The Last Word

by Everly Lucas

  Those wide, green eyes blink up at me, vulnerable and hopeful and shining in the spotlight on her. They plead for what’s already hers—what’s always been hers. My heart. My soul. Me. None of it means anything without her.

  I belong to her. I belong with her.

  I grip her waist with both hands, lifting her and planting her sweet ass on the bar. Parting her thighs, I step between them, not giving a fuck about the stares and hushed voices of the people closest to us.

  Taking her right hand in mine, I slip the gold claddagh ring off her finger, turn it one-hundred-and-eighty degrees so the heart points at me, and hold it in front of her left ring finger.

  That hand trembles as the other one flies to cover her mouth.

  Our whole lives have led us to this moment, to me standing before her, ready and eager to devote myself to her for as long as she’ll let me. I may not deserve her, but I’ll love her harder than anyone ever could. I’ll be what she needs, if it kills me.

  “Marry me.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I register that the room has fallen silent—no music, no conversations, no clinking glasses. Like me, they wait for her answer.

  She could say no. Hell, she should say no. We’ve only had five tumultuous days together after four years of separation. But when it’s right, you just know.

  Erin drops her hand from her mouth. Her lips form a tight line, and sparks of anger flicker in her eyes. Curling her fingers into a tight fist, she pulls it back and jabs at my shoulder. “You are so freaking bossy. You can’t just command a woman to marry you.” She gives me another light punch. “You think because you spent the past four years getting ridiculously sexy, with all these stupid-big muscles and tattoos, which I’m totally forcing you to tell me the meaning—”

  This time, it’s my hand that covers her mouth. She gave me the last word, and I’m fucking taking it.

  “Erin Finola Kenny—”

  She rolls her eyes and tries to speak, but my hand keeps her lips still.

  “I’m done living without you. So you can say no, you can walk out of this bar and vow never to speak to me again, but know this— If you leave, I’ll follow you. If you say no, I’ll spend my life wearing you down. I’ll fight tooth and nail for you, baby, and you’ll love every fucking second of it.

  “You need me to ask? Fine. I’ll ask as many times as it takes for you to tell me you’re mine.” My hand falls away from her mouth, revealing a brilliant smile. I return it, tenfold. “Will you marry me?”

  No hesitation. No moment of quiet contemplation. No “I have to think about this.” Erin slides the ring onto her own finger before hopping off the bar and wrapping all four limbs around me. Her arms and legs latch on to me, and her lips crash onto mine in a fierce kiss. The nails digging into my shoulders lock us together, and I crush her against my body.

  Cheers and whistles explode around us, and from somewhere in the crowd, Henry shouts, “A round of drinks for everyone, on the house!”

  Erin presses our foreheads together, her hair falling around us, blocking out the rest of the world. “It would be my pleasure, Donovan Rudiger Woods.”

  This is it. Erin and I, we have a lifetime, now, of fucking and making love and crying and laughing and triumphing.

  We weren’t ready four years ago, before we were torn apart and forced to face this world without each other. But every struggle, every trial, every second spent clawing out of the dirt made us strong enough to love each other at our best and our worst.

  In her kiss, I feel it. In the way her heart beats as hard as mine. She knows nothing can come between us, now.

  Our bond is permanent. Our strength is terrifying. Our love is forever.

  THE END

  Last Word Recipe

  3/4 oz. gin

  3/4 oz. green Chartreuse

  3/4 oz. maraschino liqueur

  3/4 oz. fresh lime juice

  Shake ingredients with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Add a cherry garnish.

  Also by Everly Lucas

  Learning to Love the Heat

  Make It Music

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank you to Wendy Gold. If not for your work in creating the Love, Philly anthology, Van and Erin would never have existed. And extra thanks to you and Margot Ryan for being with me and helping me through every step of creating this book. To my beta readers, Wendy and Ann Rachelle, for giving me awesome feedback and not pulling any punches. Thanks to Judy Zweifel at Judy’s Proofreading for giving this book its final polish and making it shine. To Linda Kage, for supporting me and cheering me on. And to the readers, thank you for choosing to spend time with Van and Erin. I hope you love them as much as I do!

