Книга - Flying
Flying
Megan Hart
Ever hear of wanderlust?Every other weekend, Stella buys a ticket on the next flight out of town and leaves her life behind. Home is a place with too many memories, and departure is the sweetest possible distraction.As soon as she arrives at her destination, Stella visits the airport bar. She orders a drink and waits for the right guy to come along. A bored businessman, a backpacker, a baggage handler just off shift. If he's into a hot, no-strings hookup, he's perfect. Each time is a thrilling escape from reality that gives the term layover a whole new meaning.When Stella meets the enigmatic Matthew in Chicago one weekend, she hits some serious turbulence. Something about him tells her she's not the only one running from the past. The connection between them is explosive, and for the first time, one taste is not enough for Stella. But returning to find a gorgeous man waiting for her is the easy part–facing the reason she's there is a whole other matter…."Hart's beautiful use of language and discerning eye toward human experience elevate the book to a poignant reflection on the deepest yearnings of the human heart and the seductive temptation of passion."–Kirkus Book Reviews on Tear You Apart
Ever hear of wanderlust?
Every other weekend, Stella buys a ticket on the next flight out of town and leaves her life behind. Home is a place with too many memories, and departure is the sweetest possible distraction.
As soon as she arrives at her destination, Stella visits the airport bar. She orders a drink and waits for the right guy to come along. A bored businessman, a backpacker, a baggage handler just off shift. If he’s into a hot, no-strings hookup, he’s perfect. Each time is a thrilling escape from reality that gives the term layover a whole new meaning.
When Stella meets the enigmatic Matthew in Chicago one weekend, she hits some serious turbulence. Something about him tells her she’s not the only one running from the past. The connection between them is explosive, and for the first time, one taste is not enough for Stella. But returning to find a gorgeous man waiting for her is the easy part—facing the reason she’s there is a whole other matter….
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author Megan Hart
“Hart’s beautiful use of language and discerning eye
toward human experience elevate the book to a poignant reflection
on the deepest yearnings of the human heart and the
seductive temptation of passion in its many forms.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Tear You Apart
“[Hart] writes erotica for grown-ups….
[The Space Between Us] is a quiet book, but it packed a major punch
for me…. She’s a stunning writer, and this is a stunning book.”
—Super Librarian
“Naked is a great story, steeped in emotion.
Hart has a wonderful way with her characters….
She conveys their thoughts and actions in a manner
that brings them to life. And the erotic scenes provide a sizzling read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Deeper is absolutely, positively, the best book that I have read in ages…the writing is fabulous, the characters’ chemistry is combustible, and the story line brought tears to my eyes more than once…. Beautiful, poignant and bittersweet…Megan Hart never disappoints.”
—Romance Reader at Heart, Top Pick
“Stranger, like Megan Hart’s previous novels,
is an action-packed, sexy, emotional romance that tears up the pages with heat while also telling a touching love story…. Stranger has a unique, hot premise that Hart delivers on fully.”
—Bestselling author Rachel Kramer Bussel
“[Broken] is not a traditional romance but the story of a real and complex woman caught in a difficult situation with no easy answers. Well-developed secondary characters and a compelling plot add depth to this absorbing and enticing novel.”
—Library Journal
“An exceptional story and honest characters make Dirty a must-read.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Also by New York Times bestselling author Megan Hart
TEAR YOU APART
THE FAVOR
THE SPACE BETWEEN US
ALL FALL DOWN
PRECIOUS AND FRAGILE THINGS
COLLIDE
NAKED
SWITCH
DEEPER
STRANGER
TEMPTED
BROKEN
DIRTY
Flying
Megan Hart
www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)
To Johnny, my favorite PITA
And to the Nicest Thing
And special thanks to Laura Hawkins and Lisa and Colm McIvor
for sharing with me their stories about the things that could happen
to make someone unable to fly.
I could write without music, but I’m so glad I don’t have to.
Below is a partial playlist of what I listened to while writing Flying. Please support the musicians by buying their music.
“Mistake,” Christopher Dallman
“Gonna Hurt More,” Aiden James
“Ghost,” Ingrid Michaelson
“Cross That Line,” Joshua Radin
“Snuff,” Slipknot
“Lil Darlin (feat. The O’My’s),” ZZ Ward
“Sadist,” Stone Sour
“Where We Land,” Ed Sheeran
“Give It To Me Right,” Melanie Fiona
“Left For You,” Nonpoint
“If You Want Me,” One Less Reason
“The Fall,” Bo Bruce
“Rev 22-20,” Puscifer
“Bet U Wish U Had Me Back,” Halestorm
“I Don’t Apologize (1000 Pictures),” Otherwise
“New York,” Snow Patrol
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u4f3a4c26-b87d-5b6b-87ee-13b5ccdec99f)
CHAPTER TWO (#u0326afed-04d8-5321-b727-a9b3a5f28925)
CHAPTER THREE (#u90f10d0c-1629-5e54-9b25-cff6cb6a1b20)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u7120077e-5deb-5a94-80f7-cadff1a418a2)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u70d603b4-2087-5c75-a9c4-094e61cc5257)
CHAPTER SIX (#u1ee4d2a8-7c2d-57e9-9ea0-1aed18ab7e54)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uc6d7e1bd-3fea-5df2-abc3-15911c98c8d0)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ue53d7d52-8a09-596f-9aa7-1c8c7edcc346)
CHAPTER NINE (#udddf3aa4-6a50-5fe3-a6ca-306fdf8f8d8b)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
Red lips.
Smooth skin.
Perfume.
These are tricks a lot of women know. Men like silky hair and clinging dresses, high heels and gartered stockings like the ones she wears now. In her twenties Stella had taught herself how to be sexy for a man; it wasn’t until she was older that she discovered it was so much better to be sexy for herself.
Her feet whisper on the cool industrial tiles as she tips her scarlet-soled pumps into the bin and pushes it along the rollers toward the X-ray machine. Next, her bag, which she affectionately calls the TARDIS. Like the traveling police-box time machine from her son’s favorite TV show, Stella’s bag is bigger on the inside. It can hold a weekend’s worth of everything a woman needs to make herself beautiful, plus a book in case she doesn’t find anyone worth being beautiful for.
Her coat goes next. She’d prefer to keep it on, but even if they let her through the scanner with it, the buckle will set off the alarm. Then again, so will the clips on her garters, probably. At this point, Stella knows most of the TSA agents who work at the Harrisburg International Airport by name. They still have to pat her down, of course, but by now it’s become sort of a game for them and for her.
“Hi, Pete.” She doesn’t miss the way his gaze dips to her seam-stockinged toes and lingers on her calves when she turns to add her cell phone to a second bin before pushing that one through behind the first. She can’t see him do it, but she’s sure he takes a good, long look at her ass too.
This is good.
It doesn’t matter that Pete is at least her father’s age and wears a walrus mustache. Or that he’s married with kids and grandkids whose pictures he proudly displays on his phone. Or even that the gum he chews constantly can’t cover up the pervasive odor of bad breath. It doesn’t matter that she will never take Pete home and fuck him.
It only matters that she could, if she wanted to. If she tried hard enough. If she let him stand a little too close, breathe a little too hard, if she shifted just the right way so the slit in her dress parted just enough to give him a glimpse of her bare thighs.
Stella is pretty sure Pete thinks she’s a relatively expensive call girl, or at the very least some rich man’s mistress. It’s the clothes, hair, the manicured nails. It’s the shoes. There’s no way for anyone to mistake anything about her for a woman on a business trip, unless her business is pleasure. Pete doesn’t know she doesn’t get paid for any of this, at least not with money.
“Where you off to tonight?” Pete lets the wand move up and down her body as she holds up her arms. The wand beeps around her thighs. He moves it again, slowly. Up and down. “Sorry about this, Stella.”
“No problem.” Her warm smile isn’t forced. He doesn’t know it’s as much artifice as the fake lashes and fingernails. The only difference is she doesn’t need glue to hold it in place. “I’m used to it by now.”
He waves her to the side, where a pair of TSA agents will pat her down, explaining the process every step of the way and asking repeatedly for her permission to touch her in places that no longer even feel intimate. Stella makes it easy for them. They’re just doing their job.
The agent bending to slide her fingers up Stella’s calf is new, or at least has never worked the Friday night shift before when Stella’s passing through. Her name tag says Maria. She has dark hair slicked into a tight bun that can’t disguise the natural curl. Big dark eyes fringed with lashes that don’t need to be glued on. Her mouth isn’t painted red, but it’s lush and glistening just the same. She does her job efficiently, barely cracking a smile. Not unfriendly, but definitely distant. When she looks up, Stella, who’s looking down, thinks she understands why.
Stella’s never been with a woman, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t thought about it. These tricks—sometimes they work on women too. That gleam of interest, however faint and trying to be ignored, calls to her just as much as it does in a man’s eyes, because all of this effort Stella makes isn’t so much about the wanting as of being wanted.
When Maria’s fingertips skate along the inside of her thighs, Stella’s reaction is immediate but not unconscious. Her feet shift on the blue-painted marks on the floor, the rough paint that could snag her stockings if she’s not careful. The tiniest movement, not enough to draw attention to herself, but the agent notices. Their eyes meet. Under the layers of silk and lace, Stella throbs.
Maria looks away.
What would it be like to hide yourself that way, so the world can’t guess something that is such a basic part of you? Such a defining thing? Stella understands. Everyone has secrets, and most of them are about sex.
Maria doesn’t look at her again, not throughout the entire rest of the inspection, and her voice doesn’t falter as she gives, in monotone, the speech and instructions Stella could recite from memory. Stella’s voice, however, has gone husky when she gives her permission for every single pat of Maria’s hands against her. By the time it’s over, Stella feels flushed and shivery; she fumbles with her belongings and Maria has to help with her coat and bag.
“Take your time, ma’am,” Maria says in a neutral voice. “Have a nice day.”
Stella slips into her shoes and pulls the bag along behind her, her coat over her arm. She doesn’t look back, keeps her head high, draws in breath after breath to keep herself steady. In the bathroom, she locks herself inside a stall and leans against the chilly metal, eyes closed, and pushes her hands into the slit of her wrap dress. Up the insides of her thighs, over the stockings and bare flesh, to press her clit through her panties. Her back arches. Her nipples are hard. She lets herself imagine for a few moments what it would be like to have that woman’s face against her flesh. Those lush lips on her cunt. Would it be different than the beard-rough touch of a man? Probably. She laughs at herself, but silently, and at the sink splashes water on a paper towel before pressing it to the back of her neck.
She studies her reflection. Dark-lined eyes against pale skin, those red lips. Her hair is naturally auburn and hangs to her shoulders, usually worn with the ends curling up, but not tonight. She wears it in a deep side part now, pinned behind one ear and hanging loose on the other. Because she’s alone in the bathroom, she allows herself to give the woman in the mirror a sly smile and an assessing gaze. Stella doesn’t stare at herself because she’s vain. She does it so she knows how she looks to other people. She does it so she can be sure the expressions she feels on her face look real, her smile bright or sexy or sympathetic as needed and not some Joker-faced grin. She used to never have to think about how she looked, but that was a long time ago. She was a different woman then, one who never worried about her makeup or hair or if she was going to scare someone with her smile.
She’s gotten better at it.
She touches up her lipstick and powders her nose. She adjusts her stockings and her push-up bra, opens the neckline of her dress just a little bit more. She slips into her coat and belts it. By the time she gets to the gate, her plane is boarding and she waits patiently in line to take the seat that’s left. Sometimes when she gets to the gate she finds out she won’t be going where she thought she was, that she’ll have to try another flight, but that’s the price she pays for flying free. It doesn’t happen often. Harrisburg’s airport might be international, but it’s also very small and hardly ever busy. Tonight, there’s no problem.
Tonight, she’s going to Atlanta.
It will be warmer there than it is in central Pennsylvania in late September, and that’s fine. Stella doesn’t plan on sightseeing. She’ll barely even leave the airport. One night in, the next out. She has that book if she’s not lucky...but she almost always is.
She likes the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta. It has a couple of nice bars and coffee shops where she can sip iced tea or coffee or the occasional hot cocoa, depending on her mood. Like every airport she’s ever used, it has a wide selection of hotels no more than a quick shuttle ride from the terminal. She belongs to all the rewards programs. It only ever takes a quick call to confirm a cheap vacancy.
Stella is still thinking of Maria when she sits at the bar in Atlanta and settles her bag at her feet. Having to keep it with her is one inconvenience about these trips, but also the easiest escape route. She can always say she’s on her way to catch a plane if she needs an excuse to get away. She’s used it a few times, though there’s the possibility she’ll be caught in the lie when the man whose attentions she’s fleeing sees her in a different bar with a different man—but really, what does she care? She doesn’t owe them anything, even if they do buy her a drink or three. Even if she does lean a little close, fluttering her lashes, or crosses her legs artfully so that her dress gives them a glimpse of her unspoken promises.
Today isn’t the first time she’s ever been checked out by a woman. Women look each other over all the time. Women assess each other with bright and knowing eyes that broadcast their approval, envy, disdain. The tricks of gloss and glitter are meant to lure men but impress other women. Stella might have to study her reflection to know if her expression is portraying what she means it to, but all she has to do is look at other women to know if her body’s doing the same thing.
Still, there is something different about being looked over and checked out. That fleeting glimpse of desire in Maria’s eyes, coupled with the too-polite way she went about her inspection, have lit a familiar fire inside Stella. Sometimes she likes to flirt and be coy, to dance around her desires and draw them out. Make the outcome uncertain. Sometimes she likes to be pursued. And sometimes, like tonight, she wants to be the one making someone else cross the line they might not even know they had.
A man sits down beside her. One always does. He doesn’t try to hide his assessment of her, and it’s nicely appreciative. He’s conventionally attractive—square jaw, good haircut, a few feathery lines of crow’s feet and a glint of silver at his temples. Businessman, suit and tie, white shirt, nice watch. Class ring on his wedding finger. He smells good.
