For A Goode Time Call...

by Jasinda Wilder

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’re okay with those bruises. That you bear them willingly.”

  I liked them. I liked knowing he’d marked me. They twinged a little, but only enough to remind me that they were there, and how I got them. I wanted more of them.

  But I couldn’t say that to Mom. Shit, I wasn’t sure I could say that to Ink.

  Because there was so much else tangled up in it.

  Finally, I just sighed. “Yeah, I…yes.” Another sigh. “Yes, I’m okay with them. More than okay.”

  She just smiled. “Okay, then. That’s all I need to know about that.” A silence, as I dressed.

  Jeans, tight and stretchy, ripped at the knees—putting them on hurt my bad leg. Everything hurt my leg, and I know Mom saw that, too. She didn’t miss a thing, dammit.

  “You’re not doing your mobility stretches.”

  I sighed, a sound more growl than sigh. “Don’t, Mom.”

  “Or exercising.”

  “No shit! Why do you think I’m gaining weight?”

  “Cassie, you have to take care of—”

  “What’s the fucking point?” I snapped. “There is no point. And that’s the point.”

  “Cass.”

  I hooked a bra on with the clasp at my belly, twisted it around, and shrugged into the straps, adjusting my tatas into the cups, and then pulled on a T-shirt.

  “Where are you going, Cass?” She frowned at me. “It’s past midnight.”

  I paused, glancing at the clock. “Then why the hell did you wake me up?”

  She sighed. “Because you’ve been in bed for three days straight. I’ve come and gone over the past three days, and I’ve not seen you leave the bed even once. It was time.”

  I nodded. “Well, you’re right. It’s time.”

  “For what?”

  “For me to do what I have to do.”

  Mom tilted her head. “Which is what, honey?”

  I sighed, rubbing my bad leg. “Fuck if I know, Mom,” I said. “Fuck if I know. But something. He deserves it.”

  “So do you, honey,” she said, her voice quiet. “You deserve it.”

  I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, grabbed my purse—which still had my bra and thong in it. I tossed them into the hamper, stuffed my feet into a pair of ballet flats, and glanced back at Mom.

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  She shook her head. “You’re my daughter. I love you. I want you to be happy, or barring that, at least okay. And right now, babe, you’re not okay.” She stood, wrapped me in a tight mom-hug. “And that’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’m always here, and I’m always on your side, sweetheart.”

  “Even when I fuck up?”

  She pulled back, palms on my cheeks. “Especially then, darling.”

  I sniffed back a tear. “Dammit, Mom. Quit being saccharine.”

  She just laughed, and popped me on the butt. “There’s the Cassie I know.”

  I laughed and paused to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re a good mommy.”

  “Go figure yourself out, kiddo.”

  I smiled, and wondered if she could see that I was scared stupid. “Yeah, I guess we’ll see, huh?”

  I walked over to Ink’s, in the dark, alone. It was a couple of miles, but it was good. Exercise for my leg, time to think. Fresh air, after three days in bed, like a loser. Wallowing. Hating myself. Missing Ink. Refusing to think about how much I missed him and how badly I’d fucked up by panicking and running like I had.

  I still wasn’t entirely sure, even now, that I had the courage to walk into his house and talk to him after leaving like I had. I didn’t know what I would say. Or even what I wanted.

  All I knew was, Mom didn’t raise me to be the kind of woman who would run out on a man in the middle of the night after earth-shaking sex, after said man had held me as I bawled my eyes out in a real-deal nervous breakdown, ugly crying in a full-body dry heaving sort of way. After said man had made it very clear he was not someone to walk out on, so if I wanted what we’d done, I couldn’t walk out.

  And I’d walked out.

  I found myself at his door, looking in through the glass storm door at the darkened interior. Hesitating. He must be asleep.

  But I was here, and I wasn’t going back, not now. I couldn’t.

  It was hard to breathe.

  I quietly opened the door, and shut it behind me. I listened and heard the soft steady huff of a sleeping Ink. Why was I here? What was I going to do?

  Wake him and be like, hey, I’m sorry I ran like a scared little girl?

  I saw his phone on the counter, and an idea struck me. Dumb, and silly, but I couldn’t stop myself once the idea was in my head.

