CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Aspen
The jets from the bath massage my deliciously aching muscles as Cal bathes me. He worked me hard, but I could tell he was holding back. I turn around in the tub and straddle him. Running my hands through his hair, I kiss him hard and passionately. I want him again. He’s going to turn me into a fiend. I didn’t think sex could be this good, but I guess that’s to be expected when the last time you had sex was in high school with a selfish boy.
“As much as I want to fuck you again, Angel, I think we need to give your body time to rest,” he says to me as he lightly runs the cloth over my skin. “Right now, I want to take you to bed and hold you.”
I stay silent, trying to devise a plan to make him fuck me again. Maybe I need to be bratty . . . no, he will see right through that. Sighing, I take the cloth from his hand. I pour his body wash on the rag, run it down his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms. My eyes trail my hand’s movements. His body is completely insane, and I bask in the fact that he’s mine.
Once we’re both washed, he taps my leg. “Time for bed.”
I lift myself to stand. He follows suit, steps out of the tub, and grabs a towel for each of us before wrapping me in one. We both make our way to the bed, where he places two pills in the palm of my hand and hands me a glass of water. Throwing the pills back, I take a sip.
“Drink the entire thing.”
I eye him as I swallow the entire contents of the glass.
“Good girl.”
When he says those words to me, my entire body lights up. I guess that’s what people call a praise kink. I’m here for it . . . he can call me his good girl all damn day, and I would never get tired of hearing it. He tosses the covers back, and I climb in.
He leans over the bed, arms locked, both fists against the mattress, his muscles flexing. A towel is tightly wrapped around his waist, hair mussed and sexy, while droplets of water rivulet down his chest and abs. Why does this feel like some form of torture? Him standing there looking like that is like dangling a cookie in front of a child and telling them they can’t have it.
“I’ll be right back. I need to clean everything up.” He drops a kiss on my lips.
As I watch him clean the leather through the open door, my eyes become heavy. Somewhere in my subconscious, I feel the bed dip and his arms wrap around me. I stir as he buries his head into my neck.
“I love you, Aspen,” he whispers.
Get in and get out. That’s the mantra I repeat to myself as we take the winding road to my father’s house. The National Weather Service’s warning of a winter weather advisory repeats through the truck speakers.
“Maybe we should turn around and go back, do this some other time when we don’t have a chance of freezing rain.”
“It’s just a winter weather advisory. Winter weather advisories in New York are like tornado watches in Oklahoma. Did you run to a cellar every time there was a watch, or did you go about your life?”
I mean, I guess he has a point, but still, I’m nervous. The plus side is that practice ended early because Coach had an appointment. Thank God. We were able to leave earlier than expected, which means we should be able to make it home before the storm hits.
When I heard the weather this morning, I told Cal we should just stay home, but he said we had enough time, and he was adamant that I needed to put this behind me. I guess that’s what happens when your boyfriend bears witness to you having a breakdown. Yeah, that happened. Just what I needed at the time—to embarrass myself further as if I hadn’t already done that enough on Christmas night. The day we all came back from my father’s apartment, I couldn’t hold it together. With no indication as to why my father left me or if he even loved me, I was a complete mess.
It’s the same cycle over and over. Feelings of rejection and abandonment are buried so deep that no matter what I do, I just can’t seem to move past it. My mom can say whatever she wants about them protecting me, but for some reason, I’ll never believe her. Maybe I too have some deep-seated issues.
Last time I attempted something like this, I ended up a crying mess in my room, wrapped in Cal’s arms. I was completely broken, and like the true friend he is, he picked up the pieces and held me together. I’ll be stronger this time, I tell myself as the navigation system alerts us to take a right. Pulling up to the gate, I dig through my purse for the code to theiron gate and hand the sticky note to Cal. I take a deep, calming breath. Here we go.
He enters the four-digit code into the keypad and presses the pound key. The gate opens, its wheels squeaking as they run along the tracks. Trees in their skeletal forms line the lengthy drive as we make our way to the house. House. Ha! That’s an understatement. More like a mansion. What is it with these single men living in these massive houses all alone?
