TWELVE
Sloane
The plan was simple.
Take it, fold it up, compartmentalize it, don't harp on it.
It was how I handled all the ugly bits in my life.
Locking it away.
Refusing to open it up.
I was good at it, too.
I'd had many years of practice.
And there were many things now to try to focus on. I had an apartment to make my own, shops to explore, restaurants to try, local attractions to see, work to find.
The first day, I'll admit, that was rough.
I walked around with his touch still pressed into my skin, my lips still swollen and sensitive from his, my muscles aching in places I hadn't used in far too long.
It was impossible for my brain not to go back to that bed, to the sensations and the feelings being with him had brought up.
Sometime around noon, I had forced myself to take a shower, convinced it would help to try to 'wash him off' of me.
It didn't work, of course.
But it was worth the try anyway.
The file sat there on my counter taunting me until I thumbed through it, taking out the job ads Jules had found, then finding a single loose leaf page with a phone number scribbled across it.
His, I was sure.
The temptation was strong then, to dial it, to tell him to come back, to be that needy, pathetic woman that I didn't want to be.
But I couldn't be her.
So I threw the file up on the highest shelf in my closet, one that was so high that it was clearly meant to keep things you never wanted to see again.
And I tried to move on.
I got permission from Andrew to paint my walls, with the strict orders that I would need to paint them back before I moved out.
'Back.'
As though faded-by-time-white was an actual color.
But whatever.
It gave me something to do. Take my car to the home improvement store, hem and haw swatches until my eyes started playing tricks on me, get supplies, then coming home and watching Youtube videos on the spotty wi-fi that came with the apartment buildings since I couldn't get hooked up myself for another week on how to paint a wall.
Yes, I needed to Youtube that.
When I was poor, spending money on paint was frivolous and unnecessary. And when I had finally 'made it,' I figured it made more sense to hire someone to paint for me.
It never occurred to me before how little I knew how to do for myself.
I had needed to ask Andrew to help me bracket my TV to the wall, to help me fix my toilet that had a tendency to run for no reason. I had to look up how to find a stud to hang a shelf, how to use communal laundry machines, to pump my own gas. All this little life stuff that had never really been part of my reality before was suddenly something I had needed to figure out on my own.
It was enough, here and there, to keep me occupied, to keep my mind from wandering, to keep things locked down as tight as I wanted them.
It was at night when it happened.
When my defenses were low.
When my desires were high.
When my body wanted me to remember.
When my heart wanted me to as well.
My dreams were fraught with one of two things - nightmares about Rodrigo Cortez... and vivid dreams about Gunner. Both made me wake up sweating, heart pounding, twisted in the sheets. For very different reasons.
I woke up exhausted, frustrated or scared, or a mix of both.
It was only three days before I couldn't take it anymore - the having no focus. There was only so much sketching I could do before my hand started to hurt, only so many books I could read before my eyes went swimmy. Only so many failed attempts at baked goods before I lost my enthusiasm to try.
It was time to get a job.
The options weren't exactly ideal. I mean, this was not the fashion capital of the world. There was nothing even resembling a high demand for designer handbags. Not that I could really go into that business again anyway. But I was hoping for something similar.
The only options Jules had found even remotely in my field were in fashion retail.
I hadn't worked in a store since I was a teenager, and even then, only fleetingly.
But I had to work.
I didn't just have one resume, either. I had three separate ones to choose from - one geared toward different sorts of jobs from office work to retail. I chose the one most suited toward retail, went in for an interview at a local big box store, and got a job.
Not in fashion.
In fact, I didn't even get to work in the clothing department for the first few days at all.
But I did get to work in electronics. And the garden center. And home goods. And the register.
Everything felt foreign to me, from learning how the system worked to knowing what the difference was between 4k and 4k Ultra, to the short lunch breaks, to the bathroom breaks that were actually limited to clocking in and out.
My feet hurt.
I used to spent ten, twelve, fourteen hour days in heels at my office. But even that hadn't prepared my feet - my sneaker-clad feet - for what it would be like to work in a store for a simple eight-hour shift. Blisters upon blisters. An ache that moved up my calves to my behind to my lower back.
I went home with every part of me feeling like it was throbbing, with headaches from the harsh overhead lights, hungry because my lunch break wasn't long enough for me to finish even half of my food, drained from having to smile and be pleasant to customers who were rude and irrational.
It was draining in a way I didn't know existed.
And then, oh yeah, I got to meet my manager.
The funny thing about men like him is, you get a vibe. Even before they come your way, before they rake their eyes up and down you, before they open their mouths.
Their presence makes you feel slimy, makes you look around to make sure someone is within screaming distance. Something within you just recognizes something within them.
That was how I felt when I met Mathew Henderson.
He was maybe in his early fifties with sandy hair that was starting to mix with white at the temples, though it blended in enough that you likely never would have noticed if it weren't for the godawful lighting that - despite having the best brands money could buy to cover up such things - made my dark under eye circles show under the makeup. His eyes were a bright blue. Not like the sky, but rather almost cobalt. Striking, really. Most people would kill for eyes like that. It was a shame they belonged to him.
