Silver Bells

by Holly Gunn

  I hear whoops and hollers from mermaids, mermen, humans, and even a shifter if I’m not mistaken.

  I move to stop the kiss. I don’t want to. I could kiss him forever.

  If his hugs are honey and warmth, his kisses are that and more. They are tart sunshine touching my spirit after a thousand years of being trapped in tepid water.

  He doesn’t let me stop.

  He draws me back to him, using his hand in my hair to continue our kiss.

  Aaron kisses like he leads, like he stands, like he talks ... with rough, passionate yet tempered command. And through it all, he offers up to me his breath, that edgy winter beard, and his very soul, and all of it, every precious second is unequivocally magnificent.

  When we finally separate, both of us stare at each other.

  “Hey,” he says casually, one hand in my long, curly blonde hair, the other moving to the belt loop of my jeans. I like that. I’ve seen his thumb on his belt loop and wanted to play with it for years.

  So, I leave one hand on his chest and move the other to his belt loop, and smirking, I give him the same. “Hey, yourself.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, then he smirks. It’s devastating.

  So, I confess, “I want you too, Aaron Holmes.”

  That smirk turns into a full-blown smile. “I got that, darlin’.”

  AARON

  It would happen that as soon as I kiss the girl, I get pulled away.

  “What do we have?” I ask Deputy Sandra Meyers, a woman of about forty who’s been one of six deputies for ten years now, has a husband anyone can see she can’t get enough of, and two twin teen girls. She looks exhausted. I’ve had a teenage girl. I can’t imagine raising two.

  “Rickard says he’s had two of his newest precious stone acquisitions stolen. An emerald and ruby, but they’re the biggest he’s ever seen and were mined by a couple of locals, who he’s already paid for their haul.”

  “Cameras?” I ask.

  “Rickard is gathering the footage now. Door lock has been jimmied, ‘rather inelegantly,’ Rickard’s words,” she explains. Pointing to the tuft of fur in the doorway, she adds, “But it looks like there’s some sort of animal fur that got caught in the doorway. Perhaps the thief brought his pet along?”

  Or, I think, maybe the thief is an animal.

  Aloud, I say, “Could it be a shifter?”

  Sandy swings her head my way. “You think some shifter jimmied the lock with human hands and then changed into an animal to steal jewels?”

  It sounds ridiculous, even to me.

  “It’s a possibility we need to consider.”

  “You mean because of the queens in town?”

  It’s my turn to swing her way. “Queens?” I ask.

  “Don’t you watch the news?”

  I don’t reply; I wait for her explanation.

  She knows the look and continues, “It’s the Shifter tribe kings and queens the media follows. No one cares about Tony the tiger or Jack the rabbit—”

  “There are rabbit shifters?” Deputy George Marsh, the youngest deputy at twenty-eight, asks, curiously.

  Sandy shakes her head. “Point is, it’s the kings and queens on the news, Sheriff. And those two women in town are Shifter tribe queens. They’ve been all over the news, not to mention the blonde is the sister of Lion Richland, and she’s the lead guitarist of Shyfter.”

  When I’m quiet, it’s George who explains, “The band, Shyfter.”

  I nod. I think I’ve heard a song or two from them on the radio ... maybe.

  “Queens can be criminals too, Sandy. Check them out for me, will ya?”

  “Sheriff, I don’t think it’s—”

  “Sandy,” I command.

  That’s all I need to say, her name. She’s worked with me long enough to know that when I say something, I’m not harsh or unfair, but I do expect to be listened to.

  “Sure thing, Sheriff,” is her reply. And she’s off.

  We get the recordings from the video cameras, and as I’m sitting down to watch them, my office phone rings.

  “Hey,” I hear on the other line.

  My gut unclenches. Until this very moment, I haven’t realized I’ve been tense, but I should have. I’ve been surly today, and since my conversation with Sandy and George, the rest of the department and the deputies have given their sheriff a wide berth.

