35. Chapter 35
“Holy shit!” Lizzie gasps as we step outside the automatic doors across from the main parking lot at the hospital. The snowfall has gotten significantly heavier even since Bram and I got to the hospital, so I can only imagine it’s a lot worse than when she and Emily got here.
“There were barely any flakes when we were on the road,” she says. “I know Bram said there was a pileup on the highway, but it didn’t really register.”
The fat, thick, wet flakes are sticking to our hair and clothes. It would be beautiful if we didn’t have a hell of a ride home before us. There’s a good three inches on the parked cars.
“Come on,” I say as I start in the direction of where I parked the truck.
“Oh, I parked this way,” Lizzie points in the other direction.
“Yeah … no. Your car is shit in the snow.”
She sighs, knowing I’m right, but I can see she’s going to put up a fight. “Knox, I can’t just leave my car here. I parked in the emergency area. They will probably tow it, or at least ticket it.”
“Here,” I hand her my keys. “Go start the truck. Give me your keys, and I’ll give them to Bram. He can take your car back to the house after the snow stops. He’s gonna have to get their car anyway because they need the car seat.”
Lizzie pauses a second, then concedes.
I make quick work of running the keys back inside to Bram and when I get back outside and approach the truck, I see her standing outside leaning against the tailgate. “Why are you just standing out here?” I ask as I take the keys from her, hit the unlock button—but it’s already unlocked—and hop into the driver’s seat to start the truck.
I hear a mumble from Lizzie, who hasn’t budged, then I reach behind me to grab the snow brush before getting back out. “Come again?” I ask as I start aggressively swiping the snow from the roof and windshield.
“I can’t get in there.”
“Where?”
“The spaceship,” she says with an eye roll, then, “the truck!” she barks. “The front seat of your truck.”
I look around me, like I’m missing something. “What? Why not?”
She’s quiet for a moment, as she just looks at me. Then she takes a deep breath and looks away. “It’s the scene of the crime, Knox.”
The scene of what …Then it hits me. “Oh, shit,” I say, shaking snow off my hair. “I didn’t …”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t really think about it either, until I was standing with the passenger side door wide open, and images started running through my head.”
“Shit,” I interrupt her. Realizing there’s not much I can do to make the situation better right now, I tell Lizzie, “You drive.”
She shakes her head and opens her mouth like she’s about to protest, but I cut her off. “If you focus on driving in this shit, you can’t possibly think about anything else. And I know you can handle the truck in the snow. You drive.” I walk around to the passenger side, finishing brushing off the truck, and hop in just as she does the same on the driver’s side.
We buckle up, and Lizzie adjusts her seat while awkward static fills the truck cab. It’s thick, just like the snow, and I’m not sure what’s worse, the storm outside or the one brewing in here.
She navigates the truck out of the parking lot, and we crunch right over the packed snow on the road as we approach the highway. I see the light for the anti-lock brakes flash a few times as we merge onto the highway, but Lizzie is good about applying slow, steady pressure, so we don’t have a problem. But the snowfall is getting heavier and the roadway is getting more covered as we progress.
We are silent, no radio on, as her pace gradually slows to accommodate the declining weather. Once or twice when Lizzies has to brake slowly to let a car merge, I can feel the traction slip, but other than that, the tires maintain their grip on the road.
The wipers are set at their fastest speed as huge, wet flakes splatter on the windshield, and also against the side windows, darkening the cab. Although Lizzie and I are still quiet, it suddenly seems very loud in here, as the sounds of the wipers going back and forth, the tires crunching through the snow, the heat blasting out of the vents, and our own breathing fills the air.
This is so fucked up. This isn’t us. This isn’t us, at all. And it’s all my fault.
My fingers flex and curl as they ache to reach out and touch her.
“Lizzie,” I start to say, but then I see brake lights ahead of us, and a few cars spin out to either side of the highway, and I hear her suck in a breath through her teeth as the rear of the truck fishtails, first left, then right, before we are eventually spun around so we are facing the wrong way, watching as an SUV slides sideways, slowly, in our direction and—by some miracle—stops about two feet away. We make eye contact with the driver and passenger in that vehicle, exchanging a sigh of relief.
