Sins of September

by Graysen Blue

  I take a deep breath and tell him the whole story. At the end, I glance over to read his reaction. A slow grin spreads across his handsome face, and he’s looking at me with love in his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Aw—it’s nothing,” he says, a goofy grin still gracing his full lips. “Just that, well you know what they say: Outta the mouths of babes . . .

  “No, I guess I don’t know. I’ve never heard of that saying before. I don’t get it.”

  He shrugs, “It just means that she’s showing her wisdom, realizing that you’ve become well, sort of a wifey and mother figure around here, I guess.”

  And now I’m really unsettled by it.

  And I know how fucking contradictory this sounds! Hell, all I’ve done is turn into a nester, wanting nothing more than to have Jesse the way Mama had him, to love and to appreciate him the way that she never did. I crushed on Jesse at an early age, but this is different. This isn’t a school crush, this is love.

  But fuck—I’m only eighteen.

  I’m not looking to settle into life as a domestic goddess, I mean, I may never want that. I want a career, I just don’t know as what yet. I want goals to reach, but I’ve neglected to set any yet. I don’t want to be my mother; I only want part of what she had, and that part is Jesse.

  And Scout?

  I’ve always loved my baby sister. And I know she’s come to regard me as her caregiver—but not a mother, certainly not that. I mean at least I don’t think so.

  “I love you, Jesse, and I love what we have. But I think that maybe—”

  And I don’t verbalize the rest of that thought, because he’s on me, and playing my body like a musical instrument, as only he can. Everything else is forgotten. Because once again, Jesse takes ownership of my body and my soul, as he shows me, with every part of his body and soul, just how much he loves and cherishes me. The rest is forgotten for now.

  Chapter 27

  * * *

  I come awake in Jesse’s bed and stretch lazily, feeling content, happy and totally fulfilled. I glance around, and except for me, the bed is empty.

  I throw the covers back and feel around for the red silk nightie he had relieved me of the night before. Finding it at the foot of the bed, I shrug it on over my head just as the bedroom door opens and Jesse comes in, all grins, carrying a tray.

  “And where the hell do you think you’re going?” he asks, setting the tray down on the nightstand. “I’ve got our breakfast here and I plan enjoying mine right next to you in my bed.”

  “You cooked breakfast for me?”

  “Hey, I used to be the chief cook and bottle washer here before June.”

  “Don’t you mean before September?” I ask, giving him a wink.

  “Ha ha.”

  So we feast on Jesse’s famous eggs, bacon, hash browns and biscuits, which is something I never make or we’d all need a new wardrobe.

  Afterwards, we shower together, washing one another in the most intimate places. Jesse washes my breasts at least three times with his tongue and mouth until I finally turn my back to him—not a good move on my part as he delivered a mind-blowing finger fuck to me from behind, his hard-on rubbing deliciously against my ass.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warn as I feel Jesse guiding his erection up and down along my butt crack teasingly.

  “Then back to my bed, woman,” he growls, “because you’ve got me all hot and bothered again.”

  We both run, still dripping wet into his room, diving under the bedcovers, our hands all over one another in the very private places of our still damp bodies. We’re just getting down to business when my cell phone rings on the nightstand where I left it.

  I poke my head out from under the covers, my curiosity piqued because usually it’s Jesse on the other ends of these calls. I want to make sure it’s not Scout since Jesse’s phone is nowhere in the immediate vicinity. I don’t recognize the number, and let it go to my voicemail, diving back underneath the covers.

  “Who is it?” he asks, nipping at my lower lip.

  “Don’t know. Not a number that’s in my contact list.”

  Several moments later, my phone chimes with a voicemail that’s been left. Jesse’s hands are massaging my breasts at the moment, but his focus has diminished.

  “Do you think you need to check it? Maybe it’s Scout.”

  “No,” I assure him. “I have Melissa’s number entered into my contacts on the phone. It’s not her.”

