CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MASSACHUSETTS, PRESENT DAY
Trauma had a way of tearing us from the present and propelling our souls back in time to relive those moments as if we’d never stopped living them. A cornucopia of smells surrounded me at once, and not a single one was the cinnamon and spice Stormy carried on her skin. The burger I'd eaten on that night eight years ago. The musty carpet of the courtroom. The sour, stale sweat and heavy, cheap perfume from the Wayward visitor center.
I could barely recall my mother's laugh or the inflections of my father's tone, but I'd never ever forget the metallic smell of fresh, hot blood, coating my hand and dripping onto the floor outside my bedroom.
My eyes were squeezed shut. I wasn't sure when I'd done it, if I'd made the conscious decision or if it had simply happened at some point in telling the first half of the horrible things I hadn’t wanted her to know. But I was aware of it now, and I rubbed my fingers against my brow before prying my lids apart to stare out the windshield at the sidewalk and street signs and the shrubbery outside that hotel she’d been staying at. I didn't want to look at Stormy though. Afraid of what emotions might be reflected in her emerald eyes. Afraid she'd realize that she had bitten off more than any one person could chew by breaking into my house and forcing her way into my life.
“You okay?” she asked after I hadn't said anything for a while. Five minutes maybe, or it could've been five seconds.
“Not sure I've been okay for a long time,” I replied, finding it best to be honest. Still unable to face her.
“So, that's why talking about Connecticut freaks you out.”
“Yes.” It wasn't the whole truth, but it was some of it, and that would have to do for now.
“Then, we won't go.”
I faced her then, my forehead crumpled with surprise and disbelief. “What? I didn't say—”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “If it bothers you to be there, then I won't force you to go. And clearly, it bothers you a lot. Understandably.”
My eyes danced over her face, catching glimpses of her heavily made-up eyes, the straight line of her full black lips, the firm resolve displayed in every one of her features. There wasn't a single bit of judgment or disgust found in her expression, only sincerity. She meant it. She'd give up a family Thanksgiving at home for the sake of my comfort and sanity, and she'd do it without regret … for me.
“I told you the right woman wouldn't run, dumbass.”
Luke's voice struck of its own accord, and a determined rush of tears prodded angrily at the backs of my eyes.
“No,” I replied, then cleared my throat to unsuccessfully push away the emotion making it hard to breathe. “The shit in my past might haunt my nightmares, but with you, I actually sleep, and that has to count for something. So, I want to meet your family, and I want to see where you grew up. I want what's important to you to be important to me, and for that, I can force the ghosts to leave me alone. At least for a while.”
Even as I said the words, I wasn't sure of my ability to keep my shit together once we crossed the Connecticut state line. But if she was strong enough to stay with me—aware of my demons and all—then I could at least be strong enough to try and face them with her.
***
Stormy thrived on being in control. I was no psychologist, but I suspected that characteristic had taken root somewhere around the time of her trauma at sixteen. She needed to call the shots, to know she had the upper hand, and while I was sure a great deal of men would feel emasculated by this, it only served to make me harder. In that way—and quite a few others, I was finding—we made a good pair.
After we got back to the cottage, she revealed the lengths of rope she'd found earlier while I was out with the leaf blower.
I tipped my head with mounting curiosity and an already-raging boner and asked what she intended to do with those. She then silently replied by securing my wrists to the headboard. She stripped down to nothing at the foot of the bed, leaving me in my jeans, growing tighter by the second, and then climbed up. I watched her through hungry eyes as she crawled toward me on hands and knees while a boulder of lust sat against my chest, making it impossible to get much more than short puffs of air in and out of my lungs. So pathetically needy and eager to please and get off.
“Now,” she purred, straddling my waist and continuing her slow pursuit, never taking her eyes off mine, “I'm going to let you come, but first, you'll do something for me.”
She crawled up further and further until her tattooed thighs were positioned on either side of my head and her hands were holding tight to the headboard. I stared upward between the valley of her bejeweled breasts, catching her satisfied gaze and wanting nothing more than to do whatever would satisfy her needs.
She already started lowering her wet and greedy desire to my mouth when she said, “Be a good boy and eat.”
And, God, I did. I licked and sucked and delved with my tongue as far as the muscle would allow, savoring every drop and pulse and moan she had to give. I worked that little barbell piercing her thin, sensitive flesh until her thighs quaked and clamped against my ears and her grip on the headboard was white-knuckled. She finished with a scream and a fresh boost to my constantly wilting ego, and then my mouth was left lonely until her painted lips came to join mine.
“I love how I taste on your tongue,” she muttered in between kisses. “Like I've always belonged there.”
