One Year With Him Page 7

  “Oh, is that why it works so well?” I pursed my lips. He pulled my hand off his cheek and held it. “I’m not questioning your competence, but I don’t think you’re defining yourself by your ability to set in a deadbolt. Or are you going to become L.A.’s first singing locksmith?”

  I rested my head on his shoulder. “Fine. You have someone lock me up tight.”

  “On all the doors.” His fingertips found a place between my legs where moisture gathered in response to his touch and his breath.

  I sighed. “If it’ll make you happy.”

  “It would keep unhappiness at bay.” He dragged his finger up my pussy and across my clit. My breath hitched from the soreness and pleasure. “Open your legs for me.”

  “Another go?” I murmured.

  “Yes.”

  We shifted so my back was to him. He released himself with the clink of a belt buckle and the purr of a zipper. I put my hands on the table as he reached around and pulled my legs farther apart.

  “All the way,” he said. “I want you to feel me.” He stretched me apart to the point of pain, then pulled off my robe. Again, I found myself nude against his clothed body, exposed, vulnerable to him. His dick rolled past my ass and found the source of my wetness. I put my weight on it and groaned with how deep he went, how the soreness stung, and how the skin of my sex felt abused and loved.

  Our hands met between our legs, feeling where we were coupled, taking turns touching my clit, stroking his shaft when it was exposed and feeling it enter me. I rubbed his balls under his clothes. Our hands went wild, fingers kneading, palms rubbing. He ran his damp hand up my belly and held my breast, twisting the nipple between two fingers. I was crazy with him, a circle of hunger and desire. He pulled me toward him until the back of my head was on his shoulder, and he whispered in my ear, “You are mine, goddess.”

  I groaned. Close, wrapped in a web of hands and wetness and throbbing shaft moving inside me.

  “Mine,” he said, pressing my hand to where were coupled, his sliding dick against my wet flesh. “This is us together. I own it. This body is my plaything. Your ache is mine. Your orgasm is mine. Your hunger is mine. Your dirty thoughts are mine.”

  “I’m going to come.”

  “Say it.”

  I was so close, but I wanted to say it before I exploded. I turned so my lips were close to his ear. “I’m yours. My pleasure is yours. My wet pussy is yours. You own me, Jonathan. You are the master of my fuck.”

  “Jesus, you are something else.”

  He thrust his hips forward. I sat up and matched him thrust for thrust. He moved my hand between my legs, my palm rubbing his dick and my clit at the same time. It was beautiful, soaking, earthy, celestial, electric. I slammed myself on him, driving him deep as I groaned, grinding my orgasm against the base of his cock, bending my body forward, winding like a spring, and unwinding with a shout.

  A few gentle rocks, and I felt his hands tighten on my hips, grabbing flesh and digging in. He’d done it. He’d found the place I wasn’t sore and bruised it, moving me up and down against him with decreasing gentleness.

  He groaned, and with a final thrust forward, he yanked my hips down, coming inside me while whispering, “Monica, Monica, Monica.”

  Chapter 11

  JONATHAN

  I had a sinking uneasiness. It wasn’t necessarily about leaving her for D.C. It was about how often I left and stayed gone. I trusted her intentions, but I didn’t trust her ability to make wise decisions. She’d basically admitted Kevin had vengeful thoughts about her, and dismissed them as part of his artistic process.

  I wondered if she’d been bitten by a shithouse rat. If she expected Darren to protect her, she was sorely out of her league. He was a mother hen. He’d tuck her into bed and feed her soup if she got sick, but if that guy started doing the revolting shit I saw in those drawings, Darren was as good as useless.

  I didn’t feel much more useful.

  Mostly because as soon as I hit the 101 and got too far away from her to turn back, I started planning the next time I’d see her. Nothing between visits occupied my mind. I already wanted to taste her again, feel her legs wrapped around my waist, and hear her sighs. I wanted to take action. Do something. Make some gesture that would bring her closer. Some sort of act that would bind her to me, even when I was away.