  Bonus Content

  Do you have a soft spot for Henry Carmichael? Want to meet that brunette he was kissing in the final chapter? Both appear in my first book, Learning to Love the Heat! Read on for a preview.

  Chapter One

  Claire

  I’m lying in bed, wearing absolutely nothing. My pink floral top sheet is a rumpled mess at my feet. Sweat dampens the hair at the back of my neck and glistens on my chest, between my breasts. My long legs are spread apart, letting warm air lick at the wetness between them.

  I wish I could say that all this is from being freshly fucked, but nope. It’s just stupid hot in here.

  The sun went down hours ago, but the air outside is still a balmy eighty-nine degrees—not out of the realm of normal for summer nights in Philadelphia. I have no clue what the temperature is inside, since I refuse to keep a thermometer in my apartment. I think I’d cry just from looking at it.

  My dehumidifier rattles like a box full of vibrators, and the fan positioned an inch from my bed is as effective as a pinwheel. My air conditioner is—

  Oh, wait, that’s right. I don’t have one of those.

  This isn’t working. The more I sweat, the more frustrated I become, and the more frustrated I become, the more I sweat. I roll over to face the fan, but the new position squishes my breasts together, creating a heat and perspiration trap. Fuck, that is so much worse.

  Flopping onto my back again, I throw a full-on tantrum, pounding my fists into the mattress and kicking the sheet at my feet. “Ugh! This sucks!”

  Chances are good that my ear-splitting shriek woke my poor upstairs neighbors. But you know what? Screw them. I’ve had to knock on their door three times in the past month because I could hear their TV as clearly as if I were sitting right in front of it. And don’t even get me started on their Call of Duty obsession.

  No, the annoying couple living above me can listen to my completely justified scream of total agony and get right over it.

  When I moved into this building in June, it didn’t take long to figure out my basement apartment isn’t designed to accommodate any kind of air conditioner. But it’s the perfect size, in the perfect neighborhood, and at the perfect price. And, really, how bad could one summer be? My grandmom lived without AC until she was sixty years old, and she never once died of a heatstroke.

  Turns out, Grandmom was one tough chick, and I didn’t inherit a lick of it.

  Moving sucks, altogether, and should be avoided at all costs, but I’d found myself with an immediate need for a new roof to live under. It was either this place or end up back at my mom’s. Don’t get me wrong, I love Dawn Templeton to pieces, but she sucks as a roommate. Plus, she lives out near York, Pennsylvania, which would’ve made for one hell of a commute.

  With my pale—no, porcelain, since it sounds prettier—complexion, Summer and I have never been the best of friends. This year, we’re completely at war with each other, and Summer is kicking my pasty, porcelain ass.

  Fifty-eight days until fall. It may as well be forever.

  Staying horizontal clearly isn’t helping me reach my goal of not being awake, so I roll out of bed and shuffle out to my tiny kitchen. I don’t bother with clothes. Anytime-nudity is one of the main perks of living alone, and I take full advantage o
f it as often as possible. My ancient fridge makes its usual alarming gurgly noises from having to work double-time to keep its contents cold, and I give it a nice pat on the head for a job well done. Then I abuse the shit out of it by cooling off in front of the open door while taking my time sipping a glass of water.

  On nights like this, I miss the house I used to live in. Not so much that I’d ever go back, but that place had tons of windows, lots of light, and all the central air a girl could want. If I believed in divine retribution, I’d be convinced this apartment is my punishment for past mistakes, of which there are many.

  But let’s not go there. I’ll end up with nightmares if I think about it too hard…if I ever fall asleep, that is.

  I place the empty glass on the drying rack next to the sink. The clock on the microwave says it’s 12:34 a.m., and my brain says, “Ha ha! I’m so fucking woke, let’s circle the block ten times and watch Food Network until the sun comes up!”

