by Elle Maxwell
“Don’t hope. Just do it. Keep waking up every day and being the man you really are, the one your parents always saw in you. Work on being your own good thing. I’ll be right here every step of the way.”
“Kenz.” Graham’s voice mirrors his face, a mosaic of pain and love and need.
His hands come up to my hips, and he slides me slightly backward, the motion also pushing down the sheet at his waist so I can feel his now uncovered erection nudging at my backside.
“I love you,” I say. I haven’t uttered the words much since that first time. I’m still wrapping my mind around the complete capitulation of my resolve. Somehow not saying it aloud made it easier to lie to myself, to keep believing I’m not in this so deep that I’ve passed the point of no return. But it’s a lie. There’s no going back, and it suddenly seems important to make sure he knows that.
I lift up slightly, angling myself just right, then take his hard length in one hand and position him at my entrance before lowering back down slowly. Like this I can take him in so completely he’s hitting the farthest depths of me. I was already slick for him, but the feel of him warm inside me and the way he jerks once we are fully joined makes my core flood with arousal. He groans, his hands flexing where they grip my hips. I lean forward and brace my hands on his chest. Then I rock back and forth, the perfect angle causing my clit to rub against the base of his erection each time.
“Do you hear me?” I whisper, voice low and measured as I continue the slow undulations of my hips. “No more punishing yourself.”
“Is this a new type of therapy, babe? Sign me up—but I gotta say I don’t like the thought of you using this tactic with other patients.” He pushes out the words in a voice gravelly with need.
“Don’t deflect with sarcasm, babe,” I chide in the same soft voice as before, swiveling my hips on the last word and making him groan again.
“But no, this isn’t for anyone but you. Only you.”
His hands tighten at my sides, and I see his jaw clench. I’m torturing him—he needs me to move, to pick up the pace—but he’s letting me do this my way. The sight of this powerful man, who could so easily use all that muscle to take control, shaking beneath me with the effort of restraining himself sends a fresh surge of lust through me that pushes me close to the edge. My movements become choppier, losing rhythm as I chase my release.
Sensing that I’m getting close, Graham begins to thrust upward while his hands hold my hips down to meet him. His powerful legs propel him forcefully despite his limited mobility in this position, and as he pushes up into me again, he hits that place that causes my whole body to begin tingling.
“Right there?” he asks, hips suspended off the bed as he rotates them, making lights dance before my eyes.
“Yes,” I gasp out.
With his next thrust he hits that perfect spot again, and that’s all it takes for me to shatter into a thousand blissful pieces. He holds me through the largest waves of my release before flipping us over in one powerful movement, still connected, so he is on top. His carnal grin is almost enough to push me over the edge again.
“My turn. You play patient now, babe—the doctor is in.”
* * *
“Oh my God, why are these better than any other pancakes ever?” I groan around my mouthful of syrup covered fluffy blueberry goodness. I give the fork an extra swipe with my tongue, using it to hide my smirk of satisfaction over the way Graham’s eyes darken with desire.
“It’s the sex,” he says matter-of-factly, reaching over to spear another huge section onto his own fork.
I almost contradict him before silently conceding that he’s probably right. For all I know, there is absolutely nothing special about the blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and home fries at this little diner near our old high school. But this was always our place, our special tradition: he would order pancakes, I’d order eggs, and we’d put our meals in the middle of the little table and share. And yes, we inevitably ended up here after burning a ton of calories with a night of sex.
I haven’t been back here in years, and it fills me with a nearly overpowering sense of nostalgia and sadness, as his house did. But mostly I’m filled with food—amazing, grease and sugar loaded food paired with nearly toxic black coffee that somehow compliments it perfectly. I’m so grateful that my memories of this meal live up to the reality (similar to sex with Graham … though with him the reality is ten times better than I’d allowed myself to remember).
We even have our favorite table—the one that’s debatably too small for two people, but perfect if you’re two people who can’t keep your hands off each other. There’s no choice but to be right in each other’s personal space, legs linked beneath the table, arms touching constantly while we eat. As teenagers we were shameless. A lot of times we’d just end up taking breaks from our food and making out right here over the table. I’m low-key tempted to go old school and give that a try now—Graham looks particularly delicious this morning in his too small Henley and his dark blond hair tousled in the same messy bedhead he woke up with.
I’m still eye fucking my—boyfriend?—when I hear a voice that should never be paired with fucking of any kind.
“Mackenzie? What are you doing?”
I don’t need to turn and look, but I do and confirm what the pit of dread in my stomach already knows. It’s my mom—standing right next to our little corner table with my father at her side.
“Mom? Dad?”
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher.” Graham tries to get up but struggles to untangle his legs from mine and squeeze his large frame out from the tight corner seat.
I peek over at my dad and wish I hadn’t, because he looks ready to turn this diner into a crime scene.