  I felt greedy thinking about how much I missed her. I wanted more. More time. More sex. More laughing. I wondered if each of my sisters would like her. How each would react. Five out of seven would love her, and that thought warmed me. The warmth, instead of providing comfort, grew to a painful burn. I’d let my mind wander. I’d let something happen since last night when I kissed her eyelids. She was mine to protect and care for, a responsibility I relished.

  Chapter 12

  MONICA

  Jonathan had left only hours ago, and I’d gone right back to bed. A rumble in the driveway woke me at eight a.m. It sounded like a farting tuba being played in a closet. I peeked out the window. A Ford pickup as long as a bus pulled into my driveway, blocking my car.

  I threw on last night’s clothes and ran out to the porch. He was obviously in the wrong driveway. He was right at my door when I opened it. Six four. A solid wall of muscle with a face to match and blonde hair that looked as if it had already done a full day’s work.

  “Dr. Thorensen is next door,” I said.

  “I’m here for the Faulkner residence?”

  I looked at his polo. The logo on the breast said The Foundation Guys, and the name DAVE was embroidered above it. Jonathan said he had guys.

  “I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s been slow lately. Anyway, coming to check it out. Get kinda like a bead on the situation?”

  “Yeah, well, I gotta get to work. Do you need me?”

  “Nope, just your crawlspace. You got a dog or something? Gonna bite me?”

  “No, but I’ll bite you if I’m late to work. I have to get the Honda out.”

  He laughed and ran to the truck, and I shut myself behind closed doors to get ready. When I got out of the shower, I heard scuffling from Gabby’s room. Tiptoeing to the doorway, I found Darren stacking and restacking piles of Hollywood Reporters.

  “Mon,” he said, indicating the towel wrapped around me, “I’m still a man, okay?”

  “You could knock.”

  “I could if I wanted to sit on your porch for half an hour.”

  “Seriously. I have a boyfriend, and you could walk in on God-knows-what.”

  “Ah, right. Stay kinky, Monica. Stay kinky,” he said, smiling. I whipped off the towel wrapped around my head and snapped it at him. “New trick?”

  I whipped it again, and he grabbed it. I couldn’t get it back because I needed to keep the other towel on myself with my free hand.

  “Can you get dressed, please?” Darren threw the towel back.

  I ran into my room and heard him through the wall as I wiggled into jeans and a shirt. When I got back to Gabby’s room, he was sorting through manila envelopes absently, as if deciding what to do with the whole stack rather than whether or not to keep any individual file.

  “What’s happening with the work crews?” he asked.

  “My foundation’s slipping, or actually, has slipped.”

  “No shit. How you paying to fix that?”

  When I didn’t answer, he waved his hand, looking as if he was holding back a torrent of recriminations.

  “Can we be done fighting?” I said.

  “What fighting? Who’s fighting? The thing in the parking lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought that was foreplay.” Though his words were a joke, his voice took a serious timbre.

  I felt a shudder that turned to heat on my cheeks. I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want anyone to know. He must have imagined me tied up and gagged, like the girl suspended over the bar with wet underpants and come dripping out of her mouth. Would he avoid making eye contact
with me? Would I always think he thought less of me?

  I changed the subject, indicating the piles of papers and envelopes. “We should just throw it all out or keep it all. Going through it is just going to make you sad.”

  “She spent so much time on this stuff. It feels wrong to just trash it.”

  “It doesn’t feel wrong,” I said. “It feels too easy. And like a fast train to regret.”

  “Cheap. Like everything would feel cheap.”

  “It’s not the same as throwing her away.” I sorted through stacks, not really thinking. Some envelopes were thicker than others. Some had trees and webs of relationships penciled on them. Some were so thin they couldn’t have been more than an idea. “I miss her. I think about her all the time. I should have called her when the location changed. I shouldn’t have made that scratch cut without her. I’m sorry, Darren. I’m so sorry. I feel like I took your sister from you.” I couldn’t look at him, just the never-ending pile of envelopes left behind as her legacy.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Monica. It was a stupid accident.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Stop defending me. She committed suicide because she was getting cut out. You know it, and I know it.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said with a pointed finger and raised voice. “You have two possible scenarios, and you believe the one that makes you responsible? Sorry, no. You want to get beat up during sex, that’s fine, but this emotional masochism is bullshit.”

