by Ella James
“Well tell me when. I’ll bake another cake. Then we can trade.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Okay, no cake. Would you rather have cinnamon rolls or brownies?”
He looks down at his hands, still in his pockets. He presses his lips together. His eyes return to mine. “What’s your favorite?” he asks, looking thoughtful.
“I’m a cupcake person.”
“Do that, then.”
He steps back toward the door and rakes a hand through his hair.
“Let me give you my phone number,” I say. “That way you can text me when you’re ready.”
“What’s your number?”
I rattle it off and wait for him to go inside. Now standing in the doorway, he nods. “Thanks, Gwenna.”
“You can remember it?”
Another funny, sideways smile. Or smirk.
“And to think, I had you pegged as just a pretty face.” I grin, and hold, despite the way it makes my stomach twist.
He smiles back. “To think.”
Inside my chest, something spreads its wings. I start down the steps, still smiling as I call over my shoulder, “Later, sensei.”
As I start into the woods between our houses, my heart is pounding in the best possible way.
TEN
BARRETT
My balls are throbbing so hard I can feel it down the insides of my thighs. My shaft is swollen and hard as a baseball bat, with slick precum oozing out the head, coating my palm, which grips my cock and strokes it up and down.
I lift my hips and drag my loose fist upward from the base, making a ring under the head. My thumb finds the soft notch just underneath the head and strokes there, while my left hand plays support and grips my sac. I close my eyes and roll my balls around until they, too, are taut and aching.
I’m breathing hard. My legs are shaking. I’m leaning back in the armchair—the one by the window. The one where a few hours ago, I dozed off for two hours and woke up screaming so loud I’m surprised Gwenna didn’t hear me from next door.
I tighten my fist and stroke faster, up and down my shaft, bouncing when I reach the base, causing my balls to bounce, too. I slide back up and roll my palm over my head and stroke back down, and then back up, until I’m right there on the edge. My head is too sensitive to touch. My cock throbs with my pulse, and my balls have drawn up tight.
I want to come. I need to get off. Jesus Christ, my body needs that hot wash of endorphins or I’ll go fucking insane.
I wrap my hand around the base and tug up toward my swollen head. My cock throbs and I try to think of pussy. Wet, pink pussy; plump, slick pussy; fat lips spread, glistening cunt that drips down toward her taint. I imagine tonguing the smooth pearl of Gwenna’s clit, the way her cunt tightens and then spasms hard enough to squeeze my shaft. I cup my head. It’s warm and smooth and sensitive from being buried deep inside her.
No.
The voice is faint. I can’t afford to listen. Not when I’m so close.
Panting now, like a damn dog, I spread my legs and cup my aching balls and grip my shaft, harder than it’s ever been, so damn hard it’s twitching every time I stroke it.
It’s that pussy. Her pussy. I lift my hips as I imagine driving deep inside her, making her bounce atop me…tits swinging. I groan. I can feel cum pulsing in me, filling up my shaft till I’m so full of it, more precum leaks. I spread it all around, tweaking the rim of my head, and feel my balls throb.
“Fuckkk.” I spread my legs and press them shut, and spread my legs and jack myself…so hard and fast…I feel it ripple out, sensation building in the core of my cock, radiating outward till my balls clench and my cock jerks and I feel the warmth of cum spill in between my fingers.
Breathing hard, I sag against the chair. Gold stars dance in the blackness behind my eyelids. My head spins—but it feels good. I can breathe now.
That’s the last thought I have before I wake up some time later, whimpering and writhing, tugging on my hair so hard there’s blood on my fingertips from where I’ve pulled some of the Dermabond off my busted scar.
My body shakes there on the stretcher as I hear the drill’s sharp whine. I can’t move my head and neck, my arms and legs. I’m strapped down tightly. I can’t seem to summon up the fear I should be feeling. The headache is all-consuming; there’s nothing else I can process besides the excruciating pain radiating through my head and face.