Unlike the rest of us who had to wear khaki pants that were universally unflattering and a bright blue polo shirt with a lanyard hanging from our necks with our names on it, he got to wear what he wanted. And what he wanted was typically a pair of poorly fitting slacks in varying colors worn too high on the waist, making it look like he had two tummies instead of one, a belt that did not match his shoes, and dress shirts that were too long in both the hem and the sleeves, but also somehow too tight around the center, a combination that should not have been able to happen, but did regardless.
He walked up to me as I stocked a shelf with towels, getting too close, his breath actually on my skin as he spoke to me, telling me how glad he was to have me on the team, how excited he was to be working closely with me.
And as he moved away, his pelvis brushed along my butt.
Maybe it was a mistake due to a narrow aisle, but I just had a feeling about it.
Then the next day, he told me that if we became closer, he had a chance for advancement, that girls like me didn't belong stocking shelves.
The day after that, he caught me in a corner over by the toys and asked me out.
I refused.
And that was when this job went from bad, but tolerable, to awful.
My shifts got switched around, one day early morning, the next graveyard. My work was criticized endlessly. I was written up publicly, belittled when no one was around to hear it.
By the time my tenth day came, I was done.
So, so done.
I had never quit a job before, always doing the right thing, always giving my notice.
But I had barely gotten any sleep in over a week between the swing shifts and the dreams and nightmares. Every inch of my body hurt from being on my feet so much. My emotions felt yanked all over the place.
And all I could think was... I just can't do this anymore.
I got home and attempted a new recipe that ended in ashes.
I tried to draw, but couldn't get anything right.
And I felt alone, so freaking alone, more alone in the world than I had ever felt before.
It was easier before, when I had something in my life to be proud of, a career I was dedicated to, that people respected me for.
It wasn't friendships or family or love.
But it was something.
Here?
I had nothing.
Not a damn thing.
So I did something I promised myself I would never do out of sadness, loneliness, fear, or anger.
Like my mother always did.
I fell into a bottle.
Deep.
It wasn't until I finished my second bottle of wine that I did it.
I got a chair, climbed on top of it, and got the file out of the closet, taking it down to the kitchen, and staring at the number until it became gibberish to my eyes.
Then, like the universe was trying to rub salt in my wounds, the TV that had been playing reruns of cheesy early '00s movies started playing a very familiar opening scene of a movie.
The Fast and the Furious.
That was it.
All my self-control could take.
I reached for the phone I had gotten on my own since Gunner had never gotten around to leaving me one like he said he would, plugged in the number, and called.
I called him.
The morning brought on a jackhammering in my temples and behind my eyes, the morning light and the movement of lifting myself off the couch made my stomach roll, threatening to revolt until I took a few long, deep breaths to calm it.
"Ugh," I groaned, raising a hand to my head, rocking back and forth for a long moment before I could even think straight enough to head for my purse where my unused pain meds from my stomach wound were situated. I popped two with a giant mug of coffee, then locked myself in the dark bathroom until they finally kicked in, allowing my stomach and head to calm enough so I could flick on the light, and look at myself in the mirror.
It wasn't pretty.
I was pale and splotchy.
My hair was a bird's nest.
And my eyes were red and swollen.
Red, yes, that made sense.
But swollen?
As my finger rose to touch the puffy eyelids, it suddenly came back to me in a rush.
The puffiness had nothing at all to do with the alcohol.
Oh, no.
That was the crying.
There had been a lot of crying.
Which was likely half to blame for the headache as well.
I don't remember the last time I really had a cry. The kind that emptied out your soul, that made you genuinely worry about your sanity because you couldn't quite seem to calm it down, to gain control over yourself again.
That was exactly what had happened last night. I had cried until I fell asleep.
But not before I did something else first.
Something incredibly, ridiculously stupid.
"Oh, god," I groaned, bringing my hands up over my eyes, feeling my face heat up. "Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god."
I'd called Gunner.
I'd called Gunner... and left a message.
I took a deep breath, trying to stop the swirling embarrassment enough to focus, trying to remember through my wine-soaked brain what I had said.
It came back like a lightning rod when I looked back up at my reflection.
"I can't do it," I had started, my voice already starting to hitch. "I had to quit my job. My boss was a jerk and everything hurt. And the pay was degrading. I... I don't know what to do with myself here. I cook. I clean. I try to draw. But everything feels so empty. I feel empty here," I had added, my voice cracking finally, the tears starting. "I would say I wish this never happened, that Cortez never came into my life. But if he never had, I never would have met you. But maybe I do wish for that, you know? Because if this never happened. If he never happened, if you never happened, I never would have realized how hollow my life was. But now, it is all I can think about. It's all I can think about.
And I am so alone. I have no one to talk to. There is no one I can talk to. Because I can't be me anymore. I can't feel the way I feel anymore. Because I don't exist anymore. I don't exist, but there's nothing I can do about all these feelings inside that do exist still. There's nothing I can..." I'd broken off then, choking back a sob, sniffling hard. "I just... why did you leave like that?" I had asked before I suddenly realized what I was doing, hitting the end call button, then falling into the pillow on my couch, sobbing it all out.
