Fearsome

by S. A. Wolfe

  “Armani or Zegna. I’m guessing Armani.”

  He shrugs. “Who cares? It’s a suit.”

  “You sure throw some hoedown.” I’m trying mightily to make him laugh, but he’s resisting my super powers.

  “This only happens once a year. The other three hundred and sixty-four days, this place is like a monastery.”

  I was going to make a crack about us having sex in the monastery, but he doesn’t seem to be in a joking mood.

  “Well, thank you for inviting me. Your house is a fabulous place for a party and you’ve made a lot of people happy.”

  Carson takes in my dress with the deep neckline that slightly exposes the sides of my breasts. I’ve never worn anything so revealing and watching Carson’s eyes roam slowly from my legs up to my face reminds me of the day I wore the red bathing suit and how naked I felt in front of him. That may have been the beginning of when I started lying to myself. I agreed to a date with Dylan, but I was already thinking about Carson and, when I wore the sexy red swimsuit, it was Carson’s attention I really wanted. He notices the necklace he gave me, the delicate gold key hanging between my breasts.

  “Dylan called it. He said you’d be the prettiest woman here.”

  “There are hoards of pretty women here.” I watch a group of giggling young women surround Dylan.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” he says with a penetrating gaze that never leaves my face.

  I suspect every woman in Hera jumps at the chance to attend a Blackard event, anything to be around Dylan and Carson. I stare at Carson’s lips and so desperately want to kiss him. The thought of him sends waves of heated desire through me. I must surely be an awful person if I always want to jump into bed with him when I can’t admit that I could possibly have strong feelings for him as well as possibly a future.

  Guilt and shame, whether they are deserved or self-inflicted, are strong opponents to someone like me. I don’t want to be the tart that jerks Carson around. I know many already believe I did the same thing to Dylan. I put my head down and pretend something is in my eye.

  “I know you have another powder room hidden behind one of these passageways somewhere. Can you point me in the direction?” I ask, putting my hand up to my blinking eye.

  Wordlessly, Carson takes my arm and drags me down the hall, further from the fountain and far away from the party guests. We round a corner by a window with more dramatic views and Carson pulls open one of those metal doors with rivets, similar to what I saw in his workshop. He walks right in with me, closes the door behind him and I hear the lock click. He flips a switch that lights the room in an amber glow.

  It’s more than a simple powder room, it’s huge. It has a large, stone vanity with a rustic mirror covering the wall above it, a cozy chair and a toilet area that is separated by a bamboo wall and private door.

  “Everyone uses the bathroom down the other hall. They forget that this one exists, so the room is all yours,” he says, but doesn’t turn to leave.

  I forget that I’m supposed to have something in my eye and, instead of going to the mirror and acting out my fake eye problem, my hands are at my side. I’m staring hopelessly at Carson. In the amber lighting, his dark features are striking to the point that he takes my breath away.

  There’s a single moment where we must be experiencing the same thought, a glint of desire or need passes between us. Carson rushes forward with one hand cupping my face, the other under my ass and he backs me onto the vanity between the two sinks, kissing me. I wind my arms around his neck and arch into him as I return the kisses, touching him everywhere I can. His hands skitter across my bare back and one reaches into the neckline and palms my breast. Then he caresses my bare thigh and pushes up underneath the dress to cup my bottom flesh.

  He pushes himself between my legs, so I feel his hardness between us. My tongue duels with his while he squeezes my nipples until they are aching with heat and sending spasms down between my legs. I reach down and rub Carson’s bulge, which is straining against his pants. His hand leaves my breast and holds the back of my head while his other hand rubs against my bare leg and bottom. In that instant he pulls away from my mouth and holds my head firmly.

  “Do you want me to screw you here because you’re in the mood to get fucked by any guy?” He pauses. “Or do you want me?”

  I’m yearning for him and the tug in my heart is louder than my libido. I’m afraid to answer. My silence suggests the worst; that I’m only seeking out a physical relationship. I am a coward.

  He lets me go and steps back from the vanity to adjust himself. “I don’t do casual sex with you,” he says. “You can be platonic friends with Dylan, but I’m not your friend. I’m something more and we both know that.” He walks out, slamming the door closed.

  I sit for a moment and take deep breaths so I won’t cry. Then I tidy myself up and put a handful of cold water up to my mouth to wash away the heat from his lips. I avoid looking in the mirror, sure that I’ll see the person I dislike the most.

  Thirty-Four

  I can’t go home yet since my friends are having too much fun dancing and I’m counting on Jeremy to be our designated driver. I’ll have to wait out the evening, bury myself in the throngs of people I don’t know and try to avoid Carson.

  Not long after I’ve re-entered the party area, Archie and Eleanor flag me down and invite me to sit between them on one of the big sofas in the living room. Lois is propped on the armrest next to Archie. A waitress brings me a glass of champagne and tidbits of food that I can’t identify, but it’s all so scrumptious. I eat as much as I can while trying to remember the last time I really filled myself with food. My stomach has been clenched and nervous for the last few months, a painful reminder of my festering anxiety.

