by Ruby Lang
Of course, now she couldn’t exactly remember what kind of person she had thought he was, because over the course of a handful of conversations in which she bossed him about his minor injuries, and he made fun of her eating habits, she could not imagine not seeing the angles of him. It had been there from the start: the easy way he laughed at himself, his refusal to back down from her—but she had refused that, and now she wondered how she could have been so blind. He wasn’t noisy, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have mental strength. He didn’t assert himself in an obvious way, and she had been content to go with her own story of him. But he had been there, all along, his bass notes playing the counterpoint to her wheedling melodies, until finally she acknowledged him, until finally they approached the middle.
• • •
Adam was home, at the farm, and he had been up early. Cows didn’t stop for Christmas, and besides, he had volunteered his services. His nephews had woken in anticipation of presents. They were whooping around the living room, shooting each other with rocket blasters and pelting action figures at each other. The sound of sturdy feet running back and forth and soft thuds as volleys of tiny, crushable, easy-to-lose plastic weapons carpeted the family room. Half-transformed robots stuck up like buoys from between the couch cushions. Despite his tiredness, he really did feel like the best uncle ever.
Outside, it was still dark, but the house was ablaze with light. His dad was sitting in an armchair in the den, watching TV at a high volume. He hadn’t run the farm in years, now. “But let’s not talk about politics on a day like this,” said the news anchor. He began to talk about politics.
They sat silently for a while, Adam and his dad, drinking weak coffee from chipped mugs. It was probably impossible to converse over the sound of the program anyway. And they had never been much for chatting.
His dad looked a little better, actually. He had always been tall, but he had put on a little weight so that he didn’t have the shriveled pocket mouth that the older members of the Magnus family sometimes got. Adam hadn’t expected retirement to agree with the old man.
Helen’s father had barely gotten to enjoy his retirement. He wondered what Helen was doing with her father and her family. He wondered how she was coping.
He’d looked up female athlete triad when they’d gotten off the phone.
As he tuned out the voices coming at him from the TV, the shouts of his nephews, the crash of pans from the kitchen, he started to feel angry on her behalf.
So much about her was thrown into relief with every conversation they’d had: her regrets, her fierce desire to protect people from illness, her fear about her father. She had not known what was going on; she had been helpless. She had been alone and young in a strange city. She thought she was cosseted in the glass world of ballet, and that all she had to do was work hard and be talented, but her body had eaten away at itself, and the protection of her art had been no protection at all. She had lost what she wanted to do and forced herself to start over. She was strong, but frankly, he was angry that she had to be strong.
It was funny how she could be completely blunt with him and yet so guarded. Maybe it was because he already knew her on some level. She hadn’t sounded like herself last night. Seeing her father, having endless rounds of conversation with her mother and brother were wearing her down. She didn’t have her usual snap. He had begun to be able to interpret the moods of her pauses and avoided answers. Skimming his fingers over the bumps of their conversation, he read the sadness underneath.
Maybe he should call her.
His father interrupted his thoughts. “Your team isn’t very good,” his father said. “But, like I always told you, it’s better to work hard than to be talented. Or smart.”
His father had said nothing of the sort. He’d barely spoken ten words to him in the last two decades. This already seemed like the longest conversation they’d ever had. Adam had no idea why it was happening. Then again, he’d never really hung out with his dad. There had always been too much to do in the mornings. Maybe the long days ground his father down into a little nub.
Adam sipped his coffee.
“I’ll be retiring pretty soon,” he said, testing out his dad’s reaction.
His father grunted.
“Although, the owner, Yevgeny Molotov, said he’d consider me for some work in his organization.”
“Billionaires.” His father spat the word out. “Everyone throws that number around now. That kind of wealth is mirrors and shadows. You can’t sink your future into that.”
Well, that wasn’t too encouraging.
“I could give you a share of the farm,” his father said conversationally.
Adam didn’t know if the man even knew what he was saying. The farm was his sister’s. She’d been working it for years. Her whole life was in it. Somehow, No, thanks, didn’t quite seem adequate. Although it would have been as casual as his father’s dismissal of his sister’s work. “It belongs to Jennifer and her family, Dad. I’m also applying to go back to school,” he added.
His father grunted again.
Luckily, his nephew scrambled on top of the couch. “This popped out, Uncle Adam.”
The kid held up a figurine and a leg. He’d only received it this morning. Adam took the leg and the plastic torso and peered at it. Were his eyes going, along with everything else? He put the pieces together and squeezed gently, afraid of breaking the toy. Nothing happened.
“Here, let me,” his father said gruffly. Dad’s hands were surprisingly steady. “There’s one thing I can still do around here.”
But he looked pleased, and Lyle was pressed up against his grandfather’s leg now, explaining about the superhero’s powers. The kid talked a mile a minute, and here, Dad’s grunts seemed entirely appropriate. Those two really liked each other, Adam realized, looking at the two heads now close together. Maybe his dad had found his place, after all. It had taken him a few wrong turns, but life had given his father many chances.
