Don't Turn Around

by Hunter Morgan

  “Guess I’ll be forced to comply.” She could hear his desire for her in the timbre of his voice.

  She loved that sound in his voice. He made her feel so…empowered. For so many years, Casey had fought her sexuality. Like most victims of sexual abuse, she had, on some level, no matter how illogical, blamed herself for what had happened. Even her relationship with John had been affected by it. Casey had never been able to give herself to him completely. Never been able to take from him. As the relationship had slowly petered out, so had the sex. Or maybe the sex had petered out and then the relationship. Either way, in the end, he was getting it somewhere else and she wasn’t.

  But with Lincoln, it was different. From the beginning, Casey had felt different. For the first time in her life, she felt like an adult and not a sixteen-year-old fumbling in the backseat of her older boyfriend’s car. She felt capable of choosing her own sexual path. She felt as if she was in control, and that control was so positive that she could actually hand it over to Lincoln if she so chose.

  Holding her in his arms, Lincoln deepened his kiss. He slid his hand down the small of her back and over her gray dress slacks, cupping one buttock. She thrust her tongue into his mouth greedily, pressing her groin to his. He shifted, pushing her up against the kitchen cabinet. The marble countertop pushed into her back. Hard. Solid. Like Lincoln.

  Her fingers found the buttons of his oxford and she hastily undid them and pulled his shirt out of his khakis. She slid her hand under his T-shirt and glided her fingertips over the small patch of hair on his chest.

  But feeling his bare chest with her hand wasn’t enough. She needed skin to skin. With his help, she pulled off his shirt and T-shirt.

  “Your dad?” he whispered in her ear.

  “Never comes out once he goes in,” she assured him.

  The truth was, she didn’t really care. The chance of getting caught having sex in the kitchen just wasn’t as important at this moment as feeling Lincoln’s hands on her naked body.

  She shed her sweater, and when Lincoln didn’t unhook her lacy pink bra fast enough, she helped him out.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Lincoln whispered in her ear. “I like it.” He kissed her bare shoulder and lowered his head.

  She arched her back, thrusting out her breasts, making it easier for him to catch her nipple between his lips. She threaded her fingers through his shaggy, dark hair.

  The truth was, Casey didn’t know what had gotten into her tonight. Usually, she liked sex controlled. Neat. In a bed on clean sheets. She wasn’t a roll-in-the-hay kind of woman. Or a do-it-on-the-kitchen-counter kind of woman. At least she hadn’t thought she was.

  So maybe this was the new Casey. The empowered Casey. Maybe this was the Casey who could outwit Charles Gaitlin and set her life, which seemed on tilt right now, level again.

  Lincoln pressed both of his hands on her hips, and without him speaking, she knew what he wanted. She half jumped, half let him lift her onto the counter.

  She shimmied out of her dress slacks, then the pink panties, and let them fall carelessly to the floor. She tugged at Lincoln’s belt buckle, released it, and unhooked his pants. Pushed them down. Looking into his half-closed blue eyes, she slid her hand into his knit boxer briefs.

  She had never disliked a man’s genitalia. Never been afraid of it, as some women were, but she had never really liked it before. She cupped his balls in her hand. But she liked Lincoln’s.

  Their mouths met again, more insistent. He nipped at her neck, her earlobe. Not hard, just enough to send ripples of sensation to every pore on her skin. She usually needed plenty of foreplay, but tonight something pushed her outside her usual comfort range. She needed Lincoln now. Hard. Inside her.

  Stroking him, she wiggled toward the edge of the counter. He kissed her bare shoulder, her arm, the swell of her breast. By the only light in the kitchen, the bulb over the stove, she could see his face. His eyes were nearly closed, his face calm, almost dreamlike.

  “Come here,” she whispered.

  “Not sure I’m tall enough,” he said huskily in her ear. “But I was an Eagle Scout, you know. Ingenuity is my middle name.”

  She laughed and she liked the sound of her own voice, deeper now too. “Meet you halfway,” she breathed.

  Half on the counter, half off, she opened her legs to him further. He grunted as he pushed into her. She moaned.

