Author: Cheryl McIntyre

And then I woke up.

Eleven

Link

I’ve followed Gregory Anthony home from work every day this week. I keep hoping—praying—he’ll mess up and give me a reason to kill him with a clear conscience.

It hasn’t happened yet.

He goes to work. Eats lunch alone at the neighboring fast food restaurants. Goes straight home to his wife—minus the occasional grocery stop.

Each evening, just like the first time, his wife greets him lovingly. His daughter reaches for him, elated to have her daddy’s attention. Even the dog adores him.

And I continue to be disgusted. Angry. Broken.

Tonight I need something stronger than a couple watered down shots and piss-warm beer. I need a woman’s touch. I pull in front of Lea’s house and kill the engine. There’s a light on in the front and I sigh in relief.

I met Lea about three years ago when I tried some bullshit group counseling. It was supposed to be a place for people like me—people that can’t seem to get over a loved one’s death—to come together and talk. I was looking for like-minded people—people that wanted to seek revenge. I was looking for someone to understand what I wanted. Needed.

I sat through week after week of sobbing parents who lost their children to cancer, car accidents, and drug overdoses. A wife whose husband died serving our country. A husband who watched his wife whither away to breast cancer. They were all sad. They were all angry. They all wanted someone to blame. And someone to punish. But none of them understood what it was like to lose the person they loved at the hands of another.

And then Lea walked in.

Tall, lean, long blonde hair, and forest-green eyes. Nothing about her appearance reminded me of Liv.

Lea was also strong. Smart. Confident. Most importantly, she knew loss like no other. Her mother and two sisters were murdered in their home—in their beds—while they slept, by men her father had hired to kill them. They tried to kill Lea, too, but she fought back, injuring one of the men. He was still in the house when the police arrived.

The men responsible for taking her family away were caught and punished. She was able to sit in a courtroom and watch them all—including her father—as they were sentenced to four consecutive life sentences. She knew she’d never have the pleasure of looking them in the eyes and killing them. And she was furious about it.

The night she told her story, something inside of me broke and I cried for the first time since I woke up in the hospital and they told me Olivia was gone.

I cried because I had finally found somebody that understood what was happening inside of me. The agony. The torment. The thunderous emotions. The guilt. The fear. The need.

Lea also wasn’t looking for a relationship, which made her perfect for no-strings-attached sex. We quickly fell into bed when we needed to seek comfort and we never asked each other why. Because no matter what happened in our day-to-day lives to upset us and send us to the other’s door, it was always the same underlying reason.

Nobody knows about Lea. Not even Augie. He knows about the group I used to attend. He knows I made a friend there. But he has no clue that I do this. Lea is my secret for the same reason I keep my plans for revenge to myself. I don’t want anybody to tell me it’s wrong.

I walk to her door now, needing to feel a connection. Needing to feel something—anything—other than what I’ve felt for the past few days.

I knock twice and wait. It’s been a while. Two, maybe three months. It doesn’t matter. It never does. We’re always there for one another.

Several latches click noisily and then she’s peering back at me through the screen. Without a word, she pushes the door open and I step inside. My hands grip her waist, tugging her against me before the door is even closed.

My mouth finds her neck. She tips her head to the side giving me easy access. Her fingers trail down my shoulders to my arms, gripping my biceps. I shift us, walking her backward and directing us to her bedroom. She removes her shirt when we hit her bed. There are no pretenses between us. We both know exactly why I’m here.

I peel the rest of her clothes away and lean over her. I never kiss her on the lips. I haven’t kissed any woman on the lips since Livie. Instead, I sweep my tongue up her chest, between her breasts, before pulling a nipple into my mouth.

I’d like to think I was always attentive in my love making, but after what happened with Liv, I have an overwhelming need to please the women I take to bed. I refuse to think I’ve become a better lover since her death because it hurts to think I’ve improved without her, but also because this isn’t making love. This is just sex. It’s a physical need met. Physical release. Not love.

That’s why I don’t kiss. Kissing is intimate. Passionate. Loving.

I slide down, spreading Lea’s legs wide. She caresses my cheek and I nuzzle into her palm, my eyes falling shut. The scent of the perfume on her wrist reminds me whose hand is touching me.

I pull away. Her hips buck lightly against me as I drop my mouth between her legs. I massage her clit gently with my tongue, slowly working her up. She’s breathing heavy, her chest rising and falling quickly, causing her breasts to bounce beautifully.

As I begin to suck softly, she pushes up on her elbows to watch my lips move against her.

I can never watch because it reminds me I’m not with who I really want to be with.

“Use your fingers,” she pants. They’re the first words she’s spoken since I arrived. I do as she instructs immediately, aiming to satisfy. I slip two fingers inside, pumping slowly at first, and then gradually quickening my pace.

“God, yes. Just like that.”

Lea’s ass lifts off the bed and I have to hook a hand around her thigh, holding her in place. She moans. Her fingers rub my head, trying to grip my hair that is no longer there. There’s barely enough to brush, let alone grab. It doesn’t deter her though. Her nails scrape across my neck leaving a heated path of pleasure and pain.