And I must repeat... Oh, god.
I wasn't that woman.
I wasn't someone who called and cried at men. It was humiliating to realize I had done it, that I couldn't undo it, that there was no way to take it back, that he would pick up his phone - possibly already had - and heard me sobbing and sniffling and babbling, bemoaning my fate.
What would he think of me?
Not good things, I was sure.
Maybe that he was glad he dodged a bullet by leaving like he had.
It was not the last memory I wanted him to have of me, but it would likely be the most vivid one, one he would tell his buddies - about that chick he laid that called a few days later crying at him.
I was that woman.
Pathetic and laughable.
Which was a hell of a lot worse than being remembered as the cold, rich bitch he likely thought I had been before that call.
But, I tried to reason with myself, there was absolutely not a single thing I could do about what had already happened.
All I could do now was try to move forward, forget what had happened, carve out some kind of life for myself here.
So what if the big box store wasn't my cup of tea? I had enough money to hold me over for a while. I could be more selective, wait to find something I didn't absolutely loathe.
There was a knocking at my door, making my heart fly up into my throat, making it feel like I was choking on it before I realized that even if Cortez could find me, he likely would not come knocking.
Taking a steadying breath, I moved out toward the living room, stepping silently so no one could hear me in case I didn't want to open the door for whoever it was.
But I didn't find Cortez. Or my old boss. Or Andrew.
No.
I found a woman.
Petite, plump, blonde-haired, bright-eyed.
I knew her.
Well, knew of her.
She was the woman who lived across the hall with her two daughters. No husband or boyfriends. I had seen them coming and going, but hadn't bumped into them yet.
Reaching up, I flattened my crazy hair, then slid the locks, and pulled the door open.
"Hi!" she cheered, smiling openly, a bit too happy for... well... any time of the day. "I'm Auddie, from across the hall," she explained, waving toward her door. "I'm sorry to interrupt your hangover, but I wanted to introduce myself finally, so you didn't think I was being rude. It's just... when we first moved in, everyone stopped over that very day, and things were crazy and disorganized, and it was not the way I wanted to entertain company, y'know? With the house full of boxes, looking like a disaster area. So I figured I would give you a few days to settle in before I came over and bugged you. I brought rum cake!" she announced, making my attention go down to see a plate in her hand. "I didn't intend for it to be the hair of the dog, but this kind of makes it kismet, don't you think?"
I worked with a lot of young, excited professionals. I thought I understood people who talked a lot. This woman, she put them all to shame.
"I'm Sloane," I offered, giving her what I hoped was a kind smile, even if it was forced. Because I saw this for what it was. An opportunity. If I was going to live here - and, really, I had no actual choice in the matter - then I needed to be open to making connections, friendships, normal things.
"So, what were you drinking about?" she asked, moving forward, letting herself into the apartment without an invitation. "Alone on a Tuesday night, I believe that is usually indicative of man trouble, yes?" she asked, casually going through my kitchen drawers and cabinets until she found plates and utensils.
"Several," I offered, watching as her head jerked up, eyes dancing.
"Oh, juicy!"
"Not really," I said, shaking my head, feeling a little bit of the weight of the morning lift off of me, finding her energy a bit infectious. "I had a boss that hit on me, then made my life hell when I turned him down."
"Ugh. There's always one of those in your life, right? The perv boss? Mine was when I was fifteen. He tried to put his hand up my skirt. My daddy found out, came in, and poured scalding coffee on that hand."
I smiled at that, wondering how nice that must have been. To have a father who cared like that.
"But you said men. Plural."
"I'm, ah, trying to..."
"Ah, say no more," she said, handing me a plate, holding up a hand. "Asshole ex. I know that one well. Trying to get away, start over. Me and my girls, that was why we came here too. I mean, we're only a few counties over from my asshole ex, but it's away. It's nice here," she added, going into my fridge to pull out the milk. Something about that was so sweet, so pure, so... mom-like, that I almost wanted to cry a little as she poured us each a glass. "I know it's hard when you first start. Everything is different. And different sounds good at first, until you start missing how they made pizza in your old town better, and how you miss the stores, the sights, the people. But you'll start making new favorites here too."
"Yeah," I agreed, nodding. "That's true. I haven't given it much of a chance yet."
"There's this... oh, wow!" she stopped short, putting her plate down with a careless clatter, moving out of the kitchen space, and into the living room area where my small dining table was set up with my easel on top. "You did this?" she asked, turning back to look at me as though I was some famous artist or something.
"Oh, yeah. It's not finished, but..."
"It's amazing!" she cut off my attempt at self-deprecation. "I wish I could do this. My sister can paint. I was always so jealous of that. But I was better with words, so at least I have that."
"You write?"
"Well, not really. I make up books for my girls. To teach them relevant things that I notice they are interested in. I print off pictures online to put with them. It's hideous actually," she said, smiling back at me.
"I could draw some pictures for you," I offered, shrugging it off. "I'm between work right now. I could use something to keep me from going stir crazy in this apartment."