Maybe I’m just used to the simplicity of living on the farm in Oklahoma. There was no reason to impress anyone because everyone lived pretty much the same way: uncomplicated. Here, in New York, it’s all about who’s wearing whom, your financial status, where you live, what gala you’re attending; the list goes on and on—a repetition of keeping up with the Joneses. I don’t want Tucker to be raised that way. I want him to be humble and kind. I don’t want him to flaunt his money and status around. This isn’t the life that I had planned for him, but it’s one we are going to make the most of. All I can do is instill good values in him and pray they take hold.
“You doing okay there, Angel?” Cal breaks me out of my thoughts. “I sense those wheels turning.”
My eyes train on him as he rounds the driveway and parks. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll always worry about you.” With our fingers interlocked, Cal places a kiss on my hand, then he hops out of the truck.
Usually, I would mess with him, open my own door, and hop out, but today I’m not feeling so playful. Being here makes me sick with nerves, but I’m tired of procrastinating. Cal’s right: the longer this lingers over my head, the longer I’ll feel this anxiety, and above everything, I need closure. He rounds the front, and I wait until he opens my door.
I blow out a breath as he reaches for my hand to help me. I jump down from the passenger seat. “Okay, let’s get this over with before the storm hits. The last thing I want is to be stuck here.”
“If we had just taken the helicopter . . .”
“You already know I’m not touching his assets. The only reason I took over the team is because I didn’t really have a choice.”
I hear thunder in the distance as we approach the front door, and I look up to the gloomy sky.
Cal’s head tilts back as well.
I groan, “Think if we leave now, we can make it home?”
He pulls his phone out of his back pocket and clicks an app. “Um, I think we should have looked at this before we left. It wasn’t supposed to start storming until late tonight, but this shows a pretty nasty storm headed this way, and it’s ahead of schedule.” He winces. “We need to make this quick or make peace with staying here tonight,” he says.
I glare at him. This is not happening to me. “What happened to‘Winter weather advisories in New York are like tornado watches in Oklahoma . . . blah, blah, blah’?” I mock him. “Let’s justgo in and check it out. I am not staying in this house longer than necessary.”
As we walk into the dark house, I turn around and flip the light switch on the wall right beside the door. Nothing.
“Great!” I flip it back down. “Looks like we’ll need a flashlight.” I reach into my back pocket for my cell.
The light from my flashlight app bounces off the walls, creating an eerie feeling. “Okay, time to explore.”
Instead of heading toward the main part of the house, we take the stairs to the second floor. Cal leads the way, peering around corners as if someone is going to jump out of the shadows. I stay no more than two steps behind him. We find several guestrooms and bathrooms upstairs before trekking back down to the main floor to the great room. It’s there I stand with my jaw dropped to the floor in shock. Above the mantle hangs a professional picture of Tucker and me. Pictures of both of us in different phases of our lives are strategically placed on the mantle in beautifully designed picture frames in various sizes.
My hand covers my mouth as I gasp in shock, and Cal’s arms wrap around my chest from behind as he places a kiss to my temple. “Angel, I don’t think he wanted this separation from you, to leave his family behind. As hard as it is to believe your mom, by the looks of this, they really were protecting you.”
Remaining silent, I take in the room, then walk over to the mantle. I pick up a picture of my eight-year-old self, sitting on my paint horse, in front of our old farmhouse, with a broad smile lighting up my face.
“I remember this like it was yesterday. Mom had just bought Blaze . . .” I trail off. I turn my head to find Cal at my side, eying me sympathetically.
“It wasn’t Mom that bought Blaze, was it?”
He clicks the side of his mouth. “Doesn’t seem like it.” Cal takes the picture from my hand, changing the subject. “Look how cute you were, all snaggle-toothed.”
“Har-har.” I trace the intricate design of the frame. “I used to share all my secrets with him, especially about the boys I liked. We would talk for hours, or rather, I would talk, and he would listen as I rode him through the pasture and along trails behind our house. I would come home from school and hop on him bareback, and then we’d jump the fences to our neighbor’s property . . .”
Cal gives me a look like he can’t believe I’d actually enjoy that. “What? I’m a bit of an adrenaline junky. I like to go fast. Mom gave a couple of our barn cats to the neighbor, and that was the quickest way to visit them,” I laugh.
