Tempted

“But you were scared. You’re still scared, remembering it.”

“I was ten. I didn’t know any better. My dad wouldn’t have done anything to hurt me.”

Gentle but firm, Alex squeezed the tension in my shoulder. He found the trigger point. My body wanted to melt into that simple touch, to give up the coils of anxiety woven into my muscles. I didn’t move, and we stayed like that, linked by the touch of his fingertips.

The flash of lightning and almost instantaneous crash of thunder made me jump. I slipped a little, but Alex was there with a hand under my elbow and a firm forearm for me to grab. I didn’t fall.

The power went out with a bleat from the microwave and came back on a moment later with a similar, electronic cry. Another rumble followed another flash, and the power stayed out. Night hadn’t fallen but the afternoon had gone dark enough to cast the kitchen into shadow.

Darkness reveals as much as it hides, sometimes. We were touching, hand to shoulder, hand to arm, hand to elbow. We dripped. We breathed. My teeth had stopped chattering, because of the heat.

“He was drunk,” I said.

Alex’s fingers squeezed again. I never said that aloud. We all knew, my sisters and my mother and I, but we never said it aloud. I never even said it to James, the man to whom I’d bound my life.

“He couldn’t get us back in. The water came over the sides and up to my knees, and I thought we were going to die. I was ten,” I said again, like it was important.

Alex said nothing, but we moved closer to each other anyway. The hem of his jeans caressed the skin of my foot revealed by my flip-flop. His shirt dripped onto my bare arm, and the water was cold.

“Families suck,” Alex said.

The power came back on. We moved apart. By the time James came home, I’d made dinner and we ate while they laughed together and I put a smile on and pretended it was real.

My mother was dithering. I didn’t know whether to scream or take pity on her and simply remove the choices that had sent her into such a frenzy. The air in the attic was so hot it was like breathing steam.

“Mom, just pick out a couple and let’s get downstairs. Or better yet, bring the boxes downstairs and we’ll look at them there.”

“Oh, no, no,” my mother said, her hands fluttering like birds over the carefully labeled boxes of photographs. “I’ll just be a minute. There are so many nice ones ….”

I bit my tongue against a sharp retort and craned my neck to see the pictures she’d lifted. There were a lot of nice ones. Nobody could ever say my parents weren’t photogenic, not even in the butt-ugly 1970s prairie-style wedding gown and brown tuxedo with the yellow ruffled shirt.

“How about this one?” She held up a portrait-size photo of the two of them. She had Farrah Fawcett wings in her hair and he had mutton-chop sideburns. They looked happy.

“Perfect.”

“I don’t know.” She dithered some more, going back and forth from one to the next, the only difference between the two was the width of their smiles. “This one is nice, too ….”

The heat sapped my patience; so had the lack of sleep the night before. I’d dreamed again of the weight of stones in my pockets and water closing over my head. “Mom. Just pick one!”

She looked up. “You pick, Anne. You’re so good at that sort of thing.”

I reached for the one closer to me. “This one.” I put it in the pile of others she’d chosen for the collage Patricia wanted to put together.

“Oh, but that one—”

I gathered them up and tucked them into the manila envelope for safekeeping. “I have to get out of here before I pass out. I’ll take these.”

Without waiting for her answer, I ducked through the low-hanging eaves and down the set of pull-down stairs. Compared to the stifling heat of the attic, the second floor felt like the arctic. My vision blurred for a moment and I swallowed hard against a swirl of nausea. I could blame it on the attic, but I almost always felt a twinge of stomach upset whenever I stood in the place I was now.

The stairs from the first floor came out in the middle of the second level. We had no upper hallway, just a square cordoned off by banister railing surrounding the stairs. The three bedrooms and the bathroom all opened off this square. As they’d always been, the doors were cracked open to keep the breeze flowing.

Mary, at home for the summer while she waited to return to law school in Pennsylvania, had taken over the room that had been mine and Patricia’s. Claire had the room she’d shared with Mary all to herself. They still shared the single bathroom, but with only two instead of four, the fighting for the shower probably never reached the epic proportions it had when we all lived at home.

The door to my parents’ bedroom was closed, the only one to ever remain that way. Closed to keep in the cooler air from the shadowed side of the house, and the air from their window air conditioner. Closed to keep us out, as children, when our dad had “a headache” and needed to “rest.” A closed door that shut us out but didn’t keep us from hearing the shouting.

“Anne?” My mother’s flushed face appeared in front of me. She wore her curls shorter than mine, in a cut that emphasized the bright blue of her eyes. She’d stopped coloring her hair and now two side streaks of white painted the dark auburn. I didn’t need a time machine to know what I’d look like as I aged. I only had to look at my mom.