“Knox,” Lizzie says to me, and I look over at her. I didn’t realize I had reached my arm out over her chest to keep her from lurching forward, with my other arm braced on the dash.
“Yeah?”
“Get your hand off my boob. And don’t try to talk to me while I’m driving in this shit, OK?”
“Yeah,” I say, pulling my arm back. “No problem.”
After about forty-five more minutes of white-knuckle driving, Lizzie navigates us back to the apartment and, to my surprise, pulls right into the lot to park. When I look at her with raised eyebrows, she simply says, “You can’t drive home in this. And, besides,” she unlocks her seatbelt and lets it aggressively retract, “I need a drinking buddy.” Then she opens the door and jumps out.
“OK, but you know I don’t usually drink much these days,” I retort.
“No, but you can watch me do it.” She slams the door.
I follow her up the stairs and as soon as she turns the key in the lock to open the apartment door, I hear Kennedy barking. He rushes us as soon as Lizzie pushes the door open and he must be surprised to see both of us, because he’s uncontrollable.
“Easy boy,” I say as I crouch down and throw my arms around him as he jumps on me, licks my face, and spins around in my arms. “I’ve missed you, too, buddy.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Lizzie grumbles over her shoulder as Kennedy gives her zero attention. “I’m only the one who feeds you every day. Walks you. Carries your shit in a plastic bag back to the house. Let’s you sleep in her bed—”
“You let him sleep in the bed?” I ask as I stand, still scratching Kennedy between the ears.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t a habit that was supposed to stick,” she says as she shuts the door behind me.
The apartment looks the same, and while it’s familiar, there’s also a disconnect. Like she’s invited me into her apartment and I’m an outsider visiting. As if we didn’t live here together, happily, at one time.
I fucking hate it.
We both kick off our shoes and shrug out of our coats, leaving the wet stuff by the door. “The bottom of my pants are all wet from the slush,” Lizzie says as she makes her way to the bedroom, already unbuttoning her pants. “I’m just gonna change. How are your pants?” She looks around at me as I look down and pull up one leg, bent at the knee, to see a good few inches of dark denim. “There’s a pair of your sweats here, I’m pretty sure,” she says as she turns and heads into the bedroom. “Just, give me a sec.”
Kennedy is scratching at something in the kitchen as Lizzie swings the door shut behind her, but it slowly creeps back open, and I see her slink out of her jeans. I watch like a creep as she pulls them down her hips, exposing her silky panties fitted around her ass cheeks and thighs. She sits down on the edge of the bed as she pulls each leg the rest of the way out of her jeans and tosses them into the corner toward the direction of the hamper, but I guarantee they didn’t make it in. God that used to piss me off.
Then she stands back up and pulls her T-shirt over her head and I see her soft stomach and sides, and her ample breasts tucked into a black bra. My cock twitches.
Calm the fuck down, buddy.
She pulls an old Blink-182 T-shirt over her head and walks out of view, then I hear a dresser drawer open and close, and a moment later she comes out wearing a pair of black leggings, and hands me a pair of sweats, oblivious to the little peep show I just got.
“Thanks,” I mumble as I start to head into the bedroom, then think, screw it. I unbuckle my belt right there in the living room, undo my fly and shuck off my jeans, pull my shirt over my head, then, just for good measure, pull off my wet socks.
“Where do you want me to put these?” I ask, forcing her to turn and look at me standing there in my boxers. I catch her eyes dart down my body, briefly, before she answers. I’ve done nothing but work these past few months, to keep my mind off shit, and I know my body is reaping the rewards.
“Just, uh, put them in the hamper,” she says. “I’ll wash them and get them back to you.”
I oblige, Kennedy following me every step of the way, before pulling on the sweatpants, which hang off my hips a little. “I’m not sure if I have a shirt of yours around here,” she says, and I simply shrug. “It’s OK. I’m not cold.” I flop down on the couch, suddenly feeling a little dominant.
