CHAPTER NINE

 

Marriage is a horror movie.

No one gets out alive except the virgin.

And we all know there are no virgins after the wedding night.

Only bunny boilers.

 

NOX

Tossing my keys at the counter, I open the freezer to take out one of the containers Lou usually drops off while I’m working. No matter how many times I tell my sister that it isn’t necessary she continues to do it. “It’s leftovers,” she says, or, “You know I’ll just have to throw it out.” It’s her way of helping out and making sure I eat. Can’t argue it. Not when I barely have time to scratch my balls.

Worked my ass off today. Can’t get ahead no matter how hard I try. Now I’m distracted. Tried not to think about Beck. Couldn’t manage it. Dean called me out on it. I was whistling or some such shit. An old Stone Temple Pilots song. Apparently I haven’t done that in years if he’s to be believed.

I reach into the full freezer and pull out a tub of ice cream. Fat free? What the hell? Fat free yogurt. Low carb sugar free cheesecake. Like that even makes sense. Vodka. I shut the door. What’s Lou trying to do to me? My stomach grumbles hollowly.

I’ll feed Hollander and go see Beck. It’s my turn to take care of her. I’ll take her out for dinner. We can talk about Sophie or whatever she wants. Or us. Tried to tell myself it was only about the money, but I want more. Want to make the most of the time that she’s here. Want to take her to bed again. Want to find out what makes her tick.

“Hollander, dinner time,” I call out as I open the fridge. Where’s my beer? Hollander’s food? Why is there tofu on my top shelf? Cottage cheese. And what the hell is this? I pick up the small tub in the door. Eye cream. What the fuck? Who keeps stuff they use on their face in with food? This shit’s not edible. The door slips from my hand and rattles closed. And where’s my cat? He’s always about my feet the minute I walk in the door.

I turn around and actually look at my cabin. There’s a potted fern on the side table without anything under it. A pool of dirty water is already staining the tabletop. There are magazines and books and coffee mugs on every surface of my living room. Crossing the space, I pick up the fern and bring it back to the kitchen. Sit it in the sink.

I need a minute to come to grips with what I’m seeing. I stride into the bathroom. Turn the water on. Splash my face. Glance at the mirror. A woman has moved in with me. Beck, it has to be Beck. Oh, she has to be kidding.

Opening the medicine cabinet, I gape at the boxes of tampons and panty liners. Stare at the tubes of hair removal cream and hemorrhoid ointment. Picking up a box, I turn it over. Birth control. At least that’s something to be grateful for. A pink towel hangs over mine on the rail. Another, sopping wet, is scrunched up on the floor. My shower has been invaded by three million different bottles in a rainbow of hues, and a pink shower cap with hearts all over it.

“Beck?” My wife has moved into my house and taken over... Didn’t foresee this. Didn’t expect her to make this type of move with her almost allergic reaction to my refusal to end our marriage. Figured I’d end up at the hotel with her for the next three months, and that we would co-exist in a temporary way with plenty of space. And after last night, I expected she’d have her guard up even higher than it was before, though I planned on tearing it down again and again. I clear my throat as I walk from the bathroom to the bedroom. “Beck, we’re going to have a conversation...”

Beck’s on my bed. Fast asleep, curled up on her side. Her dress has ridden up her thighs, exposing golden skin and a few light bruises from where my hands were on her last night. One arm is under her head. The other is thrown over Hollander. My big, fat feline lifts his furry head and yawns before settling it on his paws again. He couldn’t care less that I’m home, snuggled up in her arms. Damn traitor.

Lena hated Hollander. She turned her nose up and said she was allergic. She wasn’t though. Used to chuckle at the fact that he’d take every opportunity to get close to her, like he knew doing so would aggravate her. Became so bad that I had to keep him at Lou’s. Damn cats are smarter than people sometimes.

This is different though. Unexpected. Hollander’s like a dog. Loyal to one person. He never behaved like this with Lena. Never curled up like he is with Beck. Can’t help but smile. Her moving in and turning my place upside down isn’t that bad. Three months with her under my roof isn’t that different from spending the time in a hotel suite. I back out of the room, pulling the door closed. Let her sleep. We can talk later.