Unexpectedly shaken by the thought, Adam got up. He was going to make his way to the kitchen when his phone rang. It was Helen. It was really early in Vancouver, Canada. “Merry holiday,” she said. “Greetings of the goddess upon you.”
“Are you waving pine branches around and wearing a bedsheet?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know what I’m wearing?” she said, her voice thick and dark.
Oh. It was that kind of conversation. He smiled.
“We could Facetime,” Adam said.
“It’s too dark here, and I’m not turning on any lights. My mother has a sixth sense about this kind of thing.”
His nephew, Jake, whirred past him. He needed to find a more private spot, but with everyone gathered at the house, that seemed unlikely. His brother-in-law was in the basement watching that hockey movie with Kurt Russell in very loud jackets; his mother was in the kitchen basting obsessively; and his sister was yelling at the kids, wrangling the dog, and holding scraps of wrapping paper. He had two choices: He could go outside and maybe into one of the outbuildings and possibly freeze to death, or he could go to his room, which, thankfully had changed since he’d last inhabited it. At least he wouldn’t feel like a teenager masturbating furtively in his room.
Now he was an adult about to masturbate furtively in his room—that is, if he was lucky.
“Where are you now? Isn’t it awfully early?”
“I’m in the guest room. Everyone’s still asleep. No kids to wake us up. Although, I think they’re thinking of adopting. They’re going to have to loosen up, though. I don’t think that white suede couch is going to stand up very well to grubby hands.”
“How is your dad?” he asked.
“Sleep disturbances, probably due to his new surroundings, accompanied by the expected deterioration of his motor skills,” she said distantly.
“And your mom?”
“Fine. Worried. But relieved.”
A pause.
“So, what are you wearing?” she asked.
<
br /> “A red bow and a sprig of mistletoe between my teeth?”
“Nice. Where’s the bow?”
“It’s strategically placed across my left shin, of course.”
Helen laughed, a light tapping sound. He tried to hold the phone tighter to his ear as he checked the lock of his door.
“What are you really wearing?” she asked.
“Jeans, a plaid shirt.”
“Farm boy fashion. Are you buttoned all the way to the top, or can I see a little of that chest fuzz peeking through?”
He settled on the bed and looked down. “Some hair. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“It feels a little weird,” she admitted. “But I need this.”
An answering yearning twisted inside him.
“Okay, then let’s just go slow. We’ll narrate as much as we can. We have all morning, if we need to.”
He heard a little rustling.
“I was taking off some of my clothing,” she said. “I’m getting under the sheets.” She laughed shakily. “God, I feel like I’m broadcasting. It seems so loud.”
“No one else can hear us just talking. It’s not like we’re on walkie-talkies, where we have to end everything with, Roger this, roger that, roger yourself.”
She sighed, and his already stirring cock stiffened. “I know,” she said. “But I’m going to hide my head under the covers anyway.
“Are you naked?” he asked, gritting his teeth. It had been far too long since he’d seen her naked.
“I’m wearing a tank top.”
“Is it tight?”
“Oh, so tight.”
“What is it about hearing you say that, even when I know you’re joking, that makes me feel like I’m going to burst?”
“Burst how?”
“Like I have no more blood or muscle left in the rest of my body, like I have no more thoughts, like the planet begins and ends with my balls and their gravitational pull. And your voice is the warm currents of air, wafting over them.”
It was her turn to suck in a breath. “I don’t know whether that’s astoundingly vulgar or poetic or just plain full bullshit.”
“Probably all of that. I feel full of everything right now, but still unsatisfied.”
She laughed, another puff of breath that he could almost feel over his cheek. His grip on the phone tightened, and he moved his fingers over it convulsively.
“Are you unzipped?”
He was, but he wasn’t touching anything. It would be too much.
He tried to divert.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Flapping the covers,” she said. “I’m trying to get a little air under here. I don’t want anyone to hear, but it’s too hot and it’s dark and I’m damp and I feel like I’m a teenager doing something illicit.”
“Lick your fingers,” he said.
He could almost imagine the parting of her lips, the press of her nail on her pliable tongue, the click of wetness on the pad of her fingers, one, after another, after another.
“Draw your fingers down your neck, trail them down to your nipple,” he said.
“I’m circling it,” she whispered.
“I’m taking it in my mouth and sucking and nipping. And now I’m moving down your stomach. I’m licking your belly button.”
He had to unzip and touch himself now. “Imagine my hands sliding down your thighs. I love your thighs, that long deep groove of muscle along the side. If I smooth my thumbs along them just right, I can make your legs fall open.”
“They’re open,” she said.
“Can you see my head between your legs?” he said.
“Your blond hair. I always think it’s going to be spiky, but it’s so smooth, and it springs up against my hand as I smooth it back, a thousand tiny touches.”
She sounded soft and helpless. He was trying to hold back, but his hand pumped his cock faster and faster.
“Imagine your hand on my head, my tongue and lips kissing your sweet clit.”
“It’s not really sweet, is it?”
“Sweet as honey crisp apples, sweet like maple syrup and birthday cake with rainbow sprinkles.”
She snorted, which was maybe not the reaction one wanted to elicit during phone sex.
