Chapter 17 #2
I wake my girlfriend with reverent kisses, starting with the hollow of her throat, then trailing down her breasts before tonguing her generous nipple and sucking it into my mouth.
Her moans urge me on, my fingers traveling to that beautiful triangle between her thighs as my mouth and hand coax her to climax.
With a rapt reverence, I feast my eyes upon her face, witnessing her succumb and unravel with parted lips that are as sexy as her parted legs.
Positioning myself above her, I sink into her warm, welcoming center and we make love, our eyes fixed to one another as I thrust into her hard and slow.
I love you.
This all-encompassing thought emerges in my mind. Undiluted. Unflinching. Unimpeachable.
I don’t dare say it. I barely dare think it. My body speaks it anyway, and I’ll be damned, but I think she’s wordlessly telling me the same.
The emotion between us lays thick and tangible, and I’m lost to it, to her, drenched by the depth of it.
Long after my orgasm abates, we stay coupled, sharing unhurried kisses fueled with devotion.
When it’s time to roll, we pack up and say our goodbyes. Soon we’re driving home on Highway 1, giving us glimpses of the rugged Pacific coastline. Windows down, we savor it all: the sea, the sun, the high of the trip.
We stop in Muir Beach for lunch, indulging in freshly steamed Dungeness crabs and tangy sourdough bread, butter dribbling from our lips.
Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, its signature orange beams flicker past, and I wonder if this is the last time I’ll cross it for a long while. I’ve got Jacqui’s hand in mine, both of us soaking up the waning hours of this memorable weekend.
I pull up to the house, and we share languorous kisses in my fastback, neither of us eager to part.
I’m starting to think old Billy Shakespeare knew what he was talking about when he penned “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” I’ve only fallen harder and deeper for this woman, and I’m painfully aware the clock is winding down on our time together after some of the best weeks of my life.
“I will never get enough of you,” I murmur.
“Same,” she breathes.
I’m more addicted to her presence than ever. More drawn to her than any other woman prior. And leaving her is going to suck. But I can’t say I’m not excited about what awaits in Florida either. I’m wondering if there’s any way to salvage whatever this is with Jax.
When we can’t put it off any longer, I tuck her into her VW, cracking a half-smile at how even her yellow Bug matches everything about her, from her blond hair to golden eyes to lighthearted disposition.
She waves as her car putters past, and my affectionate gaze follows until she disappears over the crest of the hill.
Returning my attention to the task at hand, I open the fastback and start hauling gear up to the house.
The phone rings before I’m even through the door. I want to ignore it, deal with what’s left to bring in, but at the last second, I pick up.
“Mick,” Townshend says, his voice tense. “Dad had a heart attack. It’s serious.”
Well, shit.
“How soon can you be here?”
My knee-jerk reaction is why? But I don’t say it.
I throw some clothes and other essentials in a duffel bag and fly out the door, driving back across the bay, this time on the San Mateo Bridge. Opposite bridges. Opposite reasons I’m crossing them.
Loud music and chain smoking help keep my thoughts from completely nosediving. I’ve spent little time around my father since he moved to Menlo Park a few years ago and don’t want to be here now. But I guess it’s the right thing. Fuck if I know.
I go straight to the hospital, extinguish my latest cigarette, and head to the floor Townshend instructed. My brothers greet me with grim faces. Townshend grips me to him first, then Graham.
My stepmother Erica follows, throwing herself into my frame despite that we’re veritable strangers. She’s short but stout, and I pat her back lightly with one arm, uncomfortable as hell.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, lying through my teeth. Maybe that makes me an asshole.
We stand in a circle, and I shove my hands in my pockets. “So…how is he?”
“Not good,” Townshend answers. “He’s not stable yet.”
“He was complaining about pressure in his chest last night,” Erica says, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief I recognize as my father’s.
“We thought it was indigestion. Your father’s diet is terrible.
I’ve been telling him that for years. Always with the red meat, and he likes it bloody.
Disgusting, if you ask me.” She grimaces.
“And the amount of salt that man uses…all the more reason he’s in this state. ”
“But then what?” I prompt. “He was fine?”
“He was uncomfortable,” she admits. “I gave him some Mylanta and that seemed to help. He woke up this morning feeling tired but better. We didn’t think much of it until he dropped to the floor a couple of hours ago.
He had that pain down the left arm…that’s always one of the main signs of a heart attack.
I immediately called 911. The paramedics came, loaded him into the ambulance, and brought him here. ”
I nod, because what is there to really say? “You haven’t seen a doctor yet?”
They all shake their heads.
“Thank God you’re here,” Erica says, squeezing my hand.
This whole situation is surreal and such a drag.
I barely know this woman and don’t want to, if I’m honest. I certainly don’t care about the old man after the banner childhood he provided.
All I can do is hope it’s over soon so I can go back to my life.
Until then, it looks like I’m stumbling through this mess, pretending to care.