  Ink didn’t bother with a passcode, I knew. He only had a handful of numbers in his contacts, no email, didn’t text, rarely took pictures.

  I went into his bathroom, closed the door, turned on the light, and spent the next several minutes doing something I never anticipated I would do, ever.

  I took…salacious photos of myself.

  Started with me, clothed.

  Then with my shirt off. Then with my shirt on and my pants off. Then just in my bra and underwear. Different poses, some awkward AF and which I immediately deleted, others that took a few tries to get right and which ended up…good.

  Then I took my bra off and took more of myself topless, in just a pair of light gray high cut briefs.

  I took those off, and took even more of me totally nude. When I had taken what I felt like was enough, I put all my clothes back on, and then went through and selected all the photos and put them in a hidden album.

  I wondered if he’d find it. Probably not. Would probably need a hint or two.

  I wasn’t sure why I’d done that. Just that I wanted to, so I did. Because the man needed to get his sexuality back, and the taste of it that I’d gotten was…so impossibly good I knew I’d be haunted the rest of my life by it. If nothing else ever happened between us, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what I’d had with Ink that night was far and away the best thing that had ever happened to me, and probably ever would happen.

  And I’d had to make him pull out.

  I should have stopped for condoms so I could wake him in a sexy way.

  But I was scared of that, too. Terrified. It would be too good.

  I’d never want anything else.

  I already didn’t.

  I couldn’t fathom touching another man, or letting another man touch me. Not after Ink.

  I put his phone back where I’d found it, summoned my courage, and climbed up the ladder. Ink was still asleep. He looked…innocent. Huge, powerful, sexy.

  Troubled.

  A small frown furrowed his brow, even in sleep.

  I’d put that there.

  I sat a couple of feet away, just looking at him. Wired, not tired at all, wondering what the hell I was doing here, and what I would do if he woke up, what I would say.

  I just looked at him.

  At his tattoos—a deer walking through mist, head turned, eyes bright. An owl swooping among trees, round yellow eyes. An elk with the sun framed between its huge antlers. A bear. Wolf tracks, abstract and blending in with runes and lines and dots. Lost in the jumble, a little bumblebee, fat and cute. Ants in a line, disappearing into an anthill.

  I wanted to kiss them all, taste them all. Trace and touch and mark them all as mine.

  The power behind that word—mine...it shocked me. Mine.

  He wasn’t.

  And I wasn’t his.

  I’d never belonged to anyone. I’d never felt like I belonged anywhere, except on stage, lost in the dance. The troupe, Europe, my apartment in Paris with Rick, back home on the East Coast. Here in Alaska…

  I’ve never belonged.

  But I wanted to.

  I wanted to belong to someone.

  I wanted to be someone’s.

  Not just someone’s.

  HIS.

  My eyes watered.<
br />
  Stung.

  This couldn’t be. Couldn’t be.

  How did this happen?

  How the hell was I falling for this guy? And why?

  He stirred, and I froze. I felt his breathing change. Felt the air solidify.

  “Cass.” That deep, quiet, smooth, powerful voice.

  “Ink.” I swallowed hard. Tried to breathe. “I…I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left the way I did.”

  “You’re here, now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’d you come back?”

  “Because you…you deserve better than for me to run away like a scared little girl.”

  “And why’d you run?”

  “It was…a lot. You and me, that night.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, it was.”

  “It’s still a lot,” I muttered.

  He nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

  “Not sure what else to say.”

  “The whole honest truth, babe.” He was still lying as he’d been when asleep—on his side, head on his crooked arm. Hair loose and splayed everywhere behind and around him.

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “Why you ran. Start there. Start small.”

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  “You do.”

  I hated the anger that rose up—why did he have to push? Why couldn’t he just let me have my stupid lie?

  I blinked. Gave up trying not to cry, and put the effort toward not sobbing, instead. Just, sort of quietly letting tears trickle down. Keeping the anger buried. It was my anger, but not at him. It was irrational, and I knew it.

  But it came out anyway.

  “If you know so damned much about me, then you tell me why I ran.” Good god, I sounded petulant.