“Scratch that. You taste more sort of ... elemental,” he added. “Bring your fingers up so you can find out for yourself,” he said.
Her breathing was audible now and a little unsteady. “I’m licking my own fingers,” she said, a laugh in her voice. “I didn’t think I’d like it. But I’m pretending it’s your tongue on me. You’re looking at me, pausing to describe what I taste like without giving me a hard time. Then winking at me.”
“I sound like a cocky devil. Are you sure it’s me you’re picturing?”
“Yes,” she said on another breath. “Yes, it’s definitely you. Your pale eyes, your big hands curving over my thighs, your mouth, your lips, your tongue in me.”
Oh, he felt that one. So did she.
“I want you to fuck me,” she hissed, almost adamant. “I wish I could feel you inside me.”
“Fuck yourself. Use your fingers.”
“I am.”
They were both moving faster now; they were getting louder and trying to restrain themselves. A few incoherent sounds came from him, and he almost dropped the phone.
And then, to his relief, he could hear her come right then, her gasping, the sheets flapping against the receiver as she bucked. And he turned himself over and buried his face into a pillow, grabbing it with his teeth to muffle the sound, and he came into the clean cotton duvet.
Apparently, he’d have a late night of secret laundry.
He couldn’t wait to get back to Portland.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“You’d think a neurologist would be better at avoiding a concussion,” her patient Mr. Lake sniffed, by way of welcome.
She had spent enough time in Vancouver. A few more days of wandering restlessly around downtown, shopping with Gordon and her mother, brooding with her father, and talking as quietly with Adam as she could manage. And now she was back and healed, and it all seemed a lifetime ago that she had missed that last appointment with Mr. Lake. He seemed unlikely to let her forget it.
“Well, I wasn’t trying to get cracked in the head with a bat,” Helen said. “How have you been this month?”
“You knew the dangers,” Mr. Lake insisted, opening his eyes wide. “Softball can be a very hazardous sport, notwithstanding the name.”
She was never going to live this down, she thought, jabbing grimly at her iPhone. “Let’s take a look at your headache diary,” she said.
At the end of the exam, she walked Mr. Lake out and found Adam standing outside her door. Her heart gave a painful throb as they just stood and stared at each other.
“Look, it’s your nemesis, the big goon. Here to finish the job?” Mr. Lake asked.
Sarah took the wrong moment to stride out of her office. She took a wide-legged stance in the hallway, her eyes darting between Mr. Lake and Adam. Clearly, she sensed something was up. She came, maybe, up to Adam’s elbow.
“Everything okay here?” she asked Helen.
Adam looked over Sarah at her, and Helen’s chest squeezed painfully. “Everything’s fine,” she croaked.
After talking to Adam for so long on the phone, it was almost difficult to be faced with his immense physical presence. She had forgotten about the golden haze of stubble that made his jaw seem to glow, his arms, his lips, the phosphorescence of his pale eyes as they took her in. He was magnificent. She should probably save him from Mr. Lake, though.
“Helen can take care of herself,” Adam was saying, half amused, half fearful.
“Doc Frobisher is Canadian,” Mr. Lake said.
“Are you really trying to convince a hockey player that Canadians are a peaceful, unaggressive people?”
Her patient still looked tense. Helen said, “Mr. Lake, despite the rumors you may have heard, Adam’s
a ... a friend. We’re not really enemies, even though we sometimes debate each other. It’s, ah, healthy disagreement.”
Adam flitted his eyes over at her and quirked his mouth. She was turning red. She hardly ever blushed, and so she had never realized how uncomfortable it was. Even her shoulder blades pricked with heat. She was going to set the office on fire, and the water cooler was at least three feet away from her.
“I got in early. Your office is near my apartment. I thought I’d just drop in and see ... you,” Adam said.
“Oh. I see how it is,” Mr. Lake said.
Mr. Lake didn’t move.
At least Sarah was enjoying the show, though. She was trying to stifle a giggle even as Helen grew more uncomfortable. Sarah flicked her gaze at Adam and gave him an I see you and I’m going to ask you a million questions later smile before shutting herself in her office. They all heard her chortle from behind the door.
Mr. Lake on the other hand showed no signs of leaving. He had been Helen’s last patient of the day. “Erm, so you’ve already got your next appointment scheduled?” Helen asked him.
“I do, Doctor.”
“And ... you have any questions for me?”
“No. I’ve got the drill down.”
Helen nodded. “Great.” She thought for a minute. “Well, have a good night, Mr. Lake.” She turned to Adam. “Mr. Magnus, would you like to come into my office?”
“Your entire crew is made up of elderly patients and tiny women,” he said in her ear.
“Pretty much.”
She opened the door for him and let him enter first.
They stood still for a minute.
“Do you think they’re still listening?” Adam whispered.
He took a step toward her and brought up his hand to the side of her breast, his fingers hesitating just short of her coat.
“That’s a bold move,” she murmured, stepping into his grasp.
She put her hand on his chest. “It’s nothing compared to what I want to do with you,” he said, stroking her softly. “I wasn’t quite sure what my reception would be, just showing up, but at least your friends out there took care of the awkwardness.”
