Mangled Memory, page 25
I lift a hand and use a finger to turn her chin to me. “You can tell me anything.”
She bites her lip, releasing it only when the words come tumbling out. “You were surprised yesterday. You seemed genuinely confused.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So…” She shuts her eyes and rushes on, “That means you were seeing it for the first time.”
“Right. And?” The penny drops. What the fuck? My face must morph because she looks stricken when I call for her. “Princess?”
“Yeah, Honey?”
“Why wouldn’t I have been seeing it for the first time?”
“Uh. Well, if you’d been there before.” Her eyes are darting, and her face is mottling from the merlot that she grabs another glug of before finding her thumbnails to pick at.
“When would I have been there before?” I’m holding onto my temper because I can see the puzzle she laid out for me. Like her photography, it’s not what’s there, it’s what’s missing. It’s what she’s not saying.
“Then.”
“When, Ayla?”
“When this happened.” The whispered admission is mirrored with a flick of her finger toward her temple.
I breathe deeply, getting my anger in check and failing. I finish the glass of wine in one go, refilling it, skipping the aerator entirely on the nearly full stem.
I sit in that awful silence, drinking the next glass, stewing on what she’s said.
“I, uh—”
“Don’t.” It’s a command, and she knows it. She better not finish that thought.
I get up, put my plate in the dishwasher, and throw the now empty wine bottle in the trash with enough force, the sound of it shattering echoes off the walls.
Ayla flinches and curls tighter into a protective ball on the bar stool.
“Are you afraid?”
She bows up, chin rising loud and proud, and blurts, “No.”
“But you were?”
Her eyes drop to her hands, and she stills her body before taking a deep breath. “I couldn’t know.”
“You couldn’t know what? That I didn’t try to kill you? Are you seriously sitting there telling me that you figured out yesterday that all my worry, my grief, my lost sleep, my panic and guilt wasn’t an act? It’s been months. Months! And you lived here wondering if I failed in an attempt to kill you?”
And fuck if my wife doesn’t surprise me.
She stands, lifts her chin, and flips a long middle finger at me.
“Don’t you dare act wounded, Christian. You didn’t wake up blind, deaf, and dumb, maybe not literally, but whatever. I woke up to a life I did not know, people I’d never met, with no clue how I got here. I couldn’t figure out who to trust, where I was safe, and how to fight my way back to me. Fuck you for not assuming that I was smart enough to suspect everyone or shrewd enough not to trust the info blindly.”
I open my mouth.
“Oh, no you don’t. Liam told me I could trust you, and I trust Liam, so I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”
“How was that the benefit of the doubt?” My voice is too loud and belies my anger.
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s see. I fucking lived here, didn’t I? I slept next to a stranger who, I repeat, I did not know. Unconscious, vulnerable. I didn’t move out. I didn’t expect you to walk on eggshells. How was it not the benefit of the doubt? Did you not risk the very same thing?”
“How do you figure?”
“Why would you assume I wasn’t a danger to you?”
My shoulders sag and the breath leaves me from my toes in an exhale. Setting both my hands on the island, I lean in and give her my undivided attention. My voice is calm when I quietly reply, “Because, Princess, I know you. I’m not writing off your temper or your follow-through. I’ve caught the sharp edge of your tongue before and surely will again. But your heart isn’t that of a psychopath.”
“I—”
I cut her off. “It never dawned on me that you might hurt me.” I stare at my wedding ring. “When we stood before our families to pledge our lives to each other, I knew exactly who I was choosing. You’re smart, funny, and kind. You’re also quick to anger, slow to forgive, and an act-first, think-second kind of woman. I knew that too. You’re only a danger to me if you are to yourself. I’ll survive anything but losing you.”
Her eyes are wide. Her cheeks are flushed. “I could’ve, you know.”
I fight the smirk on my lips. “Are you standing here, honestly telling me that you could’ve taken me out? I got your point, baby. I get that you were scared but pushed through. I understand that you did the best you could. But are you really going there?”
She shrugs.
“You’re never boring. Our life has been nuts over the last six months, that’s a fact. But I’ll never be bored.” I stare to the heavens, letting my heart rate settle and my frustration leave me entirely. “Come here, Ayla.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and digs her heels in.
“I want to apologize properly, and I can’t do that without you agreeing.”
She tilts her head, as if considering my words before rounding the island, stopping just out of arm’s reach.
I tug her into my body, wrapping my arms around her, holding her close. I kiss her head and speak quietly to her. “I’m sorry, Princess. I’m sorry you were scared. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your fear or find a way to allay it. I’m sorry you spent months on edge waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m sorry we fought when you told me the truth. You’ve always been stronger than me at this relationship stuff. You’re vulnerable and brave, and it puts me to shame. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re the best part of every day. Even when me being hot-headed and short-tempered and you being fiery and obstinate collide like they did tonight.”
And like we always have after we fight, I take her hand while I keep one hand loose around her back and we sway back and forth as I sing Ray LaMontagne’s You are the Best Thing and we dance.
“I’m sorry too,” she mumbles into my chest.