  He whispered her name. Told her she was beautiful. She clung to him, digging her short fingernails into his bare back. She pushed against him, arching her hips again and again.

  “You can slow down,” he suggested, his tone a mixture of amusement and ardor.

  She shook her head, fervent now. The pleasure came in waves, mounting higher.

  “Casey…”

  He was close.

  Still propped against the counter, she wrapped her legs around his hips, resting her head on his shoulder, letting him take much of her weight. She strained against the oncoming flood. Her muscles tightened, loosened, tightened again. When she came, she pressed her mouth to his shoulder, trying to muffle her voice.

  Lincoln followed a stroke behind her. He thrust, groaned, and then pulled back.

  Laughing, realizing what she’d just done on her kitchen counter, with her dad in the other room, she scooted back, using Lincoln’s shoulders for support.

  He dropped his head, resting it against her bare breasts, her nipples still hard. “What’s so funny?” His voice was muffled, but he was chuckling too.

  “I don’t know.” She laughed harder. Tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “I think I love you.”

  Chapter 24

  The minute the words came out of Casey’s mouth, she wished she could snatch them back. Her hands on Lincoln’s shoulders, she jumped down off the counter and began to pick up her clothes. She pulled her sweater on first, sans bra, suddenly feeling vulnerable. So much for the empowerment.

  The silence in the room was brittle. He didn’t say it back. Why would he?

  “God, that was awkward,” she heard herself say after another second, which seemed like an eternity, passed. She grabbed her panties off the floor and stepped into them. A woman needed panties to fortify herself at times like this.

  “Casey—”

  “No, it’s okay. I—” She didn’t know what she was saying, what she should say. She stopped herself before she made things worse.

  Leaning over, hair concealing her face, she picked up his boxers and pants and held them out to him. He took them, but set them on the counter, then grabbed her wrist.

  “Casey.”

  She resisted, tugging back.

  “Come here,” he said. He pulled harder.

  She was so embarrassed that tears burned the backs of her eyelids. If she cried, she’d be mortified. What had she been thinking when she had said she loved him? Was she out of her mind?

  She hadn’t been thinking at all. That was what was scary.

  “Look at me,” he whispered.

  She let him pull her into his arms, but she still couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  “I didn’t mean to—” He stopped, then started again. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.” He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it.

  She closed her eyes.

  “I just want to take things slowly, that’s all. I care about you. I care about you deeply. It’s just that I royally screwed up a marriage once and I want to be sure—”

  Marriage? She barely heard what else he said. He was thinking about marriage?

  Of course that wasn’t what he meant. Was it?

  She certainly hadn’t been thinking that far down the road. Still, somehow the word made her feel better….

  “I want to be sure. You know what I mean?” he said gently.

  She made herself open her eyes. Made herself look into his. She still didn’t know what to say and that seemed to be all right with him.

  He pulled her against
him and they stood there, hugging in the semidarkness of the kitchen, she in her panties and sweater, him in nothing but a pair of brown socks.

  He hugged her for a long time. Long enough that when she lifted her head from his shoulder she was smiling. She was hopeful. “Want to help me put the lights on the tree?”

  “Like this, or you want me to get dressed?” He grinned.

  Angel looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, the tiny Ziploc baggy of white stuff she’d found under the sink in her hand.

  Her eyes were bloodshot. She’d had too much to drink. First the six-pack of beer, then the shots of Jack Daniel’s that Charlie had insisted she do. But it was Christmas Eve, right? She deserved to relax a little.

  The JD was her Christmas present. She almost laughed out loud. A bottle of whiskey for Christmas from her old man? A bottle he and his brother had already half finished off. And she’d been thinking maybe a promise ring or something stupid like that.

  She studied the face of the woman in the mirror. She looked older than twenty-six. More tired than any twenty-six-year-old ought to look. She turned her face so that the light from the only bulb, of the three, still burning over the mirror shone on her chin. The bruise was fading. With make-up on, you could hardly see it. A leftover from a fight a week ago. Charlie’d barely caught her with his fist. She’d been too fast for him.

