Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Good,” he mutters. “So good. So wet.”

  A finger slips inside of me, and I gasp. “Oh, my God,” I whisper. My brain starts to go blank, the room collapsing in on itself as I close my eyes and give myself over to the sensation.

  “It’s so tight. When I fuck you, I’m going to love how you feel.” A second finger slips inside. Gently, methodically, Liam presses the base of his palm against my clit, moving his fingers inside of me, sending shockwaves through me, each stronger than the next. Each building to an inevitability that I’d only ever reached by myself.

  I arch my back, moan, voice loud and animal. Sounds I don’t recognize coming from my throat as he brings me closer and closer to the edge.

  “Come for me,” he whispers, his fingers rocking inside of me.

  He says it as the tongues of flame rise through my thighs, through my sex, setting fire to my core. I groan, sigh. Come against his fingers. Come for him.

  I slump against his body after that, sleep heavy behind my eyelids.

  “You get a free pass this time.” He holds me to him when he says it, arm wrapped around my shoulders possessively. I wonder if this is what it feels like. The thing I didn’t have with Charlie. “Next time,” Liam says, “I’m going to make you beg.”

  I close my eyes like that—naked, nestled in the crook of his tattooed arm.

  I don’t let myself wonder if he’s held anyone that way in recent years. If he ever has.

  I sleep, and my dreams are filled with the scent of him, his presence.

  When I wake in the morning, my entire body aches, like I’ve been running a marathon. I look blearily over at the other side of the king size bed—a bed made for seducing girls like me—but there’s no one there. For a brief moment, I wonder if he’s gone.

  Isn’t that what guys like this one do? They cut and run?

  No.

  They send the girl home. Don’t they? That’s how they do things.

  But he told me to stay.

  I lift the covers up. I’m naked underneath. At home, I sleep in pajamas. Pink cotton pajamas that my aunt gave me for Christmas. I keep a glass of water on the bedside table. Chapstick. My laptop. Evidence of a life lived alone, proof that I take few risks. I keep myself close to my own heart.

  Why, then, am I here? Why am I still here?

  There are muffled clanks in the kitchen, followed by a cheerful sound I haven’t woken up to in a long time. Fifteen years, maybe. Whistling, and then humming, followed by the sizzle of butter in a pan, the splat of batter, and the popping of bacon. The scent of it fills the apartment.

  I stand, still wobbly on my legs from last night, and I pull on the dark gray t-shirt Liam was wearing the night before. My shirt sits on the floor, ripped. And my thong—well that isn’t anywhere I can find it.

  Anxiety takes me over, rolling through my body. I’m going to have to talk to him. I gulp and walk to the door, trying to smooth my hair down with one hand. When I peek around the corner, he looks up from the frying pan in his kitchen and gives me a lopsided grin.

  “Sleep okay?” he asks.

  “I did.”

  “I thought you might. After the workout I gave you.”

  “Somebody thinks a lot of himself,” I say. Even though he’s right. I have the yearning to be the cool girl around him. The one who takes this all in stride.

  He looks me up and down and chuckles. “I do. I’ve been told as much. And you, you’re not wearing panties. Ready for more? I’m going to get you some breakfast first. And then you’re getting dressed. I have a dress you can wear. No panties. But a dress. Should fit you.”

  He flips the pancakes and dips his finger into the leftover batter. When he licks it off his thumb, I feel it. That thing. Of wanting, waiting, anticipation for the next thing. Even though that there shouldn’t be a next thing with a guy like this. Not a single next thing at all. The next thing I should be seeing is an Lyft driver and the inside of my apartment in Brooklyn.

  “You have a dress? Is there something I need to know? Or is it just because you’re a—”

  “Manwhore?” He laughs. “Yeah. Some girl left it here a year ago. Made off with my favorite hoodie. I kept it.”

  “Okay. That’s a little—gross.”

  “I washed it. She was wearing panties at the time. And it came off before any of the magic happened.”

  “I wouldn’t call it magic.”

  Liam rolls his eyes. “You would. And it is. And you haven’t gotten to the main event yet.”

  I swallow hard, wishing I could somehow hide the red rising in my cheeks. “Who—who, um, says I’m staying for the main event?” I feel like a nervous rabbit with his eyes on me. I’d normally be working out by now, reading more Jane Austen on the elliptical or jotting down plot ideas on my iPad.

  I think of my apartment. The Chapstick on the table, the water bottle. My skin routine, my cherry-scented shampoo. The calm predictability of it all. If I hadn’t talked it up with Rhiannon, if I hadn’t gotten my courage going with wine and whatever hard alcohol she gave me at the bar, and if Liam hadn’t looked at me the way he did, I wouldn’t be here.

  “You’re staying. You’re too curious about the main event to leave.” Liam shrugs. “I know women well enough that I can tell.”

  “Oh, you do?” I cross my arms.

  Liam piles all the pancake and bacon onto two paper plates. “I’d love to have this conversation with you, but I have breakfast ready. The dress is in the closet, at the back. Put it on. Sit down. Eat. I have that favor to ask.”