This is my space, too, damnit. This is my apartment, my wife, my damn dog.
I prop my legs up on the coffee table and grab the remote, throwing one arm over the back of the couch as I power up the TV and look back at Lizzie, her back to me as she opens up a cabinet. “Should I not offer you a drink?” she asks and, surprising me, pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Honey, as opposed to just grabbing a beer from the fridge.
I don’t answer her, watching as she reaches up to a higher shelf for glasses, her shirt riding up and I catch another glimpse of her form. She grabs two glasses then turns around and looks at me, waiting for me to answer.
“I’ll take a drink,” I say.
“You sure?” She arches an eyebrow.
I nod. “I can handle it,” and she nods back, knowing alcohol was never really my problem.
Lizzie comes around the side of the couch and sits opposite me, folding her legs under her. Kennedy hops up on the couch between us.
She puts one glass in the crook of her elbow as she opens the bottle and pours a serving into the other glass, passing it to me. Then she pours another hefty serving for herself before capping the bottle and putting it on the coffee table.
We both sit there looking into our drinks, I swirl mine around. “What should we toast to?” I ask, not looking up at her, but hearing her laugh.
“No idea,” she says.
Finally, I raise my glass, “To shitstorms!” I cheer, and she laughs some more, and it sounds lovely. “To shitstorms,” she clinks my glass, and we both down our drinks.
“Who would acshually pay tree-hundred dollars for that shit?” Lizzie slurs as we watch another episode of American Pickers.
“Just because you don’t appreciate it doesn’t mean someone else does. I mean doesn’t. I mean … you know what I mean,” I attempt to answer.
We polished off the whiskey about a half-hour ago, and we’ve moved onto throwing back beers. From the bottles accumulated before us, it seems we’re not holding back tonight.
Kennedy got sick of one of us constantly getting up to get another drink, or to pee, so he hopped off the couch and, after scratching some more at the foot of the refrigerator, settled into a space on the carpet a while ago, snoring. At some point, Lizzie and I drifted closer together.
“Well,” Lizzie says, “I don’t mish your terrible taste in television.” She hiccups.
I laugh, “Yeah, because Real Housewifes is Emmy worthy.”
“I don’t watch Real Housewives. It was Desperate Housewifes, and it ended like years ago, asshole!” She knocks my crossed ankles off the coffee table with a foot and lunges for the remote in my hand, which I hold high above me.
“No, we are not watching that crap!” I say as she practically climbs me.
“Well, we’re not watching this, either!” she says, reaching for the remote in my outstretched hand. Her chest is in my face, and I’ve wrapped my free arm around her to steady her. We freeze for a moment, realizing the position we’re in, and she starts to pull away.
“No,” I say, but she pulls out of my arms.
I’ve had enough alcohol that the blood coursing through my veins is hot and my breath is heavy, my eyes dry and my mind running.
“Hey, come back here,” I say softly, as I sit slouched on the couch, reaching for her hand that she tugs away as she goes to stand. As she turns to walk away, I grab her arm, spin her around, and pull her onto my lap, straddling me.
“Knox, no,” she protests, but she’s intoxicated to the point that she’s not strong enough or coordinated enough to dismount me.
“Hey, hey,” I say softly, securing my arms around her to keep her on my lap. “Let’s just have a conversation.”
“Why does it hafto be like this?” she asks, still trying lamely to squirm out from my arms, which only stirs my cock.
“Because otherwise you won’t talk to me,” I reply.
She harrumphs and sits back on my legs, letting her weight settle in as I loosen my arms a little. After a beat, she gestures outside. “Some weather we’re having here, huh?” And I laugh at her attempt at casualness.
“Baby, look at me,” I say, as she keeps her head down. I take her chin in my hand and tip her head up, but she pulls out of my grip.
“Don’t call me that,” she says.
“OK,” I concede. “I’m sorry, I just … Shit, Lizzie. What are we doing?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and grinds her jaw in frustration. “Why is that question always left up to me?”
