13 #2
I move the cards into a neat little pile, carefully folding them in their original envelopes, like all the countless times I’d watched my father do that. He lives on in every single little thing.
Maybe it’s finally time to face the damage I’ve done. Put things back where they should be.
It’s not even the full moon yet, and I feel myself losing control at the mere thought of Ava. I don’t know what would have made it worse this time, except her. Even now, every time I turn around, I find myself thinking of her, chasing her presence.
It feels a little like being sick or drunk. The way your skin burns before you throw up, sweat gathering on the back of your neck, the way it makes the world around you swim. Distantly, I know I can’t let myself anywhere near her. I can’t risk hurting her.
I need to get in the brewery’s basement, and lock myself in. Possibly during the day too.
Scribbling out a note that I’m taking a couple of personal days, I can’t think straight enough to come up with an actual excuse. I’m sure there’s many options that would fit, but my mind isn’t in its most rational place.
Whatever, it wouldn’t be the first time a little nepotism saved my ass.
Passing one of the thin, industrial-era windows set into the brewery’s old brick walls, I glimpse the moon, pale as a ghost in the dimming evening.
Its grip tightens on me, raising my hackles and temperature in one smooth motion, I stagger, gripping the bar on the iron staircase for support.
My vision swims momentarily, and I rake open as many buttons as I can on my shirt, panting, trying to shake the fever creeping up my skin.
And like a dog pacing in its cage, I find myself in the same loop I’ve been all day, unlocking my phone to stare at a text from Ava.
I pull down my notifications to avoid triggering the “read receipts,” a terrible habit of mine, leaving the text unopened, only the now-almost daily greeting of ‘good morning, i miss you . . . ” Whatever else she might have typed hides behind where the preview ends.
My teeth click together as I lock the screen again to keep myself from opening it. It’s not much of an exercise in self-discipline, or if it is, I’ve already failed from the number of times I’ve done this.
I’ve thought about just responding, falling into conversation with her for hours, every other thing in my life becoming background noise to this until one of us caves and suggests meeting in person.
The movement to unlock the screen and pull the words from her up again is sickeningly habitual, it’s open again with barely a thought, and I don’t even realize I’m here again until staring at the same few words gets interrupted, pushed aside by a new text from Aiden, barely a few minutes after he left.
‘I’m extending ur curfew to 10’ followed by a chain of emojis I don’t understand.
Frowning, I try to decipher the purpose of the ghost emoji beside the monkey-covering-its-face one, when the sweet smell of her takes my mind’s tether in hand.
It doesn’t matter that I was headed toward the basement, it’s not even a choice. I follow it, greedy for more as her scent grows stronger, realizing too late it leads back to my office. Ava is just inside, sitting on the edge of my desk, bent over my calendar, scribbling something.
Even though I knew it would be her, my heart nearly trips out of my chest.
She looks like a dream, a loose T-shirt tucked into a long flowy skirt, the ends of her hair still wet from a shower. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought we had somewhere to be.
There’s a weak, wobbly feeling in my ribs as I watch her cap the pen, returning it to the mug. Oh, it feels like death.
She starts picking up the little things on my desk, touching the little memories and stray bits of my personal life that end up there.
Her attention moves along to the dried boutonniere flowers from my ruined wedding.
After the chaos of that night, it’s in a much worse state than it started, only a squashed bud and frazzled stem of baby’s breath left, blood dried over the white petals.
Her face splits into a shy smile as she looks up and realizes I’m standing in the doorway, and she nearly knocks over the mug. She flips the page down again like she hopes I won’t see what she wrote.
“Oh, hey! Hope it’s ok for me to drop by, I just . . . I was nearby. Aiden said you were up here.”
That idiot.
I cross the room to her in a few strides without thinking. If I had, I’d have known this was a bad idea.
“I texted you, but I don’t know if you saw it—”
I devour the little noise of surprise she makes, my mouth meeting hers without any preamble of conversation.
Kissing her is sweet and intoxicating, making me forget where we are, everything.
I pull her further into the room as she giggles against my mouth, the world turning dizzily around us until she backs up into my desk.
With barely a break between kisses, I push her hips further back on my desk, hiking up the edge of her skirt to run my hand up her soft thigh.
Why’d she have to make this so easy for me today?
“I know we said just sex, but you can still say hello to me,” Ava gasps as my fingers find the crux of her thighs, the seam of her sweet cunt, wet and needy. She’s not even wearing underwear. My blood heats, my cock hard and ready and straining for her.
I try to say hello, to match her snarky tone, but it comes out a growl at best. “Hello, Ava.”
I wish that I could say I was writing poems to the shape of her. I wasn’t. I was salivating over her ass, biting my lip thinking about grabbing it and slapping it, the things I would do to it if she gave me even an inch. The noises I would wring from her. I would make her my own damn squeaky toy.
Her breath hitches as she murmurs, “Hi, Logan. Nice weather we’re having, right?”