“And what if you have?” I muttered back, my wrists straining against the ropes. Desperate to hold her more than I was to get off.
She sighed against my lips as her fingernails scraped over my chest and stomach until she reached the button at my waist. My hips jerked involuntarily, a silent plea for her to yes, keep going and she hummed into my mouth.
I somehow forgot about the conversation in the truck as she undid my jeans and worked her hand into my briefs. The throes of desire had the power of lulling a mind into the false sense of assuredness that nothing outside of bodily needs truly mattered. And right now, all that mattered was the way her hand fit so perfectly around the length of my erection. How soft her skin was, how good and efficient she was at jerking me off while kissing and encouraging with gentle sounds of praise. How the pleasure built higher and higher, like building blocks being stacked toward a ceiling of Technicolor static, so close now that I could almost touch it.
Then … she stopped. Her fingertips dragged down my erection from tip to base as her entire hand slipped away. I whined pathetically, gasping as the brink of ecstasy fell out of my reach.
“Don't worry, baby,” she said, peppering kisses along my jaw.
Stormy lifted away from my side and pulled my jeans and briefs down to my knees. I opened my eyes to stare into hers, pleading through labored breath, and she smiled as she straddled my waist and painstakingly lowered herself onto me, one inch at a time.
“Now, be a good boy and come for me.”
And, God, I did.
***
We lay together in the darkness, but neither of us was asleep. I could hear the gears of Stormy's mind working, almost as loudly as mine, and I wondered what she was thinking. Yet I wouldn't ask. She would tell me if it was something she wanted me to know, and after a few more moments of silence, she did.
“Charlie,” she said quietly, her fingers moving in gentle circles against my chest.
“Yeah?”
“Are you sure you want to come with me?”
I held back a sigh and nodded. “Yes.” It was mostly the truth.
My ears were met with silence once again. The smile I'd been wearing was quick to evaporate into the night as unsettling intuition gnawed at my gut. There was more she wanted to say, probably just hanging at the tip of her tongue, but too unsure of how to say it. We hadn't talked any more about Luke or what he'd done or anything after I told my story. I'd been grateful at the time, but now, that gargantuan elephant in the corner of the blackened room wouldn't stop staring me down. Sooner or later, the fucker was going to start trumpeting, and I wasn't sure my sanity could take it.
“You can tell me what you're thinking,” I said, hoping she'd take the bait.
Luckily for me, she did.
“Your brother …” Her voice faded with hesitance as one finger traced a line down the length of my sternum and back to the base of my throat.
“Yeah?” I asked, gruff and nearly defensive.
Relax .
“You mentioned he had been engaged?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Was this why they broke up?”
That made me smile, even if it was melancholy. Somehow, I didn't think Melanie would've left Luke for murdering Ritchie.
“No. She had left him long before that happened.”
Stormy hummed a sound of contemplation, then sighed. “Does she know what happened?”
“I don't know,” I answered honestly. “As far as I know, neither of us has seen Melanie since they broke up. I don't know how I would've gotten in touch with her even if I'd wanted to.”
“You didn't try?”
I shook my head, frowning at the ceiling. “I didn't think it'd be a good idea to drag her back into his shit when she’d only left because she needed to get away from it. I mean, for all I know, she's already married to a great guy, living in a nice house with a couple of kids.”
It was what I had always hoped for her anyway. It was what she had always deserved.
“When were you last in Connecticut?”
“Five years ago.”
“Wow. That's a long time to not go home.”
Yes, it was, but I didn't say so.
“Whatever happened with that guy and his mom?”
My throat seized around a deep swallow as my eyes danced across the faint beam of moonlight streaming across the ceiling. This was the part I wasn't ready to talk about. The part that I knew without a shred of doubt would make her wish she'd never known me well enough to call me anything but Spider.
My brain hopped from one flimsy answer to another, trying to settle on something acceptable that wouldn't lead to more questions, until I finally came to a brief but honest, “That's a story for another day.”
God, I hated how vague it was, and she didn't seem to like it either, judging by the deep inhale she took before nodding with her exhale.
“Okay,” she replied quietly. “That's fine. But you know you can tell me, if—”
“I know. I will tell you,” I promised. “But … another day.”
“Okay.”
I thought she might be done asking her questions for the night, and I hoped she was. I'd told her to ask them—hell, I'd demanded it—but even though she’d only asked a few, it was enough to send the blood rushing through my veins at a speed it shouldn't. So, when she finally settled back against my chest, her head growing heavy and her fingers falling limp, I was relieved and released the air from my lungs into the room.
Then, just as I rested my cheek against the top of her head and began to drift off, she spoke again.
“Charlie?”