  Or he’d been too high or drunk to take good aim.

  She looked down at the baggy in her hand. She didn’t know what to do. She told Charlie no drugs. He hadn’t used them when she’d met him. This was something new. This was James. Charlie had been spending a lot of money the last week or so, like he had it. He had this idea in his head that he was going to get rich because of the lawsuit. She tried to tell him it would take years to get any money, if he got any at all, but he wouldn’t listen to her. James told him everyone would settle. He’d get a million or two easy.

  She fingered the baggy. No drugs. Not with the baby. What if she got arrested? Buddy could get put in foster care. Angel’d lose her subsidized-housing privileges if she got caught with that shit here. It didn’t matter if it was hers or not; it’d be a good excuse for them to kick her out. Especially since she owed rent.

  But it was after midnight. Christmas Eve. Did she really want a knock-down blowout on Christmas? Did she want to spend Christmas alone? Charlie wasn’t much, but he was better than nothing, wasn’t he?

  She looked in the mirror again. Her roots were showing.

  Pushed around. Beat up. She didn’t deserve this. But nothing would ever change unless she changed it. Angel jerked open the bathroom door and charged down the short hall, keeping quiet until she hit the living room. “Get out,” she said.

  Charlie and James were sitting on each end of the couch, a can of beer in their hands. Professional wrestling was on TV.

  “Get out,” Angel said to Charlie. She looked at James. “You too. Out of my house.”

  “Come on, baby, get out of the way.” Charlie craned his neck. His face was red from the booze. She needed to give him a haircut. Thin, the way his hair was, as soon as it got long, it looked like he had a comb-over. James’s was even worse because she wasn’t cutting that son of a bitch’s hair.

  “I told you no crack, no weed, Charlie.” She threw the bag of tiny powdery chunks at him.

  He picked it up. “Where’d you get this?” he said in a pissed-off voice.

  He didn’t deny it was his.

  “Under the sink, in the shaving cream cap. It fell over when I was trying to get toilet paper, ’cause it seems like I’m the only one on earth who puts a new roll on!”

  “She’s snoopin’ in your shit?” James asked Charlie.

  “It friggin’ fell out! And it’s my place!” Angel crossed her arms over her chest. “My name’s on the lease and I bought that shaving cream. ’Less of course you stole it from the shop!” She stared hard at James. She was fired up. Enough was enough.

  Charlie looked at James. “Man, I told you not in the house. We got a baby.” He gestured drunkenly in the direction of Buddy’s bedroom.

  She couldn’t believe Charlie was actually taking up for her.

  “So you’re gonna take her side?” James flew off the couch, heaving his beer at Angel.

  She dodged the can. The last of the beer sprayed as the can hit the corner of the TV stand.

  Charlie staggered off the couch.

  “Brother against brother?” James demanded.

  “Get out! Get out!” Angel shouted, turning on him.

  James shoved her, but he was drunk, so he didn’t shove too hard. She caught her balance before she went down. She charged forward, pushing him back.

  Charlie punched James in the shoulder. Just a nudge. “Hey, man, keep your hands off my girl!”

  James took a swing at Charlie. Charlie never moved until James’s fist connected with his chin.

  “Ow! Son o’ bitch.” Charlie worked his jaw, massaging it with his hand. “Now yer really pissin’ me off. Get out.”

  There was a loud thumping on the living room wall from the unit next door. “Quiet down, you assholes!” Angel’s neighbor barked, his voice muffled by the wallboard.

  “I can’t believe yer actin’ like this, Charlie.” James began to back toward the front door. “All pussy whipped. We’re brothers, man.” He thumped his chest with both hands. “It’s Christmas. Where am I supposed to go?”

  “Hell, where you belong!” Angel shouted, picking up the empty beer can and throwing it at him.

  Charlie put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hard squeeze. “Settle down, baby, he’s goin’.”

  “I want him out,” she said. “Now. Outta my place, and I never want him back here again. Bringing crack around my baby!”

