Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  “So anyway, we get there and we’re eating and I ask if he wants to see a movie afterwards. I tell him there’s this indie movie showing at Flix Market Cinemas downtown, you know, the one with Joseph Gordon Levitt. And then that turns into this whole thing about how it’s too much walking for him and he has plantar fasciitis and he didn’t wear his supportive insoles . . .”

  I wince. For him, not for her. I feel horrible for this man who clearly has never been on a first date before.

  “And then somehow,” she continues, “it turned into this thing about this birdfeeder he built. I don’t even know how that came up, but apparently he has a wood shop and he’s really handy, and he builds these little wren and finch houses and sells them online for an insane amount of money.”

  “That’s adorable.”

  Keegan’s face falls. “No. It’s not. It’s weird.”

  “Well, I think it’s adorable.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Why can’t he have normal hobbies? Despite all of that, he was really, really handsome. Like we’d make super adorable babies together.”

  “Don’t you think maybe you’re prioritizing the wrong things here?”

  Keegan’s hand flies to her chest, her mauve lips forming an ‘O’ shape. “Oh, god, no. All I want out of life is to be a wife and a mother, and I’m entering prime baby-making years. We have to get this show on the road. I need a man who can support a family, a man whose genes will mix well with mine. Those are basically my only priorities.”

  Glancing at the clock, I see it’s been almost ten minutes now. Those boxes in the storeroom are practically screaming my name, and I so don’t want to answer them.

  “So who is your ideal man?” I ask, pretending to care.

  “Our boss.” Her lips spread into a smile as she answers without any sort of hesitation whatsoever. “He’s perfect. God, is he perfect. Dark hair. Tall. Athletic. Serious but still nice. Intelligent. Everything you’d want in a husband.”

  “Will I ever get to meet him?”

  “Doubtful. He spends most of his time upstairs in his part of the building.” She twirls a finger around an ombre curl and stares blankly out the window on the far wall. “Doesn’t matter anyway. He won’t date staff. He’s made that perfectly clear. There’s an entire chapter on interoffice dating in the Starfire Employee Handbook. Typed it out myself from his handwritten notes. The man has great handwriting. That really says a lot about his attention to detail.”

  “It’s probably for the best. Those kinds of things never end well.”

  Keegan turns to me. “It would never end with him. I’d make damn sure of it. I’d hold on with everything I had. I’d have his babies, and I’d lock him down tight.”

  “Well, since he’s not an option, maybe you should just try to find someone more like him?”

  She blows a sarcastic breath through the side of her lips and cocks her head. “There’s nobody like him. Trust me. I’ve looked.”

  Keegan rises from my desk and gathers her hair in her hand, draping it over one shoulder. “All right. I’ve got a bunch of weddings to RSVP to. Can you get started on scanning, please?”

  My jaw hangs as she walks to her desk. I noticed last week that it never seemed like she was very busy, but the fact that she flat out admits it, like it’s nothing, is infuriating.

  This isn’t right.

  I really, really hate this job.

  And I hate that Keegan is my boss.

  Making my way to the storeroom, I grab the next box and lug it to the copy room.

  I could call the temp agency and tell them it’s not working out here. I could ask for another placement. But there’s no guarantee they’d be able to find something for me as soon as possible, and besides, the last thing I need to do is come across like I’m the one who’s hard to work with. They’ll blacklist my file quicker than I can say curriculum vitae.

  My morning is filled with hours of repetitive scanning, and my afternoon consists of watching the clock between my tedious electronic filing. By the time I’m placing the hard files into the filing cabinet at the end of the day, the sound of Keegan laughing and chatting on the phone wafts past her desk and into the storeroom.

  I don’t think she’s worked a damn hour all day today.

  I should have her job.

  “Mary.” Keegan’s voice scares the bejeesus out of me when I’m halfway through filing the M-P box.

  I glance up, forcing a smile on my face.

  “I’m leaving a little early today,” she says, checking the time on her phone. “I have a wax and then I’m meeting some friends for happy hour at Slate Bar.”

  “Have fun,” I mutter, turning my back toward her and grabbing another stack of files.

  “Good job today,” she says, lingering for reasons unknown.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I feel her energy behind me.

  “I just wanted to say,” she says, “that I’m enjoying having you around.”

  I stop filing and turn to look at her again.

  “The last temp we had,” Keegan continues, “did nothing but complain the whole time. You never complain. And you let me vent to you this morning about my weekend, and that meant so much to me. So thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “This is going to be a really weird question, and I’m not asking you this, you know, on the job. This is off the record. This is a personal question. Friend to friend.” She picks at her taupe-colored nails and shifts her weight to one foot.

  “Okay?”

  “Are you married?”

  “I’m divorced, why?”