“OK, fine. I’ll start. I still love you. I’m still madly in love with you. Every day I’m not with you is a day of wasted oxygen and nutrients because it’s fucking meaningless. How’s that for a start?”
Lizzie says nothing.
“Still my turn? OK. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, and I wake up every day and regret the same moment, moments, in my life. And I go to bed at night regretting the man I’ve been in the past. And periodically throughout the day I regret all the ways I haven’t yet been able to make it right because, Lizzie, it’s been too long, and it needs to end. Now.”
“Knox—”
“Nope, it’s still my turn,” I interrupt. Grabbing her ass and pulling her further onto me, nose-to-nose. “I want back in here, in this apartment.” I gesture around the room. “I want back here.” I point to her head. “And here.” I point to her heart. “I want back on your finger.” I grip her left hand. “I want it all back. And I’m not going to stop until I get it.”
I grab the back of her neck and pull her forehead to mine. Our breaths are heavy against each other’s. “Now it’s your turn.”
Her lower lip quivers as she mumbles something. I heard it, but I need her to speak up. She needs to say it.
“Louder,” I say, gliding my nose along hers. “Say it louder.”
“I hate you,” she grits out. “I fucking hate you so much I can’t stand it. You wake up with regret? I wake up with shame. I wake up embarrassed that you were able to fool me, made me think you were someone better than you are. And that everyone knows it. I wake up ashamed I miss you. Ashamed I need you. I go to bed feeling guilty that I want to find a way to hurt you back.”
As much as the words cut, they also bring my body to life. We’re finally getting somewhere.
“What else?” I ask, running my arms up her back, cupping her shoulders, and pulling her down onto me, wondering if she can feel me responding between her legs.
“I’ve thought about being with someone else. Maybe EJ. Maybe one of the cops that like to flirt. I want to even the score. And I want you to know it. I want you to know what it’s like to burn from the inside out.”
“I’ll fucking kill anyone who touches you,” I say, burying my face in her neck, kissing her collarbone.
“No, you won’t,” she says against my hair, as she runs her hands up my chest and grips my neck, bringing her mouth to my ear. “I want you to have to wake up every day knowing he exists, knowing I’m going to see him, and interact with him.” She tightens her grip on my neck and pulls back to look into my eyes. “I want you to know what it’s like to live with a permanent noose around your neck because your heartbeat is stuck there when you don’t know what I’m doing. If I’m with him. If I’m thinking about him …”
My eyes water from the pain she’s exposing me to, but that hardens her.
“Oh, no. No, no, no. Don’t go soft on me now, Knox,” she says, grinding her hips on me and leaning down to suck on my neck. “Tell me again how much you love me. How much you want back in here.” She swirls her hips on me and arches slightly to show me where “here” is.
“And here.” she slides her ring finger into her own mouth and sucks. Then she pulls that hand away from her mouth and grips my face with it. “Tell me,” she says, moving her lips against mine. “Do you still regret the new woman you’ve made me? Or do you think you might like this new version of me?”
And then she slants her mouth over mine and kisses me, roughly, diving her tongue inside and coming out, pulling my bottom lip between her teeth. Then she pulls back, rears back her arm and slaps me across the face. She slaps me so hard my face whips to the side.
And I welcome the sting.
“Say it again,” I growl, grabbing her hips and pulling her into me again, and leaning in to suck on her bottom lip. “Tell me how you feel about me.”
“I hate you,” she grits out as she pulls back and slaps me again, on the same side.
“Again!” I order. And this time, when she rears her arm back, I grab it mid-swing and pull her hand to my chest and hold it between us as I grind up into her. “Keep saying it,” I whisper against her face, and I feel the wetness as her tears start to fall.
“I hate you,” she says softly. Then, she finds her voice. “I fucking hate you!”
“You hate me?” I taunt as I start to tug her shirt up her back, ignoring her trying to elbow it back down. I tug it up and over her head and toss it aside. “You hate me?!” I yell this time, grabbing her face in my hands and kissing her as she whimpers. I reach around and unclasp her bra and aggressively tug it down her arms and cast that aside, too.
