FIVE
Lust is when you love only what you see. Love is what you lust for what’s inside.
~ Savannah Bushard
Thirteen hours at the hospital are thirteen hours too many for me. I feel like I’ve been chewed up, spit out, and stepped on. I ache from the top of my head to the balls of my feet. Yep, my dogs are seriously barking.
We had three emergency arrivals come through during my shift. Two soldiers were announced DOA. The other twelve I assisted were stitched up or sent into the OR with serious injuries. Thank God, no one else died, though. The longer I stay here, the longer the days become.
I unlock the door and enter my cozy quarters. As cozy as a hot summer’s day at the flea market. Not like Ella and Michael’s place, which has much more space, but it’s where I hang my hat. It’s enough for me.
The window unit in the living area is humming, and I walk over, putting my face against the cold blowing air. Thank you, Jesus, for the little things. Maintenance came and exchanged the unit yesterday; the other one died a few days before. I don’t think I could’ve stood another night of the desert heat.
After a cool shower to wash all the uglies of the day away, I go to the fridge to see what’s on the menu. Since I was little girl, I’ve always loved to cook. Daddy made me a little stool so I could cook side by side with them in the kitchen. Saturday mornings were my favorite. We’d cook flapjacks, French toast, or whatever was in the fridge. It didn’t really matter. We were cooking together.
As an adult, it’s a way for me to decompress and relax. I even taught Ella a few tips and tricks in the kitchen. Poor girl couldn’t even boil a pot of water before we met.
“Chicken parm or Mexican pizza? Hmmm.” I shut the fridge door, undecided and exhausted. Sighing. “What I wouldn’t give for some good ole barbecue from Fat Bob’s from back home.”
A loud knocking at the front door pulls me out of my funk. I open the door to a lickolicious sex-on-a-stick. Styx is holding up a six-pack in one hand and a large paper bag in the other. The sexy smell of his cologne wafts through my nostrils as he closes the gap between us.
I drink him in. His spiked-up hair is perfectly styled. The V-neck T-shirt plays hide and seek with a little peek-a-boo of his ink. His bulging tattooed biceps have me hungry for a different type of food. Styx-aroni.
“Well, hello, there, stud. Aren’t you just the best thang I’ve seen all day. Get in here before someone sees ya,” I purr, pulling on his shirt and ushering him into the doorway.
“Whoa, blondie. Don’t want to drop this delicious bag of homemade barbecue chicken I brought.”
“Wait. Did you just say barbecue chicken, sugar?”
I sniff the air, relishing in the delectable aromas of smoky, hot chilies. It triggers my stomach to growl and rumble.
“Hungry much?”
Styx laughs and walks the rest of the way into the house.
“Starving. I didn’t have much time to eat anything today with all the emergencies at the hospital.” I stop in mid-stride. “Hey. Where’d you find barbecue out here? I’ve searched high and low since I got here, even pleaded with the cafeteria to make some, and they obliged on occasion, because as ya know, I can be very persuasive. But that smells divine, cutie pie.”
I move up fast to his side and the bag he’s holding, attempting to snatch it out of his hands. Quick as a wink, he lifts the bag high over his head, out of my reach. I’m a tall gal, but with his arm held high, no can do. The shit-eating grin on his face says he’s enjoying this game.
“Not so fast, sexy.”
I stretch up on my tiptoes one more time, attempting to grab the bag, with no success.
“Fine, stud. It just smells so good, I can’t help myself.”
“It oughta smell heavenly. I did cook it. Slaved over a hot pit for hours. And the sauce. Well, this sauce here will make you want to slap your mamma. Secret family recipe.”
“Ya don’t say? I’ll be the judge of that, dumplin’. I do come from a long line of barbecue connoisseurs. Being from Texas and all.”
Styx walks over to the table and begins to pull out the contents in the bag and places them one by one on the table. He even brought a whole loaf of white bread and a jar of pickles. I’m momentarily immobile from the domestic display. My hero. What the heck? Cut the crazy shit talk, Savannah.
