??I never take this shit.”
“Please—don’t be sorry.” I have a memory of a letter I got from “R.” once, where he replied to a note I’d sent about going to see Olive’s grave. He told me I should take Xanax before bed after I went. Tomorrow—well, today—I’m going to Olive’s grave again. Maybe I’ll take a page from “R.” and Kellan’s book. “You should never feel bad about doing something that will ease your pain. Everyone deserves a break.”
I raise my hand and ease it behind his head, dropping down to rub his nape gently. His skin is soft and very warm. His eyes lift up to mine.
“Can you not... rub like that?” He rasps. “I’m sorry.” He drops his forehead into his hand.
“Of course. You want me to give you some space?” I start to move my arm, still hovering over his shoulders. He grabs my hand and tugs it down, settling my arm firmly around his back.
I scoot closer to him. My hip touches his as I tighten my grip on his back, hoping that the weight of it will make him feel less alone—the way he did for me today at dinner.
We sit like that a while, and I lean my head against his shoulder. A moment after I move, he does—raising his head to look at me with haunted eyes. “I need you again,” he whispers. “Now, please.”
I nod, and he lifts me in his arms. He cradles my body to his chest, my forehead on his shoulder as he slowly climbs the stairs. I’m expecting slow sex on the bed, so he shocks me by lowering me belly-first onto the hall runner, yanking off my pants, and coming down heavy over me. He fingers me until I’m gasping, then he fucks me without flair.
Just a pounding doggy style, until his warmth jets inside me and I clench around him. We groan in unison, splitting open the dark silence.
He braces himself there atop me for only a moment. Then he scoops me up, sets me on my feet, and smacks my ass so hard it echoes. I yelp and whirl around to face him. I find Kellan sharp-edged and somber.
“Go to your bedroom,” he orders. “Lie on your back, in the middle of the mattress. Wait for me.”
I nod quickly, and he walks through the door into his bedroom. He shuts it behind him. I can’t quite say why, but I feel the urge to follow him inside. I count to thirty, then walk to his door on weak legs and turn the knob. I push the door open slowly, hoping he won’t notice me peek in. When it’s open just an inch, I align my right eye with the crack.
I find a large room stuffed with sleek, mahogany antiques, fluffy armchairs, a massive corner bookshelf, and—a wall rug? Yep, the right wall of the room is covered with what looks, to my untrained eyes, like a rug. And what’s weird: it’s swaying, as if Kellan smacked it as he walked by.
I have a flashback from a Nancy Drew I read when I was little, where there was a hidden trap door behind a wall-hanging. Obviously that’s ridiculous, but even so, I can’t contain my curiosity—and that part of me, deviant Cleo who likes her ass spanked till it burns, wants to see what punishment he’ll inflict if he finds I followed him.
I slink into the room like a spider, one leg first, one arm, and then a full step brings me onto his soft, Oriental rug.
I stand there listening, and when I don’t hear him, I walk past his bed and a cozy armchair, where a book rests. I put my hand against the rug hanging from a long rod up near the ceiling, and press down until I feel the firmness of the wall behind it.
I slide my hands down, holding my breath against the dust that is probably swimming all around my face. Then I commit to my insanity and lift it up so I can look behind it. I’m strangely unsurprised to see a door there. It’s sleek wood—almost the same color of the mahogany bedroom set—and on its left side is a fancy, brass doorknob.
As I lower my cheek gently to the door, I already know that I will hear him on the other side—and so again, I’m not surprised. Kellan, breathing heavily. The cadence of his gasping is so fast, I have the sick fear that he’s with another girl.
I don’t dare move. When he roars his pain out, my heart forgets its rhythm. Kellan...
I stand there with my fist poised at the hard slab of the door, until I hear the sound of water running. Then I rush back to my windowed room.
I lie there in the morning sun for two hours before I close the curtains and the canopy and burrow into the duvet. I’ll have to leave here in a few hours, and if I’m going to drive to Albany, I need to get some sleep.
I HANG UP MY CELL PHONE just as Cleo steps into the kitchen. Her eyes are guarded: pleasantly neutral. It’s the benign look on her face that gives her away. It’s not a real expression, it’s a dummy one. Probably because she’s not sure where she stands with me—and with the dawning of her sister’s birthday, she might be too tired to think it through.
Her gaze feels warm on my face, and I can feel the tug of her concern before she shifts her green eyes over to the island and the bar stool she’s adopted as her own. I admire her getup as she hoists herself onto the stool. She’s got her wavy hair tucked into a messy bun at the top of her head, and she’s wearing magenta leggings and a flowing, tie-dyed shirt. I squint to make out her stud earrings, but I can’t from where I’m standing, between the refrigerator and the sink.
I’m embarrassed, so it’s tough to meet her eyes—but I can be tough when a situation calls for it.
I give her a small smile that seems to lift up only half of my mouth, and I nod at her. “I like your getup there.”
I step over to the island she’s sitting at and lean my elbows on the countertop beside the stove.
“Thank you,” she says, twirling one earring. It’s a tiny Hello Kitty.
“I thought I’d try to wear things she might like,” she says in a voice that’s slightly hoarse with pain, “if she was still here.”
I don’t even think about it first. I just stretch across the island and hold out my hands. My pulse hammers between my ears as she looks down at them. I’m not sure when’s the last time I left myself so open for another person. She gives me a small, sad smile and threads her fingers through mine.
I look her over more closely and—shit: her face is definitely sad.