  “Hey,” I reply back, knowing that one word may seem simple to some, but between Lotta and me, it’s the first thing we say every full moon when I see her. So, to us, it’s special. And while I’m looking forward to changing things with Lotta, it’s nice to know some things will never change.

  I can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I answer on an exhale. “Just the robbery.”

  “We heard,” she says, her voice worried. “Is Rickard okay?”

  I nod but say aloud, “He’s fine. Just looking to get his treasure back.”

  “Essie’s headed to see him later. She told me before I headed back to the boarding house to tell you that she’s on the case.”

  I smile and then rub my hand across my face in relief. “You can tell her to stay close to Rickard and not poke her nose into anything.”

  I try to remain serious then think on who we’re talking about. I know Essie. She’s got an adventurous spirit but she’s not stupid.

  “Sure thing, Sheriff,” Lotta replies, and I chuckle at how close her words are to Sandy’s reply from earlier.

  “Something I said?” she asks.

  “No,” I reply without thinking, “Just thinking on the fact that a lot of people call me Sheriff, and I love it when you call me Aaron, but I might like you calling me Sheriff during certain activities, darlin’.”

  There’s a breath of silence, and I curse at my stupidity. It’s too soon.

  But a half-second later she answers with a soft but sultry, “O-okay … I think I’d like that.”

  I think I will too.

  Hell, I know I will.

  But not right now.

  “Gotta go, darlin’. You need anything else?”

  “No, Aaron, I just wanted to check-in.”

  My gut clenches again, this time in revelation. She’s always done things like this, called to check-in, only I haven’t thought about it until now. Now that I’m about to make her mine in more ways than just the friendship we’ve been building for twenty-five years.

  I just wanted to check-in.

  She’s been there all along, just as Tamara said. And what the hell have I been doing with my head up my ass not going after the woman I want?

  But I know I can’t think of it that way. If we’re going to build something, fate be damned or not, I need to stay focused and not dwell. I also need to make sure that when the time comes that she wants to dwell, I’m there making sure she stays focused too.

  I intend for us to be a team.

  And with her words, she has reminded me that we’ve always been a team of sorts.

  I’ll be making it more official soon enough.

  “Thanks, Lotta. I’ll see you tonight?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she replies, her voice soft in a way that’s new to me.

  “Got to go, darlin’.”

  “Okay, Aaron. I—”

  She stops herself. I want to hear the words, ridiculous as it may seem, but she needs time. And for all that I’m a man with grey hair, I’m not dead. And I plan to live a long healthy life. So, we have time.

  “Talk later, darlin’.”

  “Bye, Aaron.”

  We hang up, and I find myself unfocused for a moment, thinking of that soft ‘yeah’ and imagining seeing her speak that word in person, her silky, full red lips puffing out the sound before I take them. Before I kiss her lips, then her jaw, then the long line of her neck, making my way down her body and exploring her thoroughly.

  I want her.

  I want her blue-green eyes dark with passion and that bleach blonde, thick hair agains
t my hunter-green bedspread.

  I want her small hands and short nails digging into my back and holding tight as I power into her, using my cock to say the words.

  I want her deep sigh and satisfied smile, her cool breaths and satin skin.

  I want her glistening golden-hued skin tone matched to my own tan skin, and for our eyes to meet before, during, and after we make love, so she can see that all along, there’s been something between us.

  I clear my throat and shake my head to rid myself of these thoughts. Then, hard as I am, I readjust myself.

  Damn, but I’m an unprofessional mess, I think, picking up the video feed, that is in, of all things, VHS format. I didn’t even know such a thing existed anymore.

  Then I think damn for another reason.

  And that’s because there’s a man on the screen with shoulder-length dark brown hair, and while grainy, his clothes give him away for who he is.

  No one can dress quite like a thousand-year-old Viking.

  CHARLOTTA

  The large wood door painted a bright green opens to a mudroom that’s decorated in flannel, Aaron’s lambskin jacket, work boots, and towels covering the dirty floor.

  In other words, Aaron’s home is decorated in messy man.