"You're serious?" she beamed. "That would be so amazing! Oh, I'm so excited. I will drop off the pages later today if you want. That would be such a cool surprise for them. I bet I could get Billy down at the print shop to make me some actual books out of them too. How cool would that be? For them to see their mom's name on the front of a real-looking book? And your name too, of course," she added with a smile. "Illustrated by Sloane..."
"Livingston," I answered immediately, knee-jerk.
And, suddenly, I could see myself as her.
Sloane Livingston.
I could be her.
The woman with the friendly neighbor that she called a friend. The woman who casually illustrated some children's books for fun, to help a young single mom to teach her daughters some lessons.
I could be her.
The one who shared rum cake at ten in the morning.
The one who was willing to give this place a real shot. Not because it was necessary, because life would be a never-ending pit of misery if I didn't try, but because I could carve a life out for myself here.
"You know what you should do?" Auddie declared excitedly.
"What?"
"Get a job at that wine-and-paint place they just opened in town?"
"Wine-and-paint?" I asked, brows drawing together.
"Yeah! It's fun. I went when they first opened, when the girls had a sleepover. You pay, and bring your own wine. Then everyone there gets to drink and paint some cool picture that you would never be able to paint on your own. I mean... my sunset was pretty hideous even with instruction, but it was a blast. I bet the owner would totally let you do a class here or there. Or private events. That place has been crazy. She probably hasn't had a night off since it opened. You'd be perfect for that!"
Maybe I could be her too.
The woman who taught art lessons to drunk women having girls nights out.
I could be her.
I could maybe even be happy being her.
After some time, some adjustment.
I could get there.
For the first time since any of this started, I felt a small sliver of something I could only call hope.
The next day, I got to work on a sweet story about a little girl who had a hard time making friends at school - something I learned that Margo, Auddie's six-year-old was struggling with because she was a bit on-spectrum, and some of the other kids didn't understand why she did or said some of the things she did.
"Do you think we should print up a couple other copies?" Auddie asked, thumbing through the completed book for the fifth time since I gave it back to her six days after she handed it to me.
I had to say... I really enjoyed it. I was proud of it. And sure, I enjoyed designing my purses. I was proud of what I made. But the very big distinction here was... this was fun. There were no concerns about what some 'big names' might think of my collection, if it would sell, what the general public would think. All I had to do was create something that two sweet little girls would like.
And Auddie assured me that I had accomplished that task.
"If you think you know some other little girls that would like it, yes," I told her as I mixed the cookie batter in a bowl. Under Auddie's watchful eye. She swore she would make a baker out of me yet. So far, I had been less than successful. But she assured me that where cooking was an art, baking was a science. I just had to get all the parts right, and it would be a perfect product. I was willing to put my faith to rest in that.
"Well, Margo has a little group of friends with Autism or Aspergers that we meet every few weeks for playdates. I think the moms - and the kids - would really get a lot out of this."
"Then definitely get them printed up," I told her, then maybe went a bit business-head on her, reminding her to put copyright pages and all that jazz.
"I think I will," she declared dramatically, coming over to inspect my stirring. Apparently, there was a right and a wrong way to stir. Who knew? "So did you hear back from the lady at the painting place?"
Auddie had dragged me there two nights ago to drink wine and paint. And then loudly demand that I be hired there.
"She wants me to send in some original work. I don't have anything finished yet. But I am going to do it."
"Good. I'm glad. Someone like you, with talents like yours, you shouldn't be working in retail, wasting away. You need to use that. It's special. People will pay for special."
"I definitely want to be able to draw and paint more," I admitted. "Things that make me happy or excited. I've drawn for work before, but it wasn't really anything that..."
"Lit a fire under your butt?" she supplied for me. "Those are ready. Get your ice cream scoop, and put them on the tray."
"Exactly," I agreed, following instructions. "It is nice to feel really passionate about something."
"Life is too short not to love what you do," she told me. Auddie worked from home doing various jobs that her Masters in English allowed. Copyediting. Freelance articles. Ghostwriting. Anything that would bring in money, but allow her to be home for her girls should they ever need her.
I wondered then as I put the cookies in the oven, and Auddie babbled her goodbyes, talking excitedly about going down to the printers to get the books bound, if I ever would have realized that on my own. If none of this had ever happened, if my life hadn't needed to be uprooted, if Gunner hadn't put me here, left me here, making me dive into a bottle, be a hungover mess, and appeal to the good nature of the sweet woman across the street. Would I ever have realized that no matter what I did in life, I should be happy doing it?
Honestly, probably not.
I would have kept valuing myself for my work ethic, for my level of production, for my name and respect.
Without ever giving thought to my own happiness.
Not comfort, like having my bills paid, like knowing I would be okay even if I lost everything, if the economy took a turn again, and the demand for designer handbags tanked.
But happiness.
I couldn't claim to exactly be happy right now. There was still darkness, still pain, still nightmares, still unfulfilled desires.
But I could feel hints of it.
It was a warm thing, happiness.
It was like the touch of spring on buds after a long winter, coaxing them to open up.
And I realized as I took out cookies that weren't burnt, that didn't spread, that were the perfect mixture of sweet and gooey, that happiness wasn't just something you were or not. It was something you chose, something you cultivated, a goal you worked toward.
