Chapter 25
25
[Genie]
I have never gardened before, and I had no idea how hard it could be. But also, how extremely satisfying it is to dig in the dirt, plant a baby seedling, and envision how the garden will grow.
And what it will look like all the months I might not be here.
The thought doesn’t hit me until our second day working on Judd’s extensive garden. He has a greenhouse and has begun some plants from seed. Tomatoes and peppers. Beans and a few cucumbers grow vertically up a thin wire. Judd appreciates the merits of farming and prefers to produce what he can, giving him the healthiest eating experience as food goes from ground to table.
Like he once told me he became an accountant, so he’d never be poor again, he tells me he learned to garden so he’d never go hungry again.
And my heart breaks all over for the struggles the Sylvers endured as children.
A collection of raised beds with a gravel path between them and rivaling an English garden is to the left of the greenhouse, and we spend the majority of our second day there.
“A happier memory is that my mother loved gardening as well. She had a real green thumb, and that’s one reason she shifted the original farm and fleet to the Seed & Soil.”
Judd has so much love for his mother, and as this weekend is Mother’s Day it feels appropriate to celebrate her, even if she isn’t here, by gardening.
Still, I’m exhausted and I’m looking forward to a night curled up on Judd’s couch until he says, “I have a fight tonight.” He isn’t looking at me as he presses dirt around a plant in one of the raised boxes.
Instantly, the air shifts around us. “Another one?” My voice is quiet.
“Every Saturday night.”
I pause where I’ve been tapping at my own plot of dirt and glance across the box at Judd. “Why?” I clear my throat of the sudden clog. “Why do you fight?”
Judd tips back so he sits on his haunches and looks at me. His face hardens a bit, the sweat from the heat of the day and the redness of the sun adding to the edge in his expression. “Why does the boy whose dad beat him up fight?”
I swallow at the sudden sharpness in Judd’s tone. “Yeah.”
“Because my father said I was weak. A fucking runt . He called me a coward because I never fought back, never talked back to him. And the truth is, I didn’t know how. I didn’t have the snark of Sebastian or the strength of Knox. Didn’t have the invisible shield like Ford or quick comebacks like Clay.”
He pauses and glances to his right. His sorrowful expression doesn’t match his strident tone.
“Did you know I was supposed to be a girl? As if a baby’s gender can be predetermined.” Judd scoffs. “And he’d tell me, if I’d only been the girl they’d wanted, then?—”
Judd closes his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs once before those blue-sky eyes look at me again, suddenly stormy and tight.
“Then what?” I softly prompt.
“Then my parents might not have kept having babies, and the girl they eventually had wouldn’t have killed our mother.”
I gasp. “He couldn’t have meant that.” How does a father say such a thing to a child? Poor Knox, Ford, and Sebastian who came after Judd. Poor Vale, to have such blame thrust upon her.
“Oh, he did. And he’d say it often enough to me. To Vale.” Judd looks away again. “He’d insult me in every way he could, implying maybe I was a girl. Too soft. Too emotional.”
Judd swallows hard again. “And I swore after that night—” He pauses, and I know which night he means. Our prom night.
“I swore, he’d never hurt me again. I’d learn to fight back. I’d learn to fight.” Judd’s hands are fisted on his thick thighs and his gaze is pointedly on me, but unfocused, like he’s looking back on the past instead of at me. “And now, it’s just who I am.”
Judd is more of a lover than a fighter , Vale had said. Was Judd trying to convince himself he was the opposite? He was more fighter than lover, as if being a loving human being somehow made him less.
“But you don’t need to fight,” I remind him quietly. “Your father isn’t here.”
“And now it’s no longer about him.” Judd’s comment is the first real lie he’s told me.
“Do you have a temper?” The question tastes acidic. It’s like asking an alcoholic if he has a drinking problem. Judd might not be able to admit the truth.
He shakes his head. “It’s not about controlling a violent side of myself. It’s about controlling the narrative. I never want to feel weak again.”
He never wants to be that helpless little boy, but he doesn’t see how very capable he is as a man. How strong he is, in body and heart. Maybe his spirit isn’t as full as I think.
In some ways, I know the feeling. I can’t seem to fight my mother. Word to word might not be the same as fist to fist, but there’s still a will in me to counteract my mother. Her negative attitude. Her toxic opinion. Even with age, I tell myself I can handle her better, but can I really?
Have I found the strength I need?
