Chasing Peace (23 page)

“I watch the hope fade from his eyes at my phrasing. “I know
you have the guts to be honest with yourself, tell the truth and accept the
consequences. It’ll make you stronger.”

“Fuck this!” His arm swipes the table beside his chair
sending my alarm clock and lamp crashing to the floor. The alarm clock bounces
in slow motion, the lamp shade tilting at an odd angle as it slides across the
floor.

“Sterling!” I hear Boston’s voice muffled through the door.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I snarl. I stand, grit in my
posture, challenge in my eyes.

“You should be.” He advances slowly as if contemplating his
options, his hands knotted into fists. “This isn’t over.”

I ignore Boston’s pounding. “Sterling. Open the door.”

“It’s over for me,” I say, feeling brave and maybe a little
foolish bolstered by the knowledge that Boston waits on the other side of the
door. “Get out!” I gesture to the door, flinging my arm out, barely missing
Brock’s nose

He grunts as he covers the two steps in only one, hurling
open the door to find Boston leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Watch out for this one.” He thrusts his thumb over his
shoulder pointing at me. “She’s crazy.”

“You think she’s the crazy one?” says Boston, laughter in
his voice, a smirk hovering around his mouth.

Brock storms off and Boston watches him go before stepping
through the door and closing it behind him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. He cleared the table, but he never touched me.”

“His lawyer probably warned him to stay away from you. It wouldn’t
look good for the trial.”

I cringe, imagining having to take the stand looking
something like I did about six months ago.

Boston bent to pick up the lamp, attempting to straighten
the shade and failing miserably. “What did he want?”

“He doesn’t want me to testify.”

“Ahh. So he is the one who tried to harass and intimidate
you.”

“It might have worked in the past, but I’m not putting up
with that now.” Someone has to speak up for Emma and I’m righteous with anger.

“Good for you.”

I’m relieved to have my evening to myself, finally. Okay,
myself and Boston. He pushed me to file a police report and the police are
going to rush a copy to Rand in case it will help with the trial.

“Why so pensive?” Boston whips eggs and pours them into a
pan sizzling with onions and green peppers. He’s making a breakfast scramble
for dinner.

I lean my shoulder against the wall staying well out of his
way. “I don’t know.” My eyes dart sideways and I can’t meet his.

“When we lose someone, It’s natural to question why, to
question whether we did all that we could do, whether we’re in some part
responsible.”

“I know,” I sigh, “But if I’d only answered the phone, she’d
still be alive. I could have saved her, but I didn’t.”

“You didn’t know she needed saving,” said Boston. “If you
knew Emma would die that night, you’d have made different choices, but we can’t
make decisions based on information we don’t have. Besides, making different
choices may have been worse.”

“But you don’t understand.” I hug my arms around my middle
as if that might help manage the pain building in my gut. I don’t know what to
do about the cold sweat collecting under my arms, between my breasts, around my
neckline.

“What don’t I understand Sterling?”

“I…. I didn’t … want her.” I couldn’t look his way. It’s my
greatest sin. I need him to know. I need him to love me in spite of the
terrible thoughts I’d had, the horrible person I’d been. If he can’t get past
my sins, I need to know now before this goes any further.

“You don’t mean that Sterling.” He crosses to me, leaving
the pan and pulling me into his arms. I remain tense and stiff, not deserving
his comfort.

“Of course I mean it. I thought it many times, even prayed
it wasn’t true when I first found out about the pregnancy. Mom didn’t realize,
but I knew it was Logan’s baby. Then there where the nights Emma didn’t sleep,
the problems with Brock. She made my life more difficult.”

“She made your life more beautiful too.”

I stand rigid in his arms almost straining away from him, my
eyes dry. “How do you know?” I whisper.

“My brother made my life beautiful too.”

The tears well. He doesn’t really understand. “But it’s not
the same,” I whisper. “You didn’t cause your brother’s death. He made the
choice.”

“Guilt doesn’t always make sense Sterling. I know he refused
further treatment, but I also know he decided to die rather than take anything
more from me. It’ll always be my fault. He died to protect me.”