  I get back to kissing him, my hands moving south to grasp my favorite muscle of his, when he interrupts me yet again. “Maybe you ought to check your voicemail. It could be something about Scout and Melissa’s not around. Maybe it’s Jeff’s phone.”

  Jeff is Amber’s father.

  I sigh, stopping my massaging of his dick to climb out from underneath our warm cocoon of covers and grab my cell. I push the button to listen to my voicemail, sitting up abruptly when I hear the voice.

  “Hey September, it’s Evan Summers. Shayla gave me your digits. I was wondering if maybe you’d like to hit the spring dance at school with me next month? Give me a holler, my number is . . .”

  I push delete to erase the message. “It’s no one,” I say, pulling the covers back over us. Jesse’s not buying it. He immediately pulls the covers back and sits up.

  “I’m not buying that shit, who was it?”

  It’s not like Jesse to pry like that. I’m thinking he’s totally joking around, but then asks me again.

  “It’s just some guy from school. Evan Summers. He . . . uh . . . he asked me if I wanted to go to the spring dance next month.”

  “Do you?”

  The hell?

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Why the hell would he ask you?”

  Okay. Now that’s TOTALLY fucked-up.

  “Gosh, I don’t know, Jesse. I guess the chick with the hump turned him down.”

  I pulled my legs out from underneath me and attempted to launch myself from the bed. He’d seriously killed the mood.

  I am immediately hauled back, held prisoner by his strong, muscular arms. I feel his warm breath in my hair, as his hand skims against my forehead. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he explains, giving me a sheepish look. “All I meant is . . . well, I mean is he . . . someone you’re, uh, interested in?”

  I pull myself from his grasp. “Don’t you really mean is he someone I flirt with?”

  His eyes are non-committal; his gaze is aloof, though he’s not totally pulling that one off. “Okay, is he someone you flirt with then?”

  “No,” I say firmly, “And look at you getting all sophomorically jealous like that. I don’t know whether I should feel flattered or disturbed.”

  I’m on my feet; heading to the bathroom to finish drying off and getting dressed. He’s right behind me.

  “Hey,” he says softly, reaching for me to spin me around, “I was totally out of line—and sophomoric. Guilty as fucking charged. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

  And when he looks at me with those sapphire pools of total sexiness, what the fuck am I supposed to do? “I guess.”

  “Good. And by the way—I think you should call Ethan back and tell him yes, you’d love to go to the dance.”

  Huh?

  “What?”

  “No, I mean it,” he replies. “Hey this is your senior year of high school. Dances like this are a rite of passage—something I don’t want you missing out on. I mean, it really makes me feel guilty if you don’t participate in these things.”

  “First off—his name is Evan, not Ethan. Secondly? I’ll think about it.”

  That totally catches him off guard, and I’m glad it did. What the hell is he thinking sometimes?

  Seriously?

  I need to be honest here. Ever since Jesse’s shared things with me—stuff about Mama, it makes me realize just how close I am to morphing into that same type of situation, only different, if that makes sense.

  What are we
doing?

  Am I some twisted Lolita with daddy issues?

  Do I love Jesse because it’s taboo and risky?

  Is this payback to my mother?

  I’m eighteen years old, and yes, that’s the same age Jesse was when he got involved with her, but how did that work out for him?

  Or for her?

  Jesse’s left the bathroom. I shrug my terry robe on and head back to the bedroom.

  He is dressing in silence. He pulls his jeans up, buttoning the fly. His chiseled back, with the serpent sprawled across from shoulder to shoulder is visible and my eyes caress him feeling a sense of pride that my body has possessed his and vice-versa.

  Why in the fuck am I trying to put it all—the past, present and future under a microscope in order to magnify every little thread of it, searching for tears or imperfections to validate that Jesse and I are both damaged goods in some respect?

  Why do I need constant validation that this is a viable, realistic, acceptable thing between us?