The world swam and I swallowed again. Dizziness swept over me and I gulped in air that no longer felt so cool.

“Sit down.” She might have been held hostage by indecision at having to choose which pictures to use, but my mother didn’t hesitate now. In a house full of pale-skinned redheads, fainting had been a common occurrence. “Put your head between your knees.”

I did as she said, knowing well enough the warning signs of buzzing in my ears and flashing spots in my vision. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth with slow, measured breaths. She brought a cold, damp washcloth and laid it over the back of my neck. It only took a few minutes before the discomfort of the balustrade digging into my back was worse than the dizziness. My mom brought me a plastic cup of ginger ale, cold but without ice, and I sipped it.

“Should I ask if there’s something you want to tell me?” she asked, and when I looked up, her eyes were twinkling.

I shook my head, only slightly, not wanting to send myself back into feeling faint. “It was the heat, Mom. That’s all. I didn’t eat breakfast, either.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

My mother wasn’t in my face about having kids the way Mrs. Kinney was. My mom adored her grandchildren, Patricia’s son, Tristan, and daughter, Callie, but she wasn’t the sort of grandma who heat-sealed photos of her grandkids onto tote bags or wore sweatshirts that said “Grammy’s Gang” and had small embroidered stick figures representing each grandchild. My mom loved her grandkids and was happy to take them places and just as happy to send them home when she was done.

I sipped more ginger ale, feeling better. “Mom, I’m not pregnant.”

“Stranger things have happened, Anne.”

They had happened, and to me, but she hadn’t noticed back then. Or if she did, had stayed silent in the face of early morning sickness and fainting spells, of sudden bursts of hysteria and long, telling silences.

“I’m not. I’m just overheated.” My stomach rumbled. “And hungry.”

“Come downstairs. We’ll have a late lunch. It’s almost four o’clock. What time do you have to be home?”

I didn’t have to be home at any time. Alex had left the house early that morning with mention of seeing some people about projects that hadn’t been my business, and James had gone to work. I expected him home around six, but I didn’t have to be there when he walked in the door.

“I should leave soon. I have time for a sandwich. I think we might be going out to eat, later, when James and Alex both get home.”

My mother, however, had the long-time habit of being home when my father got home. This was a useless attempt at restricting his drinking; if she could keep him occupied with household tasks for a while before he settled into the easy chair, he might drink less. Or, he might not. The futility of the effort didn’t seem to keep her from trying.

I didn’t want to be here, however, when my dad got home. There would be much joviality on his part and much tension on mine as I counted the number of times he refilled his glass of “iced tea,” each time adding more whiskey and less tea. Once, as children, Patricia and I had hidden the tea bags. We thought if there was no tea, there’d be no special ingredient, either. It hadn’t worked.

“Oh, James’s friend’s still there? How long is he planning on staying?”

“I’m not sure.”

I followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the ceiling fan stirred the air into a semblance of cool. It hadn’t changed much, that kitchen. The same daisies nodded on the wallpaper and the same yellow curtains hung at the windows. My mother had talked a lot about redecorating, but I suspected the enormity of choosing a new paint color, new fabric for window treatments, new potholders, had proven too much for her. We tried, sometimes, the four of us, to encourage her. But what did I care if my mother never changed the pattern on her walls? I hadn’t lived in that house since I was eighteen; if God was good I’d never have to live there again.

“Is he nice? Do you like him?” She pulled out plates, bread, lunchmeat, mustard. A jar of pickles.

I grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry. “He’s nice. Sure. But he’s not my friend, he’s James’s.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t be yours.”

My mother had befriended my father’s buddies, opening the house to poker games and football-watching parties. Backyard picnics. She claimed as friends the wives of these men my dad brought home, but they only seemed to get together with their husbands in tow. No luncheons or shopping trips, no ladies’ night at the movies. Those things she did with her sister, my aunt Kate, if she did them at all. The rest of it was an attempt at keeping him home. If he was home, he wasn’t out driving over someone’s dog. Or their child.

“He’s only staying for a little while,” I told her. “Until he gets his new business started.”

“What does he do?” My mom looked up from the mustard she was slathering on her bread.

“I … he had some sort of transportation business in Singapore.” That was all I knew.

My mom finished making the sandwiches and reached for her leatherette cigarette case. Most smokers had brand loyalty, but my mom usually bought whatever was cheapest. Today they came in a plain white pack that looked sort of like a deck of playing cards. I didn’t bother asking her not to light up, though I did reach to pull my plate far out of the way.