I set my mind right then to doing just that.
Choosing happiness.
Cultivating it wherever I found it, so it grew.
Working on it even when I didn't feel like it.
I had one shot at this thing called life.
I was going to do my best to find some joy in it.
Which was what I set to doing after I put the cookies on a rack to cool.
I went over toward my dining table which, since I moved here, hadn't been used for dining at all, making me eat on my couch much like I had scoffed at Gunner and his team about. It was now my craft table with graphite pencils, markers, acrylics, watercolor paint, brushes, you name it. It was covered.
My easel sat in the center, looking out on the balcony, so I had something pretty to look at when I gave my eyes a break from my projects.
Then I worked, finding myself humming here and there, lost in my little world, putting what I hoped was my best work into creating something the art teacher at the shop would approve of, would like enough to hire me to create and teach to others.
It wasn't until the sun was casting reds, purples, and pinks across the sky that there was a knocking at my door.
"No way did Billy work his magic that fast," I declared as I moved to stand, reaching up to brush my hair behind my ear before I undid the locks, and opened the door.
But it wasn't Auddie standing there.
Oh, no.
It was the last person in the world I ever expected to see on my doorstep.
It was Gunner.
I had been trying. You know, to move on. To suppress the thoughts of him when they popped up. Which was incredibly frequently. To pretend I didn't wake up longing for him at night.
It was all I could do... try.
I had thought maybe I was making progress too.
But then here he was.
Looking just as good as I remembered, if maybe a bit more tired, a bit more tan, a bit more... rough, even.
And my belly fluttered.
Actually fluttered.
Like I was a teenager with a crush.
"Gunner?" I heard my voice ask, sounding as confused as I felt. "What are you doing here?" I added when he just seemed to stare at me, those green eyes of his boring into me, reading me, picking up on everything like he always so effortlessly seemed able to do.
There was a long moment of nothing before he raised his hand, drawing my attention to the fact that there was a newspaper there for the first time.
Arm straight, the paper was right in my face.
My gaze shifted reluctantly, not wanting to look away from him, almost afraid that if I did, he might disappear.
But he clearly wanted me to read the paper.
Rodrigo Cortez Found Dead.
And just like that, just like the night I saw this man take someone else's life, everything changed.
"What?" I heard myself hiss, my stomach swirling and sinking somehow at the same time. "Cortez is dead?" I asked, looking over at Gunner, actually needing his confirmation. As though the biggest, most reputable newspaper in the city would put a false headline on the front page.
"You called," he said, making my belly drop for an altogether different reason. I had, mostly, been able to stop being embarrassed about said call. Because I had worked really hard never to think about it. "You called and cried about not wanting to be here."
Why was he being so weird and cryptic?
I called and cried about not wanting to be here?
What did that have to do with... oh, god.
No.
That couldn't have been possible.
People didn't just do that.
Right?
Not even people who had many years in the military.
They didn't take lives.
Not on home turf.
Not just because a woman cried.
"You didn't..." I said, already shaking my head as he brought the paper down.
"You wanted to have your life back. He was all that was standing in the way."
"Oh, my god. You didn't ki..."
"This isn't a conversation for the hallway," he informed me, but didn't move forward, waited for an invitation. So I moved to the side to let him in, then closed the door behind him. "You've been busy," he said, looking around.
He wasn't wrong. I had been picking up things here and there, trying to fill the empty space, trying to make it more my own. There were pictures on the wall - including the one I had painted myself while tipsy on cheap rosè with Auddie. I had a decorative bowl full of fruit on the kitchen counter. There were a few knickknacks on the coffee table.
It was looking more lived in.
"I, ah, yeah. When my job fell through, I went on a shopping binge. It really is as therapeutic as you hear people claim."
"Who is Billy?"
"Excuse me?"
"Who is Billy?" he repeated, turning back to me.
"Oh, he's the man at the printing shop in town."
"Got something going on there?" he asked, tone guarded, and I finally understood why.
"What? No! He's like twenty-three. I haven't even met him."
"Then how do you know about him and his 'magic'?"
I felt my eyes rolling at that. "My neighbor, Auddie," I clarified. "I helped her illustrate a book for her daughters. She was bringing it to the printing shop to get real books made."
"You illustrated a children's book for your neighbor's kids?" he asked, brows drawn together.
"Yes."
"Did I fuck this up?" he asked, tone hollow.
"I'm sorry?"
"Did I fuck this up? Did you get a good thing going here?"
"I... started to adjust," I said, shrugging. "What choice did I have, Gunner? I was stuck here. Miserable. But I didn't want to be miserable forever. So I have been... trying."
"I can turn around and walk away right now. You can forget I was ever here. That anything has changed."
"What are you talking about?"
"If you are liking starting over, don't want to go back to the way shit was, then I can go. You can forget about this."
"About you?" I asked.
"Yeah, duchess, you can forget about me."
I snorted out my breath, something completely classless and unlike me - or unlike the old me - as I took a step forward toward him, watching his eyes as they tried to read me, tried to know what I was about to say or do.