“For what?”
Her stunning face glares up at me.
“Stop baiting me. You know what for. Accept the apology.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I kiss her forehead. “I’d really like to get back to the practice part of our conversation.”
Those eyes turn up to me, feigning anger, but actually filled with laughter. “Is it always about sex with you?”
“Trying to keep my wife satisfied. And, Princess, you should know, our sex life is about me trying to keep up with you. You get a bit… insatiable.”
The blush that stains her cheeks is so similar to the one before she comes that I begin to harden behind my zipper.
Ayla
He dances, he apologizes, and he makes our sex life about keeping up with me.
Christian Barone is too good to be true.
“I’ve always loved this song.”
His steps falter before he’s back in the rhythm of our dance, humming the melody into my hair. His arms around me are warm and firm. A month ago, I would’ve felt smothered. Today, I’d call it cocooned.
He dips me, right here in the kitchen and kisses the hollow of my throat. When he lifts me, it’s sensuous and slow and erotic as hell.
“I need to taste you.” His words are guttural and quiet and rumble through me like sexual tendrils.
“Well—” I slip from his arms, turning my back to him but looking over my shoulder in a shameless taunt. “If you insist…” And I run for the bedroom.
I swear the man allows me to get ahead, but by the time I get to the bed, he’s wrapped me up and folded me over the mattress, yanking my leggings to my ankles and pinning me wide from behind. He sinks to his knees behind me and devours every bit of exposed flesh, even those I’ve never experienced before.
Fuck me. That’s— “Oh my God.” The moan that tears from me might as well come from my toes. I fist my fingers in the comforter and dig in to hold on for dear life.
The heat that burns in my core engorges my clit.
The building spiral twists and loops deep in my belly.
The moment of tension begs for release from the pressure while desperate to be stoked even higher.
My knees shake. My belly quivers. And my pussy explodes. I pulse and pulse and pulse, straining to squeeze my thighs together for relief. Instead, his mouth returns and he hums that same song as he sucks even harder.
I nearly black out with pleasure.
My husband kisses my lower back before palming both ass cheeks and thrusting into me in one long stroke. I never even heard the zipper or felt the nudge at my entrance. Maybe I did black out.
I greet him stroke for stroke until my arms give out and my legs collapse beneath me. It’s tighter without that control and I can only take.
“Christian,” I call.
“Yes, Princess,” he grits as he thrusts.
“Take what you need.” They’re the last words I get out, since pleasure overwhelms me to the point I can’t speak. I can only feel.
He’s stoking a fire that will char from the inside out.
The sizzle and burn will do me in.
The pyre is lit, and I’m consumed.
He must be too. He places another kiss to the small of my back as he pulls out, his cum sliding from me as my insides still pulse with aftershocks. “Perfection.” If he says more, I have no clue.
Just like this morning, he cleans me up. He murmurs something as he tucks me under the covers. And just like this morning, I pass out after.
I could get used to this.
33
breathing peanut butter
Christian
My wife is as striking today as the day I met her, though I’m even more attracted to her. It could be her strength. It could be her passion. It could be the red hair, green eyes, and fair skin that are the antithesis of my dark on dark on dark.
In so many ways, we are opposites; more so, we’re foils. She is the light to my dark, the bold to my reserved, the flame to my ashes. She’s the art to my science. The color in my black and white world. How she could bloom in the orbit of Seamus Murphy is a testament to her tenacity. She’s the flower that grows in the crag of the rock, bringing beauty to barrenness.
I lie in bed, one hand behind my head, staring at the ceiling, unseeing. She’s rolled to spoon into my side, one long leg thrown over mine, pinning me in place. That happened about ten seconds after I got out of the shower and slid under the covers.
Her presence calms me. Hell, it’s always calmed me. Even on days like today… especially on days like today when the hits just keep on coming.
Ren Gallo is my brother and has known for more than a decade. He’s worked for me for two years. He came to me, all the while knowing. The whole thing was a farce to what—get to know me, be privy to my business, or was it for money?
My stunning wife has spent months assuming—or at least contemplating—I tried to kill her. Me—the buffer between her and the outside world. I’m the guardrail along the ledge she ventures. And she didn’t know it. And I didn’t recognize she had questions.
Liam texted tonight that Seamus is involved in some weird shit. He needs more time to investigate, but Ayla’s dad has business dealings, questionable ones for sure, with a ghost corporation called C-Bar Holdings. The name is not lost on me. It’s a subsidiary of a hedge fund group it turns out is backed by some über-wealthy Laotian businessmen. I had to look up Laos on a map because that’s how far out of my depth I am with this. It pinged due to foreign trade documents. No matter how deep Liam or his contacts dig, they can’t find anyone local. And since real estate is always local, it matters.
Why would Seamus buy, retrofit, or rent properties when there’s no one to use or lease them? The name of the game in business is profit. None of us trade our time for anything other than that. Murphy doesn’t have the capital to buy and hold at these levels for an indefinite time period. So why would they? And how are they managing it?