Tears overflowed, leaving trails down my cheeks, dripping
off my jaw in big fat splotches. “And she died because I didn’t protect her.” I
wilt then, making myself smaller, sinking into his arms.

He holds me close, his chin resting on my head. “Sooner or
later you’ll understand. I know you have to work through it. You have to
question every possible option before you truly recognize your innocence. It
took me years. In the mean time Sterling, don’t let guilt push people away.”

He let me cry, his arms warm and supportive.

“Um. Sterling?”

“Hmm?” I say, nestled against his chest, my mouth muffled in
the curve of his neck.

“I think the eggs are burned.”

I can smell it, the acrid char. I look over his shoulder watching
smoke curls rise from the eggs. Pulling away, he grabs the pan from the stove
and drops it in the sink eggs and all. Bracing his hands against the edge of
the sink, his head hangs low, his shoulders hunched.

Stricken by how wrapped up in my own misery I’d been, I
cross the tiny kitchen and wrap my arms around his waist holding tight as I
press my cheek into his back.

“I’m sorry.” I murmur against the softness of his shirt.

“It’s okay. You know for me it got better when I realized
that kidney transplants and bone marrow donations were risky for me too. I was
too young to know so my brother understood the risk for me.”

“But if I answered the phone I might have changed the
outcome. I know it’s not rational or reasonable or logical, but I still feel
responsible,” I whine, feeling the wetness on his shirt from tears falling down
my cheeks like drizzle on a gloomy night.

I loosen my arms as he turns to face me, tightening them
again when he stops moving.

His palm comes from nowhere to hug my cheek. “Let me tell
you what a good friend of mine once told me. It helped a lot.”

“Okay,” I’m skeptical.

“You feel guilty because you cared for her and you weren’t
there for her, but you can be there for her now. She still needs you.”

“But she doesn’t need me anymore?” My voice falters,
pitching up at the end, making the statement a question.

“She needs you to understand the innocence of your actions
and to forgive yourself. She needs you to be strong and happy and whole because
you have more life to live, more people to meet, more children to love. She
would want you to experience the peace and joy of love in your life.”

The bottom fell out of my stomach. The words were so much
like my thoughts that dark night with Emma’s stuffed turtle clutched tight to
my chest. “She wants me to be happy.” My cheeks quiver as I try to smile, my
lips pressed together so I don’t cry out as the tears stream down my cheeks.

Boston’s arms come around me again, holding tight as I
collapse against his chest. My fingers fisted into his tee, my grip inflexible
as soundless sobs wrack my body.

I pull away as my tears ebb. “She’d like you.”

“How do you know?”

“You make me happy.” I tilt my chin up, meeting his eyes and
offering a watery smile, feeling silly and happy and still guilty, but hopeful
that time might help.

“My brother would like you too.” He didn’t have to add the
rest. I know he’s telling me that I make him happy too.

Boston scoops me up, carrying me to the bedroom. I smile
thinking about the new memories we’ll make as I kiss along his jaw, my tongue
tracing the angle, more rigid and sharply defined than my own. New memories
will block out my time in the same room with Brock while standing alongside my
memories of Emma.

Swiping away the duvet with one hand, Boston deposits me on
the bed, its king size much more spacious than the futon, which served us well.
I cling to his shoulders, my lips finally meeting his.

As he pulls back, I scoot to my knees, his hand at my nape
keeping me close. Our lips remain fastened, nibbling and exploring, still
complacent, not yet urgent, but getting there fast.

He stands beside the bed, my hands sliding under his shirt.
Boston’s skin fascinates my fingertips, smooth and hot like soft leather heated
by the sun. I drag his shirt upward, my fingers prowling bulging ridges and
furrows of lean muscle.

His tongue lingers at the corner of my mouth, his breath
becoming my air. I pull away, dragging in a broken gulp as I struggle to pull
his shirt over his shoulders. Boston helps and then tackles mine. He turns it
inside out rather than deal with the buttons. The narrow bottom scrapes over my
breasts, chafing my nipples through my bra yet making me smile.