His husky voice drags me from my wayward thinking.
“Grab some plates, will ya, blondie?” he asks.
After I retrieve plates, I grab my bottle of Jack along with two glasses. I sit down at the table and watch in shock as Styx dishes out the mouth-watering food onto the plate. When he places the dish in front of me, I’m still a bit stunned by what just happened. No man has ever waited on me. I’ve never let one.
“Dig in, blondie.”
The intensity streaming from his emerald eyes erupts an unsettled feeling inside of me. It’s as if my approval is of upmost importance.
Shaking the unwarranted thoughts away, I devour the smoky, rich goodness and spicy flavor of the mouth-watering chicken.
“Mmm. This is pretty damn good, hot lips,” I reply and continue savoring the tender morsels.
“Yeah, I know. It’s the best, blondie. My mom sent me a care package about a week ago. It’s been burning a hole on my shelf, and I had some time off today.”
“You tell your mama I approve.”
He smiles and digs into his plate.
Once dinner is over and the leftovers are in my fridge,—yeah I’m eating his barbecue for the next few days—Styx leads me over to the couch and props my feet in his lap. When he begins to rub my feet, I’m putty in his hands. My head falls back onto the arm of the couch, and I have to think quickly before my thoughts turn in a different direction.
“Ever played the game Never have I Ever, stud?”
“Nah, but I’ve heard about it. How do we play?” he asks.
“First, we have to fill our glasses.”
I lean over and pour the small glasses half full of whiskey, about two shots.
“Now we take turns asking questions. If you’ve done it, then you take a drink. If you’ve never done it, then you don’t. That simple.”
“Okay, blondie. You're on,” Styx comments with a smirk.
“I’ll go first. Never have I ever called someone by a different name during sex?” I ask and hold my glass in front of me.
Styx stares at me with a never ever expression, and his lips slightly quirk up at the corners.
“Hmm. Alrighty, handsome. Looks like I’ll be the only one drinking for this one.”
I take a drink of the amber liquid. The pleasant sweetness washes over my tongue. As I swallow, it heats up the back of my throat and ignites warmth in my chest.
“That’s interesting, blondie. My turn,” he comments, and our eyes lock. “Never have I ever been in handcuffs, for any reason?”
My breath hitches slightly from the visions dancing in my head, and then a sly smile forms upon my lips. I don’t move my glass.
Styx tilts his head to the ceiling and lets out a long, sexy sigh. Without a second thought, he tosses the glass back and takes a drink. When his piercing emerald gaze lands on mine, he kindles a fire blazing deep within my belly, as lust and desire flame in his eyes. Creating an awareness of his need to share this never ever with him.
In order to squelch the burn between my legs, I lean over and fill his glass and my own, squeezing my thighs together tightly.
“Ah-hem,” I clear my throat and fan my face with the other hand.
“It’s gettin’ hot in here.”
“Sure is, stud. But it’s just getting juicy. My turn. Never have I ever kissed someone from the same sex?” I question and proceed to drink up.
Styx does the same, and I choke on the liquid as it goes down.
“Whoa, nelly. You’ve kissed a guy before, stud?”
“You’ve kissed a girl before, blondie?” he retorts.
“Oh, no can do, sugar. I asked first.”
“Nope, you first,” he commits, and his stubborn jaw is set.
“I was in college, experimented. I liked it a little. Never tried it again, end of story,” I reply and shrug my shoulders, waiting for his response.
“Johnny. In high school. And he technically kissed me.”
“Johnny! Ya mean Mr. Muscleman, babycakes? Holy sassafras, Styx. You and Johnny? No way, stud.”
I continue to shake my head back and forth.
“Yeah, he drinks from the other fountain, in case you didn’t know. I squelched it real quick, though. He knew the moment it happened, it was the wrong move. I punched him so hard, he didn’t wake up for about fifteen minutes. We shook hands and never talked about it again,” Styx finishes his story.
“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Shock laces my voice.
