NINETEEN Happy 31st, Elliana
NINETEEN: Happy 31 st , Elliana
E LLIANA
In handwritten blocky all caps it says, “HAPPY 31 st , ELLIANA.”
Stunned into silence, I don’t initially respond when Diego asks me something. I don’t register his question or anything else. It’s like being at the bottom of the Potomac with only that damn birthday card for company. Only once Tristan nudges me can I distinguish Diego’s words, and even then they arrive with a muffled echo as if through a tunnel.
“Elle? Elliana, you feeling okay?” I bob my head at him, even though I don’t feel okay. I don’t by a long shot. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“No.”
My three men have closed in, creating a physical, triangular wall between me and everyone nearby. Noah is even squinting into the surrounding darkness as if seeking out possible suspects. Might whoever has done this be out there right now? Is more than my business and some window glass in peril?
It’s Diego, however, who brings me out of my stupor. “Is it your birthday today?”
He could, of course, peek at a copy of my driver’s license, which I’m sure he has access to, but I think he’s trying to keep me talking.
“It is. My thirty-first, just like the card says.”
“And you still have no clue who might’ve done this?” Diego prods. “Only someone who knows you or has dug up private intel about you would have access to such information.”
“I know you’re right,” I tell him. “But I can’t think of anyone.”
This is a mode of inquiry I’ve been contemplating ever since getting here. I’ve been sifting through my brain nonstop only to come up with a big fat blank. It’s infuriating.
Diego commences another line of queries. “Any exes spring to mind? Any where the end was... contentious?”
I shake my head in the negative.
“Is there anyone you’ve fought with recently?”
“No.”
“Anyone who might bear you a grudge?”
My gaze has stayed locked on that card, but now I peek over at Diego uncomprehending. I know what he said, I just can’t seem to make my synapses fire properly.
“Grudge?”
He’s being far more patient with me than I would probably be with somebody in my position. “A professional associate where a deal went sour. Or a disgruntled former employee. Someone like that.”
“No, nobody. I mean, when I was younger and would tell people my plans, some would be disparaging. Then, there are the rando sexists or racists. But that’s about it.”
“I’m going to need you to elaborate on those who were disparaging, sexist, or racist.”
Jesus, I don’t want to dredge up any of that.
“It’s been a long time ago now. And mostly, it wasn’t an outright attack or slur, or not any I’d worry about at this point. It’d be more like people telling me not to get my hopes up. That becoming a successful business owner was a hard row to hoe. That someone like me better have a plan B. Stuff like that.”
I’d heard so many comments like that over the years that eventually it became an incessant droning in my ears. I turned it around, though, and used that bullshit to motivate me.
“When did you receive that first card?”
I think back. “About two months ago.”
“Two months?” Noah asks, concern crinkling around his eyes, and I’m struck by how take-charge he’s been on this outing. I’ve never been around him acting so confident or stepping up to take such an unwavering leadership role. Even in the midst of all this insanity, I notice. And I appreciate it.
Nonetheless, this has been awfully damn horrifying to cope with, and all I want is to go home.
Maybe Andre senses this because his next words seem meant to tie all this up. “Diego, are you through with us?”
“I am. Keep your phones on you, just in case, though.”
“Elle baby, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll order a new window and display case first thing tomorrow morning,” my bestie vows, tapping something into his cell phone, but the store can’t be left open like this.
“What about tonight?”
He shows me his screen. “I’m arranging to get some plywood over the hole until we can fix it back correctly. I’ll handle it. You go on. I’ve got this.”
“You’re sure?” I feel abruptly exhausted, but while Andre might be my manager, ultimately Blingblang is my responsibility.
“I’m sure. Trust me.”
I break free from the barrier of Tristan, Noah, and Jackson to go give my BFF a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Afterward, I depart with my men, stationing myself behind the wheel, only to get a case of the shakes so bad that I’m afraid to drive. That’s never transpired before, and I feel embarrassed that it’s happening now.
“Elliana, why don’t you let me drive?” Noah requests of me, but I just stare out the windshield, the image of that broken window taking over all my brain’s higher functions. “Elle? Did you hear me?”
“Huh?”
“Can we swap?” he pries, watching me like he might an injured stray. Wow, I’m such a wreck.