  “She committed suicide whether I take responsibility or not,” I yelled back.

  “No. She. Didn’t.” Darren ground his teeth. If I took responsibility, he’d have to as well. For not babysitting, for not watching more closely, for not counting her meds. It could go on and on in ever-expanding circles of self-blame.

  “Fine,” I said. “It was a freak accident. I’m still sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  Agreeing on everything and nothing, we looked through the envelopes as if we were doing more than touching what she’d touched so we could commune with our memories.

  “I can take it all back to my place,” he said. “Clear out this room. You need a new roommate.”

  I hadn’t given that a moment’s thought. I’d paid bills like a robot. Since they always came out of my checking account anyway, it didn’t feel like anything had changed. But that account wouldn’t make it another month without help.

  I realized I didn’t want the room cleaned. I didn’t want anyone else living there. No one else was family. I didn’t want a stitch removed until I was good and ready, which I wasn’t yet. “How much are you paying for that place around the corner?”

  “Not too much. Why? You want to move in?”

  “Live here. With me.”

  “Here? In this room?”

  “You can have my room. Or the living room. I can clean out the garage.” It seemed like the most sensible thing in the world. We would stay together, which I wanted so much a knife of anxiety went through my chest.

  He sorted through files as if he didn’t want to look at me. “What would your new boyfriend say?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Ask first.”

  “I don’t have to ask permission to live my life, Darren.”

  “It’s not permission. It’s courtesy. Seriously.” He glanced at me. “You and I were intimate, in case you forgot. Guys have a problem with stuff like that. Trust me. I’d like to move in, but not at the expense of whatever you have with him. Not that I understand it.”

  “Fine.” I held my hand out, realizing too late my wrists were black and blue from straining against plastic bags tied to my kitchen cabinets.

  “Jesus, Monica,” he whispered.

  Before I could even think about it, I hid them behind my back. Stupid. I was the cause of my own shame. “It’s not a big deal.”

  He held out his hands. “Can I see?”

  “No.”

  “Please? I won’t give you a hard time.” When I didn’t move, he said, “Promise.”

  I put my hands in his. He turned my hands over, assessing the damage. I couldn’t look at him. I knew what was on his face and what was in his head. It wouldn’t be too far off from the truth. Me, naked on the floor. Knees up. Hands tied, straining. Add whatever darkness lay in Darren’s imagination, and I’m getting choked, slapped, fisted… whatever act he decided was too sick to perform, too deranged to even think about, had a shape and a voice and they looked and sounded like me.

  “Do we have a problem?” I asked.

  He let go of my hands. “It’s not a problem for me if it’s not for you.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure? No. But close enough.”

  I put my arms around his shoulders and held on for dear life. He rocked me back and forth and gave me a big, hard kiss on the cheek. I heard another knock on the door and pulled away to go answer. I checked out the window and saw a rock-solid woman in her fifties carrying a beat-up leather case.

  “Hi,” I said when I opened the door. “You must be the locksmith.”

  “Sure am. Benita’s the name.”

  I let her in. “Okay, well, this deadbolt isn’t set in right, so if you could fix that.”

  She fiddled with the lock. “Uh, I was told to replace all the locks with Kleigs.”

  My face hardened. I couldn’t afford Kleigs, naturally, but I’d agreed. “I have three doors. Back, front, and side.”

  “Done. Checking the windows, too.”

  Was there any use arguing? She was just doing her job.

  “Fine. I’m going to work. You don’t need me here, do you?”

  “Nope, just your key. I’ll leave it and the new ones in a box in the front. Code’s 987. All you need to know.” She handed me her card, and I saw her eyes widen when she saw my wrists.

