30. Somebody to Love
Somebody to Love
Arden
November 1, 1998
I slam the car door closed behind me so I can speak with Reese in privacy. “How did she leave here without anyone seeing her? Why?”
Worst case scenarios play in my mind. Kidnapping. Revenge. She could still be inside this hotel, held captive in a room upstairs.
“I just got a call that her car is missing from the parking garage where she left it when she came into the city,” Reese says.
“What?” I explode.
The phone in my hand rings. I flip it open and lift it to my ear. “Charlotte. Where are you?”
“On my way home. Your mom was supposed to tell you. My phone battery was dead. It’s only charged enough to make calls now. I’m going to hit some big dead zones soon. You know how bad coverage is on this drive.”
“My mother said nothing except that she left you in one of the lounges,” I grate. “Why did you take off?”
“Rose kept us separated until after midnight. Then she gave me the choice to leave incognito without you or go back into the party with my mask off. She wanted me to choose you or let you go, and she was right. What I’ve been doing is cruel to both of us.”
Something near panic rises inside me. “Charlotte, no. Ignore her.”
Charlotte says something, but the words break up.
“I didn’t hear that,” I say.
“Can you hear me now?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t traipse into the ballroom without my mask. I had to talk to you first, and that step had to come after other ones. Bronnie is at Mom and Dad’s. Could you imagine them waking up to reporters in the pasture? I don’t think your mom has any concept of what it’s like to be a peasant. She must think we’ve all got guards and cameras.”
“I could have met you back in the Hamptons,” I say.
“Your mom”—her voice cuts out for a couple seconds—“I talked to Rochelle. I want to”—static—“give us a chance—”
The connection goes dead, and I pull it from my ear to stare in stunned silence. Did she just say she’s ready to try? Or was she saying nothing of the sort, and my imagination is filling in things I shouldn’t?
Reese turns in his seat. “Well?”
I dial her number again, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I look back at my friend. “We’re going to Pennsylvania. Now.”
B rock pulls his car into Charlotte’s driveway, and Reese and I park ours directly behind him. Our vehicle hasn’t reached a full stop when I bolt out of the passenger door and into the darkness.
Charlotte’s little blue car is parked on the gravel, so she made it home. Apparently, she doesn’t own a garage. According to the clock, it’s morning, but the sun won’t rise for another hour and a half this time of year.
The guys shut off the engines, and the ensuing silence makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. No cars pass on the rural road behind us. No streetlights or floodlights lend a familiar buzz of electricity to the air or lift the deep shadows on the driveway. Our own headlights and some weak spillover from her porch light provide meager illumination.
The only sound that reaches my ears is the moaning wind that stirs drifts of snow in light eddies near the ground.
Fat flakes sift around me, catching on my hair, the black overcoat I’m wearing, and the blue crocheted scarf around my neck.
Reese barks across the hood of the car. “Arden, you’re not letting me do my job. You stay in the car until I give the all clear.”
“No one knows we’re here,” I say impatiently.
“If you get comfortable, you get sloppy.”
I shake my head, then scowl at Charlotte’s home.
“Did you have any idea how bad this would be?” My voice is an accusation.
Charlotte and Bronnie have been living here alone without another house in sight. We passed her nearest neighbor a mile back. “She could be screaming for help out here, and no one would hear her.”
Maybe she isn’t safer in Blackwater. Maybe she’s never been better off without me.
The road from her place into town winds in a narrow, twisting nightmare. A mountain rises on one side, and a ravine plummets fifty feet to the Susquehanna River on the other. She drives that road daily, through all four seasons, with Bronnie in the backseat.
She was safer here than she was with me. That’s what I believed. Between the press and constant security protocols, I imagined life in Blackwater as a haven in contrast.
I’m no longer convinced. Different? Yes. Less dangerous? I doubt it.
I’ve been in the populated areas of Blackwater, tiny as they are. I hadn’t realized she lived so far out. How long would it take for an ambulance to reach her? How competent is Blackwater’s hospital for true emergencies? She doesn’t trust law enforcement.
I eye the inky shadows of the woods looming around this property. The Blackwater Bear statue was all well and good when I imagined real bears as wildlife that she had no risk of encountering, but she lives in what is, essentially, a clearing surrounded by forest. A bear or a mountain lion isn’t going to know to stay off her damn lawn.
“Crime rates are a lot lower around here. She doesn’t need the kind of security you do,” Reese says.
