Set In Stone

by Rachel Robinson

  “Excuse me, Vivian. Let me find out what Ms. Sterns needs from me and I’ll be back,” Steven says, voice sending shivers to my core. How did Maverick know? It looks and sounds as if this deal is already closed. Steven rises from his seat, turning his gaze to the companions at my table.

  “What do you want?” he growls as soon as we’re out in the hallway and the music fades away. I wince.

  Glancing down the hallway, I see an employee exit a room with a fur stole in his hand: a coat closet. It will have to do. Grabbing his hand, I drag him behind me, unwilling to talk to him in a place so public. This is not going how I imagined it.

  When the door of the coat closet closes behind me, I lock it and lean against it, trying to catch my breath and steel my nerves. The scent of his cologne wraps around me, his brown eyes are wounded, his posture is strong—solid. Everything about him is unsure and cautious, and I don’t have anyone to blame except for myself. He takes in a deep breath of his own and lets his gaze wander from my face to my body and back up. He closes his eyes as if my mere presence brings him pain. In return, it causes me indescribable agony.

  “There are a million things I should say right now, Steven. I’m going to say something and hope that you’ll honor it.” He opens his eyes and tilts his head, signaling his impatience.

  I hit my knees in the floor length evening gown. It’s harder than it was years before, but I make it without injuring myself. Clasping my hands together, I beg, “Forgive me. God, just forgive me for being so cold and so callous. I did everything wrong, Steven. I took your love for granted. I took my love for you for granted. I didn’t swallow life whole. I merely chewed up what I wanted and spit out the rest. I know that sounds weird and stupid, but it’s not. I’m so, so sorry for hurting you. I broke up with you because I was afraid to lose you...and myself. Again. I know how that barely makes sense, but I want you. I want you.” I hang my head, because the pain etched on his face is the stuff my nightmares are made of. My tear drips down onto the red, swirled carpet.

  My eyes are glassy when I raise my chin. “I’m asking you to please forgive me, and I don’t want anyone inside of me unless it’s you.” My smile is weak; his face is grim. He looks to the side where a long row of coats and fur jackets line the wall.

  “Stand up, Morganna,” he says extending a hand to me. I take it and stand, mere inches separating our bodies. I wait. And then I wait more. When he finally looks at me, he bites his lip and shakes his head sadly.

  “Did you ever look at me and actually see me?” His eyes turn down at the corners. His pain is fierce. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be enough for you, M.” Taking several deep breaths, he watches my lips as they tremble, afraid of what will come out of his mouth next.

  “I’ve always seen you, Steven. I saw you before you saw me! Before I was even a dot on your radar!” My voice is loud and angry. I know when I’m losing a case.

  His huge hands come up and grip my shoulders. His mouth descends to mine, hungry, greedily, roughly. I’m pinned against coats, his tongue dancing with mine the next second. It feels precisely as I imagined it would. Being with Steven is like being home—it’s fire. I can’t deny my feelings or his feelings. I never really could, but with him here…I’m addicted. I was foolish to think I could live without this in my life. The pain I’ve carried around for months erases a touch. Pressing his body against mine, he tries to blend our parts into one. The urgency is palpable. He wants us just as much as I do. He pulls away brusquely.

  “If what you say is true, we have to start somewhere. And right now I just want to fuck you and not think about anything else. I want your lips on mine, and I want my dick inside your body. Give me that. Right now. And I’ll think about the rest later.” I don’t even hesitate. Bending down, I grip the hem of my dress and raise it above my waist. His eyes are hungry as he pulls off my lacy thong and runs his hands over my stockings. He thinks about it, but in the end, leaves them on.

  “Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Make me pay for my hideous mistake,” I order. His gaze flicks up to mine. “Do whatever you want. Just forgive me.” My voice is pleading. I can’t handle seeing anymore of his pain. I want it for myself.

  He shakes his head, stands up, unzips his slacks, and pulls out his thick, throbbing dick. “This isn’t me forgiving you, Morg.” With one hand he strokes my core, spreading my wetness over the tip of his dick. He picks me up and I wrap my legs around him. He groans. I moan, tilting my head back.