“Get the hell away from my daughter.”
22. RUINER OF SUBURBIA
Graham
We just had to do the cutesy couple shit and sit over here at the smallest fucking table ever found outside a preschool.
It’s bad enough that my first encounter with Mackenzie’s parents is happening like this. (Seriously, take your pick of the unfavorable circumstances: it’s unexpected, in public, and we were so hungry this morning we left my house without showering or making much effort to hide the well-fucked chic look we’ve both got going with our disheveled hair and clothes.) And just adding insult to injury, I’m over here idiotically fumbling to stand up like a giant trying to climb out of one of those clown cars and getting stuck halfway. The harder I try to free myself, the more I end up just banging my legs against the table’s metal frame and hard edges. At least I manage to salvage a small sliver of my pride by swallowing back the curses that rise to my lips every time my shins or knees make impact.
It’s a shit show. The whole scene only lasts a few seconds, but under the stone-faced stare of Mackenzie’s father, every painful millisecond lasts an hour. I finally free myself and stand in front of the man who still pins me with eyes that look uncannily like Mackenzie’s—except for their murderous expression.
I glance over to check on Mackenzie, who has made no move to leave her seat. She’s frozen, face as pale as the paper napkin on the table.
“Did you hear me?” Mr. Thatcher growls.
I give our surroundings a fast visual sweep.
When we arrived, the diner was almost empty, but now nearly all of the tables are occupied. In my quick glimpse, I catch many pairs of curious eyes peeking in the direction of our little drama. The air in here was previously filled with the low-key white noise of quiet Sunday morning conversations underscored by sounds drifting out from the kitchen, but at Mr. Thatcher’s raised voice the room’s atmosphere suddenly picked up in volume and intensity. I swear I can almost make out my name among the dozen or so conversations happening around us. Maybe it’s narcissistic to think they’re all talking about me—hell, I hope I’m wrong—but I know this town. The blended sounds of every voice in here is reminiscent of buzzing bees, and Mr. Thatcher just poked their dormant nest, which
will no doubt unleash a hoard of resurrected gossip and suspicions.
Yep, folks. That’s right. Your friendly neighborhood murderer is back in town. Favorite scapegoat and Ruiner of Suburbia, right here.
I try to focus on the man I hope will one day be my father-in-law and ignore the sensation of all those eyes sneaking glances at me. And now I’m cursing my own stupidity … Did I really taunt Fate a few weeks ago with that flippant thought that I’d prefer a confrontation with Mr. Thatcher over Marisa? Get that Latina fireball over here ASAP, because I am officially changing my stance on this issue. Mike Thatcher appears to be barely holding himself back from picking up the fork I just dropped and shoving it straight through my eyeball and into my brain.
Okay, God, I get it. You’ve called my bluff … I’m ready to wake up from this nightmare now.
I break our staring contest by speaking first.
“Why don’t we talk outside, sir?”
Mr. Thatcher nods stiffly and turns around to march out the front door. I grab some bills from my pocket and throw them on the table before following, not paying much attention but sure it’s more than enough to cover our meal (in fact, there’s a strong chance I just left $60 for a $15 tab, but if I can’t take advantage of the whole millionaire thing in this moment of crisis then what is even the point?).
In the parking lot, the four of us cluster in something of a face-off: Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher on one side with me and Mackenzie facing them, the space between us teaming with tension and a sense that lines have been drawn.
I look at the older couple I haven’t seen in five years. It’s easy to see Mackenzie in Mrs. Thatcher’s appearance. Although my girl’s blue-green eyes came from her father, her mother is the one who passed on her slight stature and red hair (though I’d bet hers is dyed now because it’s much darker than Mackenzie’s natural strawberry hue). They both gave her the pale skin and proclivity to freckle, clearly inherited from a background of Irish and Western European ancestry.
Cynthia Thatcher turns to her daughter and speaks in a harsh tone that sounds like she’s trying to whisper but failing.
“What are you doing with that boy? He murdered someone, Mackenzie.”
Kenz makes no effort to keep her voice low. Apparently, she’s rallied from her initial shock.
“No, Mom, he didn’t! You don’t know the real story …”
She still doesn’t know the whole thing either. I experience a twinge of guilt that I’ve been putting off having that talk, too caught up in how good things have been. Regardless, it feels amazing that Mackenzie is defending me right now.
“I hadn’t even heard he was out …” Mrs. Thatcher says faintly, almost as though she didn’t hear her daughter at all and is just continuing a conversation with herself.
“I was released on parole the beginning of January,” I say to the woman who still won’t look at me. It seems she’s going to pretend that she’s having a private conversation with Mackenzie.
“And how long did it take you to track down my daughter?” Mr. Thatcher barks.
Three days. But I don’t think my honest answer will help this situation. I square my shoulders and try to channel my sixteen-year-old self, aiming for some semblance of “trustworthy boyfriend material.”