  Me? I say, “Screw you, brain,” then collapse on the couch and turn on the TV, utterly defeated.

  * * *

  Someone once tried to tell me that one hour of sleep is worse than no sleep, at all. I found this funny, since sleep is the greatest thing known to man, no matter how much or how little you get. But now that I’ve experienced it first-hand a few times, I can safely say that, no, one hour of sleep is not funny. In fact, it’s the unfunniest thing ever.

  I’m fully aware I’m being a whiny brat, but the situation is serious. If I don’t find a way to cool off today, I’ll end up in jail for aggravated assault on pretty much everybody.

  I swear, I’m not normally this irritable. My preferred state of being is less violent, more calm, quiet, and drama-free. But, at this point, I’ve reached a level of grouchiness so excessive, I’m sick of my own bad company. If only I could figure out a way to ditch myself like I’d ditch any other toxic person in my life. That being disappointingly impossible, all I can do is find ways to cope.

  I could go to the movies—theaters are reliably freezing. But my next paycheck is still a full week away, and a ticket alone would set me back eleven dollars. Between student loans and no longer having someone to split the rent with, my checking account has suffered greatly. It’d probably be wiser to use what little is left in there for things like food and, well, more food.

  Another option is the café down the street. I bring my laptop there after work most nights to get a little writing in, but they never let me stay long without buying more than a bottle of water.

  Greedy, gluten-free bastards.

  I splurged this week and bought a transpass, so I guess I could ride the bus all day long…or until I get sick of the sweaty summer-body smell. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what I do. Anything is an improvement on being cooped up at home. What I could really use is a massive dose of fresh air to clear my lungs, and I know just the place to go for that.

  Decision made, I throw on my royal blue one-piece bathing suit and a shapeless white sundress. Once I’ve packed my tote with a couple paperbacks, some SPF 80, a huge bottle of water, and an old blanket, I grab my keys from the bowl by the door and head out. The second I step onto the sidewalk, I’m hit with a scorching wall of heat.

  What the hell? The sun should never be this strong at eight o’clock in the morning. I’m supposed to have at least a couple more hours of ginger-friendly daylight.

  Today’s current tally: Summer, one; Claire, zero.

  But it’s fine. Really, it is. I’m a big girl. I’ll survive. I’m fairly certain of this.

  On the bright side, Rittenhouse Square is still relatively free of people when I arrive, so I have my pick of lawn space. A large maple tree near the Free Library calls my name with its leafy branches providing ample shade. I spread my blanket over the thick roots and get comfy against the trunk. Because of the layout of the city, wind funnels through the streets surrounding the park and into the center of it, so I definitely feel that fresh air I was craving.

  Summer and I are now in a dead heat.

  That’s unfortunate wording, but you get me.

  I pull out one of my books, take a few sips of water, and settle in for a long, lovely day at the park.

  Chapter Two

  Ben

  Andy’s talking to me. At least, I think he is. There are sounds coming from his general direction that might be words, but I’m not focused on him enough to confirm that. I’m focused on her.

  A flash of bright white danced at the edge of my vision a few minutes ago, and I’d turned to check it out. That’s when I saw her. Her pale skin glows, even in the shade, making her look like some kind of supernatural creature—an angel, maybe, or an alien. She’s definitely the hottest alien I’ve ever seen.

  Her skin is what caught my attention, but when I saw the bright red hair piled on top of her head, I knew I was a goner. There’s something about a gorgeous redhead that makes you want to find out if she’s as feral and dangerous as she looks. And hope like hell that she is.

  This particular gorgeous redhead is camped out under a tree, about forty feet from me. When she bends her knees to prop up her book, the hem of her dress pools at her hips, putting her long legs on full display. It’s impossible not to picture those legs wrapped around my hips or her creamy thighs trapping my face between them as she screams my name.