  I open my mouth to speak, to tell him that he can’t go around giving me orders. But he points me back into the bedroom. “Dress,” he says. “Get dressed.” There’s an authoritative edge to his voice that stirs something inside of me, and I find myself following his orders, doing what he asked me to, almost mechanically.

  The dress is a soft gray knit with a scoop neck and a skirt that hits just above my knees. It’s maybe half a size too big, but it doesn’t look bad. I wonder about the girl who wore it—if she was like me. Out of place in that bar, out of place in this apartment. Looking for something different. Running home in the early morning wearing a hoodie and an old pair of Liam’s gym shorts, hair mussed, body sore.

  When I walk out, Liam’s little round kitchen table is set with paper plates and plastic utensils. There’s maple syrup and a carton of Tropicana orange juice. There are paper towels at each place—and there are four place settings.

  Blood rushes in my ears. “Liam,” I start, heart racing. “Why are there four place settings?”

  Before he has time to answer, I hear the thunderous sound of at least two people making their way up the stairs to his apartment. I hear talking and chatter below, an older voice with a thick Irish accent. I close my eyes and groan as Liam brings the pancakes and bacon to the table. He steps back to the kitchen and starts making scrambled eggs, like nothing unusual is happening.

  He even has the nerve to look at me and grin. Like a kid on the playground who’s gotten the better of me. “That’s the favor. That and one other thing,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t have time to explain it.”

  Time. He had plenty of time. We just spent that time in bed. What a fucking jerk.

  There’s a knock at the door, and I hear a man’s voice just outside. “Let us in, you prick. We’re supposed to make it to church, you godless—”

  “Stop talking like that. It’s Sunday.” I can hear the woman’s voice as plain as day. The thought comes to me that it must be Liam’s mother. But that isn’t right.

  I have the sudden sensation that I want to melt right into the floor, become one with the splintered hardwood floors in Liam’s ramshackle apartment.

  But Liam puts on a smile. The same smile he gave me last night, his hands on my body. His fingers inside of me.

  He walks past the steaming breakfast food to the door and opens it. A woman with fading red hair and a cane walks in, followed by a man who resembles Liam—but looks like le
ss of an asshole. Less like someone who’d do this to me.

  The guy looks at me in shock and then catches his brother’s eye. “You gonna introduce us he says?”

  “Skye, this is my brother Finn, and this is my Ma.” Liam’s mother looks over at me, apparently surprised too.

  “You haven’t introduced us to a girl since—” She pauses at that and looks to her son. The one who lures innocent girls up to his apartment and makes them unwilling participants in whatever game he happens to be playing.

  “Since Tabitha,” Finn says.

  Who the fuck is Tabitha?

  “Ma, Finn,” Liam says, apparently unfazed. “This is my Skye. She’s my girlfriend.”

  Knees weak, legs wobbling, I grab onto the door frame of the bedroom.

  I’m wearing some other girl’s dress.

  I’m in a criminal’s apartment. Or, if he’s not a criminal, he’s a sadistic jerk.

  And I’m in some kind of role that this man wants me to play. The man who says he’ll cure me of my virginity, and have me begging for more.

  What the fuck do I say?

  “She’s shy,” Liam adds. “Introverted. Balances me out.”

  Finn groans. I’m sure he saw me last night but doesn’t want to let on in front of their mother. Liam smiles even broader. The room fills with deafening silence and the aroma of bacon and pancakes.

  “Nice to, um, meet you,” I finally say.

  I sit down to eat breakfast. Because I’m hungry. Because I’m tired and spent. And because, compared to all of this, the Chapstick and water bottle on my bedside table seem far less compelling.

  And hell, I might even write a story about all of this someday.

  That’s what I tell myself anyway.

  The first in a long line of excuses, and the one that changes the course of my life. Forever.

  Liam

  For the entire breakfast, my Ma keeps giving me looks. Like the looks she gave me the first time I introduced Tabitha to the family. The hopeful glances, a slight sparkle in her eyes. The hint of a wish for more grandkids. And probably, most of all, for a future with Brie.

  I might be mistaking that look, reading too much into all of it.

  If I’m in this apartment with no girlfriend, no wife, I’ll be this way forever. A revolving door of meaningless hookups. At least that’s my mom’s opinion, and probably Finn’s too. My other brothers couldn’t care less. But he’s the oldest, so in this kind of family, his opinion counts for something.

  Finn just glares at me and rolls his eyes.

  His whole fucking attitude makes me want to pull it off even more.

  Combined with that, every time I look over at Skye, my eyes focus on the rosy color of her cheeks, the way her hair falls, the smiles, and stories she places into the conversation. When she smiles, the smile always reaches her eyes. It’s not faked.

  She doesn’t need to be here, no. She could have left. Could have freaked out and run away. But she stands her ground, wearing that dress. About half way through the meal, I remember that she’s not wearing her panties.