He’s not what she wants. Other nights, definitely, but not this one. Stella makes a quarter turn with her body away from him and focuses her attention on her cell phone. He gets the hint, orders a drink and lets his focus fall on a woman on the other side of him. Stella eavesdrops on his opening line. It would’ve worked on her on another night. Almost all do.
She sees what she wants. He’s sitting at the other end of the bar with a pint glass of beer in front of him. He’s watching the sports channel on the flat-screen above the bartender. He’s youngish, at least a few years younger than her. Clean cut, dark hair cropped close, no hint of a beard. He wears a long-sleeved black shirt and black trousers, and yes, she looks for it—the peek of a white collar from his pocket.
Stella has made an art of observation. She studies him surreptitiously, noting the black bag nestled at his feet like a faithful dog. The bag’s the sort you get at a conference, emblazoned with a dove and the words Episcopal Diocese Fall Clergy Conference circling it.
Episcopalian, not Roman Catholic. No vow of chastity, but still a priest. Still the sort of man who shouldn’t do what she wants him to do.
Guh.
He doesn’t look around the bar even when a couple of women pass right behind him on the way to the bathroom. Not even when one of them brushes his shoulder with her bag as she passes. He looks up long enough to move his chair when there’s a little bit of a roadblock between the kitchen and bathroom, so he’s not totally oblivious or entranced by the week’s sports highlights. But he’s definitely a guy who’s there to enjoy a beer and some food, not company. Especially not random female company. If the tucked-away collar didn’t give that away, the onion rings do.
Stella finishes her drink and gathers her things. She gets little more attention from him than the other women did, but when she sits next to him, he does give her a quick glance and a small, polite smile. Stella returns it with the same lack of heat and interest. When the bartender tells her that yes, they do have iced tea, she orders a glass, and when it arrives she makes a show of looking for the sugar.
“Oh...excuse me.” A smile with the right amount of friendly, gaze indirect enough not to be threatening. She points to the small dish of packets to his right. “Could you pass me the sugar?”
She’s already seen that the dish contains a rainbow of artificial sweeteners. He pushes it to her with a murmured “Oh, sure.” Stella frowns. This time when she looks at him, she makes sure to catch his eye completely. Another smile, this one a little slower.
She holds his gaze a little longer than is comfortable before she says, “Is there any real sugar?”
He looks again to his right, but this is a bar, not a diner. She’s judged him right, though. Before she can say anything, he’s waving at the bartender and asking for real sugar, which the bartender has to hunt for beneath the bar for a moment before he passes over a handful of white packets. They spill from the man’s hands, across the polished top of the bar, and Stella laughs as she helps scoop them up and tuck them into place alongside their chemical cousins.
“Thanks,” she says. It’s enough. She thought it might be.
He smiles at her. “You’re welcome.”
She tears two packets at the same time and stirs the sugar into the tea, then takes out the long spoon and tucks it in her mouth to suck the sweetness before setting it on the napkin in front of her. He looks away, but not quickly enough. She leans a little close, but not too much.
“I hate the taste of artificial sweeteners.” This is a dance. Maybe he knows it. Maybe he doesn’t. But Stella does, and she’s very careful with the steps. “They’re terrible.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He lets his gaze tilt toward her again, but not his body. His hands close around his glass, but he doesn’t drink.
Gloss and glitter. It’s like dangling a sequined worm in sun-dappled waters, letting it drift and catch the light until the fish decides it wants to bite. The question is, will he bite? Will he?
“Some crazy weather, huh?” The second he opens his mouth to speak, it doesn’t matter what he says. It means he’s hooked. He points at the TV, across which a banner is running. Freak tornados have swept the Midwest and also odd places on the East Coast that don’t usually see them. He doesn’t quite look at her and she’s most definitely not looking at him, but she can feel him sneaking a peek.
For one long second, she feigns inattention enough that his words don’t turn her toward him. But then... “Hmm? Oh. Yes! Crazy.” A soft frown, a crease of concern. “Those poor people. I hope nobody’s hurt.”
“A few have died, I think.” Other men might’ve said it with a hint of suppressed glee, the joy of the unscathed, but this guy... His sincerity is probably genuine. “And who knows how much the damage will cost?”
Stella angles her body, the smallest twitch, toward him. “Yeah. Scary. Have you ever been in a tornado?”
The question, as she’s meant it to, seems to take him a bit off guard. He shakes his head. His body angles toward hers too, almost like an afterthought. “No. Have you?”
She shakes her head. “No. I hope I never am. With my luck, I’d end up in Oz, dropping my house on a witch.”
He laughs. He has nice white teeth. Straight. The lines at the corners of his eyes settle him as older than she’d thought. He looks at her now, really looks. There’s that gleam, deliciously reluctant, and it sparks a fresh heat inside her.
“I’m Glenn.” He holds out his hand.
She takes it. The shake is firm and brief, still utterly polite. “Maria. Should I call you Father?”
He looks almost startled for a second, and when he lets go of her hand, his fingers touch his throat briefly. Then his pocket. “Oh. No. I mean, you don’t have to.”
Her head tilts, gaze taking him in, like the smile a few seconds longer than is necessary. “Would you like me to?”
For half a breath, she thinks she’s misjudged him. Either he has no secrets or he’s just that good at keeping them. But then... “You can just call me Glenn. Maria.”
There’s conversation after that. More about the weather. About the game on TV—he’s impressed she knows enough about the sport to keep up. Men always are; it annoys or amuses her, depending on the situation. Tonight, she’s amused. They talk of other things, too. Music, for one. Concerts. He’s been to see a few of the bands she likes. He shares some of her favorite songs. By the time an hour passes, she has him leaning in to her, getting closer. He offers her an onion ring and laughs when she declines. They order a plate of mozzarella sticks to share.
They don’t talk again about his collar...or lack of it. She expects that at any minute he’ll tell her he has to leave. They are in an airport, after all. Then he explains his plane’s been delayed by those very same storms that had started their conversation. She tells him she’s also been delayed because of weather, and as lies go, it’s so small it could almost be the truth.
There’s a moment when she can tip this the other way. She can thank him for the food and the iced teas he’s paid for. She can walk away and let him keep the secrets he already has, instead of becoming one more he has to keep. Stella, momentarily moral, stands to wish him a good night and good luck.
Glenn stands too. He asks her where she’s staying. The moment for doing the right thing has passed, and who’s to say what’s right and wrong, anyway? He’s an adult. She isn’t forcing him.
All she’s done is offer the temptation. He doesn’t have to take it. But as she gathers her bag and he helps her with her coat, Stella knows he already has.
“I have a reservation at the Marriott,” he tells her.
“Me too,” she says, and excuses herself to the restroom, where she makes one.
In the lobby, she gets her key while Glenn studies the nondescript paintings of horses and flowers with the intensity deserving art hung in the Met. She’s asked for a room on the lobby level—no elevators, no stairs, just the shortest of walks down a hallway smelling of antiseptic.
At the door, she turns to him with a smile. “Good night, Glenn. Thanks for walking me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Stella’s the one who offers her hand. Palm to palm, fingers link. There’s a long, slow and lingering squeeze. She tugs him, gently. One step closer. Then another. There’s only space enough for a breath between them, and she takes it. In these shoes, all she has to do is tilt her head and offer her mouth, let her tugging hand make him believe she’s pulling him when he’s the one taking the steps.
She doesn’t kiss him. That’s important. Stella lets Glenn start the kiss, and she lets him break it too. She keeps her eyes closed and can’t stop herself from smiling. Without opening them or looking to make sure they’re alone in the hallway, she leans back against the door to her room and puts his hand, fingers still linked with hers, inside her dress. Against her skin. She curls her fingers around his so that his knuckles brush lace and heat. He kisses her again, harder this time.
Glenn’s tongue strokes hers. He’s an excellent kisser. The hand not between her legs slides up her body, over her breasts, to cup the back of her neck. He breathes a little moan into her mouth, and Stella arches against him.
This is what she likes, what she craves. This is what she wants. Being wanted so much he’ll do anything, finger her in a hotel doorway, maybe fuck her right there, not caring about anything but getting his cock inside her.
“Inside,” Glenn whispers against her lips.
She fits the key into the slot without turning around. The door swings open, and they push through it without moving apart. They’re already at the bed by the time the door clicks shut. Glenn’s hand is still against her cunt, his mouth on hers. His hand on the back of her neck keeps her from falling.
He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed. He licks his mouth. It’s Stella’s turn to cup the back of his neck, and she feels him shudder at her touch. She’s no longer holding his hand between her legs, but he hasn’t moved it. His fingers uncurl enough to slide beneath the lace.
She’s been wet for hours. His fingertips slide against her. They brush her clit, and Stella groans against him. The sound is low and raw. She doesn’t care. She wants him to hear the desire in her voice the same way he feels it between her legs.
She wants to hold nothing back.
Because this is what Stella really wants and craves and needs and seeks. This naked, somehow desperate connection of two people who don’t even know each other’s last names, but who each knows exactly how the other tastes. Glenn tastes like guilt and fervor. Does she taste the same, or is her flavor more bitter, like secrets and grief? She wants to eat him up, so she opens her mouth and invites his tongue inside.
Should she be surprised when he goes to his knees in front of her with a mutter like a prayer? Still, it startles her enough that if the bed weren’t behind her, she’d have backed away. She can’t move, and even if she could, his hands move to the backs of her thighs and hold her still. He doesn’t look up at her face when he pulls the tie at her side open, nor when her dress falls open to show off her pale blue, lacy bra and matching panties. The garter belt and stockings she loves so much.
The hair, the mouth, the shoes, the tits and ass and pussy no longer matter. When she stands in front of a lover for the first time—and there are only first times, first and last at the same time—she wants to hide herself behind her hands. She wants to fuck in darkness so everything becomes nothing but heat, scent and touch. So she can disappear into those things. So they don’t have to see her scars.
Men don’t care. She understands this. By the time she’s naked in front of them, their cocks are hard and their mouths hungry. They see curves and flesh. Nothing else. That’s why no matter how much she wants to hide, she never does. She stands naked in the light even though she’d prefer the darkness, because she deserves this scrutiny and though it’s more than a little twisted, she loves and craves the agony it brings her.
Glenn kisses her through the lace. He shivers, his hands moving up to cup her ass and pull her closer. One slips around the front to pull her panties aside, giving his tongue room to find her clit. He knows what he’s doing. It’s good, oh, fuck, it’s so astoundingly good that her fingers have wound into his hair before she realizes it. Her hips bump forward. He sucks gently on her swollen flesh.
Then he looks up at her.
His mouth is wet, eyes bright. There is that desire she wants to see, along with the guilt she has tasted in his kisses. He swallows, hard. “Maria. I—”
“Shhh.” Her fingers twist in his hair for a second before she softens her grip to pass her hand over his head and down to cup his cheek. “It’s okay. Nobody will ever know.”
God will know, but Stella doesn’t say so. She doesn’t believe in God, and if Glenn does that’s between him and his Maker. Glenn shudders and presses his cheek to her thigh as his fingers dimple her ass. His breath is hot through the lace of her panties. His tongue wet. His teeth press her skin, and she braces herself for the sting. He doesn’t bite her. She’s a little disappointed.
It took her a few trials to figure out the best way to wear lingerie is to put the panties on over the garter belt, so they can be easily removed without having to take off the stockings first. It makes it so much easier to fuck in places where it might be important to keep most of her clothes on.
Glenn’s fingers hook into the lace and pull her panties over her hips, her thighs. She steps out of them, and he uses his hands to settle her on the edge of the bed. Still kneeling, he parts her with his thumbs and finds her clit with his lips and tongue. Oh, God. His teeth. Again, not biting, though the pressure’s enough to make her muscles leap.
Stella opens herself to him. Legs spread. One goes over his shoulder, pulling him closer. Her hips rock under his mouth. Sometimes she bites her tongue to keep herself silent, but when he slides a finger inside her, she lets herself cry out again. She blindfolds herself with her hand.
Her pleasure is a spring, coiling tighter. Her world narrows, focused on the finesse of Glenn’s mouth and fingers. Even though she twitches and wriggles beneath him, he keeps the pace steady, almost teasing. She hovers close to orgasm, and he eases her off again and again, until in a sobbing breath, she begs.
“Please. Oh, please...please, please, please...”
He’s made her blind with desire, but not quite deaf. She hears the sharp intake of his breath and feels it against her. Then finally the relentless swipe of his tongue moving in time to his thrusting fingers. Stella goes over the edge, full force. Her orgasm is brutal. It breaks her open so she’s left panting and limp, blinking away stars.
Still fully dressed, Glenn gets up and sits on the bed without touching her. He says nothing. Stella finds her breath and pushes up on her elbow to look at him. His head is bowed, shoulders slumped a little.
“I used to be married,” he says. “We divorced. And with my work, it’s hard...to find someone... Dating is almost impossible. I’m...sorry.”
She wanted him to be reluctant. Not regretful. “Please don’t be. I’m not.”
His smile’s faint, but it’s real when he finally looks at her. “Would you be offended if I thanked you?”
Stella laughs, just a little. Shakes her head. “No. Of course not. I should thank you.”
When she puts her hand on his thigh, the muscles tense under her fingers. When she slides her hand a little higher, he covers it with his. She lets him stop her.
“I can return the favor,” she says, already anticipating the feeling of him inside her.
But Glenn shakes his head. “It was enough.”
“But I—” She stops, understanding suddenly and not wanting to make him feel bad.
Glenn looks a little embarrassed, but not too much. “It had been a long time. And you... You’re very sexy.”
He looks over her whole body so thoroughly that by the time his gaze meets hers, her cheeks have flushed. Again, she wants to cover herself, but settles for another thank-you. When he leans close to kiss her, Stella puts both her hands on his face and holds him to her mouth. Then she hugs him close. His hands stroke her back before he lets her go.
He doesn’t ask to stay, and that’s fine because then she doesn’t have to find a way to ask him to leave. When he’s gone, Stella showers, opening her mouth to the spray to wash away the taste of him. Just once, she thinks, maybe some stranger she seduces will ask her about the scars. And maybe, someday, she’ll tell him.
CHAPTER TWO
“Mom!”