  I can’t tear my eyes from her…until Andy smacks the back of my head.

  “What the fuck, man?” I jump back, rubbing my poor, abused skull. “Was that necessary?”

  My best friend tosses the Frisbee for his pit bull, Cannoli—so named for his tan fur and white belly—and the dog takes off across the lawn to catch it. He trots back with the disc locked in his powerful jaws, looking like he knows he’s the shit.

  Like father, like son.

  “Well, considerin’ I just told you I let a dude fuck me in the ass and you didn’t even blink, yeah,” Andy says in his South Philly accent. It has to be the ugliest accent in the entire US, sounding like the bastard child of Baltimore and New York City, but, for reasons I’ll never understand, women are into it. That could also have something to do with his cocky Italian charisma, but they do love to hear the man talk.

  “So you dig dick now. Am I supposed to be surprised?”

  This earns me another whack on the head. Andy tries to collect the Frisbee from Cannoli’s mouth and ends up in a tug of war with an animal bred for tugging.

  “Fuck you,” he says to me, giving up the fight. “You spaced out. You see somethin’ you like?” When I point to my redhead, he contemplates her for a second before giving his unsolicited assessment. “She’s cute, but she needs a fuckin’ tan. She should get outta the shade, get some sun.”

  “You’re shitting me, right? Look at her. She’s an angel.” If this guy weren’t my best friend, I’d be shaking my head and walking away from the obvious crazy person. “Oh, that’s right. You’re only interested in women with fake tans and fake tits.”

  “I like a girl who takes care of herself. I see nothin’ wrong with that.”

  I let it drop and go back to my blatant staring. At some point, I’m going to grow a set and talk to her. I just need a little time. These things can’t be rushed.

  Looking away from her for a moment, I snap my fingers at Cannoli and point to the ground. He drops the Frisbee at my feet, and I give the happy pup a good scratch between his ears.

  “Damn…”

  My head pops up, and I catch Andy gawking at the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  She’s standing now. No, that’s too tame a word for what she’s doing. She's stretching her lithe body from her toes to her fingertips, elongating her limbs and making herself appear even more unreal than before. With her arms raised, the bottom of her dress rides up, revealing her upper thighs and, where they meet, a bright blue triangle of whatever she’s wearing underneath. The color is shocking against her white skin, and I can't help imagining what other shocking color might be hiding behind it.

  A strong br
eeze hugs her cotton dress to the side of her body, showing off her curves. Watching her before, as she sat against her tree, I’d assumed she was simply slender. But this girl has hips and breasts I’d be willing to commit all manner of crimes to get my hands on, and—

  Fuck me, she’s taking it off.

  Does she have slow-motion superpowers? She can’t possibly be undressing as slowly in reality as she is in my head. That’d be far too provocative in a park full of small children and dirty old men. Then again, I wouldn’t complain if this lasted forever. But the show does eventually come to an end, to the eternal disappointment of my dick. My angel lies down on her blanket, releasing her hair from its clip and fanning it around her. I can look away, now. And breathe.

  “If you’re not gonna man up, mind if I take a shot?”

  Oh, yeah, Andy’s still here. I’d forgotten all about him.

  Wait— "I thought you said she needs a tan.”

  I have to remind him he didn’t see the appeal before, or he really will go after her. Once Andy sees a woman he deems fuckable, he oozes charm all over her until she’s on her knees or naked in his bed. No way in hell is he allowed within oozing distance of this one.

  “She’s not your type, man.” I nod in her direction. “Look, she’s not even wearing makeup.”

  “Like I give a shit, anymore. A body like that’s every man’s type. Plus, I’ve never had a real redhead before, and that one looks like a ripe fuckin’ peach I’ve just gotta sink my teeth into.” He sinks them into his fist, instead. Better that than her perfect skin.

  When he strips off his shirt, I know he’s serious about making a move. A panting Cannoli sits at our feet and watches our exchange with one of those big pit bull grins on his face, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m about to neuter his owner.