  “I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries here,” she says, “but my parents are divorced and my dad is single, and he’s really lonely, and I feel like the two of you might really hit it off.”

  It takes all the strength I have to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. Keegan doesn’t know me. How would she know her dad would like me? And what makes her think I’d even want to be hooked up with her dad?

  “I feel like you’d be a really cool stepmom,” she says, her lips pulling at the corners. “I mean, you’d be like one of those young stepmoms. I know you’re not old enough to be my mother, but my dad is really progressive and hip, and he’s in his early sixties but he looks so much younger. I think he’d adore you. He likes to date younger women. I mean, not super young. Just younger than him.”

  Young enough to be his daughter?

  I’m incapable of forming a sentence right now. My brows lift and I smile and I stare off to the side, waiting for the right words to show up, but they never do.

  “Just think about it,” she says. “His name is Eugene, and he lives here in Seattle.”

  “I’m very grateful that you think so highly of me, Keegan,” I say, “but I’m not ready to jump into any kind of commitments right now.”

  She places her hand on her heart. “Totally get it. Just wanted to put that out there. Think about it, and if you ever want me to set you up, just let me know.”

  Keegan exhales, as if the proposition had been weighing heavily on her mind all day, and then gives me a wave before turning on her heel and leaving for the day.

  I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended, so I decide to be both.

  The one thing I never prepared myself for after going through with the divorce was the overabundance of people constantly wanting to set me up. I can’t, for the life of me, understand why everyone thinks I’m unhappy being single.

  I’m totally fine.

  I’m not lonely – I’m just adjusting.

  As soon as I finish filing the last of the hard files, I lock up the store room and head to my desk. Watching the clock, I wait until it’s exactly five o’clock before locking up the rest of the office and heading toward the elevators.

  I pass a man in a suit on my way, and his cologne fills the humid hallway we share. It’s familiar, like spice and soap, and in that half-second I’m transported to Friday night, standing in the parkin
g lot with Dante.

  I’ve managed to go most of today without thinking too much about him. Sure, a thought or two have slipped through here or there, but nothing too intrusive. For all intents and purposes, I’m moving on like nothing happened.

  And if I want to get technical here, nothing has happened.

  Chapter 10

  Maren

  I park my car in Nathan’s driveway Monday night. His garage door is open and Lauren’s white Audi is MIA. Six months of transporting the kids back and forth and she always seems to do a good job of making herself disappear when she knows I’m coming around.

  A minute later, I’m ambling up the paved sidewalk and ringing the doorbell. I hear Nathan yell for the boys and then I hear the tromp of Beck’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

  “Mom!” Beck practically jumps in my arms after swinging the door wide open. A quick glance over his shoulder, and I spot Dash sitting in a chair in the nearby living room, his ankle still iced and resting on an ottoman.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, making my way over with Beck hanging on my side like a wild monkey.

  I pass a pale pink floral arrangement on the coffee table. Must be one of Lauren’s touches. Even the sofas are light cream. Nathan never would’ve let me decorate our house the way I wanted. This entire McMansion feels like the type of place a 1920s Hollywood starlet might want to live. Everything is shiny and ornate and glam, and there are chandeliers in places that don’t need chandeliers.

  “Hey.” Nathan appears from around the hall corner. He keeps back a careful distance, shoving his hands into the pockets of the kind of expensive jeans he never would’ve worn a year ago. A v-neck white t-shirt clings to his body, showing off the fact that he’s dropped a few pounds, and the salt and pepper flecks around his temples have clearly been tinted dark. Funny how I didn’t notice any of this Friday night at the hospital. “Boys, you have your bags? Beck, carry Dash’s.”

  My phone buzzes in my bag. And then it buzzes again. I stand back as Beck hoists their bags over his shoulders. For an eight-year-old, the kid has muscles. He’s almost stronger than Dash. Dash is going to be tall and willowy, and he’s a runner. Beck is going to be my linebacker, all speed and agility and brute-force muscles.

  “Ready, boys?”

  My phone buzzes again. Whipping it from my purse, I check the screen really quickly to make sure it’s nothing urgent. Expecting to see Saige’s name across my screen, my heart catches in my throat when I see that it’s Dante.

  DANTE: FINE. IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO ANSWER YOUR PHONE OR CALL ME BACK, I’LL TEXT YOU THE STORY. IT’S A DAMN GOOD STORY AND SOMEONE OUGHT TO FINISH IT. SO I WILL. EVEN IF I HAVE TO DO IT BY MYSELF.

  A second message reads, LAST WE LEFT OFF, MY LIPS WERE PRESSED AGAINST YOUR COLLARBONE AND YOU WERE REACHING FOR MY COCK, YOUR HIPS GRINDING AS YOU SILENTLY PLEADED FOR THE ONE THING YOU WANTED MORE THAN YOU’VE EVER WANTED ANYTHING BEFORE.