  Because I’m eighteen and lately, I’m feeling older inside and maybe that’s not entirely a healthy thing.

  “Jesse,” I say quietly. “Are you serious with what you said about me going to the spring dance?”

  He turns to me, his arms twisting a white cotton tee shirt up and over his head. “I guess I am,” he replies, “But not for the reason you think.”

  I walk closer to where he’s standing. “And what do you think I think is the reason?”

  He sighs, crossing his arms in front of himself. “You think I’m not as involved in this as you, that I’m unsure of my feelings, and that maybe I’m not in it for the long haul. Is that about right?”

  I look up into his blue eyes and see the truth. This is what he actually believes, but it’s only some of what I feel. “Partly,” I reply, looking away.

  He comes up behind me; his hands rest on my shoulders. “Care to clue me in on the rest?” His fingers are gently manipulating my shoulder blades; his closeness is impeding my ability to be perfectly candid, which is what is needed.

  There’s a hitch in my voice when the words come out, making them sound borderline pathetic and feeble. “I’m wondering if you’re not using this rite of passage thing to your advantage—as a way of assuaging your guilt, and maybe to pave the way for your . . . exit.”

  “Guilt? Exit? What the fuck? Do you know me at all?”

  I turn around, placing my hands on his broad chest. At five feet, seven inches, I still have to look up to him. His eyes are searching mine, wanting to understand where I’m coming from and the truth is, I have no idea.

  “I’m unsettled,” I say, because that’s the only way I can describe it in a nutshell. “What are we doing?”

  “What does it feel like we’re doing, September?”

  “Playing house.”

  “Playing house?”

  “Yeah. Temporarily.”

  He closes his eyes when he hears that one, pressing his fingers deeper into my shoulders as if he’s squeezing one of those rubber stress-relieving balls. It kind of hurts.

  “Jesse,” I say, “There’s more.”

  “Let’s hear it,” he breathes, eyes opening a bit, darker blue now.

  “I love you with all of my heart. But I’m not sure I trust love.”

  “Oh baby,” he sighs, lowering his head so that it nudges mine. “You and me? We’re in the same place, I promise.”

  And relief sinks in with that admission. Because I know that Jesse is feeling every bit as vulnerable and exposed as me. His own life experience with love hasn’t been the best.

  “You said Mama was the first woman you ever loved, right?”

  “Ummhmm,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “And then you.”

  My belly tingles, but there’s more I want to know.

  “Were you with a lot of girls—women, I mean sexually before Mama?”

  He chuckles softly. “I guess I was a bit of a man-whore in high school. Kind of typical I guess. But romance didn’t really play a part in that. They were just hook-ups, you know?”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I guess you wouldn’t. You know, you were a bad girl acting like you’d been around a bit with your boyfriend back home and all. I mean, shit—didn’t you think I’d know the damn difference?”

  I bury my face into his white cotton tee, breathing in the fresh scent of the fabric softener I use, and the manly scent of Jesse. “Actually, I didn’t think I was a virgin,” I confess, my cheeks warming a bit.

  “Say what?”

  So I tell him the truth—about Austin being the first. About the bumbling idiocy of the whole episode with him in that hotel that Casey had paid for.

  He’s not pissed and I’m grateful.

  “Look,” he says softly, pulling back so that he can see my face. “I realize that you’ve taken on way more responsibilities that most your age don’t have for several years yet. I don’t want that for you, September. I don’t want to turn you into some replica of your ma, trust me. It wasn’t right then, and it’s not right now. Not for me and not for you.”

  My chest tightens because now I feel like he’s taking a different direction. “Let’s just take it slow, you and me, okay? I meant what I said about enjoying the things you’re supposed to be enjoying at your age. I don’t want you stressing out about Scout, or me or the house. It’s not fair of me to expect you to do it all. We’re all gonna start pitching in around here. You’re not a wife, you’re not a mother—and I’ve basically turned you into one. I’m sorry, baby. You’re right about playing house, but your dead-ass wrong about this being temporary—at least I don’t feel that way. I love you.”

