Sunday, April 10, 2011
Wanderlust part 26 "a good man"
Here I am! I totally lied, I told you I did that ;) Anyway, all is quiet on the household front, I slept for shite, this part was done, so what the hell right? Behold. Part 26 ;)
Check out my new header! Willsin Rowe so totally rocks, yes?
by Sommer Marsden
It was short and sweet and hot, that coupling. We made the most of it, but I was tired and he was tired and we both gave ourselves over to the orgasms with sluttish ease.
I found him in the morning making strong coffee and swallowing some pain relievers.
“How you feeling, slugger?” I grinned.
He caught me up, turned me swiftly and delivered a sharp smack to my ass even as he chuckled in my ear. “How are you feeling?” he countered.
My coffee was handed to me just the way I liked it. Two sugars, real cream, in a big mug. “We can take care of that.”
I sat on one of the small stools under the counter. I hadn’t even seen them the day before. They matched the wood of the countertops. I liked the idea of that—things hidden in plain sight. Blending into the background so you didn’t notice them at first. I perched there. “So what’s today?”
“Clothes and Ohio of you want. We can stay or we can go.”
“Darling you’ve got to let me know,” I sang off key and he shook his head. I could see the stubble rising up impudently through his scalp.
“So what do you want to do? One more night here or onward ho?”
“Who you calling a ‘ho?” I teased. Then, “It’s up to you big daddy.” It slipped out. I meant it like a I’d call him boss man or chief or captain. One of those stupid endearments that people toss about—usually, one man to another. But in this case, one thoughtless woman to a man.
His face closed down on me. One moment he was smiling and open, the next I could not read even a flicker of emotion on his face. I had an urge to trace the scar above his eye. It couldn’t hurt. He was already angry. Which made the scar glow white against his flushed skin—made it stand out to me like a white flag waving under a red sky.
“Johnny. I didn’t mean it like—”
“It’s fine, Really,” he said and turned his back to me.
Shit. I rushed to him, pushed my back to the counter and leaned over to look into his face. The way I was contorted, he had to look at me. “I meant it…I mean, I didn’t mean that. I meant it like I’d call you big man or boss or whatever. I meant it as a joke,” I finished weakly.
“I didn’t tell you that for you to be pithy with it, Really.”
“But I wasn’t.”
His lips pressed together and his jaw was tight. Then I got pissed. Another lovely habit of mine. Hurting someone or saying the wrong thing made me feel stupid and inept. Feeling stupid and inept frustrated me. When I felt frustrated I got angry. When I got angry I said more stupid shit.
It was a vicious circle, truly.
“I mean, come on, Johnny,” I barreled on. Shut up, Really. Just shut the fuck up…
Softly he said, “Move.”
I grabbed his big arm in both of my hands, feeling the true potential of those muscles under my fingers. Rage flew through me—like some big-winged, self-destructive creature. I was angry at me, but it was Johnny who would take the brunt of it. “I mean it’s not like you actually killed your son. You’re just being—”
He was moving me then. His hands on my elbows, he turned me and hustled me back like a bouncer in a crowded bar when a fight breaks out. “You need to shut your mouth, Really.”
“It’s not like you could do that,” I rushed on. I was both digging my own grave and trying to claw my way out at the same time. I could see the fall-out from my words but I could also hear my mouth going. I was still talking. Why? Why the fuck was I still talking.
“You couldn’t,” I said breathless, because he was still moving me. Pushing me forward like a human tide. “Your’e a good man,” I said.
He pushed me. Hard. I hit the sofa with my full weight and it grunted under me, sliding back a few inches on the wide planked wooden floor. I was grateful for a split second of sanity that Johnny Rose did not take to beating on his women, or I would be in a world of hurt, I thought. I’d seen the likes of that before and had no interest in being faced with the business end of a fist.
“Shut up.” He hissed it, low and feral in dangerous. The pitch of his voice set my teeth on edge, made my blood run cold.
I gasped. I tried to patch up the gaping wound I had just created. “You’re a good man,” I said again.
“You don’t know shit about me, Aurelia. A good man is the last thing you should be calling me.”
“You are,” I whispered. “I know you are. You’re a good man. You’ve been good to me.”
I saw him cock his fist, I saw him draw back. I saw it all in slow motion the way I saw his face flicker with pleasure when he came or the way when he touched my lower back a touch that lasted an instant seemed to last a year.
At the last moment, he turned and put his fist through the small garden window to the left of the hearth. The glass tinkled and shattered and jingled merrily and I screamed and he made a noise like he was dying. Wind was sucked into the cabin and the temperature dropped. I was already cold, though. Surprise and fear had sucked the warmth from me.
In the midst of it all, I hurt for him. I felt guilt, too. I had done this. I had pushed him to a point where all he felt was pain.
He pulled his hand free and kept his back to me. I could see his head hanging down and his body working with a fine tremor. A paradox, he looked so massive and yet so fragile. Blood was trailing down his wrist, trickling into the cuff of his shirt. I couldn’t see how badly he was hurt or if it was even possibly very, very bad. All I saw was his broad back retreating and his feet moving across the throw rug by the kitchen nook.
I barely heard him over my pounding heart. “I’ll be back. I have to go to the hardware store to replace that.”
And then he was gone.