Juice swollen oranges litter the ground, split open and spilling their guts onto the hard earth. The pervasive scent of spoiled fruit lingers under the aroma of the trees. Everyone’s busy. Too busy. There’s not enough time. Not enough money either. Sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades and I prop the rake against a tree while I take off my shirt and stuff it in my back pocket.

These trees. Biggest mistake of my life. Lena wanted them. Had to have them. I pick up the rake and go back to piling up the spoiled fruit. Gave her everything she could ever want and look where it landed me. Fucking oranges.

“Is this why you always smell like oranges?”

I turn around at the sound of her voice. Beck stands under one of the trees, her back against the trunk. She’s wearing a tank top and denim shorts; the kind that have the pockets hanging out from the legs and make no sense. On her they look cute. “Could be.”

“I thought you didn’t like them.” She glances up at the fat balls above her head. “You cuss every time someone mentions them.”

“They’re a nuisance.”

“They’re fruit.” She wrinkles her nose.

“They’re beginning to rot. The ones that have fallen off the trees.”

“Oh.” She steps out from under the tree. Her gaze flicks to my chest and then settles on my face. “That’s why it smells different.”

I go back to raking. Almost done now. Not much light left anyway. The sun is being eaten up by the horizon. “You moved in.”

“You noticed.”

How could I not when it looked like a tornado went through my house? Not going to tell her that. Not yet at least. Don’t want her to leave. The fact that she’s here and talking to me is more than I hoped for after last night. “That I can’t feed Hollander, and that there was an angel in my bed. I noticed.”

“I’m no angel.” She shakes her head and the end of her ponytail bounces against her shoulder. “That’s his name?”

“Yeah. He likes you,” I say. “He doesn’t usually like people.”

“I like him too.” She walks right up to me. “Does it bother you that I moved in?”

“No.” I swap the rake for a shovel and a hessian bag. “No, it doesn’t.”

Her eyes widen almost indiscernibly. She hides her shock well. Plucking the bag from my hands she holds it open. “I should have asked though. Or mentioned it. Or—”

“You’re my wife.” I shrug it off. “This is your home.”

The grooves in her forehead become noticeable, but she doesn’t say anything. Digging the shovel into the pile of oranges, I start to scoop them into the bag. She’s not here because she wants to be. She’s goading me. Someone with her attitude toward marriage and relationships doesn’t up and change overnight, no matter how fantastic the sex was.

Doesn’t mean I won’t use her being under my roof to my full advantage. Whatever she’s doing here, whatever she’s playing at, I’m not going to let it faze me. The money is too important. Life changing. It could fix everything. If I have to put up with Beck trying to turn my world upside down, so be it. I’ve done it before. Can do it again for a time. Lena destroyed me, but Beck will save me. Even if she never knows it. It’s kind of fitting really.

“I didn’t know about Hollander’s food,” she says as I scoop the last of the oranges into the bag. “Is there anywhere I can get more tonight?”

I take the bag from her and collect the rake. “I’m going to take a shower and then we’ll drive back into town. Need to get some people food too.”

“Don’t like tofu?” she asks sweetly.

I snort to myself. There’s only one reason that shit is in my fridge, and it isn’t because she eats it. 

It’s been a week since Beck moved in with me. Seven days of coming home to a house that looks like it’s been ransacked. There’s a half-eaten pizza left to get cold and gross on my coffee table. A slice of it is upside down on my floor. The oil from the cheese is no doubt seeping into the wood. There’s a smell too. It’s almost worse than the oranges; like moldy socks and stale sweat. I toss my keys on the counter along with the six-pack of beer and bottle of wine I picked up on my way home.

I huff out a breath and open a beer. She’s driving me crazy. Her hotel room was a mess, but this is worse. Almost as if she’s intentionally trying to push me into saying enough is enough. Scratch that. It’s exactly like she’s trying to goad me into kicking her out. She was planning something from the very first night. She had that article open on her laptop. Doing research. Only she must have decided not to go through with it when she thought I’d change my mind. Clearly, she’s scheming with a vengeance now.

My bedroom door is closed to me, like it has been every night since she moved in. She hasn’t been hiding though. Most evenings she comes out and slouches on the couch in the same shorts and tank she’s worn all week. There’s so much popcorn between my couch cushions now, I’ll never get it all out. Those little seeds are a pain in the ass. If I have to watch another episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians...