I look at the ceiling of the plane. I’m floating there, while lying here. I think I might be dead. Who lies still while someone drills a hole in their skull? Except I feel the scalding bite of the drill bit as it pokes through bone. The airplane’s ceiling spins. Bile splashes up over the back of my tongue. Then I feel the headache ease… The pressure in my chest eases. My throbbing eyes go numb… My neck and shoulder—blinding, hot, white pain—are peeled away. My body feels so cold.
“Am I dead?” I slur.
Just kill me. Kill me like I killed her. Kill me like I killed Breck.
I wake up eons later to the sight of my numb lower body, lumpy underneath a blue blanket, framed by thick, beige bed rails. There’s a tube or drain in every orifice. My left eye is fucked up. My left hand is fucked up. I can’t move or speak. Don’t even have the strength to roll over to hide the tears that soon start dripping from my eyes.
I’m aware of nurses easing me over on my side so they can change the dressing on my shoulder. The one that cost me the use of my left hand when Breck needed me. The one that took my gun.
Strange to have them all buzzing around me. Strange, these doctors—caring for the dead…
I shut my eyes and focus on each breath. I’m not dead. I curve my hand over the bleeding, Dermabond-edged wound and lean over so I can prop my arms on the windowsill.
I wrap my arms around my head and draw my legs in close to my chest. My heart is beating fast, but it feels like an echo. Everything, an echo. This place isn’t real. I pull my hair again, to feel it sting.
Sometimes… I rub my eyes. My hands tremble. You can’t think about those things.
I pull my .45 out of its hidden holster and set it on the nightstand. I don’t allow myself to look at it before I stand up, turning toward the bathroom. I feel, as I move toward the shower, like there’s something I should remember. Something from before I fell asleep. Something I did or thought…
I push the nameless worry away. It could be anything. I chuckle, mirthless, and rub my sore temples. I step into the bathroom and I look into my bloodshot eyes. I rub them. I start the shower, strip out of my sweat-soaked clothes.
As I do, something vibrates. My phone…still in the pocket of my pants. I reach down for it, hold it to my eye, and wait for it to unlock and present the source of the buzzing.
A text—from Dove, of course.
‘So? How’s it going?’
I wipe the steam off the phone’s screen and blink down at the message. Set the phone down on the sink counter.
How’s it going? For some reason, the more I think on it, the more I want to laugh. How’s it going?
Oh, it’s going fucking great.
I think of all the possible replies, and I do laugh.
I’m still laughing as I step under the hot shower, avoiding the stinging spot in my hair, soaping up my body, prodding at sore muscles. As I bathe, my mind wanders: a predictable circuit of pain, weakness, and craving. I tell myself there’s nothing wrong with offering to show her some new hand-to-hand.
As if that’s all it is.
As if she’s just anyone.
As if I’m the guy next door.
Guilt twists in my chest, but I ignore it.
What’s the point of guilt on top of guilt? There is no scenario in which I’m what I seem to be. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. So what if I go show her some new moves? It doesn’t change a fucking thing.
GWENNA
I get home from speech therapy and the grocery store at 4 p.m., and get a text from Barrett at 4:30.
&
nbsp; ‘6—your yard?’
I save his number and reply, unable to keep a silly grin off my face. ‘Sounds good.’
After spooning a dollop of chocolate mousse out of a plastic cup full from the grocery store bakery, I walk into my room and do something ridiculous: I get a long, luxurious shower before donning black leggings, my favorite hot pink sneakers, and a gray long-sleeved shirt. I pull my hair up into a bun so he can’t use my long tresses against me. Then I spend a few minutes standing in front of my bathroom mirror.
This is low-key, I tell myself. I lean forward and look into my own brown eyes. Just sparring. No big deal. I try to bunch my lips together, watch the left side of my mouth fail. I put on red lipstick anyway. I put on mascara.
Maybe I have a crush on him. It’s not as if it’s going to kill me. I can keep my expectations low. Or not.
I blink down at the handwritten notecard taped to the bottom corner of my bathroom mirror. It’s a quote attributed to Edgar Allan Poe that reads: “There is no exquisite beauty…without some strangeness in proportions.”