Stella had been dreaming about the ocean. Soft waves lapping at her toes, scuttling crabs, warm golden sand. In the dream, she’d been wearing a beautiful teal bikini. That was how she knew it was a dream—even in the days before childbirth and everything else that had happened, she’d never worn a bikini. Too much skin exposed to the sun.
“Mom!”
She opened her eyes and groaned. Her sheets had tangled around her feet. The pillow she used between her knees had gone missing, lost somewhere in the abyss of her blankets. Her neck hurt. The lavender oil she’d put on her pillowcase had been the source of the vivid dreams, but it made her sneeze now.
“What?” she muttered, knowing Tristan couldn’t possibly hear her. From the sound of his shouts, he was yelling from downstairs. “What, for the love of all that’s holy, do you want?”
The elephant tread of her sixteen-year-old on the stairs was enough to force her to burrow farther into the blankets. Tristan had hit another growth spurt, topping six feet now, and his shoe size had gone up along with it. She’d given birth to a giant. A giant with huge feet that tripped him up and left enormous muddy tracks on the floor and couldn’t seem to move with anything resembling silence.
“Mom, I need lunch money.”
Stella lifted her head from the pillow just enough to glare at her son standing in the doorway. “You have to tell me this now?”
“Yeah, well, I need to eat lunch, don’t I?”
“What about last night, when I asked you if everything was ready for school and you told me it was?”
“I’m gonna be late,” he warned. “I’ll miss the bus, and you’ll have to drive me.”
That would be infinitely worse than having to direct him to her checkbook, since it meant she’d have to get out of bed and didn’t even have time for a shower. With another groan, Stella waved her hand toward the jumble of junk on her dresser. “See if I have a twenty in my purse.”
At the rate Tristan ate, twenty bucks would last him for only a few days, but she could deposit money in his account later. And in fifteen minutes, according to the clock, he’d be on the bus and she’d be able to sneak back to sleep for another hour.
He rummaged through her bag, couldn’t find her wallet and suffered through her grumbling as she took the purse from him to find it. “Dad’s picking me up after practice today. I’m staying there tonight.”
“Wait, what? I thought I was supposed to take you shopping—”
“Dad will take me.”
“Does he know that?”
Tristan shrugged, not caring.
It wasn’t that Stella didn’t trust Jeff, but she knew from past experience how happy he was to pawn off any sort of parental responsibility on his new wife who, God love her, meant well but was as helpless and fluffy as a bunny rabbit. Cynthia had married Jeff when she was twenty-two. She’d never had children, had never even babysat and had inherited a tween son who seemed to be as foreign to her as if he’d been born on Mars. Even after four years, it seemed cruel of Stella to expect Cynthia to pick up Jeff’s slack when dealing with Tristan was so clearly a constant adventure for her.
“Have a good day! Love you!” she called after him as he thundered down the stairs again. Tristan didn’t answer. The front door slammed.
Silence, blessed silence.
This was Stella’s shared-custody life. In the beginning, Tristan had been only eight, still in elementary school. Too young to go out with friends, still content to hang out watching movies with his mom. Still hopeful, maybe, that his parents were only separating, not getting divorced. They’d decided it was too disruptive for Tristan to move back and forth between households on a weekly basis, so he spent most weeknights with her. Stella had come to enjoy having every other weekend free once Tristan left for school on Friday morning.
Now, if he didn’t have a sports practice or a school activity or plans with friends, Tristan spent his time in front of the TV with his video games or an endless stream of movies. Their house had become the place to hang out, and that was fine with her even if the noise level sometimes became hard to handle. She’d rather he was at home than have to drive him around or pick him up from places. Now that Tristan was older, of course, he could get rides and so had been spending more random weeknights with Jeff, especially since he now required less “care” and could simply hang out.
There was no point in going back to sleep now. Stella stretched and wriggled free of her blankets. Every part of her creaked and crackled as she stretched. Time for another visit to the chiropractor. She needed to get there more regularly rather than waiting until she was in agony, but somehow time always managed to get away from her. She winced at the sharp ache in her neck as she twisted her hair on top of her head—time for a visit to the salon too. And maybe a trip to the optometrist, she thought as her reflection blurred briefly. She blinked away the sleep, bringing her face into focus. She leaned on the sink for a moment, staring in the mirror.
Stella gripped the porcelain until her fingers turned white. She breathed in. She breathed out. She breathed until the face of the woman in the mirror stopped looking as though she wanted to cry.
She smiled.
She frowned.
She looked concerned.
That last one wasn’t such a good look for her. It wrinkled her forehead and creased lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. It was almost as bad as feigning interest, which required a little more sparkle in the eyes. But all of it was better than the woman with haunted eyes and downturned mouth that had greeted her a few minutes ago.
Steam had wreathed around the showerhead, so she pulled her nightgown over her head and hung it carefully on the hook. It swung, loose, and she made a mental note to fix it even as she knew she’d forget again until the next time she hung something on it and it threatened to fall. In the shower, she bent her head so the hot water could pound away at her neck and shoulders and back—it was a quick fix that would ease the aches and pains for a while, at least. So would a double dose of ibuprofen and some stretches, if she could force herself to manage them. She should’ve worked out before she got in the shower, but the morning had already started off upside down—why bother to fix it now?
She slicked her palms full of soap and slid them beneath her arms. Over her belly and thighs. Something stung her there, and she turned to let the water wash away the suds.
A small bruise, the size of a quarter and already fading greenish at the edges. It hurt when she pressed it, but the pain was brief. She pushed it again, making it ache. Then harder. Her fingernail dug into her skin, and that hurt worse. She could’ve made herself bleed, but stopped before that happened. She had enough scars without giving herself more.
The tears fell before she could stop them, and even though the shower made them invisible, they still burned. The rippled floor that kept her from slipping and killing herself was also impossible to keep clean. The ridges collected all the minerals and iron from the water, forever tinted orange no matter how hard she scrubbed or how much bleach she used. They also hurt her knees and palms as she folded herself onto the floor. She stayed that way until the water began to turn cold. By that time she’d pushed the memory of Glenn’s mouth on her so far away she could pretend it had happened to someone else.
CHAPTER THREE
What Stella did would never hang in a museum, but there was an art to touching up photos. Smoothing the lines of concern in a forehead. Erasing blemishes bad enough to leave scars. The scars themselves she never took away, unless the client had specifically requested she do so. Consequently, photos that came in with a lot of scars ended up in her queue, and that was fine with her. She knew too well how scars could define a person, no matter how ugly.
Today, her job was to touch up a family portrait taken for a church directory. A set of graying parents, a sullen teenage girl. A young marine son in uniform. The parents and the girl made a triangle, the son slightly separate despite the mother’s clenching hand on his shoulder. Her grip had a somewhat desperate look to it that Stella wouldn’t be able to do anything about, but she totally understood.
The marine had clearly seen some action. The right side of his face had been burned. The ridges of his scars were still purple and red, the curve of his eyebrow bare of any hair, the lashes missing from that eye. His mouth pulled down on that side. But he stood straight, gaze fixed firmly on the camera. Not smiling, not frowning. It was impossible to tell if he was resigned, ashamed or simply bored.
The clients had requested some shadow removal, along with the standard pimple erasure and taking away the reflection on the father’s glasses. The last one was the hardest thing to do, so she left it for last. Stella focused on getting rid of a few flyaway hairs and bulges, things not even checked on the client’s list and that they wouldn’t even notice had been improved. But they’d notice if they weren’t, she knew that much.
Her gaze kept coming back to the marine’s face and the digging curve of his mother’s fingers. Stoic, she decided. That’s how he looked. Not bored or anything else. Simply stoic.
His mother, however, looked faded and tired, her mouth pursed, her hair limp. Maybe she’d sat by his bed while he recovered from his injuries, holding his hand. Or maybe he’d suffered alone, healing enough to be sent home. How terrible it must’ve been, no matter how it happened, the first time his mother had to look at that ravaged face.
Stella closed her eyes suddenly, fingers stilling on the mouse she’d been manipulating. She took her hand away and folded both in her lap while she gathered herself together. Slow breath. Deep breath. Counting to five, then seven, then ten.
It would never stop haunting her, she thought with a mental shake she echoed with a physical one. Opening her eyes, Stella let out an embarrassed laugh when she saw her coworker Jen peeking around the edge of her cubicle. Wordlessly, Jen held up a coffee mug and an e-cigarette.
“Sure,” Stella said. “Give me a minute.”
Stella had taken up smoking in college, but quit when she got pregnant. She’d never stopped missing it. She sometimes took a cigarette when she was flying, depending on the situation and who was offering her the smoke. So far as she knew, Jen didn’t really smoke either, other than the e-cigarette she’d bought a few months ago and used with nicotine-less cartridges. They’d simply both figured out last year that smokers got breaks and nonsmokers didn’t.
Grabbing a fresh cup of coffee from the break room, Stella pushed through the back doors of the building and found Jen waiting. Phone in one hand, coffee in the other, she lifted her chin in greeting as Stella came out.
“Chilly as fuck out here,” she said around the e-cigarette tucked between her lips. “My nipples could cut glass.”
Stella rubbed at her arms, grateful she’d grabbed a cardigan today. She sipped hot coffee, making a face. “This is swill.”
Jen laughed and pulled the e-cig from her lips. “No kidding. I guess they think if they make better coffee we’ll drink more of it? And then spend more time in the bathroom, therefore getting less work done?”
“Diabolical.” Stella laughed, though it made sense. “Remember when they had the coffee and sandwich service?”
Jen sighed wistfully. “Yes. That guy was so cute. I spent more money on shitty, stale bagels than I made in this place.”
Stella didn’t want to sit at the splintery picnic table, so she settled for leaning against the brick wall while she warmed her hands on the already cooling mug. “I don’t know why they stopped him from coming.”
“Because they can take a percentage from the vending machines,” Jen said matter-of-factly.
Stella hadn’t thought of that.
Touching up photos for the Memory Factory was far from a terrible job, especially if you could get past the deathlike near silence in which they worked. The hours were good, and the pay based on completion of training levels meant that Stella was earning the top rate. More than she’d make in an office anywhere else. But it was no secret that the company itself, which had started off as a small mom-and-pop photography service and was bought by a national corporation, was money hungry. Famished, actually.
Jen drew again on the e-cig, blowing out a plume of mist into the October chill. “I heard Randall’s going to be pulling people in for performance reviews soon. Guess we got too many complaints this past quarter.”
“I’m not worried about that. Are you?”
“Girrrrl,” Jen said with a grin, “no way. But some of the temps are shaking in their boots. Which is good, because maybe they’ll get fired, and we can get some hours back.”
The previous holiday season, the company had hired on a bunch of temps to handle the extra workload that always happened around Christmas and lasted until just after New Year’s. For whatever reason, four of the temps had been asked to stay on. None of them were any good, none had passed more than the basic level of training and none of them got along with anyone else in the office. Stella was sure two of them spent most of the day getting high in the supply closet, when they weren’t fucking in there. She wouldn’t have minded, if their presence hadn’t meant, as Jen said, a cutback in some of the overtime that they and the other eight people who worked in their department had come to count on over the summer during vacations.
“They’ll just hire more next month anyway,” Stella said.
Jen snorted softly. “True. But different ones. Maybe ones that aren’t assholes.”
Stella laughed at how unlikely that would be. Her coffee had started off bitter, but now it was cold too. She dumped it to the side of the concrete slab and watched it make a stain in the gravel, already thinking ahead to the evening. She was going to dig out her flannel sheets tonight.
“...with me?”
“Sorry, what?” Stella looked up.
“I said, what are you doing tomorrow night? Jared and I are going to hear one of our friends sing at open mic night. Want to come along?”
Stella lifted a suspicious brow. “Are you trying to set me up again?”
“Oh, c’mon. One time. One!” Jen held up a finger. Then another, and after a hesitation, a third. “Okay. Three times. But you have to admit, all three times it was totally legit.”
“Jen. I can’t date guys who are just a few years older than my kid. Anyway, I told you, I’m not interested. Too much effort.” Stella shook her head, looking at the sky, which had gone gray with the promise of rain. Too early for snow, right?
Jen sighed. “How can you not be interested?”
“I’m just not. Boyfriends take up too much time. Too much work.” Stella shrugged. “I don’t want to deal with a guy on a regular basis. I’m happy being alone.”
“Nobody,” Jen said darkly, “really wants to be alone.”
Stella shrugged again. “Not forever. No. But right now I have enough to deal with at home. Tristan goes to college in two years. I’ll have plenty of time to put up with bullshit then.”
“It’s not all bullshit,” Jen said.
“That’s because you’re in looooooove.” Stella grinned and made kissing noises that had Jen ducking her head with laughter. “Things are different when you’re in love. You put up with all kinds of shit you’d never tolerate from someone else. Love makes people lose their minds.”
“So does great peen,” Jen said solemnly.
Stella carefully kept a straight face. “All the more reason to avoid it.”
“If you’re not careful, your vajayjay’s gonna dry up like a tumbleweed and blow away.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Stella said.
CHAPTER FOUR
At birth, Tristan had weighed six pounds, four ounces. He was sixteen inches long. He had no hair, bald as an egg, and had cried nonstop, round the clock, insatiable and inconsolable for the first month and a half of his life.
Sixteen years later he was taller than both his parents, outweighed Stella by about sixty pounds and had the same insatiable appetite, though fortunately he’d replaced the constant screaming with incessant commentary on the world. At least, he used to talk all the time. Now, instead of the hugs and the “love you, Mamas,” Tristan’s conversations had become stilted and intermittent. He’d replaced his formerly goofy sense of humor with a more sarcastic edge that sometimes bordered on cruel but was nevertheless bitingly funny. Stella hated to laugh at him but usually did, especially when he was making fun of his stepmother.
“That’s not nice,” she murmured at his demonstration of how Cynthia’s mouth was always slightly parted. “Eat your grilled cheese.”
She’d made his favorite with thick slices of rye bread and cheddar, along with a few strips of crispy bacon and thinly sliced tomato. Not the healthiest dinner, but Tristan had grown up and stretched out so much she figured he could stand the extra calories, especially with all the running he’d been doing. For herself, she had a grilled chicken and spinach salad.