“Oh, sure. Of course.”
He steers us home, and once inside the house, the guys go around locking and double-checking every window and every door. It makes me feel safer but also uneasy at the same time. Everything that occurred tonight at the shop still feels unreal.
As they’re doing that, I enter the kitchen and begin to hunt down some ingredients. Yes. Up there in that copper wire basket. Fresh Granny Smith apples. Then there’s the flour in the pantry, as well as brown sugar, oats, cinnamon... And oh yeah, nutmeg. I go to the fridge, retrieve a stick of butter, toss it in a bowl and throw it into the microwave to soften.
I rarely if ever use my kitchen, especially now as I consider this domain to be Tristan’s. But these groceries do belong to me, and it feels good to touch them, to pour three-quarter cups of them into a large container and mix it all together by hand. Not that I cook. Oh, hell, no. But on incredibly rare occasions, I do bake. Like now, for example.
“What are you doing?” Tristan asks me the moment he discovers me here.
“Baking. Thought I’d make an apple crisp.”
“But if I knew you wanted an apple crisp, I would’ve made one for you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.” I continue to fold the butter into the pile of dry ingredients I’ve already assembled.
“Did I miss something?” Deep gouges erupt between Tristan’s eyes and around his mouth as he studies me, not in puzzlement but in apprehension.
“Nope.”
He continues to hover. “But—”
“Tristan,” I interrupt him. “It’s nice of you to ask. But I need to stay busy for a bit. Is that all right with you?”
He opens his mouth only to close it again. “Uh, yeah...”
“I mean, this is my house, after all.” My tone comes out as supremely bitchy even though I don’t mean it to. Worse, I’m snapping at him despite the many glorious things the guys did for me during my party, a party Tristan apparently did the bulk of organizing.
Jesus fuck.
“It absolutely is your house,” he confirms as he takes a pace back, and I despise the carefulness of his voice. It’s like he’s being... deferential. “I didn’t intend to overstep.”
For the first time in weeks and weeks, I’m reminded of the reality of our situation. I’ve hired these men for specific purposes, and even though they’ve come to feel more like boyfriends than employees or contractors, dumping on them when I’m stressed out isn’t okay.
“Listen, I’m just upset, but that went over the line.”
“There’s nothing inaccurate in what you said,” Tristan says, coming up behind me and looping his arms over my chest. Not in a tweak my nipples way, either. But as a maneuver meant to soothe and pacify. “You have every right to do whatever you need to. In the meantime, we’ll do our best to take care of you.”
My eyes are hot, and I don’t want him to see. So, I pat his elbows, causing him to release me. I scramble over to my bowl and surreptitiously wipe at the tears that escape.
“Elliana,” Tristan whispers in my ear, and I nearly fall apart.
To keep from doing that, I ask him, “Slice some apples for me?”
He brushes his lips to my temple, then pulls out a chopping board and paring knife. He also turns on the oven to what I’m sure is the correct preheating temperature. We work in mutual silence, and the operation goes fast. I wonder if he’ll take over, but he doesn’t. Rather, he allows me to layer everything together and slip it into the oven.
I set the timer and proceed to clean up after myself—can’t leave his pristine kitchen a mess, after all—using some muscle so that I can feel the burn. I need to feel it, to feel like I’m doing something to expend all this anxiety and excess energy.
Yet once the timer dings, the entire lower floor smelling homey, I slide that homemade confection out and don’t even want to taste it. Setting it on a trivet that was once my mother’s, I twist to go be by myself but halt mid-turn.
“Thank you,” I tell Tristan, pushing up on my tiptoes and kissing the scruff on his cheek.
Even as I leave to be by myself, my mind attempts to process why someone would vandalize my business.
One I’ve spent so much of my blood, sweat, and tears on.
When Three Socks nuzzles my ankles, I switch to feeding her, knowing that’s a chore that unlike my baking, actually does need to be completed. Once she’s chowing down with her little peep purrs accompanying each bite, I depart for my bedroom.
Discarding everything I wore to the scene of the crime, I enter my bathroom and indulge in a long hot shower. I do this alone, not in the mood for sex or scrutiny. But as if par for the course, once in bed, I toss and turn.
For a fucking hour .
