Mr. Sugar

by L. D. Fox

  “She invited me to her birthday on Wednesday. Well, until Angel got involved. Now she probably thinks I’m a pedophile or something. You should see how she looks at me.”

  “Wait… so you’ve screwed this chick?” Bryce pointed at the phone in Drew’s pocket.

  “No! Of course not.” He managed a small, unhappy shrug and turned away to stare at the traffic beneath them. “Listen, I didn’t ask for this.” Drew spun to Bryce, stabbing toward him with the cigarette held between his fingers. “She put down roots before I even knew what was happening.” He pressed his fingertips to his chest. “I don’t want her there. She’s distracting me, messing up any chance I had with Kelly. She’s the reason I just had the first fight — ever — with my daughter. If it wasn’t for her…”

  Bryce shrugged, gave him a disarming chuckle, and tossed the rest of his cigarette over the side of the balcony. “You do what you got to do.” He slapped a hand on Drew’s shoulder. “Running lead on that claim’s gonna take up a shitload of your time; can you really juggle that piece of snatch and your neighbor?”

  He wanted to call out after his brother, to tell him he couldn’t call Angel that… but the balcony door closed before he could get anything out.

  *

  Drew left Trent & Morgan in the early afternoon when most of the other adjusters were still out at lunch. It had begun to rain; softly at first and then hard enough that he had to put his windshield wiper on full blast. When he stopped outside the grocer a few blocks from his house, the defogger took a few seconds to kick in before it cleared up the mist on the windshield.

  For a moment, he waited in the car.

  Would he always have to do this? To sit here and wait until thoughts of Juliet finally left his mind and made it possible for him to get out and go inside? It had been this small strip mall she’d stopped at on that fateful day. This grocer she’d run into — rain slashing down as if it had a personal vendetta against every living thing — to get the veggies she needed for dinner. This bakery, where she always grabbed her favorite meal accompaniment; crispy ciabatta.

  Then she’d climbed back in her car. Seven minutes later, Juliet was dead.

  Drew shoved open the car door, and made a run for the grocer. He glanced over the rows of flowers outside and pointed out a bunch of roses to the shop assistant who stopped beside him.

  “Will that be all?” the woman asked, voice raised above the thundering rain.

  “Yup.” Drew took his credit card from his wallet and handed it to the woman, staring out into the curtain of rain falling just shy of the shop’s entrance. “It’s really coming down, isn’t it?”

  “They say it’ll last all week.” The woman handed him back his card. “Drive safe now.”

  Drew nodded slightly and dashed into the rain. The roses went onto his car seat, and he gave his head a dog-hard shake to dry his hair.

  He drove past the corner where Juliet had lost control of her car and had plummeted through the barrier put in place to avoid precisely that kind of thing happening. He could have avoided this turn… but it would have added ten minutes to his driving time; it just wasn’t logical.

  But it would have suppressed the memories of arriving here, on this corner, on that day. He’d been so confused and disorientated by all the commotion. Mesmerized by the colors bleeding into the rain-slicked tar; ambulance, police, firetrucks. All with red and blue and white lights painting the road in smeared flickers. It had been late afternoon, but it had felt like midnight; the overcast sky had been black with rain yet to come, and the wind drove the rain that had already fallen in skin-puncturing flurries against his cheeks as he stood and stared at the hole torn through the barrier.

  Drew blinked hard and forced his eyes away from the barrier; the section they’d replaced was brighter than the rest, and it always drew his eye when he drove past.

  He didn’t stop in his driveway when he arrived home, instead parking his car on the other side of the road. Hopefully, Angel wouldn’t see him coming. He needed a few minutes alone with Kelly. Just enough time to explain. To make her understand he was just a victim of circumstance.

  But he couldn’t explain anything because Kelly didn’t answer her door, even after the fifth knock. Since she always parked in her garage, he had no idea if she was avoiding him, or if she wasn’t home.