His eyes stay trained on me, waiting for me to continue. “When Blaze would see my car coming down our gravel drive, he would run along the fence line, excited to see me. Apples were his favorite, and like clockwork, he would always stand at the fence when I parked, waiting for me to bring him a treat . . . until one day, about six years ago, he wasn’t. I knew something was off when he didn’t run along that fence line. My initial thought was that someone had stolen him, but that didn’t make much sense. So, I went to the pasture to look for him. He had stepped into a hole and broke his leg. From the looks of it, a wild hog was rootin’ around. No matter how hard I begged, the vet said there was nothing we could do. Lost one of my best friends that day.”
“Damn, Aspen.”
“Yeah, farm life isn’t for the faint of heart. I had to go out and find that damn hog before it created more holes or mauled one of our cows. Hunted that thing for days.” I take the picture from Cal and set it back on the mantle.
Cal walks over and picks up a picture of me holding Tucker in the hospital. “You were glowing.”
“I was a mess.”
“No. You were beautiful.” He smiles, then sets the picture back in its place.
We continue our exploration until we come to the end of the hall. I look left, and through the open door, I find an office with floor-to-ceiling windows. I step inside with Cal following behind me. On my right is a built-in bookcase containing hundreds of books. Intrigued by my father’s literary interests, I bypass the executive desk—centered in the room—and move directly in front of the bookcase.
I run my fingers along the spines of the first editions: Ernest Hemingway, Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde, Jane Austen, and F. Scott Fitzgerald all rest collectively on the oak shelves. Wow. I can’t even imagine how much these are worth.
Turning around, I take in the large office. A small table with a decanter and glasses rests in a corner just inside the door. I wander over and uncap the crystal, then pour two fingers of the amber liquor into two glasses. I swirl the contents, then bring it up to my nose. Hell, I don’t know what this is, but it’s strong and makes me wince. Cal raises an eyebrow.
“What? Don’t judge me. I need something to get me through this shit. Plus, what kind of daughter would I be if I didn’t raid my dad’s liquor once in my life?" I giggle.
I saunter to Cal with an outreached hand, passing his drink to him, then I take a sip of the spicy, amber liquid from my own glass. I sputter. “This stuff tastes like straight shit.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Babe. You must not know what’s good. This is scotch. Extremely good scotch.”
Cal takes his glass and walks over to the window, resting his body against the windowsill. He observes me as I gulp down the contents of my glass and go for a second round. It’s awful and burns as it travels down my esophagus to my stomach, but I really do need something to take the edge off. Sauntering back to my dad’s desk with a new glass, I set it down on a coaster and sit in his office chair, spreading my hands out over the oak surface. Where to start . . . where to start. I drum my fingers against the wood.
There are seven drawers, including the top middle. Finding them unlocked, I rifle through them, discovering nothing noteworthy. My head swivels to the bookcase, and my eyes roam a row of books until they stop on the bottom shelf. My feet kick off the floor, the chair to rolls backward across the wood surface bringing to a set of leather-bound books. When I pull one off the shelf and open it, a shocked gasp escapes my lips. Cal waltzes over to see what I’ve found. I gaze up at him, my eyes stinging behind my lids, and my heart speeds up.
Using my feet, I scoot the chair forward until I’m in front of the desk, then go through the journal. Fumbling through, I flip page after page after page. This makes absolutely no sense to me. I slam the leather journal closed, hop out of the chair, and stalk back over to the rest of the books that look like this one. I grab all the remaining bound leather books from the shelf and stack them, one on top of the other, on the desk.
My heart beats in rapid succession as I open the cover of the leather-bound journal to the page that is dated on the date of my birth. “Bingo,” I whisper.
Cal stands behind me, peering over my shoulder as I read. Anxiety and curiosity course through me. I don’t know what I was expecting to find here, but it wasn’t this. Now, I sit in his black leather chair with his journals in my possession, or rather letters to me—and all appear to be dated throughout my life. I’m scared to read them. I consider packing them all up and taking them with me, but curiosity eats at me. I find words on the pages to be smudged—as if something was spilled. I flip through the next few pages to find the same but in different areas. After reading the first few lines of the first letter, I realize that they were written in despair and agony. The only thing spilled onto these pages were tears.