I know she’s close so I sink down further, removing my fingers, and push my tongue inside of her. She thrusts against me and I glide back up gradually, adding more and more pressure with each stroke until she’s coming against my mouth.

As she fights to regain her breath, Lea tugs at my shirt, yanking it over my head. She doesn’t even glance at Livie’s name across my chest. She unbuttons my jeans and shoves them down, using her feet to push them onto the floor. And then she’s climbing on top of me.

I grip my hard cock, helping to guide it inside. She lets out a contented groan as I fill her. Her hips rock, her wetness coating me.

No matter how good she feels, no matter how good she makes me feel, it always seems wrong somehow. I watch her breasts as they bob above me, just inches from my face, and I skim my fingers over the firm peaks. Her hands settle on my chest to brace her as she rides me faster.

She’s panting. Moaning.

I close my eyes.

Her soft hand cups my jaw. “Stay with me, Link. I’ll make you feel better.”

I don’t bother to tell her it’s impossible. I don’t explain that I’m already gone. I just grip her hips, my fingers clinging to her. Every time she slides down, I raise up. We meet in the middle, over and over. I feel her come again, trembling and squeezing my length. I keep thrusting, searching—hunting—for that moment, those few blissful seconds where it all disappears.

Harder.

Harder.

She’s coming again, crying out with sweet elation.

I keep reaching. I need to forget it all. For just a moment.

Rocky’s face flickers through my mind, her eyes closed, head tilted back against the wall, fingers in the kid’s hair. And I know what she was looking for. The same reprieve as me.

I see her eyes open, staring back at me, and I finally feel it. That perfect, allover frenzied flare of ecstasy. A harsh sigh bursts from my lips as I come apart, releasing inside of Lea.

Twelve

Rocky

Today is my first self-defense class. Ever. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to participate. If I don’t like it, I’m out.

But I’m going.

Probably.

Maybe.

I throw my hair into a bun and purposely pull on a pair of jeans. I even slip on flip-flops just to drive the point home to Joe and whichever guy is instructing tonight. I have no intention on taking part in this class. I’m an observer at best.

Joe arrives at my door five minutes before nine. He eyes my attire, but wisely doesn’t comment. “You ready?”

I raise my eyebrows. Of course I’m not ready. “When I want to leave you need to let me go. Don’t push me to stay because I’ll freak.”

“I know.”

“And if I don’t want to go back, don’t bug me about it.”

“Okay.”

I narrow my eyes. He’s agreeing to this too quickly. “I mean it,” I say. “Don’t just humor me and then pull your shit later.”

He holds his hands up, trying to placate me. “I know. I’m not. I won’t.” He pulls the door shut. We’re both quiet as we step out on the sidewalk and start for the gym. I’ve been doing a lot of walking lately. My car is still sitting in the same place it’s been all week. My neighbor tried to jump it, but it wasn’t happening. I need a new battery. I’m holding off on buying one until I sell another painting.

I used to paint for fun. I used to paint because I had so many ideas—pictures dancing through my head—I couldn’t wait to get them on a canvas. Now people send me photographed portraits and I recreate them in paint.

Business is not booming.

I somehow managed to find a way to give new meaning to that whole starving artist thing. If I buy a new battery now, then I won’t be able to drink. I weighed my options and decided I can walk until I have more money.

“This will be my first class too,” Joe says. We stop in front of the set of glass doors. I peer inside, but the place looks empty. Half of the lights are out. “Classes are after close,” he adds reading my reluctance. “So the girls feel more comfortable without an audience.”

I nod and follow him inside. In the back toward the ring, the blue mats are spread across the floor. Six girls are gathered in a half circle, stretching and talking. They all look like they know each other. Like they’re friends. It makes me want to go home even more than I already did.

They’re all dressed in workout shorts or yoga pants with tennis shoes on their feet. It makes me smile. I flex my burgundy toes, wiggling them freely in my flip-flops. I couldn’t fit in here even if I tried.

“I need to find Link and see what he needs me to do, but I’ll be here during the whole class, assisting.”

“Okay. I’ll just…” I glance around before nodding toward the ring. He bobs his head.

“All right. See you in a minute.”

I toss my purse into the ring and pull myself up, pressing down on the middle rope and ducking beneath the top one. I circle the perimeter once, my shoes slapping against the vinyl. When I make a full lap, I take a seat, my legs hanging off the side, the bottom rope under my armpits.

The other girls cast inquisitive glances my way, but nobody talks to me. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. The scent is so familiar. That smell of vinyl and sweat. It probably isn’t the most common fragrance to appreciate, but I bask in it for several seconds as childhood images swim through my mind.

I never attended fights, but Dad took me with him and Joe when they worked out. I usually got bored and would beg scrap paper off whoever was working behind the counter, but I always liked tagging along, regardless. All gyms must smell the same because being here in the ring fills me with nostalgia. Back when everything was good. When I was still happy and free.

I open my eyes, not surprised to meet Link’s gaze.

The muscles in his jaw throb repeatedly. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a tick. He turns his attention on the other women. His lips pull up into a smile and I feel my brows lift in surprise. I didn’t realize he knew how to smile. He should do it more often. It’s a damn good smile. Straight white teeth, full lips, small dimple in his right cheek.