  Defeat made his shoulders slump. He set the bunch of flowers on her doorstep and retreated, cutting across her lawn so he could slip into his driveway and sidle along the side of his house. Instead of using the front door, he went around to the back where the pool’s surface danced with rain. He took his keys from his pocket and put them in the lock, but the door was already open.

  He pushed it open and stared inside for a few seconds before stepping inside.

  “Angel?” He took his jacket off, glanced around, and hung it on the closest kitchen stool.

  Whether it was the melodramatic drive home, the fact Kelly hadn’t been home, or the dour mood the rain pressed on him…

  He called out, “Sweetheart? Daddy’s home.”

  8

  Something Nice

  Angel stepped into the kitchen. She hadn’t heard Mr. Sugar’s car pull up. He stood dripping water onto the floor and staring at her with an expression she couldn’t quite define.

  He could have stepped from the pages of a designer magazine with his dark suit pants and his too long hair and that crooked tie. The kitchen light was off. The only illumination came from outside. Filtered through the rain, it was a poor excuse for sunlight. Whether it was the feeble light or the way he tilted his head when she came into the room, his eyes looked black.

  “Hey, Mr. Sugar.” She stepped around the island, letting her fingers run along the surface of the granite counter. “Dropping off my phone?

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes sliding to one of the kitchen chairs. “I drove all the way home just to bring you your phone, sweetheart.”

  She ignored the sarcasm drenching his words, choosing instead to give him a small smile. “I love it when you call me that.”

  “Good,” the man murmured, tugging free his tie and throwing it over the stool he’d been staring at. His jacket was already there, looking damp. “Because it’s the last time you’ll ever hear me say it.”

  She stopped and dropped her chin. “What?”

  “You’re leaving. Today. Now.” Mr. Sugar undid the top button of his shirt and then stabbed a finger into the living room, to the stairs. “Start packing.”

  Angel blinked a few times and then broke eye contact. She moved over to the coffee machine and switched it on. “You seem upset.”

  Wasn’t that the fucking understatement of the century? The man looked like someone’d knifed his tires and then taken a shit on his car’s hood.

  “I don’t see you packing.” It sounded like he was trying to speak through a clenched jaw.

  “If you want me gone so bad, then I’ll go.” She pointed out the window. “But I’m not leaving in this rain.”

  Mr. Sugar came around the kitchen island and grabbed the top of her arm. “Now.”

  She tugged herself free, frowned at him, and took a step back. He was a tall man, more so when he loomed on purpose. “Seriously, could you take this down a notch? I thought we had a—”

  Mr. Sugar grabbed her jaw in a hand, turned, and crushed her against the island with his hips.

  Her heart pounded. Blood pumped hard enough in her veins that she could feel that pulse in her own throat where his thumb constricted her carotid just beneath her jawbone.

  Holy fuck, but his eyes were dark. She almost couldn’t make out where his irises ended, and his pupils began.

  Something haunted those eyes. Something as dark and dangerous as the floor of the Mariana trench at night.

  She wanted to tell him he was hurting her — not that he was — but the grip on her jaw made speech almost impossible.

  Had she really pissed him off this much? He hadn’t been overly upset when he’d left this mo
rning. Had the video call been too much? If she’d timed it right, it would have happened right in the middle of his meeting.

  God, this hadn’t been what she’d expected for Fall break. When Penny had told her she was bailing on their holiday, the one she’d meticulously planned for them, her first instinct had been to bail too. But by then her mom had already made plans. The thought of spending three weeks alone in that one-bedroom apartment that stank of fish — it was either the Asian couple next door or the old Russian lady one floor down that had a penchant for deep-fried flounder — seriously affected her will to live.

  It had been Penny’s idea she still come through. Her thinking that, in a few days, she’d join Angel and they could enjoy a shortened version of their holiday break.

  Then she’d mention the swimming pool.

  The pool had been Angel’s tipping point.

