AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Like the calm after a storm, Mick slowly strokes into me. His eyes watching my face in the shifting shadows of moonlight, his fingertips painting my skin, his mouth sucking my nipples with unbearable softness.
Desire is a dance as light as air. I glide to the sky on gossamer wings. My hands seek his, our fingers interlock over my head, and my heart swells from the purity of it.
I rise to meet him. Our damp bodies tremble as we climb, riding that silken crest. The tempo is unhurried, divine. I circle my legs around his hips, clinging to him. He delves deeper, harder, not gaining in speed but in force and strength. His steely strokes take us higher and higher, until we’re soaring. Delicious warmth spreads inside me, holding, and then we’re falling, floating. Our breaths in moans, our names in sighs as we catch each other on the slow tumble down.
I fall asleep cocooned in Mick’s arms, surrounded by his scent on my skin.
But when I wake, I’m alone. I try to tell myself that the weight of my disappointment is out of proportion. Mick had said he would write in the morning, so now that the day has broken through the night, he was up doing just that.
I touch the empty space where he’d been and an icy shiver runs through my veins as if mocking my denial. I’d wanted to wake up to him—to see his face, to feel his heat, to be secure in the knowledge that we are back to being okay.
On another shudder, I lumber out of bed and take a hot shower to chase away the chills. Afterward, I dress in a slate gray suit. Its formality is a shield of composure when I am feeling anything but. The faint crescent marks beneath my eyes hadn’t been there yesterday morning. Then, I’d been living in my happy bubble where nothing bad could touch us, even if that was just an illusion.
I dab on concealer and dust my cheeks with bronzer. When I’m satisfied that I look put together, I exit the bedroom in search of Mick.
He’s in the office as expected. Not writing. He’s standing in sweatpants and nothing else. His back is to me. He’s staring at the black and white print I’d bought a few years ago. It’s of a little girl with her hand raised and the only splash of color is a red heart-shaped balloon floating in the air. I used to see the picture as symbolic of loss, the balloonhaving escaped her grasp. Now I wonder if she’s actually reaching out to grab it in a sign of hope.
“Hi,” I say quietly.
Mick turns. I’m overcome by the impact. His face and body are extraordinary but it’s the man inside that owns my heart.
“Hi.” He steps toward me. His hair is messier than usual, the waves sporadic as if he’d been repeatedly raking his fingers through them, and the tired strain around his eyes betrays how little sleep he had gotten.
I glance at the open laptop. “Are the Muses being unkind?”
“Except for you, the others are total wenches.”
We laugh, but it sounds forced. Our usual ease marred by too much left unsaid.
“How about a change of scenery?” I suggest. “Go take a shower and I’ll fix us some breakfast.”
“Sounds good.” He cups my face and brushes his lips across mine. “I won’t be long.”
Watching him saunter down the hall, I grab hold of that hope. We’ll talk things out and find our way back.
I shrug off my suit jacket and step into the kitchen. After setting the coffee to brew, I crack four eggs into a mixing bowl, season them with salt and pepper, and add fresh chives that I pick from the plant on my windowsill.
I’d gotten into growing my own herbs and cooking healthy food after my downward spiral landed me in the hospital. With that, I’d stopped dieting because every failed attempt only made me fatter and feel worse about myself.
The buzzing of a cell phone halts my introspection. I look for where the sound is coming from and trace it to the hallway. As I whisk smoked salmon and low-fat cream cheese into the mixture, I absently wonder who would be calling Mick at 7:00 in the morning.
The vibration stops. But almost immediately it starts up again. Another three buzzes. And another. Someone desperately wants to get hold of him. When they call a fourth time, worry pinches my chest. What if it’s an emergency? Papa’s Kids? The family?
I go out into the hall. Mick’s phone is pocketed inside the exercise armband he must have worn to jog last night. It’s lying on the foyer table beside his keys.
Buzz.
My unease over prying is outweighed by concern. I slide his phone out of the band and peer at the screen. A 305 area code and unfamiliarname flashes.Mackie?I should let Mick deal with it when he’s out of the shower. We haven’t discussed answering each other’s phones.
Buzz.
I start to put the phone back when it vibrates again—just once—a text.
Got the eat shit and die letter from your lawyer…wtf????
I blink twice at the incensed message. Not sure what to make of it, I lay his phone on the table and re-enter the kitchen with questions peppering my mind. Who is Mackie? Why would Mick have sent him a legal letter? And why hadn’t he mentioned a thing about it to me?
As much as I attempt to deflect the hurt, I can’t. Not after the way he’d kept the bodyguards a secret, not after the way he shut me out then left. Not after he wouldn’t tell me about his nightmare. I scramble the eggs in a pan, my eyes stinging with the threat of tears. As much as I’m trying to be open and honest with him, if he can’t do the same, then what kind of future do we really have?