  “All right, all right. Let me handle this.” Charlie let go of her and walked toward the door. He grabbed the winter coat she had bought him that he’d left on the floor. “Come on, James. You better go for tonight,” he said.

  “I know when I’m not wanted.” James jerked open the front door.

  “You’re right! You’re not wanted!” Angel shrieked. “Worthless, limp-dicked—”

  “Angel, shut up,” Charlie snapped.

  He said it in that voice she knew meant she was pushing too hard. Even drunk, she knew to step back. “I want him out,” she said more quietly.

  “And he’s goin’.” He held up his hand. “Now stay here and shut your mouth. Go get the toys and we’ll put ’em under the tree. ’Kay? I’ll be back in a minute and we’ll get the stuff ready from Santa for little Buddy.”

  Angel watched James and Charlie go out the front door. Charlie was still trying to get his brother to take his coat. It was sleeting outside last time Angel looked. She didn’t want Charlie to give James the coat. They’d never see it again. James could freeze solid for all she cared.

  She walked into the kitchen. The room was spinning. She felt slightly nauseous. She couldn’t drink the way she used to. She’d have a bad hangover tomorrow.

  She went to the sink, got a glass of water, and walked over to the window. She pulled back the curtain over Buddy’s high chair. Out front, one of the lights was burned out, but the other one was still lit up. She could see Charlie and James talking. Arguing. James was gesturing toward the house. Cussing. Talking smack about her, for sure.

  Angel was tempted to open the window and yell to Charlie that he could just go with James. She knew very well he’d been smoking it too. And even if it wasn’t his crack, he knew about it. Stuck in the lid of his shaving cream? That was their secret hiding place? How long would it take a cop to find that? Even a stupid one?

  She let the curtain fall and drank the glass of water. As she walked into the kitchen, Charlie came in the front door. He slammed it behind him.

  “There. He’s gone. You happy now, you stupid, ugly little bitch?”

  She stood where she was. Charlie got mean when he got drunk. He said things he didn’t mean. Did things he’d apolog
ize for later. He almost always apologized for hitting her, later.

  He stood there staring at her for a minute and then stomped off down the hall. Tears filled Angel’s eyes. All she wanted was to be loved. Why couldn’t Charlie love her?

  Why couldn’t anyone?

  Adam sat back in his office chair and glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. Christmas Day and he was sitting in his office going over a deposition. It didn’t really even need to be done. Not this week. He just didn’t want to go home.

  He threaded his fingers and rested his hands behind his head. The nursing home had been cheery in a dismal kind of way tonight. So cheery, so gloomy that he’d felt even more depressed than usual when he’d left his grandfather. There were lots of visitors because it was Christmas. Everyone was laughing, talking, pretending people weren’t wasting away and dying in the long hallways. Nurses and patients wore red Santa hats. There were a few sporting brown felt antlers.

  A Brownie troop had been there caroling and had stopped in his grandfather’s doorway. They sang “Frosty the Snowman.” Adam had smiled, nodded to the music, but he had only done so to be polite. He didn’t enjoy the holidays particularly, especially not with his grandfather so ill. If he had a girlfriend, a wife…children, maybe it would be different, but Christmas carols only reminded him how alone he was in his life right now. They forced the truth upon him. For all his accomplishments, he was at work at midnight on Christmas Eve.

  He reached for his cup of coffee, took a sip, and spit it back into the mug. It was way past lukewarm, bordering on cold.

  He wondered what Casey had done this evening. While Adam was eating a tuna salad wrap beside his comatose grandfather, had Casey been sitting down to ham and a sweet potato casserole? Had she gone to the midnight service at her church surrounded by her family?

  Had Lincoln been there?

  Lincoln Tyndall was becoming a sore spot, like one that slowly wore on your heel until one day you woke up and it was a blister. When Adam had first heard from one of the court stenographers that Casey was dating him, he had been happy for her. Maybe a little jealous, but happy she had found someone. Happy she was happy. He did like her, but with the Gaitlin case still pending, and his personal life being what it was, he really didn’t have time to date her. Not date her properly. Not…woo her.