“Hmm,” I grunted softly.
“If you haven't been to Connecticut in five years, that means you haven't seen your brother in that long.”
I swallowed, but I didn't speak, afraid of what might come next.
“Do you … do you talk to him? Like, on the phone or something?”
With my eyes still closed, I could remember Luke's arms around me, his hand clapping against my back. I could picture his face as he took me in that last time, holding me by the shoulders at arm's length, before nodding and telling me to get the hell out of there.
Grief rocked me out of my almost slumber as I bit against my lower lip until the tightness in my throat subsided, only to reply with a simple word. “No.”
***
A battering gale had blown its way through the cemetery, launching something heavy against the bedroom window. I jolted with a start, turning my head in the direction of the sound. Stormy didn't stir from her sleep.
With an aggravated groan, I tossed the covers off aggressively, then settled with a deep breath and reminded myself to not wake her. If I wasn't allowed a good night’s rest, that didn't mean she had to suffer with me.
Taking more care now, I slipped out from beneath her arm and climbed out of bed. The floorboards groaned under my feet, adding a bit of agony to the quiet night. A gust of wind replied, and I turned to the window with a look of unease and suspicion.
It's just the wind , I reminded myself, feeling like a child. But the worrying in my gut wasn't so sure about that.
I stared at the heavy blinds covering the glass pane for a moment. Temptation to pull them aside itched at my fingers so I could see what was out there, staring in from the other side.
But do you really want to know?
No , I decided. I didn't, and I turned deliberately from the blinds until I faced the door.
I walked slowly over the floor, wincing with every step and hoping the whining planks of wood wouldn't wake Stormy. The door had been left ajar before we slept, allowing a soft light to now stream in from the hall.
My life up to this point had been a compilation of terrible memories, many that would've kept even the strongest man up at night to escape the nightmares, and I had never pretended to be a strong man. And now, standing just inside my bedroom, about to step into a dimly lit hallway, all I could think about was the night the floorboards creaked outside my bedroom door, and I had—thank Christ—grabbed the knife from inside my nightstand drawer.
I don’t have a knife now.
You're fine , my mind told the rest of me, and even though I huffed a quiet laugh at the absurdity of my imagination, I wasn't sure I believed it.
The wind whistled outside. I turned back toward the window, unsure of what I expected to see. There was nothing, of course, and I shook my head, silently berating myself for being such an idiot when something passed through the light cast from the hallway. With a start, I stepped back from the doorway, nearly stumbling. Too afraid to open the door, I stared at that faint cone of light, waiting for the shadow to return. But it never did.
Holy fuck. Relax. Breathe. It’s nothing. Just go piss and get back to bed.
I clenched my fists at my sides and squeezed my eyes shut as I tried to calm my rapidly beating heart. Then, with a final release of air from my tight lungs, I opened the door, ready to face whatever might be on the other side.
Nothing was there.
I took one glance over my shoulder at Stormy, half expecting her to be awake and staring at me, amusement written plainly on her face. But to my relief, she was still asleep.
“You should probably warn her that you're sometimes a neurotic lunatic,” I could hear Luke saying. “ But don't worry; the right one won't run.”
I let myself smile at that as I pulled the door shut behind me, leaving it ajar, as it had been before. I went to the bathroom, did what I had to do, and left with every intention of returning straight to bed with the hope that I could find enough comfort in her arms to go back to sleep.
But as I left the bathroom, before I could turn back toward my room, a shadowy figure dashed across the living room at the end of the hall. Heart racing, I turned abruptly in that direction. My eyes hadn't played tricks on me this time—there was something in my house. Logic tugged at my panicked brain, reminding me sound hadn't accompanied the shadow. No footsteps or complaining floorboards to speak of. Something moving that fast couldn't have been silent. But I had seen it; I wasn't crazy, and determined to prove that to myself, I hurried the few steps from the bathroom doorway to the living room.
It was empty.
My hands lifted to grip my hair. What the hell is wrong with me? My heart had taken off at a full-on run now, as if it were set on running in the Boston Marathon. I'm just tired. I'm exhausted. It was a long day. I dug up too much shit from the past. I just need to get back to sleep, and I'll feel better in—
Another whipping gust of wind barreled against my little stone house, and although the place had been built like a fortress and could likely withstand Dorothy's tornado, the windows still rattled, and the door groaned against its hinges. I swallowed at the rising wave of nausea, threatening to spill my dinner all over the floor.
Then, from just above the stone fireplace, a framed picture of Luke and me—one of the few pictures I had in my possession—fell from the mantel. Broken glass scattered across the floor. And I swore I could smell the faint stench of cigarettes.