on to say, “You asked me if I’d ever thought about cheating on your mom. You didn’t have to do that, Lulu. You know good and damn well I loved your mother with all my heart. Wasn’t another woman out there as beautiful as her. Inside and out. I didn’t need to go lookin’ for greener pastures ‘cause I’d already found mine.

  “Now, I won’t condone cheatin’. It’s not fair to anyone. There’s no sense in it, baby girl. If Mateo gives you reason to stray, it’s okay to let him go.”

  I gasp, surprised by the sob that suddenly fills my throat. Tears now streaming down my face, I continue to keep my gaze down as I murmur, “I love him, dad. Or, at least, I thought I did—or, I don’t know. I’m so confused”

  “Lulu, would you look at me, dammit?”

  Swallowing hard, I dry my cheeks and stifle my tears before obediently meeting my father’s eyes. He studies me for a long time before he speaks again.

  “I don’t want to know the details. It’s not my business. But we made a deal, you and me.”

  “I know,” I assure him.

  “I get it. I understand that it’s hard to let go of something just because you’ve had it for a long time. But if you’re settling—I won’t stand for that.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him,” I squeak, my tears returning.

  “Staying with him because you don’t want to hurt him is not the same as loving him. You do him a disservice by believing that shit. Hell, you do yourself a disservice by believing it. Now, I don’t know who this other guy is, but I know you. I trust you. You’re my baby girl, I love you, and I raised you right. If someone’s caught your attention, it’s because Mateo wasn’t holding onto it. That goes against our deal.”

  Rubbing my knuckles underneath my eyes, I blow out a frustrated breath as I tell him, “I don’t deserve excuses.”

  “Maybe you don’t. Now, I won’t claim to be an expert on the matter, but nobody thinks about cheatin’ for no reason. Means there’s a lack. You either choose to address it with the man you’re with, or you let him go. You’re young, Lulu. You’ve got a lot of life left to live. You’re not always going to get it right—but you sure as shit are not going to do it with a man by your side who has you runnin’ over here when you fight, and wishin’ you were with someone else.”

  I laugh, not because I’m amused, but because it’s ridiculous how simple he makes it seem when I feel like this is anything but simple.

  “Easy as that, right?” I mutter flippantly.

  “No. I didn’t say that,” he says softly, his pale blue eyes speaking of his empathy. “Right and e
asy are not the same thing. Rarely are.”

  I nod as I sniffle, the truth of his statement making me feel better and worse at the same time.

  In need of a reprieve from our conversation, I ask, “Do you think we could just…watch some baseball?”

  He picks up the remote, but doesn’t unmute the television right away. Instead, he lifts his eyebrows at me and grunts, “You heard what I said?”

  “Yes, dad. I heard you.”

  “All right, then.”

  He lifts and points the remote, then the room fills with the sound of the game. I notice that the opposing team scored during our chat at the same time as dad. He grumbles something unintelligible, and a small smile teases my lips. There’s something about the familiar that offers me comfort in this moment, on a day where comfort feels so far out of reach.

  Remembering that I have an unread text message on my phone, I hesitantly reach for the device and flip it over to see who it’s from. My heart sinks when I see My Artist lit up across the screen. Just like that, I know where I stand. The disappointment that makes me feel unsettled has nothing to do with the conversation that awaits me when I get home. The truth is—

  I’d hoped it was Michael.

  Michael

  MY FATHER IS a great pastor. He’s smart. He’s got a business mind but a servant’s heart. Half the reason his church is successful is because he understands that in a changing world, the church must adapt. While the message is always the same—the gospel of Jesus Christ being the foundation of my father’s calling—he knows how to draw people in. He knows how to build a team of leaders who help him strategize and connect people, both within the walls of this establishment, as well as outside of it, in the community. I respect him for all that he’s accomplished through his ministry, and I admire him for his faith.

  I don’t come to Mercy Hill because my family’s name is attached to it. I don’t come because my dad is the one standing behind the pulpit week after week. I come because it’s a choice that I made a long time ago—this church with this congregation is where I feel at home. I was raised here. I was married here. It’s where Veronica and I decided to plant our feet. This morning, I feel no different about whether or not I belong here. Yet, I feel uncomfortable. I’m distracted. I swear, I didn’t hear a word of my father’s sermon, my thoughts consumed with memories of Blaine.