  She could — according to Penny — sunbathe the days away with nary a glimpse of ‘pops’ since her old man apparently worked harder than a beaver during flood season. Angel had been guaranteed no more than a perfunctory hello and perhaps a brief, awkward conversation with the infamous Mr. Sugar.

  A man she remembered vividly from her childhood; laughing and playful and so in love with his wife it made her sick to watch them necking when they thought no one was looking. Over the years, her mental picture of Mr. Sugar had turned into a greying, pot-bellied man with whiskey-veins on his nose and cheeks that would never look good in a suit — no matter how expensive a cut it was.

  Arriving here and mistaking Penny’s dad for some sixties movie star that looked great in black and white or color had been as unexpected as the man’s timidity.

  Mr. Sugar didn’t look the kind to let anyone push him around. He didn’t even look the type to hesitate before barking out an order she would have been powerless to obey.

  Except he was.

  Which meant Mr. Sugar was broken. Something in his past — probably the death of his wife — had destroyed the mechanics that had kept his back straight and his chin up.

  She was compelled to exploit that weakness. Whether it meant she was a survivalist or some kind of amoral opportunist, she could never resist a weak man.

  Everything about him oozed affluence; his house, his clothes, the car he’d given Penny on her sixteenth birthday. The one he’d replaced it with when she’d started university. With no wife and a daughter who was capable of making her own fortune by doing something brainy…

  She couldn’t bear seeing good things go to waste.

  *

  Mr. Sugar leaned into her, smelling of rain-damp skin and cigarettes. The warmth of him washed over her like the air from an oven when you opened it to peek inside at your muffins.

  She couldn’t let him kick her out. Not yet. She didn’t have her nails deep enough in his skin. If he threw her out now, then she’d never know what it felt like to be doted on. To just have to ask. To have whatever you ask for given to you. Just a big smile, and an ‘anything for you, sweetheart.’

  “What makes you think you’re calling the shots?” Mr. Sugar asked quietly.

  Obviously, a trickle of his self-confidence had returned. Which meant it might be time for a different tactic. Something he wouldn’t know was a trap until he was so profoundly ensnared, his freedom would be a distant memory.

  “What?” She managed to inject a light shake into her voice. “I didn’t mean…” And, by leaving just enough of a pause, she made it easy for Mr. Sugar to interrupt her.

  “You manipulative little—” he cut off with a growl that she could feel through his stomach muscles where they pressed against her ribs and breasts.

  She squirmed, grabbed hold of his wrist, and widened her eyes at him. “Please, Mr. Sugar. Let me go. I’ll leave right now, if you want me to.” She glanced to the side, at the streaming rain. “I’ll drive through the rain, even. I’m sure there’s a motel or something…”

  “Why did you come here?”

  Her eyes flashed back to him. She studied him for a second, trying to keep her expression as meek as possible. “I had nowhere else to go,” she whispered. “Honest, Mr. Sugar.”

  “You could have stayed at the university. In your dorm. It’s a pretty long drive to make without knowing if I’d even let you stay.”

  He’d been thinking about this too much. Wondering which rational person would have made the same choices she’d made. That kind of thinking was dangerous; it could lead to the realization that there could only ever have been one reason — the one outcome she’d been banking on.

  “Penny—Penny said you wouldn’t mind.”

  Mr. Sugar opened his mouth, but she rose on tiptoes and tugged hard at his hand. It moved a little, but not enough to free her.

  “I didn’t think you would, either,” she said.

  “You didn’t think…” he trailed off and gave his head a hard shake. “You don’t know me.”

  Angel watched him for a few seconds, trying to take in every inch of his face, his strong neck. Maybe he used to work out — the suggestion of proud muscles were still in evidence on his shoulders and back — but along with his pride, his self-confidence, the need for him to look after himself had vanished too.

  “I don’t blame you; I was easy to forget, back then. Guess it’s true what they say about the ugly duckling.”