  Buzz, buzz.

  My cheeks redden, deeper, hotter, and my jaw falls.

  He sends another: YOU’RE NAKED, BACK TO THE WALL. I’M BITING KISSES INTO YOUR SOFT FLESH, LOWERING MYSELF TO YOUR BREASTS. I TAKE A NIPPLE BETWEEN MY TEETH, BITING AND SUCKING, AS MY HANDS SLIDE DOWN YOUR HIPS AND CUP YOUR ASS, GIVING IT A HARD SQUEEZE TO REMIND YOU THAT IN THIS MOMENT, YOU BELONG TO ME.

  “Mom?” Dash asks. He’s standing across from me now, bracing himself on the back of the sofa, steadying a pair of crutches under his arm.

  “Maren, you all right?” Nathan asks, studying my face.

  Buzz, buzz.

  NEXT, I HOIST YOU UP, WRAPPING YOUR LONG LEGS AROUND MY SIDES. YOUR FINGERS WRAP AROUND THE BACK OF MY NECK AND YOU PRESS YOUR FULL LIPS AGAINST MINE. OUR TONGUES MEET AND YOU GRIP ME HARDER. I CAN’T WAIT TO TASTE YOU. I CAN’T WAIT TO TASTE WHAT I’VE DONE TO YOU…

  My heart races so fast the room spins, and I feel like I’m breathing through a straw. Nathan, Dash, and Beck are all staring at me, quizzical looks on their faces.

  “Everything okay?” Nathan moves closer, his hand reaching for my shoulder, and I press my phone against my chest and step away before he has a chance to touch me.

  “Yeah,” I say, breathy. “Yes. Everything’s fine. Boys, let’s go.”

  Buzz, buzz.

  I don’t remember walking from Nathan’s front door to the car. I don’t remember what the boys were bickering about when they climbed in. I don’t remember what Dash said he wanted for dinner. All I can think about is getting home and reading the rest of the texts.

  “Mom, you said we could have chicken for dinner,” Dash whines as we pass his favorite restaurant several miles later.

  “Oh, shoot. I’m sorry.” I make a right turn and head back, grabbing a quick drive-through dinner because in my current state of mind, I’m not sure I should be working with heat or fire or anything that requires me to pay close attention to important things.

  Buzz, buzz.

  I managed not to look at my phone the entire duration of dinner. It felt wrong and unnatural to get myself all worked up while my kids were seated across from me chowing down on Southern roasted chicken, coleslaw, and golden, flaky biscuits.

  It required the patience of a saint, but I managed.

  But they’re in bed now, and my body is filled with livewire that I feel from my hair follicles to the tips of my toes.

  Settling beneath the covers, I pull up my text messages and read the rest.

  . . . I CARRY YOU TO YOUR BED AND LAY YOU DOWN GENTLY. GOD, I CAN’T TAKE MY EYES OFF YOU. YOUR FINGERS TRAIL DOWN MY ARMS AND STOP AT MY BELT, AND OUR EYES LOCK. YOUR HANDS FIND MY THROBBING COCK, AND YOU SIT UP, PRESSING YOUR LIPS AGAINST THE TIP AND TAKING THE LENGTH ONE SLOW INCH AT A TIME. I’M FUCKING YOUR MOUTH, MY HANDS ARE TANGLED IN YOUR HAIR, BUT IT’S YOUR PUSSY I WANT. YOUR SWEET, TIGHT, ACHING PUSSY . . .

  . . . I’M GOING TO FUCK YOU SO HARD, MAREN. YOU’RE GOING TO BE SCREAMING MY NAME. BEGGING FOR MORE. BUT FIRST I WANT TO TASTE YOU. I PULL MY COCK FROM YOUR WET LIPS AND YOU FALL BACK AGAINST THE COVERS, BODY TREMBLING AND WATCHING MY EVERY MOVE . . .

  . . . LOWERING TO MY KNEES, I SPREAD YOUR THIGHS APART, AS WIDE AS THEY’LL GO, AND I RUN A PALM FROM BETWEEN YOUR SWOLLEN BREASTS TO YOUR QUIVERING STOMACH, TO THE APEX BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS . . .

  . . . SLIPPING A FINGER BETWEEN YOUR SLICKNESS, I FEEL YOUR WARMTH, AND THEN I BRING YOUR TASTE TO MY LIPS, WEARING THE SMILE OF A MAN WHO’S ABOUT TO HAVE THE PLEASURE OF SATISFYING THE SEXIEST WOMAN HE’S EVER SEEN IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE. AND BELIEVE ME, THIS MAN IS INCREDIBLY PICKY ABOUT WHO HE GIVES HIS “ATTENTION” TO . . .