“You don’t look weak to me,” I attempt to tease him, eyeing his body. The sweat along his collar and down the sides of his tee. The thickness of his thighs as he sits back like he is. The sureness of his hands.
But no playfulness rests in Judd’s eyes. He huffs, quiet and closed off, and returns to pressing at the dirt, a little more forcefully than necessary.
In some ways, I want him to ask me to attend his fight like he did last weekend. But deep down, I know I’ll refuse the invitation, and Judd doesn’t need that kind of rejection.
He’s already rejecting himself when he’s so wrong. He is a lover more than a fighter. He can even be both, but not if he’s fighting demons that no longer exist.
His father is gone, and Judd should live in the relief of his absence. He should live in the present, not the past.
Too bad I don’t always take my own advice.
After a quiet dinner with Judd, I take a long, warm bath. Sleep won’t come easily tonight despite my aching body. Gardening is the most physical exercise I’ve had in months. With his garden in mind, I consider how I won’t be present when the flowers bloom or the vegetables are harvested. A week has already come and gone, with only two days remaining in our arrangement. The clock is winding down.
I don’t know if I’m ready to go home yet.
I also hide out in the bathtub because I don’t want to be present when Judd leaves. I could not be a well-wishing fan for something I struggle to understand.
While I’d told him a week ago I respected his choice to fight, I’d also told him I respectfully disagreed with the concept of fighting. I stand by my opinion.
His fights shouldn’t be my concern. But I am concerned because I care about Judd, and I don’t want to see him hurting, physically or mentally.
After my bath, where I’ve re-evaluated all my life choices including Greetings Ambassador and the sale of my company, I enter the guest room and curl up on the bed which suddenly feels unfamiliar after only two nights sleeping with Judd. My position reminds me I’m a guest here, not his lover. Not his fiancée.
The thought makes my stomach ache, and I wonder if our chicken dinner wasn’t cooked thoroughly enough. Food poisoning might be the explanation for this pain in my gut.
Definitely the chicken .
But the truth is I’m going to miss Judd. Missing someone is what hurts the most, which is another reason not to get overly involved with someone. Absence is definitely another hindrance to marriage.
What if you love someone and they die?
Look at Judd’s father. He fell apart. Look at my mother. In her own way, she did the same.
The sad thoughts cause me to close my eyes, but they spring open when I hear the heavy thud of the garage door announcing Judd’s entrance and then the soft thud of something against the hallway wall.
Bolting upright, I reach for my phone and check the time. After midnight. I toss the light blanket off my legs and slip out of the guest room, but don’t wander far before seeing a sliver of light coming from the library. The pocket doors are haphazardly closed, and I hesitate outside them when I notice Judd on the velvet chaise. His head is tipped back, eyes closed. His shirt is unbuttoned to his waist. One hand holds a glass of amber liquid. The other holds an ice pack against his left side, on his lower abdomen.
Pressing open the pocket doors, the soft rolling sound of their movement doesn’t startle Judd. With his eyes still closed, he mumbles, “You should be asleep.”
“Are you drunk?” The accusation is tightly spoken. Panic takes over, my tone shrill when I ask, “Did you drink and drive?”
Judd slowly lifts his head, eyes dull as they seek mine. He lifts the half-full glass in his hands. “I never drink it. It’s only a reminder of why I fight.”
His father was an alcoholic. His father beat him.
“Judd, this is sick torture.” I rush to stand before him, examining him closer. His right cheek looks red and raw. The beginning stages of a bruise shades his eye. His knuckles are swollen on both hands.
Gingerly, I take the glass from him and place it on the floor near the corner of the chaise.
Judd lets his head fall back. He doesn’t look drunk. He looks exhausted.
I bite my lip. I don’t want to ask how was the fight? Win or lose, he’s suffered injury.
My gaze falls to his left side, and I brush back his shirt. Judd lifts his head again and moves the ice bag, revealing a welt on his side.
“Judd,” I gasp.
“I lost tonight. Couldn’t keep my head in the ring.”
“Where was your head?” I whisper, my fingers trailing above the redness along his side but afraid to touch him.
“Here. Home.” His voice is rough.
Instantly, I’m angry. He told me earlier he fights the demons of his past, but his answer implies he didn’t fight well because he was thinking of the present. Of me. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t . Neither makes me happy, and mostly because it’s hurting Judd.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he whispers.
“We aren’t fighting.” I tilt my head, looking down at him, splayed out and worn out.