“Yeah, but he’s one of my best friends. Can’t fault him for trying.”
“I guess we all have secrets,” I whisper.
“I’ve got a question. Never have I ever had a serious relationship?” Styx’s voice is firm and strong.
I finish up the last sip of my drink and set it on the table. A sadness festering within me struggles to get out as I attempt to tamp it back into the box.
“Game over, stud. I’m tired, long day and all.”
“Not gonna let you off the hook that easily, blondie. You’ve got me curious. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in that beautiful head?”
I take a moment and really look at Styx. His sensual demeanor exudes power and strength. He’s ushering me to join him on the dark side or light side, whichever way you want to look at it. An honesty in his green orbs perpetuates my heart to accelerate rapidly.
“Is Styx your real name?”
“Nah, it’s a name I was given in basic. Because I like to blow shit up.”
“Oh.”
The sadness continues to brew. I needed an olive branch or something. Why? I’m not sure.
After a few seconds, he answers, “Pete. It’s Pete Fuller. But if you call me that, I’ll have to kill ya.”
We both erupt in laughter until my sides ache. Styx repositions us so that we’re sitting side by side with his one arm across my shoulders and the other hand holding my hands in his much larger paw.
“Your turn, Savannah. Tell me a little something about you. Anything. Who was this serious relationship?”
“Fine. But I’m warning you. It’s not a happily-ever-after story, sugar.”
“Go on,” he prods.
“I’ve had one serious relationship, Pete. We were high school sweethearts. The sickly-sweet shit that dreams are made of.” I pause for a moment. Looking back now, I realize I made the lovey dovey shit up all in my own imagination. He didn’t feel the same. “Anyhow, after college, we were gonna get married. But it didn’t work out. He left me at the altar. I woke up that day. I marched myself down to the barbershop, shaved my head, and joined the Army.”
“So, is that why you wear your hair so short? Because of what happened?” he questions.
“Yeah, sugar. I had long hair. It was a reminder of the betrayal from him. In the end, he said it was because we couldn’t have kids. The prickly bastard lied to me so many times about how it didn’t matter. That he was on my side and agreed with my decision because of the ovarian cancer in my family,” I rasp out. “Basically, he wanted to sire children of his own, and that was something I would never be able to do.”
Red-hot flames creep up my chest. Anger is a prickly mother bleeper, and I realize I’m still harboring a whole lot of hate for the jerk who left me standing in front of God, our family, and friends on our wedding day. That day was the most humiliating day of my life. A day I swore would never happen again.
I feel Pete’s fingers brush against my hands clasped in his, and my shoulder. The gesture grounds me to the here and now. The gentle touch sends butterflies to a barren land but creates a foreign warmth unmatched by anything before.
“I hate that happened to you, blondie. And please don’t be mad at me for what I’m about to say. In a way, I’m glad it did,” he acknowledges.
My head swings up to face him, and I see something lingering in his eyes that halts me from blasting him to hell and kicking him out of my house and my life.
“The thing is, if you’d gotten married, we’d have never met, Savannah,” Styx confesses and leans in to kiss my lips.
Quickly, I push away from him and lean over to the table to fill my glass to the rim. I guzzle it all the way down to the very last drop. I’m speechless by his confession and uncomfortable with the serious nature of the conversation. I recline back into the coziness of his embrace, but my movement is stiff, robotic.
Pete instantly feels my disconnection and tries to lighten the load I’m carrying by joking around.
“Besides, blondie. I’m a product of adoption, and look how well I turned out,” he admits and begins to laugh.
For a moment, I’m shocked by his admission. Pete “Styx” Fuller was adopted?
The liquor fog and fatigue from work induces a spinning in my head. I can no longer think clearly. My thoughts are jumbled.
Does Styx care for me more than a fuck buddy?
Do I care more for him?
Is there more to him on the inside than meets the eye?
I vaguely notice Styx picking me up, carrying me to bed, and gently tucking me in. Then the door shuts and it’s lights out for this gal.