“Fuck, baby, you feel good.”
“Don’t stop,” I beg, pushing my face into the slope of his neck and shoulder.
He pumps into me until I’m almost there, just on the edge of coming. Wound so tight I don’t think I’m ever going to come harder. I lose myself for a moment, ready to spill every secret, confess to every lie. Because I love him. I love him so much I can’t ever lose him. He’s the one I’ve been waiting for all my life. But my mother’s words keep ringing like a death knell in my head.
“I want to have a baby with you,” he whispers.
He comes so hard it tips me right over the edge. Right into despair.
We sleep. We make love. We sleep. In the middle of the night I feel him enter me from behind, one arm wrapped around my chest, his fingers gently holding my throat. I can feel his pulse on the pad of his thumb, his heart beat against the one on my neck. His other hand slides between my legs, trapping me against him. All I can do is surrender as he slowly pumps in and out of me.
“Let go. Let me do it,” he tells me. “I promise I’m gonna make you feel so good.”
And he does. Jordan always delivers. He gives it everything he has.
Hours later, I enter the kitchen, to grab a bottle of water, and come to an abrupt halt when I see him staring into the cash drawer. It’s four a.m and I’m officially dead on my feet, exhausted from too much great sex.
He’s so absorbed in whatever he’s looking at that he doesn’t hear me come in.
“Jordan?”
His head comes up, brow furrowed, confusion swimming in his eyes.
“The cash is gone.” It’s a bland statement, his expression neutral. But my stomach bottoms out. Because I know. I immediately know what happened to it. I know that it’s my fault.
“Are you sure?” I ask, desperately hoping there’s a mistake. That maybe I heard him wrong.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
My heart starts to beat fast, the rush of adrenaline making my knees shaky. It takes me less than a split second to figure out what happened to the money. No one else was here. The cleaning crew comes every other day of the week and it’s a Sunday.
“There was a little over ten thousand in here.” Jordan is genuinely puzzled. He trusts me so implicitly that he doesn’t even consider I might be the one who took it.
I never thought to count it. It never even occurred to me. I can’t even think of a reason to justify needing the money and not telling him.
He looks up at me, his face blanked. “Where’s the money?”
I can’t tell him it was Tommy. Ten thousand is classified as grand theft––a felony. Tommy would go to jail and he would never recover. He’s too soft for a life of crime.
“Did you take it?” he tries again, inching closer to the truth.
All I can do is nod, shame turning my face a deep crimson red. There’s no other way.
“What for?” He’s not mad yet but he’s curious enough to pursue it. He won’t let it go and it’s about to get ugly.
Palms sweating and knees shaking, I step closer, to get a better view of his face across the kitchen island. “I can’t tell you.”
His expression shifts from curious to suspicious. “You can’t tell me?”
“I’m sorry…I can’t.”
He exhales, frustrated. He’s holding back but he won’t be able to for very long. I also can’t bring myself to outright lie to him. In a roundabout way, I am responsible. Tommy was here because of me.
“Riley, what did you need ten thousand dollars in cash for that you can’t tell me?” The frustration is turning into anger. It’s written all over his face, it’s in his voice.
“I can’t tell you,” I repeat with tears stinging my eyes.
“I told you never to lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“By omission you are.”
“I’m sorry.” Because I am. I’m so sorry. I’m going to lose him because I can’t send my friend to jail. “Can’t you just trust that I have a good reason?”
“Ever hear the saying, trust but verify?” I wipe the tears running down my cheek away, nod. “I can’t ever trust you again. Do you understand that? It’s not the money. This has nothing to do with the money. It’s that you won’t tell me why you took it.”
What do I say to that? There is no defense. With tears funneling down my cheeks, I nod. Because he’s such a good man. He gives everything of himself. And all he ever asked of me is to be honest. And I can’t do even that for him. “I understand.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?” He looks beyond bewildered and I don’t blame him. I know how hurt I would be if I were in his shoes right now.