Tristan looked at the plate, then at her. “Can’t I have what you’re having?”
She paused with her fork ready to stab the spinach. “You love grilled cheese.”
Tristan said nothing. He cut his gaze from hers, looking so much like Jeff it hurt her heart. Tristan pushed the plate with the tips of his fingers. “No, I don’t.”
“Since when?” Stella tried to keep the edge from her voice, too aware how easy it would be for them to slip into an argument. He not only looked like his dad; he had a lot of Jeff’s personality too. All the things that had driven her nuts about her ex-husband were blooming in her son. No matter how much she’d determined Tristan would never be the sort of man who expected the world to hand him a living on a platter, it seemed nature sometimes did win over nurture. She loved her son, always, with every breath inside her. But there’d been a lot of days lately where she found it very difficult to like him.
“Since always.” He muttered something else and moved the plate another half an inch away from him.
Stella stabbed her salad. “What was that?”
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“You did,” she said. “I heard it.”
“Nothing. Forget it,” Tristan repeated stubbornly. He got up from the table, leaving the plate. “I’m not hungry, anyway. I’m going out for a run.”
He was already through the kitchen doorway before she called out to him, “Hold up. Put the sandwich away for later and put your plate in the dishwasher.”
He did, dragging his feet and heaving a sigh as if she’d asked him to amputate all his limbs with a rusty carrot peeler.
“I shouldn’t even have to ask you that. C’mon, Tristan.” She managed to keep her voice steady and focus on her salad. “You should know better.”
“Yeah?” he challenged. “Well, so should you!”
Before she could ask him what the hell he meant by that, he’d stomped away. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and down the hall to his room. The door slammed.
Stella’d lost her appetite too but forced herself to eat anyway. When Tristan thundered down the stairs and toward the front door, she called out again, “Where are you going and how long do you think you’ll be gone?”
“For a run, I told you, and I don’t know.”
There was no way for her to force a different answer from him without a fight, and she was tired of arguing with him. “You have your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go too far,” she said. “Remember—”
“Yeah, I know, it feels twice as long on the way home as it does on the way there. I know, Mom.” Again, the muttered exclamation that probably included the sort of profanity she heard all his friends using when they thought no adults were listening.
She thought of something else as the front door slammed. He was already halfway down the driveway by the time she got to the door. “Tristan!”
For a moment she thought he was going to pretend he didn’t hear her, but then he turned. “What?”
“Be back before it gets dark.” That didn’t give him much time, but the thought of him running alongside the rural roads or even the highway in the dark twisted her stomach. “I mean it!”
He gave her a wave that might as well have been a flip of the bird, and took off down the driveway. She watched him until he disappeared past the trees, then went back inside. She stabbed again at her salad before dumping it in the trash and clearing away the table. She took her time with the cleaning spray and dish cloth, making sure to get all the smudges. She moved to the stainless-steel fridge, then the fronts of the microwave and oven, the stovetop. The cabinets.
Nothing was really dirty, but she cleaned it anyway.
In the days when Jeff had lived in this house, there’d always been too much clutter, too much mess, for Stella to keep up with. It had been like living with a hurricane. Kids, dog, cat, spouse—every other creature in the house had seemed to create a swath of destruction while she ran behind with the vacuum and mop, her laundry basket overflowing. Now, with Tristan spending half the time with his dad, sometimes the only mess in this house was one she made herself.
Sometimes she left her laundry on the empty side of the bed for the whole week without putting it away. She left the cap off the toothpaste tube, didn’t put the lid down on the toilet before flushing. She bought the brand of coffee she preferred and played the music she liked best as loud as she wanted. Basically, she did everything she wanted, how she wanted it.
And she did it alone.
In the middle of the worst time, when the concept of divorce had changed from feeling like a failure to salvation, Stella had turned the idea of being alone over and over until her mind had spun with it. Would she really like it, if that’s all she had? In the end it had been Jeff who’d left her, not that she could’ve blamed him. She’d grown sick of herself by then. But in the end, she’d also decided that being alone was better than wishing she was.
The day Jeff had moved out, Tristan had been away at summer camp, and Stella had opened every window in the house even though a storm was on the way. She’d danced in the backyard, in the rain, risking being struck by lightning. She’d thrown her face up to the sky and let the rain wash everything away and make her clean.
The feeling hadn’t lasted long, but it had been long enough. Eight years later, she was still alone and Jeff had remarried. She assumed he was happy in his much bigger house and much younger wife. She didn’t really care.
The kitchen was clean. She’d run a few loads of laundry and folded most of it. She took Tristan’s, piled high in his basket, down the hall. Passed the closed door between her room and his without pausing. She set the basket just inside his bedroom door with a wince at the sour smell of teenage boy. He wasn’t allowed to eat in there anymore, not since she’d had to call the exterminator to deal with an infestation of both mice and ants. And he had strict orders to put his dirty clothes out in the hall every Monday to be washed, or suffer wearing dirty clothes all week. Or do his own laundry. Beyond that, Stella kept out of her son’s room. She relished her privacy and figured he did too.
She lingered for a minute or two now, though. It was dangerous to dwell on things the way she had done in the shower this morning. Melancholy wasn’t productive. Yet something pulled her in a step or two. He’d long outgrown his twin bed, so one of the first things Stella had done after the divorce was give Tristan her old headboard and mattress and buy herself a new bedroom set. He’d adorned the spindles with stickers and ribbons from science fairs and competitions. A few baseball caps. At the foot of the mattress, he still kept a pile of stuffed animals, shoved mostly between the mattress and the wall.
Mr. Bear. Tigger. Tristan had always preferred the soft plushies to harder toys like action figures or miniature cars. He’d spent hours with them as his backyard companions, wearing them into filth even the hottest setting in the washer couldn’t clean. Other mothers had spoken with sighs about kids attached to blankies and teddy bears, some even buying more than one identical lovey toy so their kid wouldn’t be traumatized by even a momentary loss. Tristan hadn’t ever been like that. He’d loved all his toys equally and also as noncommittally. When limbs were lost or a stuffy simply too ruined to play with, he willingly gave it up in favor of another.
That’s why it amused and touched her to see them all now. She’d have thought he’d dumped them ages ago, along with his outgrown footie pj’s and the cowboy sheets. Stella nudged the laundry basket inside the room a little farther and reached for Mr. Bear. Her mom had bought him for Tristan when he was a toddler. Mr. Bear had been stuck against the wall next to some unnamed carnival prize snake, green with blue polka dots, incongruously wearing a top hat. When Stella pulled Mr. Bear’s arm, the snake came free. So did a few of the other toys.
So did the baby.
It was one of the smallest toys, a soft sculpture baby about the size of her hand. A round, fat body, two stumpy arms and matching legs and a round head without a neck. Dimples and colored thread made the face, two wee eyes and a red kiss-print mouth. Three or four strands of orange hair. It had no gender, really, but the outfit was blue so it was meant to be a boy.
She’d grabbed it up without knowing what it was, but at the sight of that yarn hair, the stubby, floppy arms, she dropped it back onto the bed. It fell facedown, limbs akimbo.
* * *
“Where’s your baby? Where’s your baby?”
He toddles to her, two teeth proudly showing in his bottom gums, the baby clutched in his chubby fists. Blue blanket sleeper. Fluff of reddish hair. Drool in a silver thread she doesn’t even mind wiping away as she scoops him up, burying her face in the sweet scent of little boy. Her boy.
“Show Mama your baby.”
He holds up the toy, and she enfolds him into her arms, kissing him until he squirms to be put down. And she does, she puts him down, and he stumbles away from her on unsteady feet. Her boy.
Oh, her boy.
* * *
Stella left it there and went out, closing the door and locking the memories behind her.
Hours had passed since dinner. No sign of Tristan. No message, no text. Night had fully fallen, not even a hint of setting sun left for her to forgive him by. Her jaw set as she pulled out her phone to tap the screen.
WHERE ARE YOU?
Since she’d personally witnessed her son texting multiple people in different conversations while he played Xbox and watched TV and ate snacks, all at the same time, she knew the only reason he didn’t reply to her within a minute or two was because he was ignoring her. Or something had happened to him.
Stella’s mother had made a habit of saying, “Be careful” every time Stella left the house. Stella, smart-ass that she’d been, had usually answered, “Nope, I’m gonna take a lot of risks and do dangerous things.” Her mom hadn’t found that funny.
“You’ll understand,” she’d say, “when you’re a mother.”
Stella’s mother still told her to be careful every time they parted, and now a mother herself, Stella did understand. She knew all too well how easily horrible things could happen.
She paced in the dining room, looking out the front windows at the darkness. She went to the front door and opened it, looked out the screen door, then went outside. October nights were cool and alive with the sound of crickets or katydids or whatever the hell it was in the woods that made so much noise. Cicadas? Didn’t they come out only every seventeen years...?
She was freaking out. She wished for a cigarette, even one of Jen’s e-cigs. Instead, she tapped out another message.
ANSWER ME.
Another five minutes passed. An eternity. She was just about to send another message, thinking of calling the police, or at the very least Jeff, when her phone shook in her hand and played its distinctive triple ding.
ran too far
She hadn’t realized how slick her hands had become with sweat until her phone slipped from her grasp. She caught it before it could hit the sidewalk. She typed a reply. Where? I’ll come get you.
No. I’ll come home.
She wasn’t going to play this game with him. Instead of another text, Stella called. Tristan sounded out of breath when he answered, and she didn’t bother to identify herself. “What did I tell you about getting home before dark?”
She’d jumped on him too hard; she heard it in his reply. “Sorry.”
“I’ll come get you.”
He hesitated, panting. “Pick me up at Sheetz.”
She frowned, estimating the distance from their house to the convenience store. “You ran to Sheetz?”
“Just pick me up there. I want to get something to eat anyway.”
There was another argument there, a reminder about the sandwich she’d made for him and that he’d rejected, but what sort of shitty mother let her kid go hungry? She sighed and disconnected.
He was waiting for her at one of the outside tables, already drinking from one of those insanely huge fountain drinks and eating a burrito when she pulled into the parking lot. Bugs swooped and swarmed, dive-bombing him and the overhead lights that made him look extra pale. His hair stuck up in the back and clung to his forehead with sweat. He probably reeked.
She kept herself from hugging him by pretending she was angry. The truth was, she was just glad to see him all in one piece. Not that she forgave him—there’d be recriminations for this. There had to be. She’d specifically told him not to run too far and to be home before dark, and he hadn’t been.
But maybe she didn’t have to really punish him. Maybe her annoyance would be enough. Maybe only a few snakes had to come out of her hair. Half a momdusa, not the full-fledged explosion.
She went inside and got herself a frozen latte, even though the temperature had dropped enough to make a hot coffee drink sound better. They gave her stomachaches, but she couldn’t resist. When she came back outside, Tristan had finished his food and crumpled the garbage. He was busy tapping away at his phone, playing a game or texting or Connexing or whatever it was the kids did these days.
The car ride home was silent and stinky. She had to open the windows just to keep from choking on the overripe smell of teenage boy sweat, and Tristan turned the radio up so loud there was no chance of talking. He used to sing along with the songs, but he didn’t now. Stella did, fumbling the words, a little bit on purpose to lighten the mood between them even though she felt as though she had every right to be pissed.
She wasn’t good at letting go. Not in her regular life. It had been one of the things Jeff had complained about, a flaw she wanted to deny but deep inside knew she couldn’t. Stella liked the last word. So when they got home and into the kitchen, she couldn’t resist one final poke.
“You can take that sandwich for lunch tomorrow.”
Her son, who’d once been a tiny baby, then a toddler dragging his toy bear in the dirt, her boy who was now on his way to being a man, frowned. He shrugged and ran his fingers through his dirty hair in a way disconcertingly like his father had done when they’d first met. It was a panty twister, that move, and he didn’t know it yet, thank God.
He looked at the fridge. Then at her, for the first time in a long while meeting her gaze without letting it slide away. “I never liked those sandwiches, Mom.”
Stubbornly, Stella shook her head. “You loved—”
“No, Mom,” Tristan told her firmly. When had his voice dropped? No more cracking, no more sudden shifts in pitch. “That wasn’t me. That was never me. I just never said anything about it until now.”
He left her in the kitchen and thudded his big feet up the stairs, and in a few minutes the shower started to run. The pipes squealed. Stella stood without moving, her eyes closed, for a long time, remembering.
Then she threw the sandwich in the trash.
CHAPTER FIVE
Some trips are focused, pinpointed. Specific. Stella arrives, finds what she’s looking for and leaves a day or two later. Sometimes she comes home disappointed—Stella might have broad standards and eclectic taste in men, but when it comes to flying she does have standards, nevertheless.
On some trips, like this one to Minnesota, flying is simply a bonus. The Mall of America is a short shuttle ride from both the airport and the luxurious casino hotel where she’s booked a king-size room. She’s planned a weekend of shopping. Good food in fancy restaurants. Even a little gambling.
Normally, Stella travels carry-on only, but this time she has checked an empty suitcase that she will fill with all of her holiday shopping. The twenty-five-dollar checked-bag fee is worth it, when you consider what she’d have to pay to ship all of her purchases. She spends hours and hundreds of dollars, visiting every store at her leisure and losing herself in the comparison of gifts. Finding the perfect thing for her parents, sister, brother-in-law, nieces and nephews. Coworkers. She even picks up a gift for Jeff and Cynthia, not because she wants to, particularly, but because Cynthia always sends her something and it’s begun to feel as though the expectation of receiving one in turn is easier to fulfill than dealing with the unspoken resentment.
For Tristan, she falters. He has so much already. Though Stella vowed to herself she would never play the game of tug-of-war with Jeff about which parent is the “cooler” one, they have both gone overboard with the gifts since the divorce. Tristan owns every device, every video game system with all the accessories, sometimes in duplicate so he has one in each house and doesn’t have to suffer the loss of his toys. There’ve been musical instruments and lessons. Sports equipment. Trips.