It’s not all bad. Having her here. Sharing space. Spending time together. Listening to her commentary running over the top of the shows she can’t seem to get enough of. Not being alone. On my own. Even if she’s adamant about getting her way. Can’t blame her for that. Admire her commitment. But I’m committed too. That’s why I’ve allowed her to relegate me to the couch. It’s why I haven’t lost my calm when it feels like there’s a storm brewing inside me over the state of the cabin.

I tap on the door between us. “Beck, we need to talk.”

She doesn’t answer.

I growl under my breath. “Could you unlock this door, so we can have a conversation?”

“It’s open.” The wood muffles her voice.

It’s dark inside the bedroom. The curtains are drawn and there aren’t any lights on. The air smells like salt and stale sheets. “Are you sick?”

“No.”

I flip the lights on. It’s a horror movie. No one can live like this. Dressed in the same clothes she’s been wearing these past seven days, she’s curled up in my bed reading something on her phone. Hollander is stretched out with his head on her knee, and there’s an empty sleeve of cookies beside her. The last one is in her hand. She’s surrounded by crumbs, and not just the invisible sand like crumbs that you only know are there because they’re like sandpaper on your skin. That’s half a cookie crushed into my pillow. Damn. “What’s that on your shirt?”

She glances down at her chest and shrugs. “Oh, that’s pizza.”

“Pizza?” My jaw cracks as I clamp my teeth together. She’s enjoying this little show she’s putting on. Waiting for me to lose my cool. Can’t do it though. That’s exactly what she wants.

“Yeah.” She flicks a little bit of crusted cheese off her shirt and it lands on my sheets.

I stare at the stringy glob of mozzarella with traces of tomato paste that’s staining my sheets. Disgusting. It’s too much. “That’s it.”

“What is?” She looks up at me innocently.

I take a deep breath and force myself to relax. Can’t get caught up in an argument. Won’t let her talk me into a corner. But I can change the playing field. And I sure as hell can get my bed back. My knees bump the mattress as I scoop her up.

Unsettled from his nap, Hollander bounds from the bed and heads for the door. He stops only long enough to trill his offense at having been uprooted and then slinks from the room.

“Put me down.” She slaps repeatedly at my shoulder as I carry her into the bathroom. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Running you a shower, babe.” With one arm wrapped around her waist, I reach inside the cubicle to turn it on. Cold water jets from the showerhead, soaking the sleeve of my T-shirt.

“Is there something wrong with my hygiene?” She crosses her arms, under her tits, under that pizza stain that’s never coming out. The corner of her mouth turns up, though no doubt she tries to stifle it as her eyes dare me to admit that there is. Not going to happen.

“Nope. Nothing.” I test the water with my hand, waiting for it to heat up.

“Are you sure about that? If you didn’t think there was why did you carry me into the bathroom? It isn’t very subtle. You think I’m disgusting, don’t you?”

I think she wants me to believe she is. And considering the smell and the state of the rat’s nest on her head she’s put a hell of a lot of effort into proving it. She’s trying too hard though. It’s too obvious. Especially with the fifty million bottles and tubs and tubes of product that now litter my bathroom and bedroom and fridge.

“I just thought you being a princess and all would appreciate being waiting on a little.” I lift her off her feet and move her straight under the water, clothes and all.

She sputters and gasps as the water hits her. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Believe it.” I kick off my boots and climb in with her. Her tank top is already soaked through. It clings to her curves, semi-transparent. Black. Her bra is almost completely visible through the thin material. It scoops low between her tits as they jerk up and down. The cubicle is tiny, barely enough room for the two of us. Half an inch of movement and her breasts will be pressed against my chest.

I push the thought down. Squash it. She’s not going to want that. I turn my attention to the fancy bottles on the shelf, read the labels to make sure I get it right before picking one and squeezing a dollop of goo into my hand.

“Are you serious?” She stares at me like she’s never shared a shower with someone before. Never had someone treat her just a little bit special. She’s so independent and so certain that being with someone, anyone is bad. What happened to her to make her so skeptical? Not that this is what I’m doing. I’m not trying to look after her. I can’t even look after the people who matter to me. Can’t keep my promises.