Jamie dug the quote up for me on Tumblr, I think, sometime in 2013, right about the time my obsession with “The Raven” flared.
I debate the merits of wearing mascara. If he noticed, he might know I put it on for him. But he probably wouldn’t. And if he did? Do I really care? Can I not handle my neighbor knowing I find him attractive? Did I not just call him hot right to his face, playing Old Gwenna for that moment?
I brush on some mascara. Then I sink down onto my fluffy bedroom rug, pull out my fishbowl full of colored marbles, and start stretching.
Don’t ask me why, the marbles make this whole thing interesting enough that I can actually do it: stretch. Not just pre-workout, but for fun and relaxation. I read somewhere if you hold something in your left hand—especially if you squeeze—your mind will be less anxious. So when I’m stretching here in my room, I always hold a marble in my fist.
As I stretch, my mind wanders. I can see him standing on his porch in loose jeans and that sexy as fuck undershirt. I can almost feel the firm warmth of his arms. His slightly hair-fuzzed arms. The dimpled smile. The sharp-browed, keen but sleepy eyes.
Classic obsession. I don’t even know the guy. You know he touched your cheek when you were being awkward. Plus, he put his arm around you for no reason.
I stretch my back and drop my marble back into the bowl. It makes a satisfying thunk.
I smooth a palm over the top of my head, tuck the wispy stands of my stray hairs behind my ears. I go to my jewelry box, atop my dresser, and pull out my chunky Michael Kors men’s watch, slide it on my arm, and check the time. Hmmm. It’s only 5:20. I go into the kitchen and splash some absinthe into my Pontarlier glass. While I’ll admit my newfound absinthe obsession is slightly ridiculous, given I don’t drink enough to actually get drunk or even buzzed most of the time, and that I drink it neat, without the sugar and water pour, that doesn’t stop me from taking the glass to my couch and stretching out with my TV remove in hand.
After a few minutes flipping channels, I call Jamie, who regales me with a tale of one of her chart-topping clients peeing in a bush outside the Grand Ole Opry.
“Do I want to know if he was drunk, or just raised in a barn?”
“He’d been drinking Southern Comfort. From the bottle.”
I snort. “Well, that’s one way to excuse it.”
“Totally.” I hear her pop her lips, which probably means she’s wearing that overbearing strawberry lip gloss she likes so much. “So is he still coming over?” she asks.
“Yep. At six.”
“Are you hyperventilating like the fangirl you are?”
“No.” I glower at the phone. Since Jamie’s going to be annoying and make fun of me when I’m feeling sensitive and nervous, I decide to go into my office and watch cam footage while we talk. I spend the next ten minutes listening to her talk about Niccolo, and how the movie he’s working on is over-budget. When she’s finished, she clucks. “I hear your little mouse clicks.”
Whoops. “Guilty as charged. No sign of my woodland creeper.”
“That’s good. I told Nicci you were scared and you wanted his help.”
“You did not.”
“Yeah. I did. He said he’ll get Casper—” Niccolo’s creepy older brother, who runs a security company in Denver— “to send you a body guard.”
I stand up and stretch. “He better not have.” I slip my watch off and leave it on my work desk, go fill a bottle of water, and wander out onto my tiny porch to wait for Barrett. Or Bear.
I interrupt Jamie to ask, “Barrett or Bear? Which one should I call him?”
“What?”
“He told me people sometimes call him Bear.”
I can see her perfectly plucked eyebrows raise, in my mind’s eye. “Well then, you have to call him Bear. C’mon. That’s an easy one.”
“I’m not sure if I can without laughing.”
“What’s wrong with laughing?”
“Oop, I think I hear leaves crunching! Gotta go,” I hiss.
“Have fun.”
I hang up so quickly, my butterfingers manage to turn on the phone’s noise maker. I’m still fumbling to turn that off when his dark, tall form becomes visible through the leafless trees.
As soon as he comes into sight, my stomach lurches roller-coaster hard. I can taste the absinthe in the back of my throat. I swallow reflexively, just to be sure my throat can still manage the maneuver. Because it’s knotting up as he moves lithely toward me.