  His lips capture my neck, he bites a little before licking a trail up to my ear. In a rough voice he whispers, “This is me fucking, not forgiving.” I cry out as he enters me in one thrust, spreading me wide and filling me completely. His hands squeeze my bottom as he thrusts deep and wild, over and over, jostling me like a puppet. He feels bigger, stronger, more in control, and I want every single drop that he’ll give. Because I want his forgiveness, but what I really want is him. Any way I can have him. As he pushes inside me, bare and brusquely, I can’t help but feel like I’m his again.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he repeats over and over as he closes his eyes, lost in lust—trying to split me into two with his cock. When he opens his eyes, they lock on my mouth. He kisses me passionately—desperately, like a dying man, slowing his pace so he can better pay attention to my mouth. With my hands on his neck I kiss him back, willing him to feel the love I have for him…the love I will always have for him.

  Lifting my ass, he sinks into me deeply and I cry out from the sensation. This is a pace that I love—that will bring me to the edge.

  “Fuck,” he says, voice trembling, before coming, his dick pulsing deep inside me for longer than is normal. His throbbing cock pressing against me in just the right way. It’s been a while since he’s had sex. I’m sure of it. He lays his sweaty forehead down on my shoulder without disconnecting our bodies. I try to move myself up and down on him because I’m almost there, I just need a little more friction, a little more of his throbbing.

  “You want to come, huh?” he growls, without lifting his head. I nod, my eyes closed, desperately trying to keep the high going, breathing in the scent of his heat. It’s more than addicting, it’s intoxicating. I’m drowning in the emotions I pushed away for so long.

  His strong arms lift me and lower me once. The sensation is maddening, being full without friction. I need more…just a little more. “Please,” I whine into his ear. “More. I need more. Fuck me, Steven.”

  I grind myself against him—my clit rubbing against his pubic hair. He pumps into me several more times and I scream out as a powerful orgasm takes over my body, my thighs tingling, my head swimming, and my core clenching rapidly. He drops my ass and he’s all the way in, hitting the back as I contract around him again and again. I missed this. I missed Steven Warner even more.

  Sighing heavily for several breaths, I wonder what he’ll say next. “Funny. All I’ve ever wanted from you was more,” he says after my breathing finally slows a touch. When he slides out of me, I feel endlessly empty. He pulls up and then zips his pants in a methodical manner. He holds out my panties, dangling them on one finger. “Yours,” he says, smiling.

  “You keep them,” I retort, sliding my dress back down to the floor, the insides of my thighs wet with his cum leaking from my body.

  Steven unlocks the door, while surveying the disarray of all the coats. “I’ll call you,” he says, stuffing my panties into his pocket. His souvenir, I think caustically, my heart breaking into two.

  For once, I really don’t believe him. Not for one second.

  Steve

  I called her that night. I couldn’t resist the temptation. The coat closet fuck turned my head into a twisted place to reside in. Half of me wants to jump right back in with Morganna, the other half wants to keep my distance. All of me wants to fuck her brains out constantly. And my bastard heart just wants to love her.

  Gunner stayed with Morganna while I was deployed. She uses him to see me as often as possible, telling me that he misses his daddy
and wants to visit. The last time Gunner visited, I got a blow job so mind numbing that I could probably jizz in my pants right now if I thought about it long and hard enough.

  We can pretend all we want that it’s just sexual, that we’ve both just missed sex, but we know better. Emotions are attached, rooted deep, and those bitches aren’t going anywhere. They’re only growing. Morganna’s changing—or she’s softening. Oh, her wicked backbone is still present, it’s just malleable when it comes to me. It’s different. I like it. Maybe if she had the soft spot the entire course of our relationship, we wouldn’t be starting back at square one. A weight has lifted from her shoulders, and in turn it’s comforted me. Wary comfort, but comfort all the same.

  At work I’ve eased back into my daily routine with today being the exception. They’re poking and prodding, drawing blood and testing my oxygen supply along with every other organ in my body. Scientists want to know what makes us tick, what makes us so different than the average male. A riddle they’ll probably never solve.