  I thanked her and ran back to my room. I caught sight of my wrists as I put rings on. That wouldn’t work. I looked as though I’d been in a hostage situation. I put bracelets on to cover the bruises. I needed a more solid pair that didn’t slide around so much. Whenever I lifted a tray, the bracelets would slip and reveal my weekend’s activities.

  Which was exactly what happened. I’d been at work thirty minutes when Debbie noticed. She flicked the bracelets, then looked at me when I got back to the service bar.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. I knew exactly what she meant.

  “Very well, thank you.” I was pretty sure I blushed as I put empty glasses in the bus tray. She smiled at me then disappeared downstairs.

  I serviced some tables, threw snide comments back and forth with Robert, and wore a ridiculous smile that was probably the exact opposite of the customer service smile I usually used. Debbie caught me on a bathroom run and handed me a black velvet bag with a drawstring.

  “Put these on.” She took off as if she had more important things to do than explain.

  When I got to the bathroom, I opened the bag. Inside were two bracelets that were more like metal cuffs in hammered silver. Two inches wide, with red stones set into them, they looked heavy but weren’t. When I put them on, they stayed put as I moved my arm.

  “Well, there’s a hint I can take,” I said to Debbie when I saw her.

  “I can’t have customers thinking we tie you up in the basement.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you happy?” She indicated the bracelets, but I knew she meant the bruises underneath them. “This is good for you?”

  Debbie knew Jonathan, and her voice often told me she was some sort of dominant. I knew she knew, if not the details, the broad strokes. “Inappropriate” was too mild a word to describe talking to her about my relationship with Jonathan.

  “When I’m in the middle of it, it’s very comfortable. But if I think of it any other time, I start to feel like I should be ashamed. As a woman. I’m sorry I’m…” I’d gone too far.

  “Don’t be sorry. You are what you are. You don’t have to apologize for it to me or anyone. Especially yourself. And not feminism ei
ther. It’ll get along fine with you doing what you want in private. Now, get to the floor.”

  “Okay.” I ran back out to do my job.

  When I got home that afternoon, the street was crowded with parked cars, and the foundation guy was still in my drive. I was stuck. I found a spot down the block and walked up the hill, wishing I’d worn sneakers. I crossed the street to my house next to a green minivan. I lived on a small block and knew most of the cars, but sometimes the odd car parked nearby when the lot at the coffee shop got too crowded. The minivan shouldn’t have raised an eyebrow or a hackle. I looked at it anyway. Just a glance. I saw a glass circle enclosed in a larger black one tucked behind the driver-side window, near the side mirror. Must be a trick of the evening light. Why would a camera lens be pointed at my front door?

  I peered into the car. A cord went to the eye of the camera, which looked like a webcam, and a red light blinked at the bottom of the cable.

  That was not okay.

  What was he trying to do? Make sure I didn’t fuck the foundation guy? Check to see if Kevin came around? I stormed across the street, getting madder with each step. A camera was not protecting my health and happiness. It was creepy, stalker bullshit. I got my new keys out of the lockbox, then I remembered who paid for them.

  Fucking great. He would have gotten the keys from Benita. I’d have to call her so she could take things out so I could have another locksmith, who I hired, put in new tumblers. Pain in the ass.

  I took the whipped cream out of my fridge.

  Asshole.

  I couldn’t even think straight. I was full on white hot rage from my core to my fingertips as I stomped back across the street and sprayed whipped cream all over the minivan’s driver’s side window.

  Let’s see what he saw through that. Motherfucker.

  As I crossed back to my house, I texted him.

  —WTF did you think you were

  doing with the stalker bullshit—

  Dave, the foundation guy, stopped me at the sidewalk, wielding a clipboard. “Miss Faulkner? I have an estimate.” I took the clipboard. The number was insane. “Your house is falling down the hill. We need to jack it up and shift it. The whole thing. Then it’s gotta be bolted. It’s a big job.”