Clearly, his usual penetrative gaze was failing him because he seemed surprised when I took another step closer, and placed my hand on his stomach. "I could never forget about you, Gunner. I've spent the last few weeks trying. And failing. Over and over. I wake up thinking of you."
"Yeah?" he asked, voice staid, like he was actively trying not to sound hopeful.
"Yeah," I agreed, giving him a small smile. "Some nights, I still have nightmares about Cortez. But most nights... the dreams are about you."
"Tried to get you out of my system too," he told me, hand raising to land at my hip, fingers curling in. "Went to the woods. Still didn't work. And, duchess, you don't need to have nightmares about Cortez anymore. He can never get to you. No matter where you choose to live."
"You killed him," my voice whispered, not quite believing it, not able to reconcile that this man had taken street justice that way.
"Yeah," he agreed, just as quietly. "I'm not a good man, Sloane. All of us at the office, we seem good. We aren't. Sometimes we do good things. But we all do bad things too. We're all guilty as a person can be."
"Guilty," I rolled the word around on my tongue. And, on the surface, that was the right way to put it. He had done it. He was guilty of it. But could a person truly be guilty of removing a man like Rodrigo Cortez from the world?
The law-abiding side of me said yes. Maybe even hell yes.
The other part of me, though, had seen other sides to the world lately.
I had watched a man beg for, then lose, his life. Brutally.
I had watched a man laugh as he took that life.
I had seen the bloodthirsty determination in him when he came after me.
I had felt a blade plunged inside my body because he wanted to silence me.
I knew the ugly, awful things he had gotten away with for years.
There had never been justice for that.
All those men, and especially those women, had lost their lives, or lived with awful memories, never feeling safe again.
This man was guilty of inhuman things.
So could you really be guilty of exacting justice on such a person? In the same way that you would be guilty of taking an innocent life?
I think there were gray areas of life.
This was one of them.
And I wasn't naive.
Gunner had killed people. Possibly many people. Was it really all that different because that was war, and this was on home turf? He took out bad people.
Cortez was a bad person.
"What's that look, duchess?" he asked, head ducked to the side, eyes curious.
"I'm just... processing," I admitted.
"Do it out loud," he suggested, trying to draw me out, as he was prone to do.
"I'm just trying to figure out how I feel about this. You killed someone."
"Who almost killed you," he agreed. "Who would have done worse, who would have made you beg for death."
My stomach churned at that, the stories coming back to me. "I know," I agreed.
"He's suspected of eight homicides, but people on the street put that well into double-digits. The law has failed to do justice."
"But does it give you the right to be the judge, jury, and executioner?" I voiced out loud.
"Picture this for a second," he offered, backing up to lean against the kitchen counter, pulling me with him. "You are putting groceries away in the back of your car. It's late. No one is around. Cortez walks up. What do you do?"
"If no one is around to hear me scream?" I clarified. He nodded. "And he's too close for me to run?" I asked. Again, a nod. "I guess I see if I have something to defend myself with."
"You have a tire iron. What do you do? Do you gently tap him with it because you don't want to hurt him. Or do you take that motherfucker, and slam it into his head with everything you have, knowing damn well that you could kill him?"
"I get your point."
"Everyone is capable of killing, Sloane. In the right situations. Taking a man out of the world who has done the things he has done to many others, and in this case, especially to you, it is the right situation."
"But what if someone saw you or..."
"No one saw me."
"Or the bullet could be traced?"
"It couldn't, first. And I took it out, second. No one is going to know it was me. Honestly, duchess, not a single fucking cop is putting in work to figure out who it was. A scumbag they have been chasing for years is off the streets. A new leader will rise up. They have better things to do than chase me down. Even if they had something to go on. Which they don't."
"But why?" I insisted, needing him to spell it out, not willing to let myself hope for things that could end up hurting me.
"Because you called me crying."
"But..."
"Didn't like hearing that," he cut me off. "And I get you, Sloane. I know that it took a lot for you to open up."
"A lot of wine."
He smirked at that, but shook his head. "You were drunk, sure. But you could have called someone back home. You could have reached out to someone you used to work with. That is what most people do. But you reached out to me. You trusted me with that."
"I didn't mean to do that," I told him. "I shouldn't have put my problems on you like that. That isn't fair."
"Your feelings aren't an inconvenience, Sloane. I get that your mother taught you exactly the opposite. But you aren't a little girl anymore. You need to realize that you have a right to feel the way you feel, and to express that. Without feeling embarrassed or guilty. Especially with me."
"You aren't responsible for dealing with my outbursts."
"First, that wasn't an outburst. Second, it's not about being responsible; it is about being interested and concerned."
"You don't have to be concerned about me. I can take care of myself."
"Jesus fucking Christ," he hissed, looking up at the ceiling like he could find strength there. "Can you take a hint already?"
"What hint?"
"That I give a shit, okay? That I want to hear what is going on in here," he said, reaching up to tap me on the temple. "That if you need to vent, you can do it to me."
"I... appreciate that," I said, not sure if I was reading this correctly or not. If maybe he was just offering me friendship that it was so blatantly clear that I needed.