“They’re lower, not nonexistent. All it would take is some stalker she met at BSU or in town to become obsessed. This place looks like somebody could cut their way inside it with a pocketknife. She’s a sitting duck out here.”
I barely finish speaking before her front door swings open with a crash, and Charlotte steps out onto her porch. Her honey- blonde hair is in a messy bun, her red flannel pajamas have snowmen screen-printed on them, and her feet are stuffed inside a pair of winter boots. Without a hint of hesitation, she cocks the shotgun she’s holding in both hands, lifts it to her shoulder, and aims it straight at us. “I don’t know what you boys think you’re up to out here, but I suggest you get back in those cars and be on your way before I have to teach you a painful lesson about sneaking around where you’re not invited.”
Reese whistles between his teeth. “I get why you’re obsessed. That woman is hot.”
I send him a withering glare as the three of us lift our hands in the air.
“Charlotte, sweetheart, it’s me,” I call.
“Arden?”
“Yes.”
When she lowers the shotgun and collapses against her doorframe, I jog toward her, fog forming with every exhale. Charlotte unloads the gun, props it against the outer metal wall of her trailer, then digs the heel of her hand into her eye.
When I reach her, the look she gives me stabs at the bruised mess that remains of my heart.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say.
“I wasn’t scared. I was—” Her chin wobbles, then she admits, “Okay, I was afraid. I didn’t know if someone followed me, or if you were federal agents here to take me in, or who knows what.”
I frown. “Why would you have federal agents out here?”
She throws up her hands. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought you were the guys from Men in Black . Alien abduction. How am I supposed to be thinking clearly? I was asleep for fifteen minutes, then I hear cars pull in, and there are big, hulking shadows of guys in my driveway—”
“No. You’re right. Anyone would be concerned,” I soothe, rubbing her back.
“Did something happen? Why did you come?” she asks.
I cup her face. “I’m here because I don’t know what you want from me, and I need to see your face when you say it.”
She takes a shuddering breath. “There are parts of my past I won’t share with you, and you have to be okay with it.”
I frown. I thought I knew everything in her history. “If you think some wild streak in your teens or smoking pot behind your parents’ barn is going to change the way I see you, you’re wrong. It’s who you are now that matters. You wouldn’t make those same choices again. Everyone has something they wish they’d done differently.”
Instead of relaxing, she tenses. “I couldn’t have done anything differently,” she grates, “and if you expect me to talk about it, this won’t work. I can’t dig it up. I won’t.”
Something was done to her. “Charlotte, you have to know you can tell me anything.”
She shakes her head.
I want whoever put that look in her eyes on the stand and— No . I don’t want Charlotte forced to answer questions or to face her perpetrator and a sneering attorney who demands she tell him what she was wearing .
I want whoever hurt her wiped from existence.
It’s not noble to expect her to suffer for another person’s sins. “Is this what you’ve been afraid of? You think the press will uncover your secret?”
“I talked with Rochelle, and I don’t think so. She’s the only one who knows.” She rubs her forehead. “It should be okay. But I won’t share it with you, Arden. I don’t want any part of it in our lives. If you can’t accept that, tell me now.”
“Charlotte, I am yours . I’ll say it over and over, until you know it all the way down to your soul. I am yours. Nothing in your past, whether I know what it is or not, will ever change that.”
Her mouth parts on an indrawn breath. “How can you say that when we haven’t spent more than seventy-two hours together in person?”
“Do you want a list of everything I know about you?” I push her hair away from her face.
“Those things are from calls and emails. I don’t know if you get weird about the thermostat or if you sing in the shower. Maybe my puttering around with constant projects or the way I talk to myself or make faces when I’m reading will get annoying. I’m a frustrating person to watch movies with, Arden. I’m always whispering questions about what just happened. I can’t control it. And those aren’t even secrets. We don ’ t know what we don ’ t know about each other yet.”
“When I sing in the shower, it’s usually Bruce Springsteen. I also do a mean ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ All the parts. It’s a big shower. The acoustics are great.”
She gives a watery laugh. “I want to be brushing my teeth on a Wednesday morning and casually hear you in the background belting out Queen.”
“It’s going to happen. You and I together. I spend every waking hour of my life homesick for you, then I dream we’re together and wake up missing you. I love you. There’s nothing that can change how I feel,” I say.
A sob rips out of her chest, and she buries her face against me, sliding her arms around my back under my unbuttoned overcoat. “I love you. I’m sorry I’ve made things so hard. I’m sorry—”
“Shhh. Don’t apologize.” I hold her against me, one hand splayed across her back, the other cradling her head.