But what, she wonders as she goes from store to store to store, would her son really like? The problem is, Stella really doesn’t know. The sandwich she threw in the trash haunts her, and she second-guesses herself, picking things up and putting them down. She comes away with very little, telling herself there’s still time, but she knows too well how that’s not always true.
The trip isn’t totally without self-indulgence. In the fancy lingerie shop, she springs for a pretty merry widow corset set in a deep wine color. It gives her magnificent cleavage. Paired with matching panties and sheer stockings, her sexiest heels, she’s going to shine like a diamond.
In her hotel room Stella packs away all her purchases in the empty suitcase and lays out her clothes for the night. The new lingerie looks even better in the hotel room’s far more flattering light than it did in the dressing room. She straightens her back, squares her shoulders. Juts a hip. She knows how to showcase what she has now in a way she never did until a few years ago. Then again, until a few years ago, Stella favored high-waisted cotton granny panties and full-coverage bras, and the last time she’d worn sexy lingerie had been the first night of her honeymoon. And that had been no more than a silky nightgown with spaghetti straps.
Jeff had always said he didn’t see the point in spending so much money on something you were only going to take off right away, and Stella had believed he meant it. Of course, later, when she’d stumbled on his browser history and saw the kinds of porn he’d been watching, she could only chuckle a little at how all the women in his favorite videos had worn garter belts and stockings, crotchless panties, bras with the nipples cut out. By then there was no way Stella would’ve kissed him on the mouth, much less sucked his cock, and lingerie was out of the question.
No, she hadn’t begun wearing sexy scanties for men, even if most of the ones she found did seem to like her choices. Stella began wearing these scraps of silk and satin for herself. When she wears something pretty, even under her rattiest jeans or T-shirt, it reminds her that her body still works. She breathes, she laughs and sighs; she has orgasms.
She’s alive.
In front of the full-length mirror, she smooths the satin over her belly and cups her breasts for a moment, lifting them. Her nipples tighten as she watches herself. She tries on a smile, slow and seductive. She turns to look over her shoulder at her ass, which will never be her favorite feature but looks pretty good in the wispy panties. The best part of this outfit is that there’s no hint of it beneath her regular clothes, but it’s almost guaranteed to be an eyeball popper when she gets undressed.
Stella draws in a breath, hands flat on her belly. Her ribs twinge a little as they expand against the corset’s metal bones, but it’s not laced so tight that she feels faint. She runs her hands up her sides, pressing lightly, waiting for the pain that never seems to go away, though there’s no reason for her to ache. Then she slides a hand between her legs, stroking lightly. Her clit pulses. Pushing her fingers inside her panties, Stella finds slick heat. Anticipation is the best aphrodisiac.
She’s packed a couple choices, but decides on a simple black dress of clinging fabric. Long sleeves and a demure neckline are offset by the thigh-high slit that will give a tantalizing peek at the tops of her stockings if she crosses her legs just right. Her jewelry is simple to match—a pair of silver hoops in her ears, a matching bracelet of hammered metal and a silver herringbone chain at her throat. She pulls her hair into a careful French knot, sprays on a hint of perfume and she’s ready to go.
There was a time when, if she’d seen a woman like herself sitting alone in a high-end restaurant, reading while she ate her expensive dinner, Stella would’ve felt sorry for her. Now she’s been on enough shitty dates to appreciate and understand the luxury of being able to enjoy a good steak and a good book at the same time without having to force a conversation. She declines the waiter’s offer of a cocktail, but a few minutes later, he returns.
“The gentleman—” he points to a man several tables over “—would like to send you a glass of wine.”
Stella looks up. “Ah. Tell him thanks, but no.”
“Something else?” the waiter asks. “We have a great pomegranate martini—”
“No. Thanks. I don’t care for anything, but please let him know I appreciate the offer.”
By the end of her meal, a truly stellar steak and asparagus steamed to perfection, Stella has almost finished her book and the waiter is back with another offer.
“Coffee and dessert? The gentleman—”
Persistent, she thinks. And horny. She likes that.
Stella sets aside her book and smiles. “Please ask the gentleman if he’d like to join me.”
If the waiter hates playing Cupid, he doesn’t show it. In minutes, the man who seriously wants to get Stella liquored up and on a sugar high arrives at her table. He’s tall, dark and handsome. Just her type, but who’s she kidding? Almost all men are her type when she flies.
“Hi. I’m Daryl.” He holds out a hand. Warm fingers squeeze hers with the perfect amount of pressure. He has wide brown eyes and a great smile. Straight white teeth. Curly black hair cropped close to his head. His suit is expensive, and so is his watch.
“Lavinia.” It’s the name of one of the characters in her book.
“Pretty name. Unusual.” Daryl looks up at the waiter. “I’ll have a coffee and a piece of cherry pie. Vanilla ice cream. And the lady will have...?”
“The same,” she decides without looking to see what other delights she might be missing on the dessert menu. “Cherry pie’s my favorite.”
Daryl is in town for a week to meet with clients, for a business he doesn’t describe and Stella doesn’t ask about. He comes to Minneapolis a few times a year, always stays at this hotel because of how easy it is to get to the airport and also, of course, the gambling. “Do you gamble, Lavinia?”
“Sometimes. I’m not much for poker or blackjack, but I do like to play the slots. This pie is amazing, great choice. And thank you, by the way.” Stella drags her fork through the thick, sweet cherry goo and licks it, watching Daryl’s gaze follow the flicker of her tongue.
“How about craps?”
She smiles. “Don’t you have to be lucky to win?”
“You have to be lucky to win at anything.” Daryl’s smile leaves crinkles in the corners of his eyes that Stella likes very much.
She leans toward him. “Tell me, then. Do you feel lucky?”
“Oh,” Daryl says, leaning too, “I surely hope so.”
She lets him take her to the casino, and she lets him press a hundred dollars’ worth of chips into her hand. She also lets him put his arm around her as they take their place at the craps table, and when he asks her to blow on the dice for him, she does that too. Stella has never considered herself lucky, but Daryl wins. And wins again.
Soon the whole crowd is chanting her name—well, not her real name, but the one she gave him. And when finally his streak ends, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her in front of the crowd as though they’re lovers and not strangers. He’s a very good kisser, and Stella doesn’t mind. Not at all.
“Lucky Lavinia,” Daryl says into her ear, his hands settling on her hips to pull her close. “You wanna get out of here?”
They go to his room, and he offers her a drink, but she declines.
“Not a drinker.” Daryl nods. “I remember now. I could order us something from room service, if you’ve got a craving for something sweet.”
That’s not what she’s craving, and she answers him by stepping again into his embrace and offering her mouth. Daryl kisses her slowly, palming her ass and grinding her a little against the growing bulge of his crotch. When he moves his mouth to her throat, Stella lets her head fall back with a small sigh.
“You like that?” Daryl nips a little, sending shivers of delight all through her. “Yeah. I thought so.”
Her nipples are tight and hard, her cunt aching. She wants to run her hands all over him, but steps back instead. “Do you have protection?”
She does, if he doesn’t. She always does. But a man who expects to fuck without bothering to buy the condoms isn’t worth even the small amount of time she’s prepared to give him.
“Yeah.” Daryl tugs at his tie and the buttons of his shirt, exposing his smooth dark skin. “I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry.”
Stella tilts her head to look him over. “You do this a lot, Daryl?”
“I travel a lot.” He gives her a nice once-over. “You do this a lot, Lavinia?”
It’s a fair question. Her fingers inch up her hem, little by little. For another man, she might play coy or even lie, but she and Daryl seem to have an understanding. “I do it enough.”
His warm, full-throated laugh settles between her thighs. “Good. Just so I know where I stand.”
It’s good for them both to know. She curls her fingers in the fabric of her dress, easing the hem higher. Daryl watches her. At the slide of his tongue over his full lower lip, her clit pulses.
“Why don’t you get out of that shirt?” she says in a low voice. “And those pants too.”
Daryl unbuttons and tosses his shirt to the chair, but his hands hesitate at his belt buckle. “What about you?”
“You want me to take off my dress?” Stella smiles.
He works open the buckle of his belt, then gets out of his pants and tosses them onto the chair next to his shirt. His body is gorgeous. Fit and lean, with muscles in all the right places. Standing in a pair of tight black briefs, Daryl lifts his chin toward her as he bends to take off his socks. “C’mon. Be fair.”
Stella pulls her dress up and over her head, then carefully hangs it over the back of the room’s other chair. She strikes a pose, showing off everything she has to its best advantage, and it must be working for him, because Daryl’s eyes go wide. He wipes a hand over his mouth.
“Damn,” he says. “Look at you.”
This is the rush. This is the gasping breath after being underwater for too long. This is coming out of the dark and into the light, if only for a little while.
Stella needs this.
“Kiss me,” she says, and Daryl is happy to oblige.
He turns them both so he can sit on the edge of the bed with Stella standing between his legs. He breaks the kiss and leans into her, pressing his forehead to the stiff satin covering her belly. His hands roam over her ass, squeezing. He looks up at her, brow a little furrowed, lips parted and a little wet from their kisses.
“What?” Stella traces a fingertip over one of his thick, dark eyebrows. His eyelashes are amazing, enviably long and thick, the sort a woman would kill for.
“Didn’t think it would be this easy, that’s all.”
She wonders if she ought to be a little insulted by this. Stella presses her thumb to Daryl’s lower lip; when he opens for her, she tucks it inside his mouth. He sucks it gently, biting the tip. She bends to kiss him, replacing her thumb with her tongue. She looks into his eyes.
“We both want something,” she says. “Looks like it’s the same thing. Is there something wrong with that?”
“No....”
Some men, she knows, want to fuck women who act like whores. Some men think all women are whores. There is a difference. Stella’s not a slut or a whore no matter how many times she flies with strangers. No man can make her feel that way about herself, no matter what he says or how he acts. She cups Daryl’s chin in her palm, holding his face still while she studies him.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asks.
“No!” Daryl laughs and grips her hips, pulling her closer. “Hell no.”
“You want to fuck me,” Stella murmurs, watching his pupils dilate as she speaks.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
She smiles, breathing assent against his mouth. “So fuck me, Daryl.”
With a low growl, he pulls her onto the bed, rolling them both so he ends up on top. His weight’s a surprise, though the press of his erection isn’t. He pushes his hips against her, grinding. His mouth finds hers, a little too hard. Stella puts her hands flat on his chest to hold him back from her for a second. Daryl breaks the kiss to look at her, holding her gaze while he rocks his cock against her clit.
They kiss for a long time, longer than she expects. But she doesn’t mind. They move together on the bed, grinding, rocking, rolling.
Daryl moves a hand between her legs at last, slipping his fingers inside her panties. Stroking her clit. Then, pushing inside her. “Shit,” he breathes. “You’re so wet.”
Kissing him, Stella shivers at the press of his thumb on her clit, the push of his fingers inside. One, then another. He fucks into her, and her body responds at once. Muscles going tight, breath short. She writhes under his practiced touch, giving herself up to this pleasure for a minute or so before she opens her eyes and finds him staring at her.
“What?” She goes still.
“I want to watch you come.” Daryl licks his lips. “I get off on making a woman come for me.”
Stella pushes up on one elbow to reach his mouth with hers. “Sounds like a great idea to me.”
Daryl laughs then, relaxing. “Some women... They don’t like that.”
“They don’t like to have an orgasm?” It’s hard for her to talk with his fingers working their magic. Her voice is low, throaty, trailing into a moan.
“They like to come, sure, but they want to get right to the fucking. They want to rush things. They want my dick inside them too soon.”
Stella arches into his caress, putting her arms over her head to find the solid support of the headboard. She spreads her legs wider, rocking into Daryl’s thrusting touch. His thumb slides on her clit in perfectly rough and staggered circles, teasing her.
“I want to watch you come,” Daryl says again.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Stella whispers. “And you will.”
Daryl pauses long enough to slide her panties down and off, then gets back between her legs to kiss the insides of her thighs. Stella tenses, thinking he’ll use his mouth on her and waiting for that new sensation, but Daryl takes her clit between his thumb and forefinger instead. He squeezes gently. Pleasure builds, and Stella rides it. Her orgasm is a column of rising flame, consuming her. Ecstasy floods her, taking away the world and everything else beyond this sensation.
Gasping, breathless, Stella cries out. When she quiets, the soft huff of Daryl’s breath caresses her inner thighs. She can’t move, doesn’t want to even shift to look at him. She is satisfied, replete. Until he begins to gently pinch her clit again. The pressure is soft and steady. It’s always harder for her to come a second time, but she’s willing to let him try. Stella breathes, relaxing into her desire. There’ve been times when she’s gotten anxious about her ability to have an orgasm, when it’s taken too long, when it has slipped away from her no matter how skilled or attentive her lover was being. There’ve been times when she’s had to push a partner aside and take over for herself, or sometimes even simply give up grasping at the elusiveness of her climax. But she’s never, ever faked it.
“Wanna see you come again,” Daryl murmurs.
Stella sighs. “I’m not sure...”
“Relax.”
She tries. When he moves his mouth onto her, Stella lifts herself to his tongue. Lips and teeth press her. His fingers move inside her. It’s taking too long, and the first was too strong. She’s not going to make it again....
“Shhh,” Daryl says against her cunt. “Just feel good.”
Stella’s flown with selfish men. Egotistical, arrogant men who haven’t cared if she’s come at all, much less more than once. Not often—it’s been her experience that most men, even the ones who pick up women in airport bars, like to be sure they can get the women off. But she’s never been with a man so insistent. So determined. And all she can do, really, is lie back and let Daryl try to get her to come.
After another few minutes, he moves up her body to kiss her mouth. “No?”
“Sorry,” Stella says, though she’s really not.
Daryl laughs a little. “Damn. I tried.”
“You did.” She rolls to straddle him. He’s not completely hard, but that changes after a minute of stroking. “Your turn.”
“Let me just grab something.” In another minute he’s back, shucking out of his briefs and tearing the wrapper on the condom to sheathe himself.
Stella watches him, her breath catching at his look of careful concentration as he smooths the condom onto his cock. How he grips himself at the base. How beautiful men are with their hard pricks in their fists, when their bodies have become tuned toward nothing but pleasure. She loves these moments maybe even more than the actual fucking, these moments when she watches her partner getting ready for her.