  Didn’t take it back, though, because he was pushing deep into my psyche, and I didn’t want my demons exorcised. I didn’t want my layers of shit unearthed.

  “Because you’re scared.”

  I felt the tears flow harder. “I’m not scared of you, Ink.”

  “Didn’t say that.” He sat up, but didn’t move any closer to me. Just stared at me in the darkness. “Of yourself. Of feelings. You’ve kept yourself closed off your whole life. Something to do with your dad. And I think sex is confusing for you because you want to use it as a substitute for emotions, but you’re too emotional for that, and not very good at keeping your equilibrium. So you shut down. Pretend to be all stoic. And something about us threatens all that. So you’re scared.”

  “And I think you’re scared too. I think you know damn well that I can handle everything you’ve got, and more, but you’re still scared of rejection. It’s not about hurting me. It’s about me hurting you. I hurt you by leaving, and that’s what I’m sorry for. I was scared, you’re right. I’m still scared. But I’m here.”

  “Yeah, you are. That’s something, and I see it.” He sighed. “I think you used me, in a way.”

  I flinched. “What?” I swallowed hard. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “You have shit you haven’t dealt with. Your dad. Your future. I don’t know. Mainly who you are and what you want, now that you don’t have professional dance anymore. You’re too scarred and scared to face that, and you don’t know how or where to start. So you latched onto me, and this, and us, as a distraction. As a way of putting off having to face yourself. And when shit got super fuckin’ real between us that night, it scared the shit out of you because us bein’ real with each other made it harder for you to keep pretending you’re okay not dealing with the fact that you got no fuckin’ clue who you are now, and what the hell you’re gonna do with your life, because you put all your eggs in the one basket.”

  I felt the anger as a protective shell, keeping his truth bombs out. It wasn’t working for shit, but damn if I wasn’t going to keep trying.

  “Yeah? Well…I think you’re…you’re scared me. I think you want things with me that scare you shitless. So you held back, not out of fear of me or hurting me, but because the things you want and how bad you want them scares you. But you’ve been hurt and you don’t trust me to be there and to accept who you are, what you are, what you want.”

  “Yeah, I’m fucking scared!” he yelled, a shocking loudness in the small space, more shocking yet because it was coming from him. “No one has ever wanted me! My own parents couldn’t fuckin’ handle me! My school, my team, the woman I fuckin’ loved, nobody can fuckin’ handle me. And yeah, I want shit with you that I don’t know how to fuckin’ deal with. It’s too damn much, Cass.” He seemed to swell, to take up more space than he usually did. Became bigger, louder, more. “You wanna know my truth, Little Sparrow?”

  I was not afraid of him. Despite his size, despite the increase in his massive presence, despite the way he prowled toward me, I was not afraid. I was excited. Thrilled. “Yes, Ink. I do.”

  “My truth is, I held back with you because I was scared I’d rip you in fuckin’ two. I wanted to fuck you so hard you’d just…break into pieces. I wanted to fuck you so damned hard you’d feel it in every goddamn bone in your body.” His voice was a feral threatening snarl that shivered into my center. “I wanted to fuck you in every position there is, a hundred times. I wanted to fuck your mouth and fuck your pussy. I wanted to watch you go down on me until you choked on my cum.”

  I shook all over at his words.

  “I want to hold both of your hands in one of mine and pin you down so you can’t get away and fuck you until you scream.” His eyes burned. “I want it so bad I’m fuckin’ crazy with it. I wake up hard as a damned rock needing to fuck you so bad. I want you till I’m…till I’m fuckin’ crazy. And that scares me shitless. How bad I want you. The things I want. The way I want them. I’m not a violent person. Not a demanding or aggressive person. But you? You make me something else, woman. You do things to me just by bein’ you.”

  “Holy shit, Ink.”

  “And you know what scares me even more?”

  “What?” I whispered.

  “When I say I want to fuck you,” he hissed the word, drew it out, emphasized every letter, every sound, “I mean make love. In the deepest, truest, rawest sense of the phrase.”

  “Ink…”

  “That’s what scares me, Little Sparrow.”

  “What if I told you I’m just as scared?” I slid closer to him. “That I’m just as scared because I want that same thing, those same things, just as much?”

  “I believe you,” he whispered.