  He lowers his head and kisses me softly, over and over again on my cheeks, my forehead and the tip of my nose. “Things are gonna change. You have my word.”

  Little did I know at that time the full magnitude of his commitment that day. Of course, Jesse had no idea either when he said those words, just how prophetic they would turn out to be.

  Chapter 28

  * * *

  I turn around several times, checking my reflection in the mirror. I’m not one to self-praise, but I seriously rock this dress. I give myself a mental pat on the back for selecting it for the spring dance.

  It’s tight, but not to the point of being skank-like, it’s short, but covers everything that it should. And it’s red, which is seriously at the top of my color palette.

  I’ve flat-ironed my recently highlighted and trimmed hair that now has several shades of blond streaking through it versus just the dirty blond I was born with. It looks “chunky” as one of my new friends at school commented. Her name is Willow, and she dates Evan’s best friend, Chance Martin. We’re double dating to the dance and then the after-party at Chance’s house.

  Yes. You heard me correctly. I accepted Evan’s invite to the dance with Jesse’s blessing and now, I’m thinking with his regrets. I think Jesse forgot—or maybe he never knew from high school—that accepting a date to a formal dance does require some preliminary communication with said date; and some phone calls for the sole purpose of just chatting—as in getting to know one another?

  True to his promise, things have changed at the Ryan household. Jesse has assigned chores to Scout, which he in fact oversees; he’s arranged a cooking schedule for us. Two nights a week he cooks, two nights a week I cook, and two nights a week we either eat out or he brings take-out home. On Sundays we all fend for ourselves with sandwiches or microwaveable stuff.

  He’s even hired a weekly cleaning service freeing up more of my time. All of us pick up after ourselves during the week.

  I started a part-time waitressing job two weeks ago. I work Friday evenings, Saturday lunch shift and Sunday brunch. Twelve hours total per week, but the tips are really good.

  I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Evan should be here any minute. I swallow nervously, not because of Evan—he’s a nice enough guy—but because of Jesse.


  This whole thing seems a bit anticlimactic considering where we’ve been. Comparable to falling out of the looking glass and back into the reality that no longer seems normal or familiar.

  Yet here I stand, recapturing my high school years that Jesse somehow feels he’s taken from me; years that most adults later claim are worth forgetting because of youth being wasted on the young or some such shit.

  I hear the doorbell ring—moments later Scout comes bouncing into my room.

  “Your boyfriend’s here,” she says with an evil little smile. “Dad’s shaking his hand.”

  Lovely.

  I take a deep breath, and head out of my room, down the hallway towards the living room. The only thing that’s gonna make this picture complete is for Jesse to do or say some totally father-like thing in order to turn my face as red as this slip of a dress.

  What the fuck had I been thinking?

  “There she is,” I hear him say in his deep, rich voice. The same voice that moans when I’m pleasuring him, and the same one that whispers crude and filthy tidbits in my ear while we’re fucking.

  Yes. We still fuck. We still make love. None of that is changing anytime soon. Which is why all of this is totally bogus.

  I. Mean. What. The. Fuck?

  Jesse’s eyes are flickering over me now, in a possessive way and I hope like hell Evan doesn’t notice.

  But Evan’s eyes are on me as well. He’s gazing at me appreciatively, but in a way more wholesome manner than that of my stepfather.

  “Hey,” I say to both of them as I close in.

  “Wow,” Evan says, giving me a crooked grin, “You look awesome, September.”

  “Thanks,” I reply trying my best to look demure.

  “This is for you,” he continues, holding out a clear, plastic florist box with a wrist corsage inside. The flowers are red roses nearly the same color as my dress, intertwined with white lilies giving it a spring-like flair.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful, Evan,” I breathe, taking it from him.