  Then again, I sleep on a bed of seaweed.

  He helps me take off my jacket, and I rub my hands together to warm my fingers but also for something to do.

  I’ve kissed him. He’s kissed me. It’s out there now.

  We hit the open-floor plan, and he goes to the sink that has a few dishes in it but that’s still tidy. The counter’s clean too, but there’s something less sparkling about the area.

  “So,” I say, grabbing a seat at the dark wood butcher block he’s had in this area for fifteen years at least, since I first saw this place. “Irina’s not stopping by as much anymore, huh?”

  He turns his head my way as his hand moves to the stove and turns on a burner.

  “How can you tell?” Aaron asks with a smile.

  I move my eyes around. “Essie would say it’s not as shiny.”

  He chuckles.

  “I don’t have time to bleach, Lotta.”

  “Uh-huh,” I reply, my voice noncommittal.

  Glancing my way, he presses his lips together in suppressed laughter, something I’ve seen him do a hundred, maybe a thousand times, but this time, it’s in his kitchen after we’ve kissed.

  I feel such peace with that look.

  Then, I find myself laughing because the look is accompanied by him saying, “You nagging already, darlin’?”

  My hands go up. “Hey, just commenting.”

  “Maybe it just needs a woman’s touch.”

  “I don’t bleach,” I tell him. Then, serious, I add quietly, “And we don’t know if I can live here.”

  The only sound is that of the teapot as he heats water for hot cocoa. My favorite. He even fetches the marshmallows from his large pantry, the tiny ones.

  Each movement is controlled, much like the man himself.

  But while he seems steady, my stomach is rioting.

  He puts the cocoa in front of me, and forearms to the butcher block, he leans forward and meets my eyes.

  “Tamara thinks your mark is somewhere only those you’ve …” he clears his throat. “Well, somewhere only men you’ve been with would see.”

  I smile sadly and take a sip, my eyes falling to the melting marshmallows.

  Then I nod.

  “I want you, Lotta,” Aaron shares, his voice comforting. “But I want more than that with you.”

  I use the spoon he’s left in my drink to eat a couple marshmallows and enjoy the sweet tang on my tongue, but nothing touches the sweetness of his words.

  Slowly, I ask, “So, what happens if you don’t see my mark?”

  He groans, and I finally look up and into those blue eyes of his.

  “I won’t lie, darlin’. I want your body. You’re gorgeous. It won’t be a hardship trying to find that mark of yours. But,” he continues swiftly, “I’d like to think we connect—mark or no mark. And I want to see where this goes. So, while I want to be the one to set you free and I’ll be honest, I also want to be your destined mate— Well, Lotta, whether I can see that mark or I can’t, I still think we should give this a try. You and me, exclusive, a short life but I’d like to try.”

  I lick my lips free of the hot cocoa that’s been sitting there since he started speaking.

  He watches the movement.

  My chest rises and falls.

  I know he wants me.

  I want him.

  I’ve loved him for twelve years, since he gave that silver bell to Essie.

  But I’ve wanted him for twenty-five.

  “What do you think?” he asks, his voice wary.

  “I won’t cheat,” I blurt.

  “Come again?” he asks, seemingly taken aback. That makes two of us. I don’t know where that’s come from. Okay, maybe I do.

  “I’m not a harlot,” I tell him. “I won’t cheat. You and me, if we try this, you can trust that I won’t—”

  He’s moved around the butcher block, and his finger is on my lips, effectively shutting me up.

  “Don’t,” he warns. I feel that word down to my pussy and shiver.

  “I just—”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  He doesn’t get it. “Aaron, you—”

  Without warning, he takes my mouth in a kiss, warmth, honey, and tart sunshine. I soak it up, I fill myself up with him, and my worries evaporate.

  When he leans back, my eyes are closed, my breath comes in pants, and I feel a smile playing at my lips.