  Silence. Tense, tight, boiling with unspoken ideas and thoughts and words and emotions.

  “So, now what?” I asked.

  “Now you tell me what your future looks like.”

  Totally unexpected. So unexpected I blinked in the darkness, mouth flapping open and closed. “I—I—what?”

  “What do you want, Cassandra?” He took my hand. Held it. Squeezed hard. “Not about me, or us. For you. What do you want? Who are you? Who are you, now? What are you going to do?”

  “What does that…” I swallowed a hot thick burning lump in my throat, only to have it lodge in my chest. “What does that have to do with us?”

  “Fuckin’ everything, Cass. Everything.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Think about it, boo.” He traced the pad of a fingertip over my knee, on the skin that showed through the rip in my jeans.

  “I am, but I don’t understand what me figuring out my life has to do with you and me wanting each other.”

  “I ain’t a hump-and-dumper, Cass. I don’t do temporary. Don’t do casual. Don’t do hookups.”

  “I…I mean, I have, but that’s not what I want with you.” I hurt. God, this hurt, so fucking bad. “I want…more. What, I don’t know. But more.”

  “Me too. I want everything.”

  “Okay, so I don’t get the issue.” I blinked back tears. “You want to be with me, I want to be with you. So maybe I still have some shit to work out. I will. I am.”

  “You are?”

&
nbsp; “Yeah.” Uncomfortable.

  “So you ain’t just usin’ me to avoid working out your issues?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, babe.” His voice was a growl. “Don’t lie to yourself.”

  “Why are you being so mean?” I snapped, yanking my hand away and scrambling away from him. “Why do you fucking care what I do with my goddamn life?”

  “Because I want our lives to be one life. And you can’t offer yourself and your life if you’re still lost and refusing to face your shit.”

  “It’s hard!” I yelled. “You have no fucking idea how hard it is. I lost everything. I had to sell and donate half of my life and belongings because I couldn’t afford to ship it home from Paris. I lost my career, my passion. My fucking mobility. My fiancé, and everything I thought I knew about him and our relationship. I—lost—everything—in that goddamn car wreck. So yeah, I’m still a bit of a mess. Still figuring it out. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have anything to offer you.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He frowned, puzzling through his thoughts.

  “It’s what you said.” I was fighting another sob-fest.

  “I know. But you’re missing my point. It’s not about what I’m getting from you. It’s what I want for you. For the us that could be.”

  “Okay, Yoda. Whatthefuckever.”

  “Don’t, Cass. You’re avoiding yourself. You’re scared to face it. That’s okay. I’m here. I’ll help. And if you need time, I’ll be there waiting when you figure it out.” His voice was soft and quiet and tender. “I’m not pushing you away. I’m not rejecting you. I’m just saying we can’t have a real relationship until you face your own shit.”

  “And what about you?” I snarled. “You have your own share of demons, don’t you? What about the fact that you didn’t even jack off for what, almost ten years? Because one woman messed you up? One woman hurt you? You took that all on yourself and shut down totally. You think that’s healthy? You think one night of messing around has fixed all that? You think I’m the only one that has shit to face?”

  “There’s a difference, Cassie. Yeah, I have shit to handle. Yeah, it affects you and us—but that requires us working together. Me learning to trust you, and learning to trust myself. To open up. It will happen, but it’ll take time. I’m willing to do it. I’m admitting I have a hard time being open. I admit I hold back a lot, don’t express shit very well when it comes to physical stuff. I admit I’m afraid of letting go. You’re right. It’s at least in part because I’m afraid of me, not you. I know you don’t want to hurt me. Even when you left, I knew it was not about me, it was about you. I watched you leave, you know. I watched you struggle. I got it then, and I get it now. Yeah, Cass, I’m fucking afraid of intimacy. I’m afraid of vulnerability. I’m afraid of letting go. But I’m admitting that, and I’m committing to you, right here, right now, that I can and will actively work toward total trust and vulnerability with you, emotionally and physically. Because I believe you and me have a real shot at a relationship like my cousin has, like all her in-laws have. I see all fuckin twelve of ’em, Lucas included, havin’ these deep meaningful fulfilling fuckin’ romances…and I want that shit.”