  I look at her and raise an eyebrow, taking a bite of pancake. She blushes an even deeper red. If it were just her at this table, I would have let the pancakes get cold. She’s the kind of girl who thinks she’s not into anything kinky, but I’m betting I could prove otherwise. Even without the sex.

  It’s the buildup that’s going to be the good part. Scratch that. The whole thing will be good—with big ass benefits all around.

  “How did you two meet?” Ma asks, looking between me and Skye. I’m sure she’s trying to read the looks I’m giving my girlfriend, trying to gauge how long we’ve been together.

  Not long, I think. Long enough for her to get a taste and want to come back for more. And, if I’m honest, just long enough for me to do the same.

  “We met at a book store.” Skye says and gives me a withering look. She crosses her legs, bumping my foot in the process. “He was browsing through the poetry section.”

  “It’s next to the romance section. That’s where she was. Looking at ‘90s romances with Fabio on the cover.”

  “I was not!” Her protests fall on deaf ears, as Ma starts to recount her own taste for old romances. Finn just piles his plate high with bacon and eggs, telling us both something about bulking up. He mentions something about Crossfit, and my brain goes numb. Instead of listening, I’m looking at the girl across the table.

  I should be honest, I think. I will be. About what happens next. Just not the next step after that. If she’s still here after all this, I should be able to pass her off as my girlfriend for the courts. For Marta. For the private investigator.

  And she can know all about Brie when it’s time.

  “So, Skye. Are you looking forward to next weekend?” Finn turns to her, and my stomach drops. He has that look in his eye like he knows what’s best for me. Usually, he’s been right. But this time, I’m following his plan to a tee. Even though he told me not to follow it, I guess.

  Skye looks over at me before she responds. “I… don’t know. What’s happening next weekend?”

  I groan. “I haven’t told her yet.”

  “Oh, you haven’t?” Finn says, looking between me and Skye. “Well fucking color me surprised.”

  “Language,” Ma says. She pours herself a glass of orange juice and acts like she’s oblivious to what Finn is doing. She’s always done that, even when we were eight and six and used crayons to make designs on the wall. Always my fault, not his.

  “It’s a special weekend, Skye.” Finn turns to me. “But maybe Liam was waiting to surprise you with it, since you’re his girlfriend and all. And I don’t know, maybe you like surprises. Maybe Liam doesn’t even know if you like surprises. Do you?”

  Skye looks at me again, confusion written all over her face. “I’m okay with surprises,” she replies, cautiously. “But maybe this time… it would be best to let me know what’s going on.” She looks at me pointedly. “Sweetie.”

  I smile, trying not to look nervous. I don’t look nervous in front of chicks. And hey, what the hell have I lost if Skye freaks out? She probably will anyway. I’ve got the better end of the deal here—and she gets to act out the part of the girlfriend for very little reward. I’ll just have to convince her that being with me will be truly fucking rewarding. “Well, honey,” I start, emphasizing the word. “I think we might have talked about it.”

  “I’m one hundred percent sure we didn’t.” She stabs a piece of pancake and puts it into her mouth. Her full lips purse together as she finishes it.

  “I have visitation with my daughter. If her guardian’s lawyer allows it,” I blurt out.

  Her face goes pale. I wait for her to respond, but she doesn’t. She picks up her cup of coffee, even though it’s empty. She looks at it like it should have something in it, like coffee might magically appear.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about her. She’s all Liam ever talks about.”

  “Brie’s grandmother is keeping her right now. She’s the legal guardian. Since I got out of the clink, that is. I raised Brie before that. I’m her real guardian. I should be, anyway.” I catch Skye’s eye. “I know I told you that.”

  Ma is now looking between the two of us, slowly eating a piece of bacon.

  Skye looks over at my mom. “Yeah, you said.”

  Relief floods my body. Jesus, she’s a champ.

  “And she has a P.I. looking at my every move,” I add. “And God knows who else. Last time she was making rumblings about CPS. Trying to make it out that I’m not a fit parent. I’m filing for full custody, but the judge keeps saying she needs a two-parent household. Hypocritical if you ask me, especially since Marta’s husband left her twenty years ago.”

  Skye bites her lip, but her face softens slightly. “Mm,” she responds, like she might have heard this before, or she might not have. Finn looks at her in amazement.

  “It would be great if I had my serious girlfriend with me to see the judge.
Really good for providing stability for my girl. She’s a good kid. And she deserves to be with me. Not her grandmother, who insults her at every turn.” I pause. “That’s what Marta—her other grandmother—does. I’m not a great guy—”

  Finn cuts in. “You’re not. Definitely not.” Ma shoves Finn on the arm.

  “But I’m better than that,” I continue. “And Brie deserves someone who tells her she’s beautiful and smart. And cool. And all the things she is. Even if that someone fucked up in the past.” I watch Skye’s face. She’s cool as a cucumber, even though my own throat is starting to tighten. “Even if he’s an ex-con, an ex-junkie. A player. A liar.”