  My heart gallops, and a slick heat between my thighs pulses. There’s an ache below that can’t be stifled.

  Damn him.

  . . . I DEVOUR YOUR PUSSY. I TASTE YOU. I FUCK YOU WITH MY TONGUE AND PENETRATE YOU WITH MY FINGERS. YOU CLENCH AROUND ME, FIGHTING THE URGE TO COME AS IT HITS YOU IN WAVES ALMOST TOO POWERFUL FOR YOU TO RESIST . . .

  . . . AFTER A WHILE, YOU REACH FOR ME, PULLING ME OVER YOU AND YANKING MY SHIRT FROM OVER MY HEAD. OUR BODIES PRESS TOGETHER AND OUR LIPS MEET AGAIN, YOUR HANDS SLIDING DOWN MY SIDES AS I BRACE MYSELF OVER YOU. YOU FEEL THE TEASE OF MY COCK GRAZING YOUR SWOLLEN WARMTH, AND YOU SIGH. I GET HARDER JUST LOOKING AT YOU, THAT WARM GLOW IN YOUR CHEEKS AND THAT DESPERATE PLEA IN YOUR EYES . . .

  . . . I PULL YOUR THIGHS HIGHER AND BURY MY COCK INSIDE YOU WITH ONE HARD THRUST . . .

  I sit my phone aside for a second, giving myself time to gather my thoughts and breathe for a second. There’s a seldom-used purple vibrator hidden in my top nightstand drawer, and in a single hasty second, I lunge for it and pray to God my boys are asleep.

  . . . I’M FUCKING YOU, MAREN. I’M FILLING EVERY INCH OF YOU WITH EVERY INCH OF ME, AND I’M SO DAMN HARD FOR YOU. YOU FEEL MY BODY RISE OVER YOU, MY HEAT WARMING YOU FROM THE INSIDE OUT. YOUR BREASTS GRAZE MY SKIN, YOUR NIPPLES HARD AND BEGGING TO BE SUCKED AND BITTEN. YOUR MOUTH IS HALF-OPEN, SILENTLY PLEADING FOR ANOTHER KISS, ANOTHER DANCE WITH MY TONGUE, AND I HAPPILY OBLIGE . . .

&n
bsp; . . . I ROLL US OVER AND YOU RIDE MY COCK. YOUR HIPS CIRCLE AND GRIND, AND YOUR HANDS CUP YOUR BREASTS. WITH YOUR EYES SQUEEZED TIGHT, YOU RIDE ME HARDER AND FASTER. I GRIP YOUR HIPS, PUMPING INTO YOU UNTIL WE FIND OUR PERFECT RHYTHM . . .

  . . . NEITHER ONE OF US WANTS TO STOP. SO WE DON’T. WE FUCK FOR HOURS. LIKE FUCKING TANTRIC RABBITS. ONCE WITH YOU ISN’T ENOUGH. I NEED YOU AGAIN AND AGAIN. I NEED MORE OF YOU. ALL OF YOU. WE FUCK ALL NIGHT, AND WHEN IT’S OVER, WE CRASH, OUR BODIES SPENT. AND IN THE MORNING, WE DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN . . .

  My vibrator rests lifeless beside me. I haven’t the courage to switch it on just yet. In fact, I’m lying here, simultaneously paralyzed and deeply aroused. I’m not sure my Jack Rabbit could do any of this justice. Plus, I can’t do it out of principle. This is exactly what he wants. This would be letting him win, and I’m not quite ready to raise my white flag just yet.

  Sitting up, I catch my breath, gather my thoughts, and for some completely insane reason, decide to call him.

  Chapter 11

  Dante

  I’m standing in the center of my gutted kitchen when Maren calls. A smirk claims my face. She clearly read the texts.

  “Do I have your attention now?” I answer the phone.

  “Good god, Dante . . .”

  She’s breathless.

  “Clearly I’m no poet,” I say. “I’m not that creative, and I know my story was far from perfect, but those are all the things I would do to you. If you let me.”

  “Nobody’s ever said those kinds of things to me.” Her voice is lower than usual, more hushed. “You made my body feel things it hasn’t felt in years.”

  “If that’s the case, imagine how the real thing would make you feel.” I step past a ladder and over a maze of extension cords. Earlier this year, my fiancée and I parted ways, and I got a wild hair to do a bit of renovating. This place is my pride and joy, and her scent was everywhere. I just didn’t want it to feel like her anymore. I wanted it to feel like home. Like my home.

  I step out of the kitchen and check the trim work in the foyer, running my hand along the smooth, freshly sanded railing. A trail of sawdust footprints follows me, and I head for the front door to switch off the lights and lock up.