“I love her,” I say firmly, looking first at him and then his wife. Mackenzie’s small hand bumps the top of my leg, and I reach out to take it in mine. An overwhelming sense of relief fills me as our fingers twine together.
Both of Mackenzie’s parents train their eyes on our joined hands and stay there. I give her hand a little squeeze of reassurance (I hope it works, because I certainly don’t feel very reassured). Mr. Thatcher still looks ready to rip me in half, but now he turns that scowl on Kenz.
“He’s a criminal, Mackenzie. A murderer, a drug addict … nothing but a thug.”
“Dad, I understand there’s been a lot of gossip and you’ve heard terrible things, but it’s all exaggerated.”
“So, he didn’t go to prison for murder?”
“Accessory to murder!” she retorts.
His face turns beet red in anger, that fair skin he passed to his daughter broadcasting his emotions the same way hers does.
“Do you hear yourself? Jesus. We taught you better than this. The daughter I raised is a strong woman who is smart enough not to let a boy make a fool out of her … twice.”
Okay now. That’s enough. I step forward and slightly to the side so my body blocks Mackenzie from her father.
“With all due respect, sir, your problem is with me. There’s no need to attack Mackenzie.”
“You think you can tell me how to speak to my daughter?”
“No, sir. I think that I will protect my girlfriend from being mistreated, even by you.”
Mackenzie, too badass to hide behind me, steps around and returns to standing by my side.
“You’re dating him? Mackenzie!” Mrs. Thatcher immediately accosts, speaking in a universal disappointed mother tone that fills me with an instinctual fear even though she’s not talking to me.
“I love him, Mom,” my brave girl says in a quiet but steady voice.
“So, it wasn’t enough to ruin her life once, you’re out to do it again?” Mike asks me—we used to be on a first name basis, which I’m guessing is no longer the case.
“That is not my intention, sir.” I try to keep my words even and respectful.
But he’s apparently done with me because he turns back to Kenz. This is less a conversation than a tennis match the way words are rapidly pinging back and forth among the four of us.
“Go home,” Mr. Thatcher orders his daughter.
“Graham drove.”
“Okay then, I’m taking you home. Go wait at my car. I’ll be there in a minute.”
In my peripheral vision I see her stance straighten. Her voice is firm.
“No, Dad. You’re wrong about this, and I’m not letting you and Mom keep me from Graham anymore by filling my head with half-truths. You might be disappointed in me right now, but I’m disappointed in you too. For not even taking a second to consider that you haven’t gotten the whole story, to hear me out. Me. You don’t have to believe him, but I expected you to at least listen to me. To have some more faith in me.” She looks up and I see the slightest sheen of emotion in her eyes. “I’ll be in the Range Rover.”
I hand over the keys and she walks across the parking lot at a fast pace, her mother close on her heels speaking rapidly though I can’t make out her words.
“She’s too good for you,” Mr. Thatcher spits at me when we’re alone.
“I know, sir.” I look him right in the eye, gaze steady and face serious so he will be able to see how much I mean my words. “But if she’ll let me, I plan to spend every day of the rest of my life trying to be worthy of her. I’ll devote everything I have to taking care of her and being the man she needs me to be.”
I think I see the smallest flicker of respect in his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly to tell for sure.
“You left a whole mess behind when you were arrested.”
“I know that too, sir.”
“No, you don’t know. You weren’t here to listen to that precious girl cry herself to sleep for months. To watch her light dim. You lied to her and broke her heart, and because of your poor decisions you weren’t even here to witness the consequences of your actions. So don’t think you can just pick things up now and forget. I never forget. Ever.”
He reaches inside the pocket of his jeans, and for a split second my heartbeat pounds in my temple as I think he’s going to produce a weapon. Instead, he removes his wallet. He flips open the plain brown leather billfold and produces a small white square that he holds up between two fingers. It appears to be a tightly folded sheet of white notebook paper, well-worn crease marks and faded blue lines giving away its age.
“I’ve been carrying this around for five years. I found it in Mackenzie’s garbage bin six months after you went to prison.” He hands i
t to me solemnly. “I’m giving this to you now because your father was a good man, and I have to believe some of that goodness is still in you, and that when you read this, you’ll do the right thing. Finally face what you did, see how you killed my little girl’s spirit, and be the man your father raised you to be. Let her go.”
* * *
Graham,
Ugh, I never thought I’d be this girl who starts bawling at just the sight of your name. Or the girl who has to take a break from writing a letter because she’s crying too hard to write. (Can you see the tear drops? Those aren’t added for effect.)
I wasn’t ever supposed to be this girl. I looked at all the drama and heartache of my friends and pitied them, because I knew we were a forever thing. (Was I wrong? Please, if you could only say one thing to me ever again, give me that answer.)