She makes an incoherent sound, and I force myself to speak through the gravel in my throat. “I’ll keep you and Bronnie safe. I’ll make it work for us. I’m not asking for an irreversible commitment. I know you can’t do that without all the facts, but you can experience a little of the good and the bad of what it would be like to be with me. We can spend time together first without the press finding out. You, me, and eventually the kids, so you can decide if a life with me is worth the cost. We’ll take it slowly. A little at a time.”
She lifts her head and looks up into my eyes.
“I’ll be careful with you and Bronnie both,” I promise. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not your heart, or your spirit, or your body. I swear it.”
She nods, her mouth working as though she’s trying to speak but can’t find the words.
My lips find hers, and it’s a mess of a kiss. There’s not a sexy thing about it with both of us choking on tears, but it’s as necessary as breathing.
When I lift my head, she picks at the edge of the blue acrylic draped around my neck.
“You’re wearing my scarf,” she says in a watery voice.
“I always wear your scarf when I’m cold.”
“Oh.” She nods, then gives me a wobbly smile.
F ive minutes of arguing with my Close Protection Officer later, gift bag in hand, I tap on her door with a knuckle.
Reese may be furious that I’m planning to sleep in an unsecured location, and even more furious that I told him and Brock to get a couple rooms at the Blackwater Inn and pick me up in ten hours, but there’s not a thing either of them can do about it. All of us need some sleep before getting back on the road, and like hell am I doing it without Charlotte.
No one knows I’m here. The risk is virtually nonexistent.
We came to a compromise that more than satisfies me. The two of them will split the shift and do drive-bys past the property every hour. Reese is also calling in some of the team to get out here and install a security system for her. She may as well be sleeping in a tent for as difficult as it would be for someone to get to her.
When Charlotte opens her door and steps back to invite me in, my first impression is that her home is smaller than I imagined. I could place my palm flat against her ceilings without straightening my arm. I’ll have to duck to step through her doorways. I’ve seen hundreds of photos of her and Bronnie in their home, but perspective was missing for me.
I hold out the bag. “Party favor?”
She grins and takes it from me to hug to her chest. “You remembered. Thank you.”
I remove my overcoat, then notice she has a tray that holds her and Bronnie’s shoes set to the left of the door, so I toe off my size 12s and place them next to a dainty pair of My Little Pony sneakers.
My lips curve at the sight of those little pink and white shoes. My boys never wore anything with cartoons on them. The personal shopper I use favors outfits that look like little versions of adult clothing, but Charlotte sent Gabriel a Thomas the Tank Engine T-shirt last summer, and I’d never seen him happier when it was time to get dressed.
Charlotte takes my overcoat and scarf and hangs them on a wooden peg next to her own ski jacket.
“How do Santa’s elves manage to leave presents on your porch if you chase off trespassers with lethal weapons?” I ask, genuinely curious. After the first year, I was able to tell them her schedule. Before that, I have no idea how they did it.
“Bronnie and I slept at my parents’ on Christmas Eve the first year, so I didn’t find out about it until we came home. After that, they delivered while we were at Midnight Mass at St. James.”
I prowl toward her, the subfloor creaking under thin, rose-colored carpet with every step I take. Charlotte’s home is unfamiliar to me, not just because I’ve never been here, but because I’ve never been inside anything remotely like it.
I’ll look around later. Right now, I don’t want to drag my eyes from Charlotte.
I stalk the three steps across the room, until I’ve got both hands on her ass and gently, but firmly, tug her against me, until the hard ridge of my cock presses against the softness of her abdomen. “What time do you plan to pick up Bronnie?”
“My parents didn’t expect me to come back until tomorrow morning. We can sleep for a while.”
I take her mouth, and she takes mine right back, both of us reaching and grasping and fucking desperate. I’ve wanted her for too long for anything about this to be reasonable or measured. Bombs could be going off outside this trailer, and I wouldn’t notice anything but the feel of her tongue against mine, her bare skin under my hands, the gentle floral scent of her, the taste of her. Just her. My Charlotte.
She takes my hand and drags me through a tiny utility room off the kitchen, then into the quiet darkness of her bedroom, lit only by the nightlight I assume she keeps there for Bronnie.
We pull each other’s clothing off. My cock is already pushing its way past the waistband of my briefs, and when she drags the cotton down my thighs, my erection slaps against my abdomen in response.
She stares and bites her lip.
