“Take Her From You”—DEV
I watch a flock of geese fly over the top of the pine trees, losing myself for a moment. I glance back at the screen, my eyes drifting to the word count that's barely budged over the past day. Yesterday, Edwin refused to write and locked himself in his bedroom.
This morning, he sat down, wrote a disjointed paragraph, started swearing at the computer, chucked the keyboard across the room, then hopped up and went out to the shed. All morning he's been going back and forth from the cabin to the shed.
And now, he’s just pacing, his cheeks red. Finally, he plops down on the sofa, turning the TV on, and flips channels. Stopping on the news, he groans and leans over his knees, dragging his bandaged hand through his messy hair. I glance at the time on the computer screen and breathe a sigh of relief. Janine should be here any minute, and she can't get here fast enough.
I pull up my email, reading over Jax’s messages for the tenth time today:
I bet that pretty little voice of yours sounds even better when you beg.
I don't beg, was my reply.
You say that now, but wait until I get you all alone and naked, teasing you with my mouth. I will have you begging me to be inside you.
And I find myself smiling like an idiot. These emails started off innocently enough, but over the course of a few days, they’ve turned into foreplay. Message after message. Each one more descriptive and vulgar than the last. I skim over more of his promises—threats—and exhale.
I'll ruin you…
I'll let you.
I like it rough.
I like to be choked.
It's much easier for me, at least, to come across as flirtatious by using unspoken words, when I’m not face-to-face with someone who can hear the slight tremor in my voice, the uncertainty. I am, after all, a writer. It's been two days since I saw him, and no matter how hard I've tried, I can't get him out of my head. A distraction—Jax is a distraction. I try to plot or write, and somehow, my train of thought veers from screaming girls and hacksaws to his lips pressed against mine, his hands in my hair… me naked beneath him. To me being that girl.
The floorboards creak. The smile fades from my face as I turn in my chair to find Edwin looming behind me, his gaze glued to the computer screen, his nostrils flaring. I glance back at the message, close the screen, and clear my throat.
"Uh…" I push back from the desk and stand, skirting around Edwin, whose stare has yet to move away from the computer screen. "Janine should be here in a few. Sure you don't need anything from town?"
"No."
I swallow and give a quick nod as I grab my purse from the coffee table and head toward the door. It's cold as shit outside, but I don't want to be in here with him. "Okay, well—"
"When are you going to be back? We need to write."
Write? Now he wants to write. No, I think he just doesn’t want me to leave. He wants me here with him.
I freeze, my hand on the doorknob, my hairs standing on end. "I don't know."
I breathe a sigh of relief when I pull the door open and see Janine's car already in driveway. When I turn to close the door, Edwin’s crossing the living room, his jaw tensed, fists clenched at his sides. "Miranda…"
Janine's horn honks. She clambers out of the car, shielding her eyes. “I’ve got another splitting headache.” She opens the passenger door and plops down into the seat.
"Annoying bitch," Edwin mumbles, catching the door and slinging it open. He shoves past me and stops on the steps.
Janine rolls down her window, and I quickly walk past Edwin. I swear I can feel his eyes boring a hole into the back of my head as I hurry down the stairs, nearly missing the bottom step and tripping. I catch myself and go straight to the car, opening the door and climbing in without giving Edwin another glance.
"Oh"—Janine arches both brows and nods toward the porch—"he looks pissed."
I don't look back. I don't want to.
"Janine," he shouts from the porch.
"Yes, dear?"
"I need to meet with you." His voice is shaking, and I imagine that if I were to look at him, he'd be talking through gritted teeth. "Soon," he says with a growl.
"Anything you want, EA." She waves and smiles before we pull off. "He's such an asshat," she says with a laugh. "No wonder he doesn't have a woman. What woman is gonna put up with a moody bastard like him?"
I shake my head and stare out of the window, lost in my thoughts as I wind down the mountain.
Janine glances at me with a raised eyebrow. "So, drinks first? Don’t you stand me up.”
“Trust me, I need a stiff one. A really stiff one. You’re a saint for dealing with him for as long as you have.”
Nodding, she smiles. “Drinks to get you relaxed and your inhibitions lowered before you’re off to that beautiful specimen's house to be manhandled like a two-dollar hooker.”
“Dear Lord.”
“And I do want the gritty details, hun. My pussy's starved." She cackles, slapping her knee.
The chilly breeze sweeps across the patio, cigarette butts and napkins tumbling over the concrete pavers. I shiver and pull my jacket tight across my chest.
“Now, this is classy. Two ladies out on the patio for a midday glass of wine.” She holds up her glass and winks at me. “Classy.”
“Yep. Winos have always been the top-notch of alcoholics.”
She covers her mouth to keep from spitting out her wine, choking at the same time as she laughs. “Well, who knew? Little Miranda Cross does have a sense of humor after all—a dry sense, but a sense nonetheless.”
“Sometimes.” I lift my glass to my lips and take a steady sip, the bitter white wine sending another chill through my already cold body. “I should have had coffee.”
“And Baileys? Oh, oh, or Jameson. Irish whiskey in coffee is phenomenal.”
“Or just coffee.” I eye Janine. She’s always drinking. And while she manages to keep it together, at the root of it all, she is, in fact, a drunk.
“Nope. You need alcohol.” She smirks before raising her glass once again. “Because you need to live a little. Remember what I said about experiences?”
“Yeah, yeah…”
The waitress brings a mother and her little girl out onto the patio and sets menus in front of them.
Janine glances at them, her lip curling ever so slightly. “Kids. Yuck.”
“What?”
“They’re like little parasites. They suck you dry and leave you for dead—and with a bunch of nasty stretch marks.” She glances at me. “Anyway, you need to fuck him. Just to say you did it. Don’t expect anything from it except maybe a good orgasm.”
“Janine…”
Her eyes remain fixed on mine, one brow arching, one corner of her lips curling up into a devious grin. “Men like that… that’s all they are good for, hun. Trust me on this one. If you let them get their grubby little claws in too deep, they’ll just break your heart.” She nods. “Fuck him. And leave him.”
“Fuck him and leave him?”
“Yep. Be that girl. Fuck him hard and fast and good. Be the one he’ll never be able to get out of his mind. The one he always wonders what the hell happened to.”
I stare off, not at anything exactly, just a random patio paver. That girl. She would fuck him and leave him.
“Mommy…” The little girl at the other table is attempting to whisper, but she’s only talking in a rather hushed voice. “That lady. Look at her.”
“Shhh.”
I turn just in time to see the mother scolding the little girl, her eyes briefly flicking up to mine before she looks away.
“Rude little demons, see.” Janine adjusts her shirt, tugging the neckline down enough to showcase her impressive cleavage. “Marilyn Monroe, she said something along those lines,” she says, pushing back from the table and grabbing her purse as she stands.
“Said what? That kids are rude little demons?” I down my wine so fast a momentary wave of nausea settles over me.
“No, that 'a wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.' Something to that effect.” She smiles. “And Marilyn was that kind of girl.”
“Who had an affair with a president and died before she was thirty…”
Janine’s already to the gate, one foot on the sidewalk. “Exactly. She experienced life, hun. All you’ve done is write about it.”