"I didn't offer to drive you to the fucking airport, Sloane," he told me, seeing right through me.
"What did you offer me then?" I asked bluntly.
"I'm offering whatever you want from me," he told me. "You want a friend, I'm your friend. You want more, I'll give you more. You want to tell me to get the fuck out of your life, I won't like it, but I'll go."
My heart felt like it had suddenly swollen in my chest, making it feel tight and heavy.
Not sure I could find the right thing to say, I took the final step between us, resting my cheek against his chest. "I want more," I told him, my voice small.
"You sure?" he asked, feeling me nod. "Then how about you say it like you're sure?"
I laughed a little bit at that, shaking my head. "You're a jerk."
"I'm afraid you'll have to get used to that," he agreed, arm going around the center of my back, holding me tighter. "If we are gonna do this."
Do this.
That overly simplified it, didn't it?
Do it.
As though getting into a relationship was the easiest thing, the most normal thing.
Maybe for some people, it was.
For me, and I suspected for him, that wasn't really the case.
"Everything has to change again," I told his chest.
"Everything can be however you want now. You want to go back to the city, get back to your old life, do that. You want to stay here and start over, do that."
"I like Auddie," I admitted. "But I don't think I want to stay here."
"Good. 'Cause it would have been a pain in the ass to fly out here every time I wanted to see you."
"You'd fly out to see me?" I asked, hearing it in my voice for maybe the first time ever. Hope.
To that, he made some rumbling sound in his chest I took for agreement. "Known a lot of women," he started, giving me a squeeze. "Not a single fucking one ever got in like you have. I figure it means something that you were able to. I'm gonna hold onto that. Figuratively," he said as his hands suddenly moved downward. Then sank into my butt hard. "And literally," he added, making my sex clench at the promise in his voice.
"Well, I can get behind that."
That made a rolling sound move through him as his hands grabbed my butt harder, lifting me up by it, then turning to drop me down on the kitchen counter, lips claiming mine in an instant. Hard. Hungry. Completely uncontrolled.
His pelvis pressed between my legs, his hard cock sliding up my cleft through his jeans, making a ragged moan move through me.
His hands went up my thighs, sides, then inward, snagging the hem of my shirt, ripping it up roughly, making my hands shoot up to free the material. There wasn't even a pause before his fingers grabbed the cup of my bra, yanking it down, exposing the small mound to his hungry mouth, his lips closing around the nipple, sucking it until I arched backward, pressing further into his mouth, demanding more.
Which he happily gave me.
Until my bra was discarded to the floor along with his shirt. Until his hand landed in the center of my chest, pressing me backward until my back met the cold of the counter, making my nipples tweak harder, goosebumps to move across my skin. His hands went down my torso, his finger tracing the healed scar on the side before he snagged the waists of my pants and panties, pulling downward, yanking hard to make them move over my ass then down my legs until I was completely bare before him.
His hands spread my thighs, pushing my knees down against the counter, gaze pinned between my legs, making the urge to close my thighs overtake me. But he wouldn't allow it, holding onto my knee, keeping me spread before him.
A low growl moved through him as one of his hands moved up from my knee, massaging over my thigh before it traced between my slick lips, rolling my clit, making me cry out, the sound echoing off the walls in my apartment, making anyone around aware exactly what was happening behind my door.
"Couldn't get the thought of your pussy out of my mind," he told me as his body lowered down, as his fingers moved down my cleft to press against my opening. "Fucking sweet," he told me a second before his tongue traced upward to seek my clit, circling it as his fingers thrust inside me. "And tight," he added, thrusting lazily as his tongue worked my clit, as the desire became something other level, something indescribable. "Been thinking of me too," he half-asked, half-told me.
"Yes," I whimpered, hand going to the back of his neck, trying to hold him to me, demanding an end to the coiled torment in my lower belly. "Thinking about what?" he asked, releasing my clit as his fingers kept thrusting inside of me, a bit faster, more demanding. "About me licking your pussy?"
"Yes," I moaned, hand grabbing the wrist of the hand planted on my knee still, fingers digging in, feeling like I had to hold on.
"Is that it?"
"N... no."
"Did you think about my cock here?" he asked, fingers suddenly curling inside me to tap against my G-spot. All that came out of me was some ragged, almost pained sound. "That's not an answer, duchess," he informed me, smirk wicked, but his eyes were as needy as my own.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" he asked, fingers starting to pull out of me, making my walls tighten to try to hold onto him, a futile mission.
"Yes," I said, folding upward in my desperation, almost clawing at his button and zip, "I thought about you inside me," I told him as my hand finally moved inside, grabbing his hard cock, stroking my thumb across the wet tip, head tipped up to watch the way his eyes closed as he took a deep breath, tried to find more control.
But I didn't want him to find control. I wanted him as needy as I felt.
I stroked him to the hilt before pushing him backward with my other hand, demanding the room I needed to slide down in front of him, taking him into my mouth before he could even guess my intentions.
The ragged groan that escaped him pushed me to work him faster, suck him deeper, work my tongue over the head at each pass.
His hand went to the back of my neck, curling into my skull, the pain an almost crushing thing. But in a good way. In a way that said I had the kind of control over him that he had over me.