Frustrated and unsettled, I climb off my mattress. Normally if suffering a bout of insomnia—which is not the norm for me—I go design something. While everything essential is at my shop, I have a program on my laptop that enables me to make stuff virtually.
But the problem with that is thoughts of jewelry making remind me forcefully of the break-in, and I can’t with that right now.
I amble aimlessly until I glance up and realize my feet have led me to Jackson’s room. His door is shut, but I can hear him quietly strumming his guitar. I knock, and despite him not knowing who’s out here, he bids me come in, not missing a beat of his song.
When I enter, I find Jackson sitting up against the plain, slab of wood headboard I chose to put in here, one that doesn’t match his personality in the least.
How sad.
“Will you come to my room?” I inquire of him.
I would’ve predicted seeing his signature smirk coming my way, but that’s not what he grants me. Rather he sends this penetrating stare that seems to size me up, his pick going still on his guitar strings. Hastening to rise with Zelda in tow, he obeys without a single remark, draping his free arm over my shoulders and kissing the top of my head chastely.
But I don’t aim straight back to the master bedroom. Instead, I drop by both Tristan’s and Noah’s and collect them as well.
“I need each of you,” I inform them, but then qualify things before taking another step forward. “Not for fucking. I just need you around me.”
Maybe then, cocooned with them, I can catch some shuteye.
I know they’ll comply even if there’s some grumbling, but there’s no grumbling or even hesitation in the end. They simply take on the task of figuring out the logistics of four grown adults fitting on one bed.
My mattress is an Alaskan King, but as large as it is, locating spots for everyone that’ll offer me access to all of my men resembles an intricate game of either Twister or Tetris.
Despite our less-than-happy interaction a few hours ago, Tristan appears to consider this a personal challenge as he orders us about. I allow it without complaint. I feel like I owe him this courtesy after biting his head off without provocation.
Also, maybe it’s his chef background, but when Tristan is given free rein, he galvanizes us like a military commander.
“Elle, crawl up the middle. Noah, you take the left while I take the right. Jackson, lay there below Elle at the foot of the bed.”
We comply, but I have something else for our resident musician to do.
“Will you play for us? Something relaxing?”
As if he’d been waiting for me to ask, Jackson starts a lovely tune, one with a sedate and soporific quality to it. I snuggle up between the other two men, relishing how secure it feels to have each of them so solidly against me as I close my eyes. It’s a cozy fit but not too crowded, and soon, I find myself drifting right off.
I stir a couple hours later with the guys asleep around me. This is the first time I’ve ever experienced sharing my downtime with these men, as well as with more than one man at once, and now I’m wondering why I fended them off for so long.
Deep down, I know it’s because I wasn’t ready, that I wanted to keep them at an arm’s length both literally and figuratively, but that time has passed. I can’t imagine going to bed in any other fashion from now on.
This feels so right.
I like that Noah is dozing at my front and that Tristan—one hand tucked around my left breast under my rather boring nightshirt—is behind me. Jackson must’ve set his guitar in one corner because I can see it over there, leaning in such a way that it won’t teeter over.
At some point after I slid into a doze, he must’ve clambered up onto me because his head is currently lying on my stomach. I shift a little to flip over on my spine. This makes Jackson yawn, and opening his eyes in the moonlit darkness, he levers himself up on one elbow.
Tristan moans and moves his hips in an arc against my ass, and I feel his erection stiffening as he rubs himself along the cradle of my body. Turning to peek at his face, I see that he’s still out like a light despite how he’s stroking his thumb back and forth over my nipple.
I don’t mind.
Remaining unconscious, Noah twists onto his back which broadcasts the fact that his cock is as erect as a fireman’s pole there in his pajama pants.
Jackson grins at me, and these three flavors of testosterone do a number on my libido. I don’t know if it’s having them all so near while adorably drowsy or what, but my panties have gone from dry to downright sopping . I need some relief, and Jackson’s always more than up to the task.
“Can you take off my panties and fuck me without disturbing the others?” I mouth at him, my pelvis now aching at the visual of that gorgeous long-haired, tattooed man already between my thighs.
He casts me that devilish smirk as he deftly glides off the foot of the bed and hastily doffs his clothing, then eases my underwear off.
“I can sure as hell try.”