Emily
Help
I stifle a yawn and lift my cup of steaming coffee to my lips, praying it packs enough punch to get me through to my lunch break so I can take a nap.
Help.
Human contact is great therapy, she said. It’ll help.
It didn’t. I was up until four a.m. this morning, too sexually frustrated to sleep.
Outrageously—and ashamedly—sexually frustrated.
At four-thirty, I ran myself a bath and used the water gushing from the faucet to get myself off. Three orgasms and an hour later, I dragged myself to bed, depleted, only to be woken by my alarm not long after. For the first time since we started the business, I contemplated taking the day off work to spend it in bed.
I let Monique kiss me. I cupped her breasts and let her put her mouth on mine. I grinded my naked body against hers. She’s a married woman—has been for a few months—and Joel? How could I do that to him? I’m disgusting.
I sip at my coffee and it spills down my chin.
“Shit,” I curse, shoving my chair back as coffee drips onto my desk and soaks into my expensive flowy, cream blouse. I set my mug down and reach for my box of tissues. I’m careful to dab my shirt instead of wipe, like the retail assistant told me, but the light brown liquid soaks in, staining the delicate fabric.
Damn it.
I swipe the tissue against my chin and pat it along the table to collect fallen drops. Lucky for me, my coffee mishap managed to miss the distribution orders for our three newest flavors. The thought of re-typing them makes me sick.
“Good morning.” Joel’s voice startles me and I jump, the back of my hand hitting my cup, causing more coffee to surge over the rim and spill onto my desk.
“Shit,” I swear again, reaching for more tissues. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s because your door wasn’t closed.”
Wasn’t it? Christ. I’m all over the place this morning. Pursing my lips, I manage to pull enough courage out of my ass to look at him. He stands to the right of my desk looking a lot more refreshed than I do in his crisp black slacks with a blue button up shirt tucked neatly into their waistband. He’s even got a black jacket and tie to match.
What do I have? A black pencil skirt, a cream blouse, a red coat, and heels that are two different sizes. I didn’t put my shoes on until after I arrived at work. By then it was too late. That’ll teach me not to rush getting ready for work.
“Right.” I lower my attention to the coffee-soaked tissues in my hand. “I knew that.”
My cheeks burn and my fingers twitch with the urge to rub them. Instead, I keep myself busy by disposing the tissues and clenching my mug in my hands.
“You missed an important meeting this morning. That’s not like you.”
Me? I snap my gaze to him. “You specifically told me not to waste my time with it, that interviewing a new distribution company had nothing to do with me.”
“That’s tomorrow,” he counters, sauntering toward my desk. “This morning we had a meeting in regard to productivity, more specifically, how to increase it. We made the decision to order bigger stainless-steel fermentation tanks and to put harvesting machines on vineyards one and two.”
“What about our hand pickers? We employ a lot of locals. They’ll be mad if we let them go.”
He nods, brushing a hand through his short black hair—hair exactly like Jai’s. “We’ll move them to yards three and four.”
“I’ll need to make changes to the roster and keep an eye on the output of yards three and four in comparison to one and two, but it sounds like a good idea.”
“Your input would have been invaluable this morning, had you shown up.”
I lower my stare to my computer screen. I’ve never missed a meeting. Never missed a day. How has my life flipped on its head overnight? Monique and I kissed. We didn’t do anything else.
Moving forward, Joel taps a long, thick finger against a stack of tax information I’ve been putting together for months now. It’s the accountant’s job, but I wanted to go through everything first and make sure none of Joel’s impulses—made in the company’s name—are being included.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asks. “You looked a little…rattled.”
I freeze, every fiber in my being stilling. Do I hear amusement in his tone? Or am I reading too much into it?
“I’m fine. I’ve just had a busy morning, that’s all. Didn’t get much sleep.” I lift my coffee to my lips and give the liquid a gentle blow, my attention still deferred. I sip the hot liquid and my eyes flutter shut. It warms my insides as it flows into my stomach. It’s exactly what I need.
“Either Monique gave you an orgasm so intense you have brain damage, or she didn’t give you one at all.”
I inhale, sucking coffee into my lungs. I splutter and choke, spitting coffee over my computer screen and the goddamn distribution orders.
Joel roars with laughter as I swipe at my mouth, collecting more coffee in the fabric of my blouse.
“You know?” I ask, hating the shame that creeps up my spine.
“Of course I know. She tells me everything.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m being ridiculous. “Monique has a smorgasbord of sexual tastes. I’ve got most bases covered, but I’m lacking in the vagina department, obviously.”
I feel my brows pull in. “And you’re okay with her…being with another woman?”
“Sure.”
“With me?”
“I’d rather you spend your night with her than the dickhead from last night.” He peers down his straight nose at me and perches on the edge of my desk. “Monique told me what happened with him. The next time I see him, I’ll rip his tongue out—”
“No,” I cut in with a wave of my hand. “I handled the situation. It’s over. Besides, we shouldn’t draw too much attention to ourselves. If you’re investigated for murder, then we’re all screwed.” I sigh. “Keeping the business relatively small is hard enough.”