Then his fingers sank into my hair, yanking hard enough to drag me backward, his cock leaving my lips with a pop, making his eyelids get even heavier as he dragged me back onto my feet by my hair, something wild, primal, irresistible.
His other hand went to my hip, turning me as his other hand moved down my neck to plant between my shoulder blades, pressing until I had no choice but to bend forward, to rest my chest and belly against the cold counter in front of me, my breasts crushed to the unyielding surface, my butt pressed out toward him.
As if the thought was spoken aloud, his hand went to my cheek, slapping hard, the sting making an unexpected jolt go through me again, having me somehow pressing back at him as though I was asking for more.
That couldn't have been possible, though. I wasn't the kind of woman who enjoyed rough sex, getting spanked, who got off on pain.
Except maybe I was.
Maybe I had just never known it about myself before.
Maybe Gunner was just bringing it out of me.
He was happy to oblige the demand, too. His hand pulled back, then slapped down harder, making the skin heat even as I felt the head of his cock press between my lips, stroke through my wetness, coat himself in it, pressing it into my clit, making my hand slap down on the counter as the pleasure moved through me.
"Gunner, please," I demanded, trying to take a deep breath, but the pressure in my chest was making it impossible.
"Please what?" he demanded, pressing his cock harder against my clit, making my walls clench almost painfully with the need for fulfillment.
I knew what he wanted to hear, the only words he would accept to end the torment.
"Please fuck me," I demanded, wiggling my backside to try to get more of the friction he was giving me.
But he pulled suddenly away, making a cry move through me before I heard the crinkle of a condom foil as he protected us.
And then he was inside me.
Hard.
Rough.
Borderline brutal.
Making me take every last thick inch at once, without warning.
Even through the slight sting inside me, my walls tightened around him, demanded more.
A growl moved through him in response as his hands sank into my hips, dragging them up slightly to give himself more control.
And then he was doing as I demanded.
He fucked me.
Hard.
Fast.
Relentless.
Not giving my body a second to have the desire ebb, taking every last inch of me, demanding an orgasm that promised to make me shatter apart.
"Come, Sloane," he ordered, voice rough and low, getting to the point of no return himself, wanting to take me with him. "Come," he demanded again, his hand slipping forward and then between my thighs to work my clit in frantic circles, pushing me to the edge.
Then, without warning, pushing me over.
It happened too.
What was promised.
An orgasm that seemed to explode through my system, breaking me into a million little pieces as I heard myself mindlessly crying out, calling his name, whimpering through the waves as they kept overtaking me, as they made me feel them in every inch of myself, top to bottom.
"Fuck, baby," he growled as he slammed deep on the tail-end of my orgasm, coming with a groan and shudder before collapsing over me, his breath frantic in my ear, his heart slamming in his chest.
We stayed that way for a long time, both of us too spent to even think of moving, of forcing life back into our limbs. If we even had the strength to do so. I was sure I didn't. I felt boneless, a mass of mush that would never be able to move again.
"Fuck," Gunner growled, taking some of his weight back as he sucked in a deep breath. "You alright?" he asked, leaving me completely, his hand gently stroking down my spine.
"I don't think I have legs anymore," I told him, feeling silly, but it was exactly how I felt.
I could hear him moving away from me, pulling open the cabinet under the sink where the garbage was located, and letting out a low chuckle.
"Come on," he said, putting his arms under my knees and back, pulling me to his chest, lifting me, then carrying me to the living room, dropping down on the couch with me on his lap. "Were those cookies in the kitchen?" he asked after a long minute.
And that, more so than the sex, more so than the thing with Cortez, more so than just showing up here after I had fully given up hope that such a thing was even possible, that was what made my heart feel like it was about to burst through my chest.
"Yes," I said, smiling into his chest.
"You made 'em?"
"Yes."
And it was maybe then that I realized that learning to do so, my steadfast determination not to give up on the baking thing, it was because of him. Even though, logically, I knew I wouldn't see him again, something within me needed to know that I could bake for him somehow.
"Alright, you sit your pretty ass here," he told me, dropping me down on the cushion with very little ceremony so he could stand, and move toward the kitchen, still shamelessly naked. He came back a moment later with a plate completely loaded down with cookies... and a cup of milk. "These are fucking banging," he informed me as he dropped down. "For this, you get to pick the movie," he told me as he put his glass down, and threw the remote at me.
"Alright. Just let me go get dressed," I said, moving to stand.
"Can't imagine what you'd need clothes for, since as soon as I get some sustenance back in this body, I plan to fuck you again. And again. And again. Got time to make up for."
And, well, I couldn't argue with such a sound bit of logic, could I?
So he ate cookies and drank milk while we watched a Val Kilmer movie from the eighties that he grumbled about at first, but actually liked.
Then he fucked me again.
And again.
And again.
Then woke me up at four in the morning to get one more round in.
I wasn't even mad.
And then I fell back to sleep.
And for the first time in weeks, I didn't have a nightmare - because there was nothing to fear. And I didn't dream about Gunner. Because I didn't need to.
I had him.