by Wendy Owens
“You’re such a pig.”
“Well, what do you expect me to say?” I ask with a shrug.
She throws her arms up into the air, and I see that fiery redhead temper flare before my eyes. “You never take me seriously.”
A wave a hand in front of my face as if it were magically imbued with the power to make me serious.
“Real funny,” she puffs a breath of air at her bangs, trying to blow them out of her face. “I need to figure out what we’re even doing.”
“I can think of a few things I’d like to do.” The relentless teasing obviously weighs on her nerves.
“Am I wasting my time?”
I cock my head to the side, eyeing her from her dark roots all the way down to her pointed-toe, high-heeled, fringe-trimmed boots. “I guess it’s up to you what we’re doing here. I can tell you why I’m here. I love you.”
“That’s easy to say,” she’s in an argumentative mood. This usually leads to the best makeup sex, I think to myself.
“Look, baby,” I start, taking her hand in mine and pulling her close to me. “You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my life, and I’d have every fight we’ve ever had a thousand times again if it meant I could have you in my life every day for the rest of my life.”
She buries her head into my chest. I feel her body collapse on mine, all of her energy bleeding into me. “Damn.”
“Yeah, I know, that was pretty good, wasn’t it?” I laugh. Her closed fist playfully strikes my shoulder, again. She presses her cheeks against my forearms, wiping her tears away, and I can’t imagine a more perfect place for her tears to rest.
“Don’t let me mess this up,” she whispers, looking up at me.
I lower my head until my lips are on hers. Before she can break away, I wrap my arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground. Trembling, she wraps her legs around me, and all I want to do is show her exactly how much I do love her. I walk her back to the couch, laying her down gently.
Her back arches when I lift and I can tell she doesn’t want this to end any more than I do. When she does release me, her hand slips up under my t-shirt, exploring the lines of my abs. With a single swift movement, I lift the shirt over my head and assist her doing the same with her own shirt. A moment later I return all of my attention to my beautiful Kenzie.
I hover over her, the muscles in my shoulders stretched tautly as her fingertips trace endless patterns across my chest, her eyes never shifting from my face. I can’t move, frozen in place, never wanting her touch to leave my flesh. I even forget to breathe.
Her hands slip down to my belt buckle, and I watch as her face contorts into an expression of frustration as she struggles with the mechanism.
“Damn it,” she groans.
I hop to my feet, gladly relieving myself of the belt and jeans. Only my boxer briefs are left hugging my frame. Kenzie has taken the opportunity to unbutton her shirt, exposing the lace bra beneath. Her white skirt is gathered in a clump at her tummy, revealing her hidden matching white satin panties. My eyes travel down to her still boot-clad feet, and I can barely contain myself.
“God, you’re sexy,” I moan.
She smiles as she arches her back, reaching around and unclasping her bra. With a simple move, she lifts, freeing her full and graceful breasts before allowing the lace garment to drop on the floor next to us.
Instinctually my hand reaches out, running across her body, and my breath hitches as I begin to drink in the silky softness. She’s perfection. I toy momentarily with the waistband go her underwear, drawing out the anticipation I can see in her eyes. I hook the sides and pull down on them, my eyes never leaving hers. I know how much she loves to see the desire she creates in me, and I intend to let her see just how intense that desire is as I take her.
My mind is telling me to take my time, to memorize every elegant curve of her voluptuous body, but by the way she is glaring at me she has something else in mind. The moment I toss her panties over my shoulder, she tightens her legs around my hips, using them as if they were an extra set of hands, wildly shimmying my boxers down. Despite her efforts of Olympic proportions, the fabric catches on my firm excitement.
“Need help?” I smile.
“I need you,” she breathes heavily. How can I move slowly with a request like that?
I remove the garment between us and lean in closer. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to be inside of her. Every single inch of me. I’m aching deep in my bones. At this moment, wrapped inside her grasp, I truly can’t, nor would I ever want to imagine a life without her in it. Without being this close to her. I never want such an existence.
“Please Ben,” she begs with that familiar ache in her voice.
“Look at me,” I command, and she does. “You asked what we’re doing before. Well, I can tell you I’m here, in this relationship with you, because I choose to be. I choose to love you.”
I ease slowly into her as we both let out a guttural moan. Her head tilts back, and I get a glimpse of the whites of her eyes for a moment as she lets herself go to the pure joy of what she is experiencing. With each movement of our bodies, I kiss her neck, then her chin, then that spot just below her ears that I know will make her convulse, and it does.
A rhythm forms as we rock back and forth. She says my name and nothing has ever sounded so sweet. I press my lips against hers again and feel the saltiness of her tears. I pause, frozen in fear that I’ve hurt my beautiful Kenzie.
“Are you okay?”
She nods, tightening her lips, me still inside of her.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, still not wanting to tell me what’s wrong.
I run the side of my finger against her cheek, erasing the wet trail. “Please,” I try to coax an answer from her.
She swallows hard.
“I’m going to mess this up. I always do,” she confesses, terrified.
I smile down at her. “Remember, I promised I wouldn’t let you,” I whisper before thrusting deeper, releasing another moan from her.