“You’re thinking naughty thoughts, Charlotte.” Kicking my clothing away, I advance on her, and she backs toward the bed.
She smiles. “I really, really am.”
“Are you going to tell me any of those thoughts?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t say it.”
I rest my hands on her naked hips and squeeze. “Sometimes you can.”
“When I do it, it comes out sounding completely unsexy.”
“Lies. I’ve never heard anything hotter in my life than the night you said, ‘Something about the idea of fellatio does it for me. The kind where you . . . uh . . . finish’”—she’d whispered the word finish, so I do too—“‘and I wouldn’t spit it out,’” I tease.
Her cheeks redden, and, laughing, she smacks my arm. “ Arden .”
We’re still smiling when my mouth meets hers, but our kiss turns carnal in seconds. I drag back her blue comforter, then lift her into my arms, and lower her to crisp, white cotton sheets.
When I lap at her gorgeous nipples, she tightens her fingers in my hair, tugging me closer. I suck and lick each in turn, plumping her breasts in my palms. Then I work my way down her body, trailing kisses as I go.
My cock digs into the mattress beneath me, and I do my best to ignore the ache of my own need. When I reach her center, I slide my hands, fingers spread, down the length of her thighs to open her to me.
She gasps as I run a single finger down her seam.
“You are so pretty.” Her feminine scent, alone, has my cock kicking against the mattress in demand.
Her breath leaves her in a shuddering pant, and I watch as a trickle of arousal wells and spills from her body.
I give her what she needs. Over and over, driving her up, watching her signals to see what makes her crazy. My own need is a constant ache, but I don’t even consider giving in to it until I’ve taken care of Charlotte. Give her what she needs first. Always what she needs first.
When she digs her fingernails into my shoulders, I give her more, my thumb swirling over her clit. When her thighs tighten and she shakes in orgasm, I grow gentler, but I don’t stop. Not until she tries to drag me up her body by my hair.
I slide up over her with a smile.
“Do you need me to fill you up?”
Her whimper is nearly incoherent. Then she places both her hands on my face and holds my gaze with those stunning eyes of hers. “Yes. Now. Please.”
Charlotte trails her hands down my body until she takes my cock into her warm palm and wraps her fingers around it. Maybe later today, when I’m not so close to the edge, I’ll let Charlotte play. Another day, I’ll let her kiss and suck me, and I’ll come down her throat. It’s one of her fantasies, so it’s one of mine. My cock kicks in her grip at the thought.
I move into position, nudging gently at her opening. She guides me into her. I take her mouth with my tongue the same moment I push inside the warm, flexing welcome of her pussy. I give her all of me, all at once.
This isn’t the frantic, clawing sex of two people unsure they’ll ever experience each other again. It’s the security and peace of knowing we will, and it’s even more intense. It’s the unfathomable experience of loving and being loved.
I maintain a slow pace at first. As it is, the feel of her pussy squeezing my cock has me closer to the edge of orgasm than I’m ready to be.
She tightens under me, and my control wavers. I pull out of her and flip her onto her stomach, then lift her onto her knees.
It’s a necessary reprieve to give me an opportunity to back away from my own orgasm. “Cheek to the mattress, sweetheart. Let me make us both feel good.”
When she gives me a sassy, muffled, “Yes, sir,” my lips twitch, and I drop a light spank to her right ass cheek. Nothing that would hurt, just enough to make her laugh and moan at the same time.
She wiggles her behind in response, and something about the playfulness, the fun of this moment, feels so damn right. Then I ease back inside her and reach around to strum her clit, and neither of us is laughing anymore.
She meets every one of my thrusts with her own.
This position doesn’t make holding off climax easier. From this angle, I’ve got the perfect view of her luscious ass and the arch of her back. Every fine knob of her spine is in shadowed relief. My breath saws in and out at the way those cheeks of hers flatten with every thrust, then bounce back when I withdraw. At the way my cock, glistening and wet, shuttles in and out of her snug sheath.
I cage her with my body so I can bury my face in the place where her shoulder meets her neck and guide her fingers to her clit, mine resting over hers, so I can feel how she moves. Learn from it.
“Show me what you need to tip you over. Please.” If I sound desperate, it’s because I am. Every passing second longer that I hold my orgasm at bay feels like an hour of erotic torment.
She swirls her fingers faster than I did. I file the knowledge away into my mental file cabinet labeled “ways to make my woman happy.”
When she comes, quaking and collapsing beneath me, I let go, following her down, clenching in an agony of pleasure.
My Charlotte. And I am hers.