  “I already know you, Lotta. Rita knows you. Tamara knows you. Any merman or mermaid in this town knows what you’re going through. We know you aren’t like that. I think you’ve spent so much time locked away in that cave of yours, that you don’t see yourself for what you are.”

  “And what’s that?” I counter.

  His thick fingers run their way through my bleach blonde locks leaving such a heavenly sensation in their wake, I gasp.

  “You’re Lotta. You care about Essie like she’s your own, and the two of you together are a family anyone can see is the best kind of family anyone could hope for. You help out at Rita’s, and leave a better than good tip for Tamara. You help out at the boarding house and Breezy doesn’t save a room every full moon for just anyone—especially during peak seasons. Then, there’s Rickard who’s a damned hermit in many ways, but he never has as much fun as he does than when you and Essie come ashore.”

  I’m already shaking my head and ready with my rebuttal. “Rita lets us have Thanksgiving and the other big holiday meals there. At Breezy’s boarding house, well, it’s just common courtesy to help at the place that’s your home, even if just a few days a month. And trust me, Tamara earns her tip. Plus, Rickard, that’s because of Essie, not me.”

  He gives me a look, like he thinks I’m crazy.

  “See what I mean?” he asks. “You don’t see what everyone who knows you sees.”

  “Or maybe you’re trying to see something that’s not there,” I grumble.

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, that’s not it, darlin’.”

  “So,” he begins again after letting the silence fall between us for a bit, “we on the same page?”

  I nod, this time almost shyly. My eyes lift to his, and I try to act more confident than I am. “You and I are trying this.”

  “That we are.”

  I drink my hot cocoa, but Aaron’s so close, I can feel his body heat and the cocoa is cold in comparison.

  I clear my throat. “So, uh, like now?”

  He bursts out with laughter, and I smile at the sound. More so, I adore his head being thrown back and the lovely line of his throat only partially covered by his growing beard. I want to touch him there, along his throat, his beard, his jaw during the summer when that beard is gone. I want to do more than hug him, though his hugs are great
. I want to take in every moment I can with him, no matter how long that may be.

  He takes my cocoa from my hand, places it on the wooden surface of the butcher block, and leans forward, his hands moving to the arms of the high chair I’m sitting in. I watch the play of light in his dark blue eyes.

  “We’ll wait for sex.”

  “I only have two days.”

  He juts his chin out in acknowledgment.

  “We’ll take it a day at a time, Lotta. Don’t rush it. I’m not going anywhere. And what we have, we’ve been building for years. I can wait.”

  But I don’t want to, I whine inside my head.

  There is another part of me that loves what he’s saying. He’s not treating me like the easy woman I am. He wants to give it time.

  “You’re wooing me,” I blurt. Then quickly, “I mean—”

  His lips touch mine again, and I meet him stroke for stroke as his tongue enters my mouth, warming me and drawing a sigh from my middle.

  His forehead touches mine, and he whispers, a grin in his voice, “I’ve been wooing you”—there’s a chuckle at that— “for fifteen years, darlin’.”

  I lean back a bit and stare at him.

  How is it that he can say the sweetest thing in the world and break my heart at the same time?

  “What if you really are my mate, Aaron? What if we’ve wasted—”

  “Lotta,” he groans. “We’re not going to solve all the world’s problems in a day, darlin’. I have a turkey to get ready. You have Rita’s stuffing recipe to make—”

  I cut off anything else he has to say.

  “Wait, Rita’s stuffing? Rita makes the stuffing.”

  His eyes follow me as I speak.

  “You’re coming to my Full Moon Thanksgiving, aren’t you?”

  Well.

  “Are you asking?”

  “I just did,” he tells me.

  There’s a beat, and then I mutter, “You’re a man of few words.”

  “You’ve known me twenty-some-odd years, Lotta. You know I say what I’ve got to say.”

  I think on this.

  Then I smile.

  And before hopping up and rushing to the recipe, I pull him down by his collar and give him a long, wet kiss.

  Recipe in hand, not two seconds later, I exclaim, “My first real Thanksgiving! Essie is going to love this!”