  I rip off the band-aid on the inside of my arm and toss it in a can next to the door. The weight room at work is busy as fuck today, so I decide to forgo lifting. It’s Frogman Friday, always an easy day, so I take off early for the boxing gym instead. Morganna’s schedule has been hectic all morning, or so Phillipe says, so I’m not sure what our plans are for the night. Something low key, I’m sure. My cell phone rings while I drive and I see Phillipe’s name on my screen. I never answer while driving. I send it to voicemail while pulling into the parking lot of No Easy Day. There are way too many cars for it to be lunchtime on Friday. It’s always dead in the middle of the day. I’m wary as I walk through the door with my bag slung over my shoulder.

  “Welcome home!” Coach crows, his arms spread out wide. I grin. I see some of my boxing buddies and several of Coach’s friends, smiling, beers in hand.

  “Aw. Gee. You shouldn’t have,” I say, taking the beer someone is extending my way. “How did you know I’d be here in the middle of the day anyways?” My phone chimes in my pocket, but I silence it so I don’t seem like a rude asshole.

  “There are eyes everywhere,” someone says, and then a chorus of laughter echoes the office.

  “So the plan is to get drunk and then box each other? You are men after my own heart. You know that, right?” I quip.

  Coach pats me on the back. “I know a couple guys want a go with you in the ring and I figure if you have a couple beers in ya’ it will even the field a bit.”

  I quirk a brow at him. “Really?”

  “Okay, okay. It won’t level the field at all. We’re all just happy you’re home safe, Stevey. Your ugly mug was missed around here.”

  It feels good. It’s not like he’s the first one who has told me I was missed. My mom and dad flew up for a weekend at my place when I got home and it was nice. Texts and calls came in a flurry for a week after my arrival from aunts and uncles and any family member who knew I was deployed. Then it stopped. And life goes on. Coach and my boxing family celebrating my safety and homecoming is icing on the cake.

  I drain my beer. “Well, then who is going first? I need a workout!” I yell. Men cheer and we all make our way into the gym. Several beers, and two deep, bloody gashes later, I’m ready to go home and I’m fucking worn out. The sun set long ago. There’s also no way I can drive my truck the few miles down the road. I call the number which contacts the always-on-call-designated-driver, fucking-new-guy, SEAL to come pick me up. It’s a service to keep everyone safe, and it’s a way to make the new guys earn their stripes.

  When he shows up in a jacked up truck, I hop in. I’ve showered and Coach bandaged my chin and cheek to the best of his ability. I might need a medic to look at it, perhaps give me a kitchen stich job.

  “Hey, man. Thanks for picking me up. Can you bring me to Morganna’s? You know the place?” There’s no way I can remember her physical address right now. I could look it up, but I’m sure he knows exactly the house I’m referring to. I try to explain to the best of my current, drunken ability.

  He nods. “Yeah, I know the place. Doing a little boozing with your boxing?”

  I laugh. “Celebrating a little, yeah. Those two things don’t go well together, obviously.” I point to my fucked up face. He laughs, puts the truck in gear, and heads to Morg’s. When we get close I start getting wound up like a fucking top. I miss her and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since I last saw her. I have it so fucking bad. Playing it cool and distant in hopes of earning my pride back isn’t going to work for very long.

  I pull out my cell phone with the intentions of texting Morg when I see about ten missed phone calls—a few from Morganna and several from Phillipe. “What the fuck,” I mutter under my breath. Staring straight ahead, wide-eyed, I listen to the first voicemail in the queue—the one from Phillipe earlier this afternoon.

  Listen, Steve. We know who super creepy stalker is. Call me back as soon as possible. Toni the bloodhound put the pieces together.

  Okay, that makes sense. Now I have someone to kill. Check. My heart rate speeds, and my fingers shake as I play the next one.

  It’s him. My God, Steven it’s him. Please pick up your phone. Please.

  Morganna’s voice is a pleading whisper. Those are the only two messages. The last one came in just minutes before. The rest are just missed calls from earlier in the day. Panic wells in my chest…a feeling so severe, I’ve never experienced it before. Though my mind is still foggy drunk, I know it’s bad. Heightened awareness of everything is a symptom of panic and I start surveying everything from my window.