“How much do you hate me, baby?” I ask as she tries to pull back, then tries to swat at me, but I catch her arms and then, abruptly, grab her around the waist and spin us so she’s on her back on the couch and I’m nestling between her legs.
“Knox,” she tries to protest.
“Say it again,” I demand as I settle between her legs and press her arms over her head, leaning my bare chest into hers, so I can feel her heart knocking against mine. “Tell me you hate me!”
“Why?” she finally croaks out. “Why do you want me to hate you?”
I look down at her, our eyes not even inches from one another’s. “Because the only thing worse than your anger, is your indifference.”
I slide one hand down her arm, feeling goosebumps as I move over her armpit and the side of her breast, down her rib cage and slip it inside the rear of her leggings, gripping her ass.
I lean in and suck her lips between mine. “If you hate me …” I trail kisses across her jaw and down her neck, “… then you’re at least feeling something.” I suck up mouthfuls of skin as I start to descend her chest. “If you are still feeling something,” I ghost my lips over the skin between her breasts, “then I can go another nine rounds.” And I clamp my mouth over a nipple as she cries out, arching her back. I suck it hard, letting it pop out of my mouth with a sound, then go for it again, giving it a little bite, and she shivers beneath me.
“Tell me, Lizzie, are you feeling something?” Before she can answer, I move my hand from her ass and slide it down the front of her pants, under her panties, and dive into her.
She moans my name and swirls her hips into my touch.
“Seems you are feeling something,” I say as I sit back on my knees and pull her leggings, and her panties, down her legs and off her body in one swoop, tossing them somewhere near Kennedy, who’s still snoring. I tug down my own bottoms and settle back between her. She splays her hands against my chest, one last feeble attempt to push me away.
“I hate you,” she grits out, her body betraying her because she pushes her hips up, searching for me.
“I love you,” I say, as I grab my dick, settle myself at her entrance, and thrust in. She grunts and I curse at the welcome feeling of her I’ve been starved for.
I pull out, then slam back in, and she spreads her legs wider for me. Resting some weight on my elbow, I cup that hand around the top of her head as I use the other to grip her hip as I drive into her again and again.
“Fuck, baby,” I growl as I slam against her.
“Don’t call me that,” she repeats her words from before.
“I will always call you that, you understand me, baby?” I inform her through clenched teeth, my face hovering above hers, our eyes locked.
“I hate you,” she says, her eyes half-closed, and I know she’s feeling good.
“I love you,” I say, leaning down to kiss her, but she turns away.
“I hate you.”
I grab her wrists in both of mine and raise them above her head again, continuing to thrust into her. Then I force my mouth over hers. “And I fucking love you. You hear me?” I feel her tremble, and then she stills, arches her back, and cries out.
I dive into her a few more times, then follow her orgasm and collapse on top of her, our sweaty bodies rising and falling as we both gasp for air. I kiss her shoulder, then her neck, then her face as I lift myself off her.
I pull my pants back up as we shift into sitting positions on the couch, then grab the blanket off the back of it and wrap it around Lizzie’s shoulders. I take her face in my hands. “Lizzie, look at me,” and for once, she listens. “You don’t feel shame, do you hear me? That’s not on you. That’s me. That’s all on me.”
She looks like she pities me, then puts one of her hands over mine on her cheek and leans into it. “That’s the thing, Knox. You don’t get to hurt someone and then tell them how they get to feel about it afterward. No matter how much you wish you could, you don’t have control over that. It just … is.”
Then she pushes off the couch, the blanket still wrapped around her, and heads toward the bedroom. “Lizzie,” I say as she gets to the open door, and she turns around. “I meant what I said. I still love you. I’ve never stopped. I will always love you.”
“I know,” she says. “I meant what I said, too.”
We share a sad smile. “I know,” I say.
Lizzie looks down, then back at me. “Extra blankets are still in the linen closet,” she says, then clicks her tongue and pats her leg, and Kennedy springs to life and follows her into the bedroom before she pushes the door shut.
Good boy.