“You don’t approve.”
“I don’t understand.” A heavy pause filters between us. “Your father is dead, Judd. He isn’t here. You don’t need to defend yourself.”
“I do.” He snaps back. “Even arguing with you, I’m defending myself.”
I clamp my lips shut and swallow at the sudden sting in my eyes. “I just don’t want to see you hurting.”
“I’m not hurt.”
Another lie. And I’m making it worse.
For me, this is where my flight or fight comes in. I either flee and leave him to himself or fight for what I want. The issue is, I’m not a clean fighter. I might not necessarily play fair, but I want Judd to know there is another way.
A way to prove his father wrong. To fight the past by living the present to its fullest.
Slowly, I lower to my knees. I’m wearing a silky nightie I’d brought with me. Not necessarily the sexiest thing I own but something that brings me comfort. Kneeling at Judd’s feet, I remove his shoes and press his knees apart so I can wedge myself between his legs.
His head is tilted to the side. His temple resting on his fist. He squints at me with the eye that’s bruised.
“What are you doing, firefly?” he grumbles, not stopping me, hardly moving except for his chest which lifts and lowers a little faster. The ice bag on his side slides off his wound, exposing his bare abdomen. The ripples of his muscles. The firmness of his pecs. The trail of hair leading below his waistband.
“I can fight, too.”
Judd dressed up again for his fight. A crisp shirt. Slick pants. And I reach for his belt, loosening it.
Sex isn’t a substitute, but it’s one way to burn off energy, and while I don’t think Judd has it in him to engage in sex tonight, there are other ways to relieve his mind.
After lowering the zipper of his pants, I wrestle the sides and his boxer briefs below his hips. Tipped up on my knees, I curl my hand around his thick shaft and tug. Judd has the nicest penis. Honestly, the best dick I’ve ever seen, and while I don’t normally love the whole oral thing, tasting him has become a new obsession.
I lick up the length of him and then press a kiss to the leaking tip. I swipe my thumb over the engorged end and Judd hisses.
Don’t fight, Judd , my thoughts whisper. My wishes wish. Fight for me instead.
The thought comes out of nowhere, almost like a sucker punch at me, and to distract myself I open wide and drag Judd into my mouth. His abs contract. He hisses again.
I pull off him. “Am I hurting you?”
“No, baby. No.” His eyes focus on me, and he reaches for my cheek. This tender touch is in such sharp contrast to his swollen knuckles. Hands he so recently used to punch someone else. The thought should still my process, but I want Judd focused on me.
Opening wide once more, I take him deep, dragging up and dropping down his length, until Judd is digging his fingers in my hair and gripping the short waves. He isn’t controlling me as much as it feels like he’s holding on for dear life.
And I recall how he spilled over me last night. So possessive. So intimate.
That snap-crackle-pop between Judd and me is about to become an explosion of wills.
Who will win? What’s the prize?
My fear is that hearts are on the line.
For now, my mission is to cleanse his thoughts and relax his body, and I’ve quickly achieved my goal when Judd tips back his head and groans, like a beast unleashed. He comes down my throat tonight and I swallow the salty mix, feeling powerful and victorious.
When I pull off him, Judd gives me a sultry glance before he shifts faster than I’d think him capable. He winces once but doesn’t stop, hoisting me to the chaise and slipping off the seat to kneel between my knees.
“Judd, you don’t need to.” Tonight wasn’t about tit-for-tat, or even me. I only want him out of his head, and here, at home, like he said.
His hands are already beneath my nightie, though, slipping my underwear to my feet. He doesn’t take a dramatic inhale like he did last night, but he stuffs the panty into his shirt pocket. Then his face is between my thighs and his thick tongue takes a lap up my seam. I cry out and cup his face.
Judd is relentless, diving in with his tongue. Nipping with his teeth. Then soothing the bite with a deep kiss.
Holy hibiscus , I’ve never been taken care of like this. I’m his victory feast.
Judd curls his tongue and then adds fingers, and every touch adds to my sensory overload. Even more than the other night, when he started with The Pickler and ended with his mouth. I’m wound tight, and ready to spring. The anticipation is almost as thrilling as the release which hits me so hard, I double over Judd’s head, curling around him as if I can keep him between my thighs for eternity.
“Judd, Judd, Judd,” I moan, like a prayer and a promise. Yes, yes, yes. He only has to ask, and I might give him anything.
My body and my heart, which scares me more than anything.