ELEVEN
GWENNA
There’s something gloriously sexy about watching a man approach. I have time to admire all my favorite things about him: the curly hair, the striking eyes and luscious lips, the huge shoulders and chest that taper to those sexy hips. His legs are long, I notice, as he steps over brush and a fallen log.
He breaks through the last line of trees before he reaches my small yard—still partitioned into sad sod squares that have never really thrived despite the moisture of the forest.
My eyes roll once more over his gray hoodie, jeans, and nondescript black sneakers. Nike running sneakers, I note, as he saunters up to my porch.
I can’t help noticing he looks tired again. Maybe even more tired than last time I saw him. I stand up slowly and smile in welcome, even though I hate to smile. He lifts his eyebrows, looking moody. When he’s just a three or four feet away, I step down the porch steps. “Hey, neighbor. Doing okay?”
He nods, folding his arms. “Yeah. Why?” He frowns.
“You look a little tired or something. Sorry. I’m one of those people who says everything I think. It’s not one of my selling points. I’ll try to keep my commentary to myself. I had a long day, and I’m tired too.” I stand up and start stretching my shoulders. He’s so inert, with his arms still folded, I’m starting to get nervous.
I’m relieved when he takes my cue and starts stretching his own upper body. “What kind of long day?” he asks. His eyes cling to me for just a moment, then move back to what he’s doing with his arm.
“I saw my speech therapist, in downtown Gatlinburg. Her name is Reagan, and she’s super hard on me. Which is good,” I say, stretching my arms over my head. I feel his eyes on me and lose my train of thought. A quick breath, and I’ve got it back. “She’s the biggest part of why I can speak clearly now, after the accident paralyzed this side of my mouth. I used to go three times a week and — anyway, it’s just kind of tiring. I think I still attach stressful feelings to going there, even though she’s turned into a friend and I’m almost over all my speech issues now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. God, I’m sure I’m boring him to tears. “Nothing exciting,” I summarize. “Just a very tasky day, and now I’m feeling lazy.”
“Tasky?” He smirks, and spreads his legs to stretch.
“It should be in Webster’s,” I say. My cheeks flush at his pose, which is ridiculous, and which I pray to God, Allah, and Moses, that he doesn’t
notice. “Tell me you’ve never had a day that’s tasky. Boring, lots of mundane stuff to do, and tiring at the end. It’s not really tasky,” I say, mimicking his stretch, “unless you’re totally exhausted at the end and you feel almost no real satisfaction.”
He nods.
“So how about your day?”
His pretty eyes lift to meet mine, though his head is still tucked down. He shrugs, bending one knee so he can stretch the muscles on the inside of his thighs.
“Fine,” he says simply.
“Oh, c’mon. No exciting tales of blowing bubbles, hunting down organic avocadoes at the grocery store, or flipping through TV channels? Don’t tell me my boring, tasky day has got yours beat.”
He stands straight up, pulling one leg behind him to stretch his thigh.
“Damn, that’s good form,” I say, at the same moment he says, “Blowing bubbles?”
“Huh?”
He smiles—a patiently obliging, almost shy-looking smile—and steps over to my porch steps, pulling the toes of his right foot up toward his shin and stretching his calf with the help of my step. “You said you were blowing bubbles?”
“Yeah. At speech.” I laugh. Embarrassing.
“What does that help with?”
“Just getting my mouth stronger. Helping my lips re-learn to make an ‘o.’” The comment sounds perverted to my sensitive ears. I can feel my cheeks burn. Damn fair skin to hell.
When I brave a look at his face, he’s not smirking or cracking jokes. He looks natural and curious.
“Tell me what you mean.”
My cheeks sting anew. All this focus on me… I stretch my calves too, my smaller shoe beside his on the stair’s edge. “It’s just weaker on the left side. I still have a little trouble saying certain words. Anyway, by the time speech therapy is over, I feel like I need a drink or something. Have you ever had absinthe?”
“Once or twice.” He nods, and takes a big step from the porch. He moves his big body effortlessly into a flawless side kick. “Mostly French,” he says.