  “I… Angel?” Mr. Sugar frowned at her, his eyes searching her face as if trying to locate her younger self in his memory. As if trying to remember the day when he’d handed her a burger with a distracted, lopsided smile on his face. She’d been his daughter’s friend — one of four at that BBQ — and she’d been plump and shy back then. She’d been the only one wearing a full bathing suit while the other girls had all been flashing their skinny bare midriffs like the sluts they were.

  “That BBQ turned into a slumber party. You still made me warm milk when I couldn’t sleep.”

  Mr. Sugar shook his head, blinking hard as if he could force the memory to surface.

  He wouldn’t, of course; there hadn’t been a slumber party that night. No warm milk. That had been another man, another friend’s father. She pushed that thought from her mind with enough force that a frown touched her forehead before she could smooth it.

  The grip she had on his wrist became a caress, but absently, and Mr. Sugar’s only reaction was a slight narrowing of his eyes.

  “I was hoping you’d still be the gentlemen I remember.”

  Those words lingered a lot longer in the air than she’d expected; it took Mr. Sugar several seconds to respond. And, when he did, his voice was rough.

  “I can’t have you here,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s not decent.”

  “Look, if this is about last night…” she shook her head as much as she could, in his grip. “It won’t happen again.” Her voice wobbled, and her eyes were even misting up a little. “I was drunk, okay? I was drunk, and I was lonely, and I—I got the feeling you were lonely too. And you’ve been so nice, letting me stay here, I just thought I could do something for you.”

  He slid his hand over her mouth, wet his lips, and pressed his eyes closed as if he was having a hard time looking at her.

  “Ssh.” When his eyes opened, they weren’t as dark as before but more confused than ever. “You didn’t have to do that, Angel.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. He was barely holding her anymore, but he didn’t take his hand away either. Instead, it slipped down the front of her throat.

  It was impossible for him to resist her. Not when he was already touching her and tasting the air she exhaled. And he was growing hard; no doubt after remembering last night.

  “I should get my stuff.” She shifted a little, purposefully grinding her hip bone against him. His lips twitched, and the grip on her neck tightened.

  She parted her lips, let them tremble a bit. It drew his eyes, held them fixated when she grabbed her bottom lip in a brief, nervous nibble. “Please, Mr. Sugar. I don’t want you to be angry at me. I’ll be
out of here—”

  “Quiet.” His voice was unsteady when he spoke next. “I need to fucking think.”

  But thinking was the last thing she wanted Mr. Sugar to do. So she blinked hard, freeing another tear. Let out a small, pathetic little sob.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “If there’s anything I can do to make this up to you, anything. Just tell me.”

  Those black eyes roved over her face. He moved his thumb, swiping away her tear. When he touched the edge of her mouth, his gaze became stuck again.

  All it took was one more tremble of her lips, and she had him.

  9

  Caramel Vodka

  Drew pressed against the girl hard enough to make her gasp. But the sound was barely out of her mouth before he snatched her mouth with his, leaning into her until her back was almost flush with the marble countertop. She made a sound — it could have been a protest, it could have been passion, who the fuck knew anymore? — and grabbed his shoulders with both hands.

  This time, Angel tasted like caramel and vodka. He kept one hand around her throat, pinning her so she couldn’t wriggle free. He used his lips to stop the flood of false apologies she kept spouting.

  Like he didn’t know she’d been planning this. She must think him an idiot, batting her eyelashes at him and expecting him to bow to her whims like some hormone-driven jock.

  With her held in place just right, he shoved his hand up her skirt and wedged it between her legs.

  Angel’s neck muscles grew tight under his fingertips. Her kiss slowed until his lips massaged a trembling but unmoving mouth.

  Had he paralyzed her with his intention?

  Or had she honestly expected this to end with some light petting and another hand job? If this had been a poker game, Angel had just pushed all her chips across the table. He’d either have to fold… or call her bluff.

  He sure as shit wasn’t folding. Not today.

  He broke off his kiss and pressed his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath.

  Why the hell couldn’t he breathe?