by Lexi Whitlow
Ma puts her hand on mine. “You’re a good father. None of that other talk, Liam. And Skye seems like a nice girl—she’s good for you. You haven’t had a girlfriend in so long. I thought you’d never have one again.”
Skye clears her throat. “Is there more coffee? I’m going to need some more.”
“Can’t say I blame you on that one,” Finn says. He takes her cup. I follow him to the kitchen, trying to avoid Skye’s stare.
“If she stays after this,” Finn whispers as the water in my kettle begins to boil. “Let’s just say you better not fuck it up. What’s worse than lying about a relationship in front of a judge? Lying about the relationship and then losing your girlfriend right away.”
I glance over to Skye. She’s still talking to my mom, smiling, saying something about books. Ma pats her on the shoulder and squeezes her hand. For a second, Skye catches my eye, and she nods slightly.
Finn mixes the coffee into the boiling water, and I feel suddenly embarrassed that all I have to offer is instant. I make a note to clean out the coffee maker from downstairs.
“She’s way—” Finn says, adding creamer. “Way out of your league, man. Light years. If she stays after this morning? You owe her fucking big time.”
Shit.
He’s right.
I’m an idiot, and she should cut and run.
Finn brings Skye her cup of coffee and touches her on the shoulder, like he used to do to me when I was a teenager. When all the shit in my life started to go south. Something clenches tight in my chest, another thing I haven’t felt in years. I push that feeling aside. I don’t know where it came from, this protective thing. Best not to consider it with the shit show I’ve just created.
“Ma,” Finn says, bringing his other hand to my mother’s shoulder. “I think we oughta stop talking Skye’s ear off about her job. It’s, uh, a step up for Liam, you know. But I bet they’ve got a nice Sunday planned. Don’t you, Liam?” He looks to Skye. “Or maybe she wants to get out of here too, after all this. You need a ride home?”
The room stills, and I wait for her response. Like I’m standing at the edge of a precipice, looking over the edge.
“No, I’m good. Liam and I are going to… enjoy the day. And plan for next weekend, aren’t we?”
I watch as my mother gets up. She leans on her cane and gives me a knowing look. She doesn’t buy our relationship any more than Finn does. There’s no reason I should have thought I could pull one over on a sixty-year-old Irish woman who’s lived through immigration, raising four boys, and forty years of marriage to my father. But still, she’s hopeful. I can tell. She’s been on me about getting a girlfriend as much as the judge has. Improves the chances for getting Brie back. A pragmatist, as always.
Skye starts clearing dishes, and I’m left face to face with my mother. “You’re doing the best you know how, Liam. At least I think you are. But Brie means something to all of us. If this is some half-cocked scheme—and if you’re planning on using this girl just to get Brie—it’s all going to blow up in your face.” She puts a hand to my arm. “It’s a handsome face. But one that’s made a whole lot of bad decisions. Cut her free if she’s another one.”
I’m left standing there, dumbstruck, as Finn and my mother walk out the door.
I went through it all in my mind when I was making eggs and bacon, putting a dash of cinnamon in the pancakes. I’d tell Skye I needed her to pose as my girlfriend, we’d both get through breakfast, and then I’d let her know about my daughter.
Instead, I’m left standing in the middle of my apartment as Skye scrapes eggs into the garbage disposal. She knew too little before everyone arrived, and now she knows far too much. The balance is all wrong, and guilt washes over me. I don’t feel this way with women, no matter how much I fuck up. But when I look at Skye, it almost crushes me.
She gazes at me, her eyes sad. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I woke up this morning. But I guess I was stupid enough to come upstairs with you last night. And I woke up to a giant fucking mess.”
“You weren’t stupid.” There are more words I should say, specifically that I was the one who was stupid. That I shouldn’t have involved her against her will. That she can go if she wants to. And it was all a bad deal to begin with. But the words don’t come. I’m not practiced at saying things like this. Not with anyone, let alone a smart, beautiful one like Skye. And never sober.
“Yeah. I was.” She pours a tepid cup of water and mixes in instant coffee grounds. “There’s not enough coffee in the world to deal with this shit.”
I stand there, expecting her to go. But she just pours creamer in her coffee and drinks it down. And then she walks back to the bedroom, to my shower.
Stunned, I follow her. “I don’t understand. You’re not leaving?”
She turns to me, and pulls the gray dress over her head. Those full, round tits. The supple curve of her hip, the dark thatch between her legs. My cock twitches.
“I should leave,” she says. “Against my better judgment, I’d like to help. Not for you. For the little girl. If it turns out you’re lying to me about her—”
“I’m not. I promise. I fucking promise.” I step forward, my hands drawn to her body, desperate to touch her.
But she steps back instead. “If it turns out you’re lying, I’ll be gone. No visitations—no court dates. And you keep your promise to me.”
I cross my arms. “What’s that? The sex? It seemed like a good proposal when I said it last night. But the light of day makes most of my ideas seem fucking ridiculous.”
She walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower, pulling a towel out of the closet. “It’s ludicrous. But I’m a little ridiculous myself. Especially these days.” She checks the water and looks at me. Her eyes are tired, vulnerable. Like she’s been carrying a burden for a long time. “I’m a virgin, but it’s not cute or sexy. Not to me. It means that the man I thought I would marry treated me like shit. He never wanted me. He made me hate myself. My body. I need that part of me gone.”
My cock strains against the fabric of my pants. The man that didn’t want this woman was a complete and total fucking lunatic. An idiot of the highest order. I look her up and down. Beneath her proper exterior, her very existence radiates sex, and sin. I can see it better now, with her slightly mussed hair and the faint aura of heat and desire, still radiating from her skin. Skye represents all the good things about sinking into a woman and never coming up for air. “I can get that part of you gone. If that’s what you want.”
“It is. With no strings attached after all this is over…” She steps in the shower, steam billowing around her. “Well, that makes it all easier. And we can both move on after it’s all done.”
“Sure. Sure, we can.” Something deep inside of me drops. It’s a vague, ugly, uncomfortable feeling. Like the disappointment I felt when I was scolded back in grade school. “No strings attached,” I repeat. But the words feel strange and unwieldy in my mouth, like I regret saying them.
I shrug off the feeling.
I’ve lived life for the past three years without a woman. When Tabitha left, that was the end. And when she died, a piece of me died. She was never the love of my life, but she was Brie’s mom.
I’ve told myself a thousand times since then that I was done. That feeling of love—or anything like it—didn’t exist for me anymore. It was easier just to be alone, for good.
But as Skye soaps herself in the shower, water sluicing over her smooth skin, those thoughts seem distant and old.
I take my clothes off and step in the shower behind her, my cock at full mast.
“That’s more like it,” she murmurs, pulling my arm around her waist. My cock rests against the juicy, thick curve of her hip. I want all of her, all at once. Her pussy. Her ass. Her sweet lips, wrapped around my cock.
But for once, I’ll take things slow. Make it all last until the very last moment.
Because when this one’s gone, I suspect she’ll be gone fo
r good. Back to hipster-town in Brooklyn, away from me and all the weight of my past.
Skye
“You’re supposed to live here now,” he says. I balk at that, as I dry off from the shower.
“I’m supposed to live wherever the fuck I want, Liam. Besides, there’s shit I need at my apartment. And stuff I left over at Rhiannon’s. I usually go to Pilates on Sunday. And then I work. On Monday, and the rest of the days of the week. You know, like regular people. I can come back tomorrow night.” I pause. I want to sound cool and noncommittal. “Maybe.”
“Go to Pilates or whatever it is you Brooklyn inhabitants do. If I had known you actually lived there—I might not have invited you up. Or given you the privilege of being my fake girlfriend.” His voice is gruff, and I get the sudden sense that he’s displeased with me. Worse, that feeling makes me unsettled, upset. I try to shove it all down.
“You’re an asshole,” I mutter, but when I look at him he’s smiling. For some reason, that makes me even angrier. The fact that he got to me, that he made me think for a second that he was serious. The fact that I’m even here right now, toweling off in his bathroom, with its yellow paint peeling off the walls. Most of all, I’m angry at myself for taking everything he says seriously.
In the back of my mind, I’m already moving things in. Playing along. Doing the favor that I didn’t know anything about until this morning. And there’s something fucked up about that. Something dangerous. When I think of his hands on my body, I want more. Another fix. Another hit.
And then I want to scream. Yell. Shout and kick the wall.
That’s the thing about Liam Dougherty. He makes me want to throw something at him, right this instant. His empty tube of toothpaste, or his deodorant with its heady scent of pine and spice. But I decide against it, opting instead to dry my hair, and give him a withering glare.
Isn’t that what a real romance heroine would do? Make him guess if she’s interested, keep him on his toes.
The reality is much simpler.
I’m here because I want him, I think. Because last night was incredible. Better, far better, than any night I’ve had in years.
“I’m teasing,” he says. “Or am I?” He slings a towel around his waist and watches me as I shake out my hair and run my fingers through it.
“See, I need a brush. At least. Plus, some people’s girlfriends do occasionally go home.” The word makes my stomach drop. Girlfriend. “Even if his fake girlfriend is moving in for—how long?”
He doesn’t answer directly, which makes me grit my teeth in frustration. “Not mine. We need to impress this bitch’s private investigator. Or whoever she sends around the way. You need to live here. Be domestic and shit.”
“How long am I supposed to stay? To keep your kid away from—her grandmother?” I look over to him, and a corner of his mouth raises into a smile.
“A month or so.” He crosses his arms. I’m aware of them, the sinuous muscle. The strength of his fingers. “And I wouldn’t use the word, ‘grandmother.’ Grandmothers bake cookies and play board games. Knit little flowers and shit. My ex’s mom—she just bullies people.”
“Your ex? Not just a fling?” I keep my eyes locked on him. I want to know. I need to know.