  “Drive faster!” I bark. The new guy swerves around the corner heading to Morganna’s house. My foot beats the floorboard and my hands bang the dashboard in a tap, tap, tap rhythm. My mind spins. Who is it? Who could it be? Why is she so scared? Did she call anyone else? Just minutes ago. I can’t be too late. Why didn’t she say more?

  We slide into her driveway, skidding wheels and hot brakes, and that’s when the bottom of my stomach drops out of my asshole. Not literally, just proverbially. The shock is that jarring.

  Her front door is swung wide open and from my vantage point I see him—the goddamned motherfucker extending a handgun in front of him, eyes trained on whoever is there. I jump out of the truck and head for the light of the front door, and toward a scene from my worst fucking nightmare.

  His black handgun sweeps left as he takes aim at me. I stop dead in my drunken tracks.

  Morganna

  Alex.

  I’ve been so stupid, so naïve, so unlike myself these past months that I never put the clues together. Alex, the guy I’ve dated and shared intimate details about my life with, is actually Penelope’s ex-husband, David.

  He’s a master. Because I never met with David in person and because he’s disguised his looks to such a degree, it never crossed my mind that Alex could be the scorned, wife beating, ex-husband of one of my clients. When my detectives lost his trail several months ago I figured he moved to Europe to be an asshole to someone new. Parading around as someone else never crossed my mind. His cover was extensive, his game was perfect. He snared me without any work at all. Hook. Line. Sinker. He was patient, methodical, and scrupulous with details of his life. I never saw where he lived, and never questioned it because I was too wrapped up in my own life. His being at my beck and call was a convenience.

  Toni called me today when she saw images of me and Alex posted online from the gala. She just happened to be filing cases and the images from Penelope’s divorce, and recognized him with the new shorter haircut. I didn’t believe her, but when I started questioning Alex about his past, he knew something was up. I sent a few texts and then he stopped responding to me altogether. I reviewed the security footage over and over and, sure enough, the hooded man in the video had a similar, slumped-over posture. After that the avalanche of idiotic details I should have picked up on ate me alive. Why was he always so forgiving? Why exactly was he at my beck and call so frequ
ently? I’m a tough personality to to deal with. And, in light of my relationship with Steven, to still hang around? These are glaring things now, but my Steven induced insanity caused me to turn a blind eye to many things.

  Steven hasn’t answered his cell phone for a few hours and I have no idea where he’s at. I’m not sure what to do with the information. Is Alex dangerous? Yes. Would he harm me? I did take him for all of his worth in the divorce case. He lost everything…every single red cent. The thought crosses my mind to call the cops just to report him as a possible threat, but I’m questioning everything and I want to make perfectly sure the crazy story I’ve concocted is, in fact, true.

  I text Phillipe one more time to see if he’s been able to find Steven. He hasn’t. My mind is whirring with all the possible scenarios and I can’t take it anymore. I rub my temples and pray the correct answer forms on it’s own. Someone knocks on my door…three, loud pounds that shake the doorframe. I narrow my eyes, automatically on guard because they didn’t use the doorbell. Any of my trusted friends would just walk in.

  Alex has a key, I remember. I gave it to him in an attempt to make my life easier. I wouldn’t have to be home when he came over. He could just come right in. Butterflies invade my stomach and the living room spins to the right a touch. Shock. Terror.

  Bouncing a knee up and down, I dial nine-one-one, the number that I never thought I’d ever have cause to dial. As I talk to the operator and explain the situation and give her my address, I head to my bedroom and into the expanse of my closet. With shaking hands I pick up the gun. In the quiet house I hear a key slide into my lock and someone enters. I mumble the new details to the operator and then hang up the phone. I try Steven one more time, leaving a pleading voicemail when he doesn’t answer.

  “Where are you, you fucking whore!” Alex’s voice echoes from downstairs. I throw a hand over my mouth to stifle a small scream. Tiptoeing down the hallway, I pass the portrait of me on my wedding day and edge closer to the balcony that overlooks the foyer. “I know you’re here!” he yells, his voice far deeper than I’ve ever heard it. He’s a completely different person.