* * *
I wake and realize my back is soaked, sticking to the sheets. I sit up, stripping the covers from my body. The haunting dream of Kenzie still fresh in my thoughts.
“Damn it,” I groan, in that voice full of ache that she and I once both shared. Running a hand through my wet hair, I swipe my phone from the charger on my nightstand. 1:20 am. She hasn’t answered any of my calls. She certainly wouldn’t answer one at this hour.
Despite every nerve in my body pulling back and telling me not to call her, I’ve already dialed and I’m holding the phone to my ear. After the second, then the third ring, I hold my breath and expect to hear her familiar voicemail message pick up.
“Hello,” her sweet voice sleepily answers the phone. It’s just a single word, but somehow the deep rasp of her sleep-deprived tone makes me shudder.
“Kenzie?” I ask in disbelief.
“Is everything okay?” she inquires, and it sounds like she’s moving around to sit up in bed.
“Huh?” I grunt in confusion.
“It’s after one in the morning, Ben, has something happened? Is it your dad?” Her question gives me hope. She still cares. That’s something, I tell myself.
“God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. He’s fine.”
“Are you drunk?” Her question makes me smile. She never has been one to hold punches. My mom always tells her she’s one of the few women out there that can handle one of her boys.
“No,” I answer softly while my heart begins to race. This is the furthest I’ve gotten with her since the night she walked out that door. I want to shout. I want to demand that she tells me what in the hell is going on with her, but I don’t. I just sit here like an idiot saying nothing.
“Then why are you calling me?” she asks impatiently. I can imagine her sitting there, in her room, her head cocked, chewing her lip in frustration.
“I had a dream,” I rev
eal honestly. I wait, but she doesn’t say anything in response. She doesn’t hang up either. “It was our last night at college. It was that night we made a promise to each other.”
“I know what night you’re talking about,” she interjects evenly.
“Then you know what I promised you,” I say.
“We’ve promised each other a lot of things, it doesn’t mean things aren’t the way they are.” Her answer makes me want to put my fist through a wall. I ball my free hand, determined to keep it together.
“And what way are they? I mean honestly, Kenzie, I can’t even figure out what the hell happened to us? It guts me to think about us being like this. Just tell me.”
“Maybe that’s the problem, you don’t even know what’s wrong,” she snaps.
“Maybe? It sounds like you don’t know what’s wrong either,” I growl.
“I have to go,” she huffs.
I have to keep her talking. “I miss the way you smell.”
“What?”
“Like fresh laundry,” I add.
“So tell your mom to switch fabric softeners,” she suggests coolly.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, though I’m unsure what I am even apologizing for. I just want this stupid fight to be over.
“I’m leaving,” she declares abruptly.
“What?” I gasp in confusion. “What do you mean you’re leaving?”
“I got a job; it’s out of the country.”
“Wait, what? When will you be back? Where are you going? A job? What kind of job?” The questions fly out of my mouth at lightning speed.
“Look, I can’t do this tonight. I need to get some sleep. I just thought you should know.” My jaw drops and I struggle to breathe again.
“You just thought I should—” I hear the click before I can get the statement out. “Kenzie? Hello?” But she’s gone. Panic flashes from the top of my head, rushing down my limbs and tightening its grasp on my chest as I realize she’s gone.
She’s really gone.
Chapter Fifteen
Kenzie
* * *
“How do you spell his last name?” I hear my mother’s voice over my shoulder. Spinning around, I see her sitting sideways on the bench under my bedroom window, slumped over her laptop.
Slanting my head to one side I moan, “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re going to go all stalker-ville on this guy.”
“My only child tells me she’s about to hop on a plane with some complete stranger and fly halfway around the world, you’re lucky all I’m doing is Googling the guy,” she warns me.
I laugh. My mom has always been overprotective of me. In fact, she’s so terrified of someone ruining my life she often tries to live my life for me.
“I wouldn’t call him a complete stranger,” I torture her. “We did have a meal together.”
“Name!” she barks.
“You’re too much,” I laugh.
“Are you going to tell me his last name or do I need to search through your phone for his number and call him myself,” she says glaring at me.
“You would too, wouldn’t you?” I turn, flipping through my shirts for what feels like the hundredth time. “What is someone even supposed to wear in Africa?”
“I can tell you right now you can leave your club minis here.”
“Thanks, Mom. I think I already knew I wouldn’t need club wear while performing my job as a photography assistant. Now just because I leave them here, don’t you go borrowing them.”
“Please, that would be a sight, wouldn’t it?” She clears her throat. “I’m waiting on that name Kenzie Lee.”
“Calloway,” I relent at last.
“C-A-L-L-O-W-A-Y,” Mom recites as she pecks at the keyboard with a single finger. “So what’s a PA a photographer do anyway?”
Slipping a couple of Henley shirts off their hangers, I casually respond, “the best I can tell it means you become their personal slave.”
I see Mom’s eyes widen. Her smile fades, twisting into a worried frown.
“I’m kidding,” I inform her quickly, for fear she may literally melt into a blob before my eyes.