“I don’t talk about her. Not to anyone.” His mouth is terse, and the entire presence of his body changes—harder, angrier. “She’s gone. She can’t take care of Brie. And her mom is a piece of shit.”
“Is she okay with Brie? Like, most of the time?” I ask quietly. “I know you said she wasn’t… kind—”
Liam looks over at me, slapping aftershave on his face. Harshly, like his face owes him money. “She tells Brie she’s not smart enough for kindergarten. That she doesn’t have friends because her parents were junkies. That God hates me and her mom.” He stops and swallows hard, pushing back some emotion I can’t quite place. “And she spanks Brie. Hits her. Not enough for a judge to take away custody just like that. No bruises. Just a little girl who’s scared, who cries. She says her stomach hurts when she sees me. Marta doesn’t hurt her enough that I could even document it properly—not in this burrow anyway. The judges are a little old school here. Spare the rod and all that bullshit. But I was hit. And I’m not planning to let anyone hit my daughter.” He cracks his knuckles. “If I can get her back, I won’t let anyone hurt her again. They’ll have to get through me first.”
“I can’t say I understand. I don’t have kids,” I say, carefully. “But I’ll help you. I’ll try.” I don’t realize that the words are coming out of my mouth until I say them, but there it is.
I do want to help. I think again back to my bed, my nightstand. I can get back to that after this, can’t I? It won’t go away. My life, just as it is, will still be there. And nothing will change. It’s what I tell myself, but as I pull on the gray dress again, his eyes sear into me, and I’m not sure if I’m right or wrong.
“Good.” He glances at me. “I’ve been clean for a year, just so you know. I drink some. And I’ve had my fair share of girls here, but that’s no secret.” He runs his fingers through his thick brown hair. “But I’m not a junkie now. Haven’t been in a long time. I keep myself healthy. Tested. Clean. Like I said.”
I shrug, like it’s no big thing. “Okay. You know, I trust you when I hear you say that this is the best place for her. You don’t have to give me every single reason.”
He steps closer to me, pulling me to him by the waist. He takes me and kisses me hard. These are the actions of a lover, more than a casual fling. The way his tongue finds mine again, the way my body melts into his. But I ignore the alarm bells going off in my head, and instead I focus on the aching warmth spreading through my center.
It’s just sex. And all of this—it’s just a favor.
That’s what I keep telling myself. This is all an adventure, and it’s turned into a way to help someone—a little girl. And her dad. It’s not because of his dark, changeable hazel eyes, hooded with lust, the way they look over my body with hunger. It’s not his lips pressed against mine, or his hand pulling at the strap of my dress so that one shoulder is bared. He kisses me there, and I gasp.
“I do need to get back to my apartment,” I murmur. “Then I can come back. We’ll… talk about all of this later.” He brushes aside my hair and grabs my ass, pulling the other strap of my dress away from my body—abruptly, harshly.
“You said you were in, Skye. Are you?”
I nod slightly. “I am.”
For your sake. For the little girl. And maybe that whole virginity thing I’ve been hung up on for so long. Separately, those seem like terrible reasons. Together, they make one adequate reason. And oh—fuck—what am I agreeing to?
Before I can form a more coherent thought, he kisses me again. He presses into my thigh, his cock hard.
“I need to go.” I swallow.
“You’re coming back,” he says.
“Yeah. I am. Tomorrow. I don’t work on Tuesdays so I can stay—maybe—” I sling my purse over my shoulder and walk to the door without saying anything more. If I say anything else, it might all feel too real. Like we’re making a date or planning something for the future, even if it’s for the very near future. There’s something tugging deep inside of me, something that I don’t recognize. I never felt that way with Charlie. Part of me wants to turn around and stay the rest of the weekend. Let him teach me. Train me. Have his way with me.
“The orgasms are guaranteed,” he says. When I turn to look at him again, he’s peeling an apple, the knife moving in a rhythmic circle. He’s skilled—even at this. I think of those hands. His tongue. This is how he is.
“Good. I guess that’s what got me into this mess.”
He shrugs, looking at me nonchalantly like his tongue wasn’t just deep inside of me. My cheeks grow hot as those hazel eyes land on mine. “This mess. That’s a good word for it.” He pauses. “You know a realtor? Or a property manager or anything? Or anyone who does events?”
“No,”
I say cautiously. “I might know someone who knows someone, though. Why?”
He takes a bite of the apple, and the juice runs over his chin. “With you, I might have a chance of getting my daughter back for good. Full custody. The whole nine.” He takes another bite, and I find myself staring at him, not really listening to his words. “But a six-year-old shouldn’t be living in a shitty apartment above her dad’s bar. We need to find somewhere real to live.”
“Hold up. I thought you said we were living here.?”
He doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve said anything. “Just a little upgrade. An apartment outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Very slightly outside. Nothing fancy. Just functional. You can decorate it with some of your shit from Brooklyn. I’m sure it’s nicer than mine. I know a moving company—”
“Are you fucking serious?”