“That’s true. Not exporting outside of Europe was a genius idea, by the way.” Joel stares at me, his expression turning soft and compassionate, and his lips quirk at the corners. “You look like shit.”
I feel like shit too. I exhale, dropping my head and catching my chin in my hand. “Yeah. I might have Sophia retype the first few distribution orders I ruined so I can go home and sleep.”
He pushes off my desk and straightens his slacks with his palms. “Good. Give her something to do for once. I’m sick of paying her to sit around the office and watch cat videos on the internet.”
I snort. “She does more than that.”
“Yeah, well.” He turns his back and walks toward the door. “I’ve yet to see it.”
I lean forward, propelled by curiosity and the inability to clear images of Joel and Monique with other people out of my head. “Before you go, out of curiosity—and you don’t have to answer—how often do you bring other people into your bed? Men and women? Or?”
I don’t know why I’m asking. I guess I’m just trying to understand the dynamic of their relationship. Joel rests against the frame of the door, tilting his head. I notice his amusement has faded, replaced with disdain, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Not often and no men.”
Okay. Now I’m confused. “But you said—”
“We occasionally involve another woman, but never a man.”
I sit back in my chair, giving him the look. The one that says, you’re a selfish asshole. “That’s hardly fair.”
“Fair? The extra woman is for Monique’s enjoyment. Not mine.”
I roll my eyes. Five bucks says he’s only saying that so Monique continues to allow another woman in their bed.
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.”
“And you don’t enjoy the other woman? Not even a breast squeeze?”
Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes. Smiling, he pushes off the door. “You make it sound like it’s a struggle for me not to touch other women.”
“Isn’t it?”
Shaking his head, he uncrosses his arms and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. “No. There could be twenty naked women in my bed and Monique would still be the only one I’d want to touch.”
I tilt my head, cocking my eyebrow. His expression doesn’t change. There’s no hint of dishonesty, not even a hidden smirk. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” Joel steps out into the empty hall before clicking his fingers and whirling on his heel to face me again. “Before I go—and hear me out—for your birthday this weekend I’m thinking—”
“No. I told you I’m not comfortable—”
“It’s too late. Monique and I have made all the arrangements. You can be in a shitty mood for all I care so long as you show up. All right?”
I cut my eyes at him. “Where is it?”
“In the orchard on the hill at five p.m.”
I push myself to my feet and grab the first few distribution sheets. “Fine. I’ll go, but no gifts, please.”
He smirks. “I already gave you my wife. What more do you want from me? Because I’m off limits.”
Asshole. I snatch a blue ballpoint pen in my hand and I throw it at him just as he closes the door. It bounces off the wood. He grins at me through the glass and flips me off before walking away. My cheeks burn bright, inflamed by his inappropriate remark. A comment like that never would have bothered me prior to everything that’s happened, but since that night, the night Joel and I were forced together in Skull’s courtyard, the mere thought of us together turns my stomach.
We’ve never spoken about what happened between us—what was forced to happen—and I’m thankful for it. He understands that I wasn’t in my right mind, that Skull gave me the little blue rock prior to chaining me under the gazebo. And I know Monique had a gun to her head. He did what he had to do. I can’t say I regret it, his lips on my skin, his fingers between my legs, because I don’t. If it wasn’t Joel, it was going to be someone else and he made it bearable.
I can never repay him for his kindness and his continual love and support over the span of a year. I’m nobody to him, just a random girl who loved his younger brother, but even in Jai’s absence, Joel welcomed me into the family with open arms. He took care of me until I could take care of myself and, regardless of legalities, I am a Stone and I belong here. My whole life I never knew who I was or where I belonged, but I know now—without a shadow of doubt—that I’ve always belonged with them.
My true family.
***
Saturday
So here I am, prepping for my birthday surprise.
Whatever it is.
I pull my hair around my face and toy with the dark ends as they curl around my breasts. I’m due for a haircut. If only I allowed myself the time.
As I stand in front of the floor length mirror in my bedroom, I can’t help but loathe the outfit I’ve chosen. In an attempt to exude excitement and happiness, I’ve chosen to wear a simple knee-length, A-line tulle dress. It’s tight and white from the bust to the waist, held up by straps the same thickness of a quarter. From the waist to my knee, a champagne tulle skirt flows, looking all poufy and pretty and so not like me, but it’s my birthday and I’m doing my part to play the birthday girl, like they want.
I turn sideways and admire my outfit paired with my small, embellished white and champagne flats. Originally, I wanted to wear a pair of cream peep toe t-strap stilettos, but I figured I wouldn’t get far crossing the soft grass of Monique and Joel’s yard, nor would they be easy to navigate the apple orchard in. I can’t, for the life of me, understand why they need me to go all the way to the orchard. What could they possibly want to do there?