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you done with this hot mess act?”

“What if I like being a slob? Does it bother you?”

“No.” I shrug. “Not at all.”

“It’s okay if it does,” she says, but it sounds more like a question. As though she’s a little sad at the idea. “We don’t really know each other. We didn’t know each other at all when we married.”

“That’s true.” I move behind her and massage the shampoo into her hair, paying attention to her temples and the nape of her neck until she starts to relax. A sigh parts her lips as I tip her head back. The suds dissolve under the water while I run my hand through the strands to make sure I get it all out.

“We don’t have to do this,” she continues, but there’s no resolve to it. The hot water must be like a balm, relaxing her as it washes away the dirt and sweat. “We could just go our separate ways.”

She’d like me to agree to that. She wants me to tell her I’ll sign whatever documents she puts in front of me. I can’t. There’s too much on the line. Too many people relying on me that I won’t let down again. I pick up a bottle of conditioner and squeeze some onto her hair. My fingers slip through her tresses, and she moans. It warms my chest, in a way that makes me want to smile. It feels good to look after her. Especially when her back sinks against my chest. I breathe in the scent of her conditioner, something sweetly intoxicating and almost edible. It makes me hard. She can probably tell each time her ass hits the bulge in my jeans. Tilting her head back, I let the water wash away the remnants of conditioner.

I find the soap. A clear bottle full of something pink that’s labelled cleanser. The gel smells like roses and pepper and spices as I smooth it onto her shoulders and down her arms. “I told you I’m not ready to give up on our marriage.”

I pick up one of her hands and rub the soap into it. She doesn’t wear the ring. Didn’t expect that she would. Hope she still has it. Don’t expect that either. But it was the ring my mother wore for the fifteen years my parents were married, and I’d like to have it back by the end of our time together. Sure my parents fought, loud banging and clanging arguments that would send us kids flying out into the yard to avoid them, but they were never serious. They were nothing in the scheme of things. Blown over just as soon as they started. A drop in the ocean of a blissful life together. Until she died.

Dad never got over it. Never moved on. Always believed that was what marriage was supposed to be. Two people loving each other no matter what. Always thought I would give that ring to the woman I’d spend the rest of my life with.

I move onto the other arm. My hands slip and glide over her bicep, her forearm, her wrist. Our fingers entwine. There’s something between us that makes it hard to think straight. But it shouldn’t matter that I’m attracted to her. It’s not important. Only looking after my family and restoring Casey Records matters. Liking her has nothing to do with that. If anything it complicates it.

“You still don’t want to call it quits, even though I’m making a mess of your life?” She turns around and looks up at me. Water drops cling to the tips of her eyelashes, thick dark lashes that sweep her cheeks as she glances down at my chest where the cotton is suckered to my skin.

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” I crouch and pick up her foot so that I can soap it. She has no idea how messed up my life is. How much I’ve let my family down. My dad. Myself. The state of my house is nothing in comparison to the whirlwind of destruction I brought into our lives.

I run my palms up her leg until I get to mid-thigh. I bite my lip as I consider moving them higher. Her tiny shorts are baggy and leave room to roam as high as I want. Was a time when I wouldn’t have had to second-guess such a move. Could have anyone I wanted. They lined up for us outside concerts and gigs. Pushed their panties into our hands and our pockets. Threw themselves in our paths. Stalked us.

I don’t miss it. Don’t miss any part of that lifestyle. Not the women, and not playing in front of crowds, or at all. I drop my hands to the other foot and start again. “You’ve made a mess of our cabin.”

“And myself,” she adds. I glance up to catch her roll her gaze at the ceiling.

“A little,” I admit. I’ll give her props for the effort she put in. At the same time I happen to like that she’s not perfect, or trying to be. And that messy hair was a turn on. The image of how she looks after a night between my sheets with me runs through my mind.

She makes a sharp little sound as she pulls in a breath and her lips part. Her hand squeezes my shoulder, fingers digging into my flesh. She blinks long and slow.

“What is it?”

“Your fingers,” she rasps.

I drop my gaze to my hand that’s been massaging the soap into her skin. They’re high on the inside of her thigh. Higher than I meant to go. She’s smooth under my rough touch. Under the layered scents of soap, I can smell her arousal. I breathe it in. Taste it at the back of my throat. Want it, want her.