Daryl fits himself inside her, keeping his weight balanced on one hand as he uses the other to guide himself. His cock is thicker than she’s expecting. Longer too. It makes her gasp when he seats himself all the way. He pauses for a few seconds, looking down at her.
“You feel so good,” he says. “I want to fuck you so hard.”
He starts moving. Slow at first. Then faster. Harder. He tucks a hand beneath the back of her neck, pulling her closer to his mouth for a bruising kiss. Daryl fucks her hard, his pelvis grinding her clit, and it’s this pounding pressure that starts to tip her over the edge again.
He sees it on her face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Stella manages to say as she gives herself up again to desire. She comes with a short, sharp jolt of pleasure that cuts off as abruptly as it has arrived, but it’s enough to buck her hips. It’s all good. So good.
Daryl shudders, grimacing. He bends to bury his face in the side of her neck as he thrusts, then shouts out with his own climax.
A minute or so after that, he rolls off her to stare up at the ceiling. He’s put some distance between them, but not enough to make this awkward. She’ll be able to get up in a few minutes and get dressed. Head back to her own room.
Before she can move, Daryl looks at her. “Was that okay for you?”
Stella sits, scanning the bed for her discarded panties. Spotting them on the floor, she moves to get off the bed. “It was great.”
Daryl’s hand on her wrist stops her. “Lavinia.”
She twists to look at him, seeing his concern. Thanking him for his performance would feel a little over-the-top, not to mention contrived. “It was great, Daryl. Really.”
He doesn’t let her go for so long she starts to think he won’t. Gently, Stella extricates herself from his grip and gets off the bed to step into her panties. Behind her Daryl takes care of the condom, then heads into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him.
Stella gets dressed quickly. Not lingering. The night has worn on almost to morning, and her plane leaves in only a few hours. She’ll have just enough time to get back to her room, shower and change and head for the airport in time to get through security. In the days when she was a flight attendant, a million years ago, traveling by air used to be fun. Now, even with the free trips she still gets as part of the divorce settlement from Jeff, the CEO of an airline, the process of the airplane travel itself is something rather less than enjoyable.
She doesn’t want to leave without saying goodbye—Daryl has been a fun flight. But it’s late and she’s tired and not in the mood for cuddling or, worse, conversation. The bathroom door opens just as she’s slipping into her shoes and straightening her stockings.
Daryl looks surprised. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I have an early plane.” She goes to him, offering a kiss because it seems like the thing to do.
Daryl kisses her but looks confused. “You don’t want to stay? Have another go-round in the morning?”
“It’s already morning.” Stella stifles a yawn. “And I’m really tired. This was great, though. I had a good time.”
“Not good enough, I guess.” Stepping back, Daryl frowns. “Should I even ask for your number?”
“I can give you my number, but that’s not what this is. Is it?” She gives him a small smile, trying hard not to sound annoyed, though by this point she’s ready to head out the door. “You’re not really going to call me, are you?”
This gives him pause. “I guess not. It’s just...everyone else always wants to exchange numbers.”
Stella laughs. “And how many times do you ever get in touch?”
“You never know. I might call you up, see if you want to be my Lady Luck again sometime when you’re out this way.” Daryl smiles, but Stella shakes her head.
“I don’t think I’ll be out this way again for a long time.”
“Oh. So it’s like that.”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s like that.”
She’s hurt his feelings. She didn’t mean to, but of course that won’t make him feel any better. Now this is becoming awkward.
“You won’t even give me your number? C’mon.” He flashes her a smile meant to be charming, but the desperation in it leaves her cold.
“I don’t give my phone number to strangers,” Stella says without apologizing.
Daryl scowls. “But you’ll fuck one.”
Stella doesn’t give that the dignity of an answer.
“Was it good for you?” he cries after her as the door shuts, and Stella understands that none of this was really about her, at all.
For a moment she considers grabbing the door before it can close all the way and telling him yes, the sex was good. Fine. She came, twice as a matter of fact. She considers, briefly, soothing his ego.
But then she remembers that none of this was really about him in the first place.
CHAPTER SIX
Mondays. Universally despised, always hectic. This morning Stella had already slept through her alarm, waking up instead to the thunder of Tristan’s feet up and down the stairs as he hollered back and forth with his buddy Steven, who’d come to give him a ride. Since Stella had already told Tristan she wasn’t sure she wanted him riding with Steven, even if the older boy had been driving for almost two years, this was not the best way to wake up.
“Dad lets me.”
Yeah, and then there was that. Too tired to argue with him, especially since he’d missed the bus, Stella waved Tristan into Steven’s car and watched them pull out of the driveway with her heart lodged firmly in her throat. She was sure Jeff did let Tristan ride with Steven or whoever else he wanted to, so long as it meant Jeff didn’t have to take him to school. Whatever made Jeff’s life easier. But Stella wasn’t going to dwell on that right now.
Halfway through her shower, the water ran cold. “Son of a bitch.”
She twisted the faucet handle, jiggling it, which sometimes worked. Not today. She finished rinsing her hair, shivering, entire body covered in goose pimples, and didn’t even bother to shave her legs.
There’d been a time when it was like asking Tristan to cut off his arms and legs in order to get him in the shower, and now he took forever. That was part of the reason why Stella had started setting her alarm for later, to give the aging hot water heater time to replenish the supply.
Downstairs, when she pulled open the dishwasher to get a clean coffee cup, she found another surprise. Nothing was clean. Muttering curses under her breath, Stella stabbed open the soap dispenser...only to discover it encrusted with half-dissolved soap. She checked the dishes. Wet. Just not clean.
“Dammit.” She went to the sink to run the hot water. Barely lukewarm, even twenty minutes after her shower. “Shit. Double shit.”
Already running late for work, she took the time to run downstairs to the basement to make sure that the water heater hadn’t exploded or something equally dire. Staring at it, wishing she knew what to look for, Stella knew better than to fiddle with any of the settings. She did notice the small light by the temperature gauge wasn’t lit, but maybe it never was. She couldn’t remember ever really looking at the hot water heater before.
No time to deal with it now. She had to get to work. And, adding to the joy that had begun her Monday, the trip that normally took forty minutes took an hour and a half because of an accident.
A car had hit and flipped over the guardrails along the deep, V-shaped gully that separated the east-and westbound sections of the rural highway. It had caught halfway down the steep embankment, the front end a crumpled horror. It had caught on fire. There’d been no way to see if anyone was stuck inside, though the ambulance and fire trucks had given her hope that even if there had been, there wasn’t anymore. Traffic had backed up for a couple miles, moving slow, rubbernecking. Stella had been stuck inching along the accident site for a good ten minutes before reaching the opposite side and being able to speed up.
Ten minutes wasn’t so long, but by the end of it, she’d been sweating. Her hands shaking. Her breath catching hard in her throat, like needles in her lungs. In the rearview mirror, her eyes were wide and dark, the pupils dilated to cover her irises.
At work, she sat in the parking lot for another five minutes longer than necessary in order to get herself under control. In the office, she went directly to the restroom so she could splash her face with cold water, which had her remembering the frigid shower from the morning.
Frustration, at least, was better than fear.
Despite the morning’s rough start, the day itself went smoothly. It almost always did. Sitting for hours in front of a computer, editing out zits and wrinkles, listening to music or audiobooks on her iPod... It certainly wasn’t the sort of job Stella had ever imagined herself doing, but it suited her. Her manager was nice and accommodating, and you couldn’t beat the hours. Four ten-hour days a week. Jeff had liked to snark at her for that... But again, Stella put that memory aside. It no longer mattered what Jeff thought and hadn’t for a long time.
Today’s queue of photos was the easiest she’d had for weeks. The customers were all dressed appropriately, nobody had any weird requests and the packages they wanted to order were all standard. Stella worked her way steadily through the jobs, one after another. She worked so efficiently that, despite arriving late, she finished her queue early, and rather than stay and fuck around waiting for more jobs to show up, she decided to leave early.
She called Tristan on her way home, but typically he didn’t answer. Nor to her text, which did annoy her, though it was possible he was out running, not just ignoring her. Benefit of the doubt, Stella told herself. Give him the benefit of the doubt. She called Jeff next, already wincing at the sound of his voice.
“What?” Jeff said.
She shouldn’t be offended—it was how he always answered the phone, for anyone but his boss. Even his mother had been subject to his lack of phone etiquette. Stella had never heard him answer a call from Cynthia, though. Maybe she got the princess treatment. God knew she did with everything else.
“Is Tristan with you? I can swing by and pick him up on my way home. I’m getting out now.”
“Why are you getting out now?”
She owed him no explanations, Stella reminded herself, but that didn’t mean she had to be a total douche canoe to him about everything as a matter of course either. “I finished early. Is he there?”
“Cynthia took him shopping.”
“Oh.” Stella paused. “Well, I have some errands to run. I can swing by and get him when I’m finished, if she doesn’t want to bring him all the way to my place on her way home.”
“I’ll have her text you.”
Stella sighed. They disconnected without saying much of anything else and for a moment, melancholy, Stella tried to remember when they’d loved each other. She couldn’t, really. Everything that had happened since colored all the good memories in shades of black.
Her errands didn’t take as long as she’d expected, which was why she was surprised to pull into the drive to the blaze of lights in the house and the front door half-open. Irritated, Stella yanked it shut behind her. “Tristan!”
“He’s upstairs,” Jeff said from the kitchen, where he sat at her table with one of her diet sodas and a pile of her mail, along with her latest issue of Entertainment Weekly.
She hadn’t seen his car, dammit, forgetting he preferred to park along the opposite side of the street so he didn’t have to back out of the driveway. She hated the sight of Jeff in her kitchen—which had once been his kitchen, that was true enough. But by the end she’d hated the sight of him in it then too.
“Did he eat?”
“Yeah. Cynthia made pot roast.” Jeff drained the last of the soda and put the empty can back on the table, then tossed the magazine onto the pile of mail.
Of course she did. Stella gave him a tight smile. “Great. Thanks for bringing him home.”
Jeff pulled something from his back pocket—a piece of paper he’d folded into thirds. He flattened it on the table and pushed it in her direction. “Here.”
“What’s that?” Stella asked warily, not taking it.
“I brought over a spreadsheet.”
“Of what?” She crossed her arms, keeping her expression carefully neutral. Jeff had always been fond of spreadsheets.
“Of expenses.”
Stella’s eyebrows rose. “Expenses? For what?”
“Tristan,” Jeff said, and Stella’s jaw dropped. “I’ve been keeping track.”
Now she took the paper and looked over it. True to form, Jeff had made columns for medical expenses, sports equipment, orthodontia, clothes, school supplies...and gifts. Stella looked at him. “You have to be fucking kidding me.”
Jeff looked pained. “Stella.”
“You kept track of how much you spent on gifts. For your son.” Her lip curled.
They’d hammered out a lot of details in the divorce settlement. Argued over who got to keep the china and how long Stella would remain on his account with Pegasus Airlines so she could get free travel. She’d fought hard for that one. But they hadn’t set up anything specific regarding child support for Tristan, mostly because the original plan had been that each of them would be responsible for whatever expenses arose while he was with each of them, and they’d share major expenses. Stella simply tried to take care of whatever Tristan needed, only going to Jeff for stuff like the braces that had come off last year. Like the ski club trip Tristan had wanted to take last Christmas break that had turned out to be twice as expensive as she’d planned for.
Jeff gave her a look. “Of course. I just wanted to show you...”
Stella crumpled the paper in her hands, then thought better of it. She smoothed it. Folded it. Handed it back to him. “What’s your point, Jeff?”
“I just dropped a couple hundred bucks on him for gear. New shoes. He needed clothes too.” Jeff paused. “Cynthia made sure he had everything he needed.”
Cynthia, who matched her shoes to her belts to her purses. Who got her nails done every week. Hair too.
“Please tell Cynthia I said thanks.”
Jeff blinked. “I estimated your expenses too.”
Stella set her jaw at that, willing herself not to totally lose her shit all over him, but already knowing she was about to blow. “And?”
“Just wanted to share with you, that’s all.”
“Because you want to show me up.”
Jeff frowned. “That’s not what I want.”
“No?” Stella waved a dismissive hand. “Really? Then what’s this spreadsheet about, Jeff?”
But she knew what it was about, without him even having to respond. Jeff was trying to prove to her in his underhanded way that he was as much a parent to Tristan as she was. That just because she did the majority of the day-to-day stuff didn’t mean he didn’t do his share too—the money he’d spent evidence of his parenting. Typical Jeff.
Before he could answer, and she could see his desire to reply in every line of his face, Tristan, wrapped in a towel, hair wet, expression stormy, came into the kitchen. Stella’s eyebrows rose.
“There’s no hot water.”
“Shit,” she said with a sigh. “I’d hoped it was just temporary.”
“Something wrong with your hot water heater?” Jeff asked.
“Maybe.” To Tristan, she said, “Just do a pits and privates until I can take a look at it, okay?”
Jeff was already getting up. Never mind that he hadn’t lived here in eight years, and that when he had, he’d been gone so often on business that Stella had been the one to take care of everything around the house anyway. “I’ll take a look at it.”
“You don’t have to—”
But he was already heading into the basement while Tristan stomped back upstairs. Stella gritted her teeth and followed her ex-husband down the stairs to the small utility room that enclosed the furnace and hot water heater. As soon as he opened the door, Jeff recoiled, lifting his feet as though he’d stepped in dog shit. But it was water. Stella heard the squish of it from where she stood, and she almost laughed at the look on Jeff’s face when he turned to look at her.
“You have a leak,” he said as though it were a personal affront.
“That would explain why we didn’t have any hot water.”
Jeff squished his way to the hot water heater and bent to study it. “Grab me a flashlight, would you?”
“I said I could take care of it.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Obviously you can’t.”
There was a time when he’d been able to read her. When he’d known her. Stella couldn’t recall exactly when that had changed, but it was never more obvious than in this moment when she was almost ready to punch him in the junk, and all he could do was give her a condescending sneer.