I hate that I’ve become accustomed to spending so much time on my appearance. Forty-five minutes it’s taken me to get ready and I’m running five minutes late. If I don’t leave now they’re going to send a search party.
I whirl on my heel and my tulle skirt whirls with me. My lips quirk at the corners. That actually felt pretty good. I twirl again and let out a small laugh as my dress swishes around me. Maybe buying this dress wasn’t such a bad idea. I only bought it in the first place to prove to Monique that I don’t only purchase dark, depressing shades.
I ruffle the light fabric in my hands before rushing down the stairs. I retrieve my phone from a tucked away pocket in the shirt half of my dress and I send Joel a text to say I’m leaving now. Then, I tuck my phone into my small, cream crossbody clutch that I’ve left hanging on the back of a stool in the kitchen. I contemplate taking my bag and phone but decide against it. I don’t want any distractions—work or otherwise. Whatever they’ve got planned, it deserves my undivided attention, regardless if I’m waiting on important correspondence from a huge European distributor.
I pluck my gold charm bracelet off the bench beside the overloaded fruit bowl and fasten it around my wrist. I look at the charms. A wine bottle, a bunch of grapes, a little car, a house, a love heart, and a little pair of baby shoes that represent Jacob’s birth.
Monique and Joel bought me the bracelet a few weeks ago as a gift on the anniversary of our escape from Skull. Every time I pass a new milestone in my new life, they present me with a charm to match.
It’s kind of cute.
I survey each charm and I’m aware, when I look at all of my belongings, and all of the beautiful and wonderful things I own, that I’ve done very well for myself. I came up from nothing—a struggling student nurse who could barely pay her rent. Now I own my home on an impossibly large estate in Siena and, while I admit I may be a bit of an impulse buyer, I feel it’s justified. Before now, I never had the means to buy whatever I want and I’m aware having this kind of financial freedom has gone to my head, but I’m working on taming it. I haven’t gone into the city in two months, only the local town for necessities, and I haven’t bought a single unnecessary item—except the occasional chocolate bar.
I saunter toward the door and pull it open in time to see Monique reach for the handle. I bounce back, squealing as if a firecracker has just gone off by my feet, clasping my chest to keep my erratic heart from beating out of my body.
I half-gasp, half-giggle. “You scared me!”
I look at her then—really look at her—and my smile melts away, my heart keeping up its rapid pace. She’s white as chalk, her eyes are wide, and it sends painful tendrils of dread burrowing through me.
Something has happened to Joel.
I press my palm to my stomach. Don’t puke. “Monique?”
I give her a quick once over. Her blue A-line, knee length skater dress is clean and crisp. He hair is neatly piled on top of her head, in a bun so perfect it deserves to be photographed and immortalized. Her arms are free of Jacob and the thoughts that follow make my insides ache, my heart thrash, and my limbs tremble.
“Is Jake okay?”
She nods, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “I begged him not to do this today, but he won’t listen.”
“What are you talking about?”
Tears well in her eyes. “Joel kept it from us—from all of us.”
My frown smooths out. Oh no. What did he do? My mind jumps to all different kinds of scenarios, the lot of them leading to one point—a scandalous affair.
I step closer to her, planting a hand on her shoulder. “Come insi—”
“Promise me you won’t freak out,” she cuts in, placing her hand on mine, and I’m confused again.
What the hell is going on?
Monique angles her body so I can see over my porch. Joel stands on the top step with little, black haired Jake on his hip and one hand stuffed into the pocket of his fitted black jeans. The ink running up his arms and neck is a deep black in the evening sunlight and his hair has a healthy, clean shine. He looks apologetic, his eyes soft and his lips pursed like he’s holding back an apology. That’s when I flick my gaze over Joel’s shoulder.
My breath catches.
Electricity crackles down my spine.
Energy frissons through me.
It happens in slow motion, the sight of him slamming into me with the weight of a freight train behind it. He’s as tall and as devastating as I remember, though what I remembered didn’t do him any justice. He’s beautiful—breathtaking—so much so that looking at him causes me physical pain.
Bright white sneakers, black pants, and a crisp white tee that clings to his strong biceps and athletic torso. I drag my stare along the same strong jaw I’ve run my lips over a million and one times, and just like the first time we met, it’s lined with a subtle scruff.
Everything about him breathes life into me. His familiar, perfect and full pink lips, dark ocean eyes, and black hair, longer at the top dissolving into the perfect fade.
Jai Stone.
This isn’t real. He’s dead. This can’t be real.
The floor bows under my feet, under the weight of the bombshell that’s just been dropped on my head. I feel blood and color drain painfully from my face and spear into my soft organs. He doesn’t smile at me. Eyes watch me, warily, and a little apologetic. Monique touches me, talks to me, but her words aren’t crisp or clear. Every fiber in my being is focused on him—on the love of my life. The man who was supposed to be dead.
I open my mouth to say something, but can’t bring the words to leave my tongue. My heart shudders, making my eyelids flutter as unconsciousness flirts with me.
How?