And how does this impact Cian? He’s shrewd in business and zero bullshit when it comes to dealings. How much does he know about the Laotian interests? While we once were competitors, he’s made a point since I’ve been with Ayla of keeping business strictly that. Where we both want a property, we let the chips fall where they may with the bids and then walk away. Family is supreme. No deal is worth risking what matters most. Besides, Cian’s ego isn’t tied to the size of his portfolio. I’d bet Seamus probably hates that about him.
Exactly one day of digging and my world wants to crater with what’s being exposed. I slide my hand around Ayla’s hip and tug her deeper into my body.
So long as this doesn’t impact her, I’m fine.
So long as she’s safe, I’ll be okay.
Money is money. I can make more.
But Ayla? I can’t live without her. She’s my priority.
I wake to an empty bed.
Chalk this up to one of my top five least favorite things. Since our early days, I’ve hated this, but it’s an area I’ve had to “compromise on”—Ayla’s words—because she’s not going to miss the shot “because I’m a controlling ass,” also her words. She rises way too damn early. It’s an occupational hazard.
The list of things we’ve compromised about skews heavily on the side of my wife getting her way and me feeling the stress to avoid being the aforementioned controlling ass I absolutely can be.
This isn’t like last time. Or the time before that or the time before that.
Grabbing my phone, there’s no message from Fitz detailing her movements. He lives on the grounds and deals with her ridiculous wake-up times too. He doesn’t like it, but the military drilled it into him, and he was the best of the best, so, I compromise.
I navigate to the cameras and find my wife at her desk in her studio, clicking across the screen. Workaholics, the both of us. I sigh and throw back the covers, yank on some sleep pants, and make my way to the kitchen. Two coffees made, I head upstairs and slip into the open studio door.
Ayla has one foot on the floor, the other on the seat of the chair, chin propped on her knee. Her eyes roam the screen as if scanning pixel by pixel for any imperfection in the image. She swivels to the door and a soft smile breaks across her features.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Your absence did.” I set the cup down on her desk before settling on the sofa with my own.
She stares at me for a long moment, making no attempt to hide her appreciation of my body. Her eyes drift shut as she sips her coffee, and she makes a little hum of contentment before returning her gaze to me. “Thank you for my coffee. I didn’t mean to wake you. What time did you come to bed?”
“A little after one. What snagged your attention on that shot?” I use my mug to gesture to her screen.
She looks at the screen before turning it to face me. “His eye. It’s the same amber as the moose’s. I swear they’re trying to tell me something. I know that sounds hokey, but there’s something in the eyes.”
“The eye of the storm.” I take another pull of coffee as she freezes.
“That’s it. That’s the name. With the slate gray background and the snowstorm fuzzing out the edges, it’s perfect.”
“Fuzzing out? Is that a photography term I’ve never heard?”
Her smile is breathtaking.
“Come here, Princess.”
She saves her work and slides out of her chair, nabbing her coffee, before leaning deeply into my side, feet curled in below her.
My exhale is the settling of my soul. All is right in the world when she’s where she belongs.
Ayla
“I need to go see Mom today. Or at least attempt it.” I’ve been burrowed into him for forty-five minutes or so, simply enjoying the closeness and the faint pine scent of his soap. My coffee is gone and his is too, yet neither of us has moved.
His breath leaves him as a sigh.
Using a hand on his abs to press myself up, I look him in the eyes. “What?”
“Will you invite her here? Or meet somewhere more…” He pauses as if deciding on the correct word choice. “Neutral?”
“I can, but if she doesn’t agree…” I leave the sentence dangling.
“Love, your cheek is still bruised, and you have fingerprints on your arm. You can see, and I mean physically, not metaphorically, why I wouldn’t want you to be near him, right?”
Him. My father. Get the fuck out and don’t come back. I never repeated what he said to Cian or Liam. I never told Christian, either. The black and blue marks spoke to them of his brutality, while his words screamed betrayal to my soul.
“You’re not wrong,” I hedge. “I’ll see where she’s comfortable aside from there. But he’s still my dad. Birthdays… Holidays… He’ll be around.” What I don’t say is that time to cool off can’t be bad.
“I need to go into the office today. At the risk of being overbearing and overprotective—” His eyes trail to my bruised cheek. “Would you please keep me posted on you today? I know it’s not your thing, but me not being able to help you isn’t mine. So I’m asking for a little help.”
I study his face before making my decision and leaning up to kiss the underside of his jaw. “Sure, Honey.”
He jolts a little in surprise. His answering smile, though… that’s worth everything I gave to put it there.
“So,” I ask mom across the table three hours later. “How bad was the fallout?” We’re at the same restaurant we met at all those months ago in Cherry Creek North.
Our conversation was tentative to start and very surface level. We started with the weather. Not that spring weather isn’t always a topic of conversation in Colorado, but it’s my mom, and three days ago was that day.
Purple stains rest beneath her eyes. It could be bruising from my elbow to her nose when I wrenched free from Dad. It could be exhaustion. I stare at the shadows until she breaks my gaze, looking over the lunch crowd.