“Get out,” she said. “I’ll call a plumber. I have a wet vac. I will handle this.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” Stella crossed her arms and stepped back to let him pass. “I can handle it, whether you think so or not.”
“Don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m just trying to help you—”
“We’re not married anymore, Jeff.” Stella could no longer keep her voice steady and even, and she knew it was only going to give him more ammunition to accuse her of being overemotional—something he’d done a whole hell of a lot of during their last days. “This isn’t your responsibility, and I wouldn’t want you to throw it in my face later. Really, I can handle it.”
“Fine.” Jeff dusted off his hands and pushed past her, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn bitch” under his breath.
She’d been called worse.
Stella followed him up the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving him in there and not bothering to look back when he called after her. Halfway up the stairs she heard the front door open and close. She knocked lightly on Tristan’s door, waiting until he answered before she opened it. She had to shove the door against a pile of dirty laundry, but ignored it for now.
“Hey.”
Tristan’s desk overflowed with miscellaneous junk, but he sat at it anyway. Bent over a sketch pad he closed when she came in, he shoved it under a pile of other things and twisted to look at her. He resembled Jeff more than ever when he scowled.
“I can take all the stuff back,” he said. “Cynthia’s the one who wanted to buy it all.”
“I figured.” Stella looked around the room, then leaned against the bedpost. “You don’t have to. Your dad can afford it.”
Tristan nodded, his mouth still turned down. “Okay.”
She wasn’t making it much better. “I’m sorry you heard us fighting about it. It’s not about you, Tristan. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. Whatever.” He turned back to his desk, but didn’t pull out the sketchbook or anything else. He just sat. Dismissing her.
“Tristan.”
He didn’t turn. Stella sighed. She moved closer to put her hand on his unyielding shoulder. She squeezed gently but said nothing else. Tristan sighed heavily.
A few years ago, their dog, Mr. Chips, had died of old age, at home with his head on Tristan’s lap. That had been the last time she could remember her son crying or allowing her to hug him close—he’d grown taller than her in the interim years. And distant. He was becoming more of a stranger to her every day, and she didn’t quite know how to stop it.
“No matter what happens between me and your dad, you know both of us still love you.”
“Yeah.”
Stella let go of him. “I could use your help in the basement, buddy. Can you come down, please?”
He nodded, still not looking at her. Stella didn’t push it. Instead, she put in a call to her neighbors to get the name of the plumber they’d used when renovating their bathroom. She called Home Depot to get the prices of hot water heaters, as well as information on their delivery and installation services. And then she went downstairs, hooked up the shop vac and started cleaning up all the mess.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The only real, true time travel occurs in the mind. Scents and music and flavors make memories so vivid it’s like being there all over again. This time, it was the sound of her name in a voice that had once been familiar but which she hadn’t heard in a really long time.
“Stella?”
It’s almost impossible not to turn around when someone says your name, kind of like the way most people will automatically take something if it’s thrust toward their hands. Stella wasn’t used to hearing her name shouted in a crowd, so she’d have turned even if it had been meant for someone else. Her heart was already pounding.
“Craig. Hi.” Her mouth stretched into a smile she knew was too wide. “Wow.”
He was smiling too. “Yeah. Wow. It’s been a really long time.”
Stella could’ve counted the length of it in months, weeks, days. Hours and minutes, actually, though admitting it would probably freak him out. It had been too long. Or maybe not long enough. The way her pulse leaped and her stomach twisted, she couldn’t be sure if she was happy to see him or ready to run away.
“Too long,” Craig said after a few seconds passed, Stella unable to speak.
“Yes,” she managed, relieved her voice didn’t shake. “Way too long. How’ve you been?”
“Good. I’ve been good. How are you? You look...great.”
Her breath tried to catch in her throat, and she forced a swallow instead. Once upon a time, he’d said other things to her that had made it hard for her to breathe. Time had passed. They would pretend it hadn’t happened; they’d been good at that. But she remembered.
“You too.”
They stared for too long. Stood a little too close for long-lost strangers bumping into each other in front of the coffee shop. He wore the same cologne, and it still twisted her up tight and complicated inside.
“Let’s go in,” Craig said. “Let me buy you a coffee.”
Coffee. Lunch. That’s all it had ever been with them. And once, just once, a conversation in the rain.
The day was bright and clear today with a perfect fall sky, blue and cloudless. Stella wore a short skirt with patterned tights and knee-high boots, a light jacket. She’d dressed this morning in anticipation of cooler weather, but all of a sudden she was far too warm. She had errands to run, places to be, things to do.
“Let’s go,” she said.
* * *
It starts in the coffee shop in the next town, the one she started going to specifically so she could avoid her friends and get out of the house at the same time, away from anything that reminded her of her failing marriage. It’s where she goes with her laptop and notebook to sit for hours and make lists and submit her résumé to dozens of places she hopes won’t hire her. She sits and drinks cup after cup of coffee and makes herself look busy so she can convince herself she is.
There’s a regular crowd in the coffee shop. There’s the woman who sits by the window, typing away and listening to her iPod—she writes books and is, if it’s possible, even more antisocial than Stella. There’s a man who stares at that woman when she’s not looking; Stella wonders how long it will take for him to work up the courage to talk to her. There’s a young mother who comes in every morning with her toddler son to drink a cup of coffee while he has some hot chocolate. Stella will never talk to her. The Bible club, its members in matching home-sewn dresses and prayer caps, would probably love to have her join them, but Stella’s so completely not religious she’s also certain she’d offend them all without even trying. There’s the salesguy who fills the orders for potato salad. He smiles and nods, but doesn’t linger. He, like the staff behind the counter, is friendly but too busy to make much conversation.
Finally there’s Craig, who at first comes in for lunch once a week. Then twice. Then three times, until finally he is there every day and somehow, they are sharing a table and laughing about... Well, whatever he says to make her laugh. And it becomes this thing Stella refuses to name. This...friendship. Because that’s all it is, she tells herself every day when she wakes up thinking about him, and every night when his face is what she thinks of when she closes her eyes and pretends to sleep. It’s a friendship. If Craig didn’t have a penis, this wouldn’t even be an issue.
It’s been so long since Stella laughed, really laughed. Before she knows it, she’s looking up every time the bell over the door jingles. When the hands on her watch creep toward noon, her palms start to sweat and her heart to pound. Every day she assumes it’s the last time he’ll come in. Sometimes he’s late and everything inside her goes dark. A weight lifts off her every time Craig comes through the door.
He only has an hour for lunch, and soon that’s not enough. Stella believes Connex is the devil, but Craig loves it and “friends” her anyway. She doesn’t have much on her profile and hasn’t updated in close to a year, though she tries to check in once a week or so to make sure Tristan’s not getting into trouble there. Craig has a lot of pictures, an active wall. Stella stalks his profile, checking out the photos of him at the beach, skiing, dressed for a holiday party. She looks at the pictures of him and his family. Two daughters. A wife, now ex, and a dog. Craig was part of a family, and this somehow comforts her. He can understand the challenges of a spouse and kids.
She tells Jeff nothing, and why should she? She doesn’t tell him anything about her girlfriends, or the other people at the coffee shop. Actually, she doesn’t tell Jeff much of anything anymore. He doesn’t ask.
Stella finds work, finally, which means no more coffee shop. She’d taken a basic college course on photo-editing programs on a whim, and the job at the Memory Factory is perfect. Retouching pictures taken for church bulletins isn’t what she’d ever imagined herself doing, but with a school-age child and a husband who works sixty hours a week and travels too, she can’t go back to being a flight attendant. The hours and money make up for the slightly condescending way Jeff talks about it as a throwaway job.
She also has unlimited access to the internet, all day long, and an instant-message program. So does Craig. This is even better than their single, daily hour. They talk all day long, and even when they’re not actively chatting, looking at her contact window and seeing his screen name there is like a touchstone. He’s there if she needs him.
And, oh, Stella needs him.
She needs the jolt he gives her with every flirty comment and the small, secret jokes they’ve created that would mean nothing to anyone else. She needs his perspective on the world because it’s different than hers, and even though they disagree on politics and religion, they never argue. He makes her think. He makes her feel, and it’s been so long since she’s had anything but agony or numbness that at first she doesn’t recognize what it is that Craig gives her.
Joy.
He doesn’t know her, so there are no reminders of the past she needs to forget. No stilted conversations steeped in pity. All Craig gives her is joy, and that’s what she needs the most.
Stella knows this...thing...is wrong. But Craig makes her feel as if everything will be all right. As if she hasn’t been through what she has. He makes her feel smart and funny. And sexy, yes. There’s that. The giddy, floaty, heated rush of knowing someone finds her attractive. She needs that too.
Everything about them together is dishonest, but it’s the only thing in her life that feels like the truth.
“Can I call you?” he asks. “I miss talking to you in person. Hearing your voice.”
Craig lives alone. Shared custody means he has daddy duty only a few days of the week. The rest of his time is his own. Stella doesn’t have that luxury. She has to think about when she can sneak in a late-night phone call. When she can fit him in around the rest of her life.
There’s something special about the phone that makes it different than typing instant messages or even texts. Somehow talking on the phone is both more anonymous and intimate than even meeting in person in the coffee shop, in public, where they watch their words and are always so very, very careful not to touch.
“Why do you keep talking to me?” Stella asks him late one night when, feigning an upset stomach, she’s sought the dark and quiet of the couch in the basement rec room. She stretches on the chilly leather, reaching for a blanket to warm her.
“I don’t know. Sometimes I tell myself I shouldn’t.”
But he does. Over and over again, he comes back to her, and there is never any reason why they shouldn’t continue this friendship other than that both of them know it’s becoming more than that. It was already more than that before they ever spoke on the phone. They very specifically do not meet in person. They very carefully do not talk about why.
He complains about his ex-wife, but Stella is carefully, neutrally quiet about her husband. There are things she could complain about, if she wanted, but if she did that, other truths would come out. Things she doesn’t want to talk about, not even to Craig. Perhaps especially not to him, because once he knows the truth, there will be no unknowing it. Sometimes things slip out, though. You can’t talk to someone almost every day for hours at a time without them learning the most important bits and pieces of you, especially in the darkest parts of the night when it’s so easy to feel alone.
“I miss you,” Craig says abruptly when the silence has stretched on too long. “I miss seeing you.”
“I miss seeing you too.” She closes her eyes against the sudden relief of a fear she hadn’t wanted to admit she had.
“Maybe we could have lunch sometime.”
She should say no, but what comes out is “Yes. I’d like that.”
* * *
“It was great seeing you. Catching up.” Craig’s gaze lingered on hers, and Stella let it.
They’d spent the hour she would’ve spent shopping lingering over their coffees and a couple very good blueberry scones he’d bought without asking her if she wanted one. He’d just remembered how much she liked them. His knee had nudged hers occasionally under the table, and once when handing her a napkin his fingers had brushed hers.
There was a time she’d wanted him so much it had been like fire inside her, consuming every thought. And now... Now, Stella thought as they stood sort of awkwardly by her car, each of them hesitating about a final hug...now, she didn’t want him anymore. That made her sadder than anything else. Once she’d been put to her knees because of the man in front of her, and it had been a place she’d willingly gone, but in the end it had broken her, just the same. She had wanted him, and now she did not.
When he pulled her close, she let him, startled but not resisting. When his mouth found her cheek, Stella closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. The warmth of his skin on hers was familiar. The weight of his hands on her. When he let her go, she swayed, unsteady for a few seconds before she could open her eyes.
“It was so good seeing you,” Craig said in a low voice. “I’ve really missed you.”
Stella had not missed him. Not for a long time. But she smiled and reached to squeeze his arm. “Me too.”
“Maybe I could call you?”
“Sure. Absolutely.” She nodded, smiling, a little taken aback by how this all had gone. He could call her. She would answer. It might get awkward, depending on what he said or asked of her, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him no.
On impulse, she leaned in to hug him again, this time holding tighter. Craig had been there when she’d needed someone.
Maybe he needed someone.
“Call me,” she said and scribbled her cell number on a scrap of paper from her pocket. “That would be great.”
The awkward brush of his mouth on hers would once have made her shake; now it only made her smile. She touched his face and took a few steps back. Craig nodded, lips parted as though he meant to say more but didn’t. He looked back at her as he walked away, though. Waved. Stella waved back.
In her car she sat for a few minutes, thinking of how easily things could change even if it didn’t feel easy at all while you were in them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Knock, knock.”
Stella looked up to see Jen rapping on the soft edge of the cubicle. “Hey.”
“What’re you doing tonight?”
“Nothing.” Stella swiveled in her chair. “Tristan’s with his dad tonight through the weekend.”
“Want to go check out the new Justin Ross movie? Jared told me he’d rather poke out both eyes with a chopstick than go.” Jen grinned.
Stella hesitated, thinking about the empty house, the laundry she’d planned to do. Cleaning out the fridge. Paying bills. She was flying over the weekend, but tonight she had no plans. “Yes. That sounds great.”
“Dinner first?”
“Sure.” Stella returned Jen’s grin.
They went to dinner at a new Italian place that Stella had heard about but never tried. As she settled into her seat and put the napkin on her lap, Stella realized how long it had been since she’d even gone out with a girlfriend. How long it had been since she’d even really talked with one of her girlfriends.
“Wow,” she said aloud without meaning to.
“What?” Jen looked up from the menu. “You don’t like what they serve here? We can go someplace else—”
“No. Not that. Just that it’s been a while since I went out.” Stella held up a hand at the look on her friend’s face. “I told you, I’m fine without a boyfriend. I meant with a friend. It’s like I haven’t even heard from any of them in forever.”
She fell silent for a moment, remembering. “I guess I haven’t really missed any of them.”
The women she’d bonded with in the neighborhood playgroup, the wives of Jeff’s friends. Those were the women she’d spent most of her time with. They’d had coffee and dinner at each other’s houses. Watched each other’s kids. Bitched about their husbands and kids.
But had she ever really been friends with any of those women? Real, strong friendships last through good times and bad, and there’d been some very, very bad times.
Stella looked at Jen. “I guess I lost more than I thought in the divorce.”