  “Goodness, you’re one hungry girl,” Eleanor comments.

  I shrug with my mouth full.

  “You should be dancing.” Lois sighs.

  “We should all be dancing, but I’m very comfortable sitting here watching everyone else,” Archie says. He is in a tuxedo and looks like he could be the unflappable butler in a BBC drama.

  “That’s fine for you, Arch, but Jess and Carson have had a spat and she really should be dancing with him,” Lois says.

  “What’s the drama du jour?” Eleanor asks, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Now, now. Leave her be. She’s not used to this small town life. It’s like one big family; sometimes happy, sometimes not.” Archie pats my leg.

  “No drama. We’re not fighting,” I deny. “We’re simply not speaking.”

  Lois scoffs. “Fudge. I wish Ginnie were here to deal with this. She was so looking forward to knowing you as an adult and now you’re stuck with us instead.”

  “Great, you can grow old with us,” Eleanor adds.

  I laugh. “I may do that.”

  “She’s serious, Jess. At the rate you’re going, you will sadly find yourself on the sidelines,” Lois says. “Look at your friends and their new beaus. Isn’t that a sight to see?”

  Fortunately, two gentlemen I recognize from the diner ask Eleanor and Lois to dance and they sashay off to the dance floor in their flowing dresses.

  Imogene and Jeremy are talking and smiling on the dance floor at the same time that Lauren is making Leo laugh with her moves. It is a sweet sight, but my attention is drawn to another part of the huge living room where Dylan and Carson are surrounded by a group of friends. They all look about the same age and some story with a famous punch line is being retold. I can’t hear the words; however, the nods, shouts of laughter and high-fives tell me that these must be their childhood friends, the kids who saw what Carson and Dylan went through and how they survived.

  The brothers are laughing together when Carson puts his arm around Dylan’s shoulders and brings him in for a headlock and plants a kiss on the top of his head. I’ve never seen them so affectionate and loving with one another. I slip my cell phone out of my evening bag and watch them through the screen. In the second that Carson has
his head against Dylan’s forehead, smiling with his arms wrapped around his younger brother, I take the photo. The image is exquisite. I bring it towards me for a closer look.

  “What is it?” Archie asks.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “It’s pure love.”

  Archie leans in to study the photo. “That it is.”

  I shove the phone back in my purse and take a deep, calming breath so I don’t get emotional in front of Archie.

  “We don’t always get do-overs. Think very carefully before making a decision about love,” he says to me. “Sometimes when it’s offered, it may have an expiration date.”

  I snort. “If love has an expiration date, then love really does not last forever as the saying goes.”

  “No, it means that love isn’t always available when you want it. When it comes, you grab on to it because you never know when that opportunity may disappear forever.”

  “I’m not really following you,” I say, adjusting the hem of my dress while also trying not to allow my gaze to follow Carson’s every move around the room.

  “Do you want to end up in a big, old, empty farmhouse like me? All alone?” Now Archie has my full attention. “I fell in love with the only love of my life fifty years ago. I made her wait, though. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to make more money, buy more land and make more investments so I could offer her more.”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to do. Wait, build up our lives and our bank accounts before we get seriously involved with someone.”

  “I thought so, too. Why start poor? My love, Emily, agreed as well. She waited, but I kept putting off proposing because I wanted her to have more than the poverty of her childhood. After three years, though, she found someone else. She said she loved me, but she could not wait a lifetime for me and sacrifice her chance to have children and a family of her own. She lived in another county and, while we were broken up, I thought it was temporary; I did not know that another gentleman was also in love with her. He had no intention of making her wait.

  “When I told her I had purchased this lovely home for her and had several profitable investments in place along with my growing law practice, she said ‘Archie, it’s too late. You made my love for you the least important part of your life. I’m marrying George Weston because he carries my heart around like it’s his most precious possession.’ I hated George Weston for that, and I thought he must be a real sap. Well, George had the last laugh. He and Emily are still happily married and they have six children as well as fifteen grandchildren. I never fell in love with anyone like that again. I never married and my house is empty.”

  There’s something so suspiciously sappy about his story that I find it hard to believe. “Archie, are you pulling my leg?”

  Archie smiles, yet there is a distant look of pain behind his wrinkled eyes. “No, my dear. People like me who live with this kind of regret rarely talk about it. It was a calamity of my own making. My point is that, in some cases, time is never on your side.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you, but I’m not ready to get married.”

  “Oh, I know that. It’s a different world, but people,” he points to his chest, “in here, haven’t changed. There’s more to love than getting married. It’s about treating someone’s gift of love with the utmost care and respect.”

  I look down at my hands which are fidgeting in my lap. “I can create software for billion dollar companies… I can solve complex mathematical equations and I can paint everything I’m feeling even if I cannot express it verbally. Yet, being in love confounds me.”