“Singapore, oh, that’s very far away.” She nodded and lit her cigarette, drew in smoke, let it out. “How long did you say James knew him?”

“Since eighth grade.” Suddenly ravenous, I fell to the sandwich with gusto, adding a handful of crispy chips to my plate. They were kettle-cooked, the sort I never bought at home because I tended to finish the entire bag in front of an especially good movie marathon.

There’s no place like home. Ain’t that the truth? Home for me would always be the smells of cigarettes and cheap hairspray, and the taste of greasy, kettle-cooked chips. I suddenly felt weepy, all at once, my emotions as much of an up-and-down roller coaster as the ride I’d taken with Alex the day before.

My mother, bless her, didn’t seem to notice. We had a lot of practice avoiding the discussion of sadness. I think maybe it had become habit for her to talk over the sound of surreptitious sniffles. She chattered on about some movie she’d watched and a cross-stitch pattern she was intending to try. I got myself under control by concentrating on finishing my sandwich, but it was time for me to go.

I wasn’t fast enough. The back door slammed, the way it had done a hundred thousand times when I was a kid. I heard the clump of heavy boots.

“I’m hooooooome,” boomed the voice of my father.

“Dad’s here,” my mother said, unnecessarily.

I stood. He came into the kitchen. His eyes were already red, his smile broad, his forehead sweating. He held out his arms to me and I went obediently, no choice but to suffer the embrace. He smelled like sweat and liquor, like maybe he sweated booze now. I wouldn’t have been surprised.

“How’s my girl?” My dad, Bill Byrne, stopped himself from knuckling my head … but only barely.

“Fine, Dad.”

“Staying out of trouble?”

“Yes, Dad” was my dutiful answer.

“Good, good. What’s for dinner?” He looked at my mother, who looked almost guiltily at our plates.

“Oh … are you hungry?” She began cleaning the mess like she was destroying evidence. She’d cook him a full dinner even if she wasn’t hungry herself.

“What do you think?” He grabbed for her, and she giggled, flapping her hands at him. “Annie, you staying for dinner?”

“No, Dad. I’ve got to get home.”

“Bill, she’s got to get home, of course.” My mother shook her head. “She’s got James waiting for her. And a guest. Alex … what did you say his name was?”

“Kennedy.”

My dad looked up. “Not John Kennedy’s boy.”

I laughed. “No, Dad. I don’t think so.”

“Not John Kennedy the president,” my father said. “John Kennedy who’s married to Linda.”

“I don’t really know.” Leave it to my dad to think he knew Alex’s parents.

“Ah, well. Doesn’t matter. What’s he doing in your house?”

“He’s James’s friend,” my mother put in quickly as she pulled the makings of dinner from the freezer. “He’s come for a visit. He’s been in Singapore.”

“Yeah, that’s John’s boy, then.” My dad looked satisfied with himself, like he’d sleuthed the answer to some great mystery. “Alex.”

It was useless to point out I’d already told him his name. “Yes. You know his dad, huh?”

My father shrugged. “I see him around sometimes.”

Around. I knew what that meant. At the bars.

“He’s James’s friend,” I repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. “He’s just staying for a little while.”

“But you got to get back to him, I get it. Go on. Go.” My dad waved a hand. “Get out of here.”

My dad opened the cupboard and pulled out a glass. Another cupboard gave up the bottle. I loved my parents, both of them, but I couldn’t stay to watch. I made my goodbyes and stole away the photos of them in their youth, leaving them to what they’d made of their lives.

Chapter 05

Alex wasn’t home when I returned, but James’s truck was in the driveway. He couldn’t have been home for long, as he hadn’t even showered. I found him headfirst in the fridge, and I took the chance to squeeze his denim-clad ass.

“Hey, you—” He whirled, his grin faltering for a moment before he grabbed me around the waist. “What are you doing?”

“I should ask that of you. What are you doing home so early?” I slipped my arms around his neck and tipped my face for a kiss.

“I was waiting on a couple of the subcontractors to bring some stuff and they cancelled, so I came home.” He brushed his lips to mine. “Hello.”

I laughed. “Hello.”

His hands crept from my waist to my ass. “I’m hungry.”

“I thought we were going to go out for dinner tonight ….” The nip of his teeth on my jaw stopped me, and I wriggled. “Have a snack!”

“I know what I want for a snack.” His hand slid between my thighs and pressed upward. “Some of this, and a little of that …”

Any other time I would have opened my legs and my mouth for him. Today I pushed him away. I laughed as I did it, but it was still a refusal.