Jen frowned. “That sucks.”
“It’s okay.” Stella shrugged. “Honestly, I really did just notice now how long it’s been since I had, like, a ladies’ night out, which says a lot more about me than anything else. So, thanks for inviting me.”
“Thanks for coming along. I’m such an enormous Justin Ross fangirl, and Jared will occasionally suffer through watching Runner with me, but he’s like, ‘no way am I going to see that movie.’” Jen laughed, shaking her head. “He’ll be waiting up for me when I get home, though. Hoping he’ll get secondhand lucky.”
Stella snorted laughter. “And all I have at home is a pile of dirty laundry.” Before Jen could say anything, she held up a hand. “Hush.”
“He has a few cute friends,” Jen said, then held up her hands at Stella’s expression. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”
Dinner was good. The movie, even better. Stella had never watched Runner, the show that had made Justin Ross famous, but she knew who he was. It was impossible not to—he’d suddenly become America’s sweetheart. She couldn’t say she’d ever be the sort of fangirl Jen was, but she could definitely appreciate his appeal.
“Have fun tonight,” she teased as they both got in their cars in the parking lot.
Jen gave her a starry-eyed grin. “Oh...I will. Girl, I definitely will.”
Stella’s phone pinged just as she pulled into traffic, but she didn’t reach to pull it from her purse and check the message. She never checked her phone while driving. Ever. Tristan knew it, and was unlikely to ping again if she didn’t answer right away, so when the phone chimed again, Stella glanced at her bag on the front seat, then at the clock. It was just past ten-thirty on a Thursday night. Jeff would’ve gone to bed. Cynthia would only text if there was a problem, and even then would be more likely to call than send a message.
At the third chime, Stella’s hands started to sweat. She gripped the wheel harder, staring down the dark highway. No traffic lights to give her time to pause so she could fumble in her bag and find her phone. She had another twenty minutes’ drive to go, and when the phone chimed a fourth, then fifth time, she pulled over to the side of the road to answer it.
The messages, a string of casual conversation ending with “give me a ring when you have a chance,” had come from Craig.
First she was relieved that it wasn’t an emergency. Then a little annoyed that she’d had to pull over. And finally, as she pulled back out into traffic and finished the drive, Stella realized she was...anxious.
Confused. Anxious. A little excited. But mostly wary, she thought as she dropped her keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter and hung her coat and purse in the closet.
She put her phone on the table while she poured herself a glass of cold water. She eyed it as she leaned against the counter to drink. As if it might bite her, she thought, and laughed out loud.
It was Craig, for goodness’ sake.
She had told him to call her, she remembered that much. But, unlike those long-ago days when she’d counted the minutes in between conversations, she hadn’t been thinking much of him at all. She hadn’t really expected him to call her, as a matter of fact, and now that he had, it would be up to her to return it. Or not.
Still thinking about it, Stella took her phone upstairs and settled it into the charging dock. She showered and got ready for bed, taking her time, but even so it wasn’t quite midnight when she slipped into her bed and turned out the light. She turned on her side to stare at the dark, square shape of the phone.
It was reprimanding her.
Not replying to a message was one of the shittiest things to do to someone. She’d always thought that. Not simply not replying right away, but not replying at all, ever. Toward the end of their marriage, Jeff had started ignoring her messages, and it had driven her insane with rage.
Craig had always answered her messages...until he’d stopped.
* * *
They’ve ordered food, but Stella can’t eat. She pushes the food around with her fork and drinks too much iced tea, but her stomach’s too jumpy to put any food in it. Craig asked to meet her at a chain restaurant where you can create your own pasta dish, and she ordered chicken Alfredo, a stupid choice because it’s far too heavy and rich for her even on days when she’s not a bundle of nerves.
It doesn’t matter how many days they’ve already spent eating lunch together, or how many hours they’ve spent talking on the computer and the phone. This feels different. It is different, she reminds herself as Craig tells her a funny story she finds herself incapable of laughing at. Her face is frozen. Her fingers clumsy enough to knock her silverware on the floor so that, blushing, stammering, she has to reach for her fork.
Craig bends at the same time, his hand taking hers. He squeezes her fingers, and Stella drops the fork. They both sit up, facing each other across the small, intimate table for two. It’s a table for lovers, though that isn’t what they are.
“Hey,” Craig says quietly. “Are you all right?”
She’s not. Her hands still shake so much that she tucks them into her lap, linking her fingers to keep them still. She manages a smile she hopes doesn’t make him recoil. “Yes, sure. Of course.”
Craig carries the conversation all through lunch, and at the end of it, asks her if she wants to go for a walk with him along the river. The weather’s nice, not too hot. A little breezy. It whips her hair around her face as they follow the black curving path down toward the water. The river’s high right now, covering most of the concrete steps leading into it. She’s seen it low enough to expose them all.
That’s what Stella’s thinking about so she doesn’t have to think about the way Craig takes her hand as they walk. The height of the water in the river. How fast it flows. What would happen if she went down those stairs and into it... Would she be swept away?
He holds her hand only long enough to tug her to a stop, turning her to face him. “Stella.”
She can’t look at him. Past him. Beyond him. Anywhere but into his eyes.
“Hey,” Craig says in a low voice. “Please look at me.”
She does, and it’s not as bad as she’d thought it would be.
It’s worse.
So much worse to look into his deep blue eyes and see the lines in the corners. To lose herself in the way he tilts his head so slightly to the side as he studies her. To note the curve of his mouth and the flash of his tongue inside it when he talks.
“What is this?” Stella asks suddenly, interrupting whatever it was that Craig had started to say. Before he can say anything, she keeps going. “What are we doing? What do you want, Craig?”
He’s silent for a moment while the river breeze ruffles the light jacket he’s wearing. When it looks as though he’s going to reach for her, Stella takes a step back. Craig’s brow furrows, but he lets his hands fall back to his sides.
“I don’t know.” He sounds sincere. “I just like to be with you, Stella.”
It’s the nicest and worst thing anyone has ever said to her, both at the same time. The look of sudden longing on his face slumps her shoulders. Tightens her throat. It makes her want to leap into his arms and cover his face with kisses.... It makes her want to run away from him and never look back.
“I like to be with you too,” she says in a thick, choked voice that embarrasses her.
“Can we sit?” Craig points to a metal bench overlooking the water.
They sit. Their knees touch every so often as they turn toward each other. Stella keeps her hands in her lap so she won’t touch him.
She wants to touch him so much.
“Look,” he says finally, after long minutes in which neither of them speaks. “I know this is one of those things that is supposed to be wrong. But it doesn’t feel wrong. Does it.”
He makes it a statement, not a question, but she’d have answered the same way even if he had. “No. It should. I want it to.”
For a moment, Craig looks unsure and sad. Then he nods, as though her reply has made something clear that had previously been cloudy. “Do you want me not to call you anymore, Stella?”
This is not at all what she was expecting. It’s not what she wanted him to say, not what she wants to hear. The thought of it, of never talking to Craig again...of never seeing him... This is when Stella can’t pretend anymore that this friendship hasn’t gone too far, and she gets up on numb legs to take a stumbling step away from him.
Her voice is far away and cold. She’s made herself an automaton. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I think that would be best.”
Craig looks stunned. Then he gets up from the bench. Neutrality slides across his expression, shutting her out, but she can’t let herself be upset. Stella lifts her chin. Tightens her jaw. Craig mirrors her stance.
He nods once, sharply. “Right. Okay, then. Well, Stella, thanks for lunch and...good...luck, I guess.”
“Goodbye,” Stella says, and does not offer her hand.
She watches him walk away from her, his back straight, shoulders square, but somehow, though not a single step he takes is in any way faltering, Craig is limping. There’s a moment when she sees herself run after him so clearly it takes her a minute to realize she hasn’t moved. Her hand’s raised, and Stella forces it back to her side.
She watches him climb the stairs to the sidewalk, and she waits for him to turn around, but he never does.
* * *
Hey, Stella typed quickly in the dark without letting herself think too hard about anything. Got your message, but it’s too late to call. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, if you’re free.
She settled the phone back into the dock and wriggled deeper into her pillows and blankets, her eyes at last closing. She was just drifting off to sleep when her phone lit up—it didn’t make a noise because of her Do Not Disturb settings, but the glare tickled her eyelids enough to wake her. She already knew who it was before she rolled to check. But even so, she smiled at the sight of Craig’s name.
Looking forward to it.
CHAPTER NINE
Not all pilots fool around when they’re away from home, but this one is clearly DTF. That’s what the cool kids call it—Stella learned it from the Connex account she’s basically abandoned. Down To Fuck. Actually, the cool kids have probably moved on from that phrase now, on to something else she’ll have to look up on urbandictionary.com to understand. It doesn’t matter how it’s said, the man in front of her is clearly down for something.
This isn’t the first time she’s flown with Captain Truax, and it’s not the first time he’s checked her out when she’s boarded and unboarded. He has a wide, nice smile for everyone, but his eyes linger on hers when she gets on the plane. There’s recognition there, even though today Stella wears a blond wig in a chin-length bob. He’s seen her in all shades of blond before. Also brunette. She wonders which he likes better. Maybe he prefers redheads.
“Welcome aboard,” the captain says, and Stella smiles.
In the few minutes before they ask everyone to turn off their phones, Stella shares a few texts with Craig. She’d tried earlier to catch him in a call, as she’d promised, but missed him. Then he’d called back while she was in the shower, and then it had been time for her to get to the airport. She’s not sure how she feels about this new development in an old situation.
But she doesn’t have to think about it now.
Today’s flight is short enough that Stella barely has time to get through a few chapters of her book. She’s among the last off the plane. She pauses to pull up the handle on her wheeled bag, and while she does, Captain Truax passes her with his own carry-on. He stops when he sees her struggling.
“Need a hand?”
“The handle’s stuck, that’s all.” Stella steps aside to let him help her. “Don’t you have another flight to catch or something?”
Captain Truax, who stands at least six foot three, straightens. His teeth are very white. Very straight. “Nope. I’m off duty. This last little jump was my final flight for a few days.”
“Oh. Nice. So you’re going home?” They fall companionably into step along the corridor. “You live in Philly?”
“Oh. No. Just taking a little layover, do some sightseeing. Spending some time with my daughter. She goes to Temple. I live in Atlanta.” He gives her another grin. “How about you? You make this flight pretty frequently, don’t you? Travel a lot for...business?”
And there’s the problem with doing what she does. Being noticed. Recognized. She doesn’t want to talk to Captain Truax about why she’s in the standby seat every other Friday and Sunday. She doesn’t like anybody asking her questions.
“Yes.” Stella smiles but says no more, and Captain Truax doesn’t ask what it is, exactly, that she does.
“Have a great weekend,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you on Sunday.”
But it doesn’t take that long for her to see him again. Stella has also decided to do some sightseeing, mostly because there are sights to see in Philadelphia, and she always means to take Tristan for the day but they never end up doing it. It’s only a couple hours from home, but it took a plane to get her here. She’s picked Philly because it’s convenient and because one of her favorite bands is doing a show Saturday night at a bar downtown.
She sees Captain Truax at the Liberty Bell. He’s with his daughter, both of them standing far enough apart from each other to highlight the tension between them, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance. Stella, dressed casually, her hair in a ponytail, stands right next to him without him noticing her at all. She watches him try to woo his daughter into a smile, but it’s obvious that she’s not ready to let go of whatever traumas his parenting has given her.
The night before, Stella had found a much younger man who’d been totally amenable to taking her back to his apartment, if only she didn’t mind the fact that he had roommates. That wasn’t what bothered her as much as the dilation of his pupils and the too-firm grip of his fingers on her upper arm when he tried to convince her it would be the time of her life.
“I have a nine-inch cock,” he’d promised. “And a six-inch tongue.”
Stella as a blonde could sometimes be more easily convinced than as a brunette or with her natural hair, but something in the dent of his fingers on her flesh didn’t feel right. She put him off with a smile, then watched him move immediately down the bar to another girl, already wasted, who seemed far more inclined to take him up on his offer.
Watching Captain Truax flounder with his kid, Stella feels a pang of sympathy that echoes somewhere in the vicinity of her ovaries. It’s so obvious how much he wants her to smile. Or at least take the fucking look of doom off her face. Stella shakes her head as she follows them discreetly past the row of giant plaques giving the history of the Liberty Bell. The bell itself hangs inside a special building. Stella looks at it and waits to feel patriotic, but all she feels is hungry, thirsty and tired from getting up too early. She wanted to take advantage of the whole day.
“Let me take you to dinner,” Captain Truax says as he and his frowning daughter leave the Liberty Bell pavilion. “I’m only in town until tomorrow....”
“Sorry, Dad.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I have plans.”
“Maggie...”
The girl shrugs, not looking at him. Stella’s heart goes out to him, even though she feels the tiniest bit creepy listening in on the conversation. She keeps herself busy looking at the historical information while she eavesdrops.
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- Жанр: Зарубежные любовные романы, Современная зарубежная литература, Современные любовные романы
- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 350 стр. 1 иллюстрация
- ISBN: 9781472090690
- Дата выхода книги: 10 мая 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
Ever hear of wanderlust?Every other weekend, Stella buys a ticket on the next flight out of town and leaves her life behind. Home is a place with too many memories, and departure is the sweetest possible distraction.As soon as she arrives at her destination, Stella visits the airport bar. She orders a drink and waits for the right guy to come along. A bored businessman, a backpacker, a baggage handler just off shift. If he's into a hot, no-strings hookup, he's perfect. Each time is a thrilling escape from reality that gives the term layover a whole new meaning.When Stella meets the enigmatic Matthew in Chicago one weekend, she hits some serious turbulence. Something about him tells her she's not the only one running from the past. The connection between them is explosive, and for the first time, one taste is not enough for Stella. But returning to find a gorgeous man waiting for her is the easy part–facing the reason she's there is a whole other matter…."Hart's beautiful use of language and discerning eye toward human experience elevate the book to a poignant reflection on the deepest yearnings of the human heart and the seductive temptation of passion."–Kirkus Book Reviews on Tear You Apart
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