Her throat muscles move as she gulps. Her pupils darken. My dick punches at my wet jeans. I want to slip my fingers up the rest of the way, inside her shorts and touch her. I want her to continue making tiny noises that tell me it feels good when I have my hands on her. I’d barely have to move my fingers to press them to her clit.

I should stand up. Climb out of this shower and let her finish in peace. I should set to tidying up the damn cabin and washing my sheets. I should retreat to the shed where I can fix the ache in my balls that’s a result of wanting her as much as I do right now. With my hand or a hammer.

I haven’t so much as looked at another woman in two years. Didn’t care to, didn’t need the hassle. She’s the last woman I should be complicating things with considering she holds my future in her fist. She’s the key to rebuilding my life. One stupid decision could wreck everything, and yet I’m salivating over her. One little gasp and I can barely keep my dick under control. “Fuck, I want to touch you. Want you to want me to touch you. Want to see you come all over my fingers.”

“Oh God.” Her palm slams against the tiles as her knees buckle. The door of the shower rattles.

“Do you want that, Beck? Do you want my fingers on your clit? Want them inside you? Want me to make you come?” Like I want to. Like I’m dying to. “Going to scream my name for me?”

Her eyes are luminous as she stares down at me. She’s panting. Her tongue dashes across her lips despite the moisture in the shower. She nods.

“That a yes, Angel?” My heart is beating fast. Too fast. Pumping blood that’s all heading south. The pressure of the heavy, wet denim on my erection is almost unbearable. I want to get my mouth on her. Want to taste her too.

“Touch me.” She whimpers, her legs bowing. 

She gasps as I slide my fingers out of her shorts and dig them into the waistband to tug her closer. I yank on the button, undo the zip. Press a kiss to her belly just below her navel as I drag her shorts and panties down and push them to the floor. Water sluices over her skin, runs in rivers over the dips and hollows.

I glide my soapy fingers up the inside of her leg, draw them along her seam to her clit.

“God.” She groans, the sound half lost as she tips her face into the stream.

It does things to me. Makes me feral with desire. Makes my balls draw tight. I thumb her clit, rubbing the rough pad over her most sensitive flesh. “You like a little rough handling, don’t you, Angel? Like the way my fingers feel on your skin? It turns you on.”

“So much.” Her abs clench as she moans from my touch, and her fingers dig deeper into my muscles, like she might float away from the earth if she isn’t tethered. The water washes away the soap, leaving her slippery with arousal and the moisture from the shower.

Putting my fingers to her entrance, I sink them into her. She shudders, her thigh muscles contracting and releasing. I fuck her slowly, savoring the little sounds she makes and the way her eyes glow with desire when she drops her head. And damn if it isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I could bust a nut. I press on my hard-on to try and ease the pressure that keeps building and building. My palm slaps against her wet skin each time I thrust my digits into her, squelching with the wetness. Her pussy contracts around them. She’s already close. But it’s not enough.

“Want to taste you. Need to get my tongue between those pretty pussy lips and fuck you with it.” I inhale her scent as I bring her closer to my face. Like the first time we did this. Haven’t forgotten. Can’t. The way she came apart. Her screams. Her sweetness that belonged only to me.

She tightens around my fingers, an orgasm making her sway. It’s fucking beautiful. My cock aches so damn much, the wet denim too snug.

I dart the tip of my tongue over her clit, and she cries out involuntarily. My dick pulses. So fucking hot. I want more of her in my mouth. Want that swollen flesh between my teeth. I lap at her. Suck and bite at her. The whole cubicle is shaking. She’s practically climbing the walls. Breathless. Moaning. Panting. Husky, whining sounds that egg me on. Grasping her hips with both hands, I bury my tongue in her. Seal my mouth to her hot wet flesh while I eat her up and swallow her taste like I can never get enough.

“Nox. Shit. Nox. Oh God.” She comes apart again, riding my mouth. It ripples over her face. Her muscles clench as she hovers like that one final note of a song, fading and falling just as sweetly.

I have the feeling I’ll never get enough. But I knew that before she showed up again. Knew it from the first time we fucked. From the first time she smiled at me.

Doesn’t help when wanting her could screw me over.