“If you want a snack get one from the fridge,” I said. “If you want something else—”

“I do.” He reached out, pulled me close again. Inside the worn denim of his jeans, his cock was stiff.

I didn’t yield. “James, cut it out.”

He got the picture. He didn’t let me go, but he did stop trying to feel me up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. But we can’t get busy in the kitchen, okay? In case you forgot, we have a houseguest who could come home at any moment.”

I pushed past him to open the fridge myself. The chips had made me thirsty. I pulled out a can of diet cola. As I was popping the tab, James grabbed me again around the waist, snugging me in close to him. He tucked his chin against my shoulder, his cock hard on my ass and his hands flat on my stomach.

“That will make it more exciting,” he whispered. “We’ll hear his car in the driveway, anyway. C’mon, baby. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“No!” I tried to sound stern, but his hands had begun roaming again. He cupped one of my breasts while the other hand rubbed my side. “James, no. Forget it. We wouldn’t hear him, he’d walk right in on us. It would be awful.”

“Why would it be awful?” His voice had taken on a familiar, seductive cadence, the one he used to get me to do pretty much anything.

“It would be … rude, at the very least.” I wasn’t winning this argument. His hands were too skilled. I wanted to please him too much.

“Alex wouldn’t care. Trust me.”

I turned to face him, my can of cola held out to the side to prevent spilling. “He might not. But I would!”

He stopped. Looked at me. I’ve always been able to read James’s face, and he’s never had any reason to hide anything from me. Today, though, his expression was familiar and still indecipherable.

“Think about it,” he murmured. He turned me as he spoke. Put my hands on the center island. His hands went to my hips, anchoring me as he pushed my feet apart with one of his. “Think about me fucking you, right here like this.”

The marble was cool under my fingertips. I pushed the soda can aside to spread my hands flat. James pressed against me from behind.

“All I have to do is take down your pants and your panties,” he continued. His hand moved between my legs again, stroking me through my jeans. “I’ll rub you. Think how good it will feel.”

It did feel good. Pleasure coursed through me. I looked to the back door, to the small square of driveway I could see. I pushed back against him.

“It will feel good in the bedroom, too,” I said. “And we don’t have to worry about Alex coming home.”

“C’mon, doesn’t it get you hot, just a little? Thinking about him finding us?” He rubbed a little harder. Under his fingers my body responded. I got wet for him. “Think about me fucking you, just like this, Anne. And he comes in …”

“And what?” I turned to face him, effectively saving myself from further seduction by fingertip. “What happens then in your little fantasy, James? Is he wearing a pizza delivery costume and I suck him off while you finish fucking me?”

I spoke louder than I’d meant to, and James stepped back. I felt on edge, tingly, aroused and disgruntled, too. Random fantasies were one thing, and we’d never been shy about sharing even the most ridiculous. But they’d never been about anyone real.

James said nothing. I stared. I heard the faint fizz of my soda’s carbonation evaporating.

“James?”

He smiled. Smirked, actually. “Well?”

He glanced over my shoulder, and I actually whirled, expecting to see Alex in a pizza delivery costume. The doorway remained empty. I refused to be disappointed. Instead, I smacked James on the upper arm and pushed past him to stalk down the hall.

“Anne, c’mon ….”

I wasn’t sure what I meant to do in our bedroom, just that I wanted to get away from him. I’m sure he thought I was angry. I was acting that way. It wasn’t, however, anger that urged me into pacing. It was a jumble of confusing emotions, coupled with the day on the lake and my visit with my parents. It was everything in my life. It was PMS. It was many things, but not anger.

“Anne, don’t be like that.” He leaned in the doorway for a moment, watching me. “I didn’t think you’d react that way.”

I focused on the basket of laundry waiting to be folded. “How did you think I’d react?”

He came into the room and stripped off his shirt, tossing it toward but not quite into the dirty laundry. He undid his belt and slid it from the loops, then eased open the button. My fingers smoothed T-shirts into neat squares, but my eyes followed his movements.

“I thought you might, you know, get excited.”

“By exhibitionism?” I tried sounding shocked, but didn’t do a very good job of it.

James stepped out of his jeans and stood in front of me in boxer briefs. “Haven’t you ever thought about it?”

I straightened. “About having sex in front of someone else? No!”

“We did it with your roommate in the room,” he reminded me.

“That was different. We didn’t have anyplace else to go. And it was only once.”

Once, making love under covers. Making sure not to moan too loudly, or rustle too fiercely. Listening to be certain the bed wasn’t squeaking in a telltale way. James’s mouth between my legs, licking me as I arched and tensed and came in agonized silence.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.