  “I gather. Are you in love?”

  “I think so.”

  “It’s the most glorious reason to live, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I believe you’re right.”

  “And the problem is?”

  “I’m afraid of mirroring my parents’ relationship. It works for them, but it’s not what I want; I fear it might be in my DNA.”

  Archie smiles. “No. You’re too much like Ginnie. She had a great love. He died two years ago, but they had a great twelve-year run.”

  “Better late than never, right?” I force a smile.

  “Yes, I wish that were true for me, though.”

  “Lois thinks I’m being unkind to Carson and I guess, in her own bully way, she believes I’m not being true to myself. Do you think that, too?”

  “Jessica, the only opinions that matter are yours and Carson’s. That being said, I think Carson is a very patient young man when it comes to people he cares about. Dylan, for instance. The door is open for you at this moment. It may still be open next month or even next year, but do not assume it will always be so.”

  “What about when one door closes another door opens?”

  “Bullshit.” Archie’s final word on the matter is probably his most powerful.

  Lois and Eleanor rejoin us, plopping down on the couches with an air similar to Imogene and Lauren, making both Archie and I chuckle.

  “Are you all done with that stinkin’ thinkin’ of yours?” Lois says to me. “Are you ready to grab the bull by the horns?” She demonstrates with her fists in the air. Before I have to defend myself again, I beg off to find the powder room. I really just escape to stand in the hidden hallway by the wall with the waterfall.

  There are a few older couples mingling by it, but I feel alone enough to gather my thoughts. I wander back to the end of the hall to peer out into the great room again. I see Carson talking to Gemma and my soul drops to the floor. Gemma is standing close enough for her arm to touch Carson and he’s smiling down at her as she talks to him. They aren’t in a group, it’s just the two of them talking and it looks so intimate I want to retch.

  “Hi,” a nice voice says behind me. I turn around and face a handsome man, one of the guys I saw hanging around Dylan and Carson when I took the photo.

  “Hi,” I say, putting my hands behind me like a five-year-old.

  “Would you dance with me?” he asks. A beautiful Van Morrison song starts playing. “Slow dance,” he says, holding out his arm with a smile.

  “Sure,” I agree. It is a party after all. As we walk out to the dance floor we pass by Lois and her geriatric gang again. I give her a signal and toss my purse to her. Like a pro she stands and catches it then frowns and shakes her head in disapproval. She wants me to dance with Carson, but the dancing gods are not on my side.

  “Jess, right? I’m Matthew,” he introduces himself, taking my hands in his.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. He pulls me in closer as Van Morrison croons about searching the world over for his love.

  “No. No. No.” I hear Carson’s voice booming behind me. “That’s enough of that. Move over, Matt, this is my dance and take this for me.” Carson tosses his suit coat across Matt’s empty arms still in their dance pose.

  Matt looks from me to Carson, not sure if he should argue that he was here first. Most likely, Carson’s sheer dominance in height and muscle causes Matt to apologetically bow out and allow Carson to take over.

  My shocked expression must be apparent to everyone within sight of Carson’s display.

  “House rules. Host gets first dance.” He yanks me close to him and we begin moving with the melody. My nerve endings are fired up as my hands rest on his hard shoulders. I can feel his heat through his shirt. Stud in the house!

  “Did you have to humiliate him like that?”

  “Matt? He’ll get over it,” Carson snaps. “I wasn’t going to let this be your song with him.”

  “What are you ranting about?”

  “Everyone has a song for their first dance; when they first meet or get married. I wasn’t going to let this song belong to you and Matt.”

  I stifle a laugh. “You’re jealous. I thought you never get jealous.”

  “I never have until you let that guy swing you out onto the dance floor like…”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing,” he says and holds me tighter. “Like he’s your lo
ver. This is a song for lovers.”

  I smile up at him and he begrudgingly smiles at me and then looks away. “I didn’t think you were speaking to me anymore.” It hurts to have to hold my head back to look up at him. I’d rather rest my head against his chest while we sway, but I think I lost that privilege.

  “We’re not really speaking. We’re dancing.”

  “Carson,” I admonish him with another smile.

  “You think I give up that easily? You’re more interested in me than you want to admit. You’ve already decided to live in Hera, you let the girls move in and you gave up your lease in the city.”

  “How do you know about my apartment?”

  He tilts his head to the side as if I asked a stupid question. He smells so good; I really don’t care about the answer to my question.

  “I hope you’re doing some soul-searching.”

  “What?”

  “The song. Aren’t you listening to it? This is our song,” he growls.

  I laugh so hard, I have to pull my hand from his and cover my mouth. He uses the opportunity to pull me into an embrace and keep dancing. His head is resting on mine.

  “Stop ruining our song,” Carson says.

  “Carson, I think you’d be less sure of me if you knew my parents.”

  “What do they have to do with us?” His deep, rich voice rumbles into my ear.