“I knew that,” she quips, her eyes quickly darting back to her search results. I pull out every comfortable pair of jeans I own, which apparently is only two and a pair of cargo pants I never knew I owned. Checking the size, I toss them into the pack pile.
“Who knew it could be so hard to keep it to one bag?” I note.
“No way!” Mom exclaims, not looking up from her screen.
“Fine, you try it,” I suggest to her.
“Not that,” she shakes her head. “Aiden Calloway, right?”
“Yes, why?” I inquire, my curiosity now piqued.
“As in the son of William Calloway?”
“Why is that name so familiar?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because he owns Wayward Industries, you know, the same company that owns a piece of just about everything in Chicago.”
I clear my throat. “That can’t be the same Calloway. His studio is—well, it’s kind of in a scary part of town.”
“And this is supposed to make me want to give you my blessing to work for this guy?”
“I don’t remember asking for it,” I glare at her. The disapproving oxygen between us thickens.
I walk to her side, glancing at the screen. I hesitate, staring at the image on the glowing square, unsure if my eyes are playing tricks on me.
“Well?” She asks, waiting for my response. I don’t give her one. “It is him, isn’t it?” Her smile returns, triumphant.
My eyes drop to hers. She sees the truth before a word can escape my lips. I shrug, returning to my packing, unsure why this revelation would change anything. “I don’t know, maybe he and his dad don’t have a good relationship. What does it matter who his dad is anyway?”
“Well, it helps put a mother’s mind at ease that he’s not a serial killer.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that article that said men from wealthy families can’t be serial killers. Thank goodness,” I taunt her.
“I’m just saying he comes from good ...” her voice trails off. Unzipping the old green duffle bag, my favorite thing Dad gave me when I left for college, I shove in the carefully selected items of clothing. A lingering silence from behind the computer screen alerts me.
“If you say he’s from good stock I may never be able to take you seriously again.”
“Kenz,” She looks worried again. “Maybe you shouldn’t go.”
“What now?” I huff. “Let me guess, you found out in the great infiniteness of the wise inter-webs that Aiden Calloway isn’t a fan of baked goods. How ever could the daughter of a bakery owner work for such a monster?”
I laugh at my own joke, but apparently my mother doesn’t see the same humor in poking fun at the family business.
She cringes. “You know, if you ever wanted to come back to the bakery to work, we’d love to have you.” Her sincerity makes me feel guilty.
Releasing a heavy sigh, I collapse onto the pillow next to her. I reach over and turn the laptop toward me. “All right, I’ll bite, let me see what has you acting so weird.”
She scrolls up to the top of the page. The article is three years old. I read out loud.
“A Southern Illinois couple is in the news again today as the husband is released after serving a twenty-year sentence in relation to the kidnapping of prominent businessman, William Calloway’s son in 1990.
The couple was arrested after a two-year search for the child, thanks to the efforts of a team of private investigators hired by William Calloway. The child was found unharmed. Dale Anderson took full responsibility for the abduction, claiming he found the boy near the hotel room his mother had apparently committed suicide in only hours before. According to court testimony records, he told his wife, Janet Anderson, he had found the boy abandoned, and suggested they raise the child as their own.
Janet Anderson was convicted on a lesser charg
e and released after serving three years.
Aiden Calloway, now twenty-four, was unable to be reached for comment. William Calloway released a statement that he’s confident there’s more to the story of his son’s abduction and the death of his wife. He also added that he does not feel the price that has been paid for his family’s suffering has been sufficient and plans to seek justice against the Southern Illinois couple in civil court.” I finish reading the article aloud, the words on the bright screen entrancing me.
“I remember this.” Mom says with a heavy sigh, staring at the image of Aiden as a toddler on the screen. “I was pregnant with you when he was taken. God, I was so terrified someone would take you after I gave birth. I remember wanting to keep you inside of me, where I knew I could always keep you safe.”
My mother’s smothering felt well intended for the first time that I can remember. “That’s terrible. I can’t believe that happened to him.”
“He didn’t say anything?” she asks.
“Yeah, he was like, hey, thanks for filling in on such short notice, and oh yeah, by the way, did you know when I was two years old my mom offed herself, and I was kidnapped?”
“There’s no need to be snarky,” Mom warns.
“No, he didn’t mention it,” I reaffirm.
“Well, that settles it, you’re not going,” she adds, closing the lid to the device.
“What? Why would something that happened more than twenty years ago affect my decision to take this job?” I ask, standing and crossing the room, over to the drawer where my bras and underwear are hidden.
“Because he obviously is going to have some pretty major issues,” she answers as if it should be obvious to me as well. “He’s damaged, Kenzie.”
“Honestly, I don’t think you have ever sounded more insane than you do right now.”
She stares at me with intense scrutiny. “You’re my only—”
“Child, I know. I get it. You love me. You want me to be safe.” Tossing my selection of undergarments next to my bag, I swipe my laptop from my mother’s hands and toss it onto the bed. Taking her hands into mine, I slowly coax her to stand. “Mom, I love you, I do. But I need you to trust that you have raised a smart and capable woman. I’ll be fine.”