Our mouths open, our tongues coil and twist. My bra, a scrap
of black lace, disappears into the night. My fingers battle with his belt. Heat
expands in my belly as his fingers flick across my skin working my buckle.

My arms pull at his shoulders, giving up on the belt. I pant
and my nipples tighten as the heat from his skin brands my breasts. Our lips
devour our breath mingles. I can’t seem to get close enough. I want to climb
inside his skin, or invite him into mine.

“Uhhh. Boston.” He’s dragging my jeans down over my hips, my
thong caught in only one hand, stretching and tugging against me. His fingers
splay against my skin, grasping and clasping as he shoves fabric out of his way
before dragging me against him. His belt buckle is rough against my belly, his
skin searing mine. Moving my legs, I push my pants to my ankles. They’re not
off, but it’s enough.

I hug his hips with my knees, my ankles caught together by
my jeans. I expose myself to him, climbing onto him, clinging, feeling the
bulge trapped by his jeans and wanting so much more.

His lips pull away from mine, “Sterling, slow down.” I’m
almost frantic with need, pulling against his neck and shoulders, trying to
reach his mouth again, and then I’m falling.

Bouncing on the bed, I’m stunned, my feet still knotted in
my pants, my breasts jiggling in recoil to the sudden movement. Focusing, I
watch as Boston yanks off his shoes before pulling his legs out of his jeans.
Dim light from a small lamp behind me highlights the ridges and planes of his
chest and abdomen. His eyes are dark with small flecks of light.

My eyes skim down his body, taking in every detail, pausing
at his boxer briefs, distended by his erection. His cock is hidden from view,
yet the ridge defining the engorged length is clearly visible pressed tightly
against the cloth of his boxers.

I extend my legs, my arms reach toward him. I want more. “Come
here.” I can feel the moisture between my legs, my folds puffy and inflamed.

“There’s no need to be greedy,” he whispers, on a hoarse and
jagged laugh. “We have all the time in the world.”

“I can’t wait that long,” I whimper, squirming on the bed
and finally pressing my knees together seeking relief.

Boston captures my feet, stilling my writhing legs. He snags
my jeans, jerking them loose. I’m finally free until he seizes one foot,
stroking his thumbs hard across the bottom from heel to toe. I moan as the
friction makes my body hum and throb in response like the sound of heavy
machinery.

Two can play at this game. I rest my free foot against his
thigh, grinning as I anticipate his reaction.

“What?” He smiles too, a playful query, one eyebrow raised.

His grin disappears in a flash of torment as I glide my foot
over his cock; the thin fabric of his boxer briefs is barely a barrier. His
hips pulse forward, no longer controlled by his mind and his fingers come to a
stop, still holding my other foot, tense and arrested, not caressing, but not
placid either.

I luxuriate in the power I wield. This is a first for me, a
kind of equity in our relationship that I’d never before experienced. I enjoy
it, yet am wary lest I upset the balance. We have the capacity to wound each
other, as devastating as that might be.

My toes reach the elastic on his underwear, my knee flexing
with every pulse of his hips. I want to slide my fingers through my folds, feel
the slick heat oozing from every groove and crease, but I wait, my engorged
lips pouting, anticipation riding me hard.

Looking up, I find Boston’s eyes slanted toward me, but
glazed and unseeing, his eyelids heavy and viscous, drooping like softened chocolate.
His lips flush with the rapid pulse of blood are parted, poised in the act of
taking air.

As I slide my foot in the other direction, Boston’s control
snaps. He drops my foot, yanking his underwear down. His cock jerks free before
rebounding, tall and proud.

“I hope you’re ready.”

“What took you so long?” I taunt with a half smile hovering
around my mouth as my control escapes my grasp.

Boston climbs over me, kissing my belly, flicking his tongue
at my nipples and finally coming into position, fast, but neither of us can
wait. Wrapping my fingers around his cock, I feel like I have hold of a
panther. He’s hot and hard, coiled with strength, yet somehow luxurious. Boston
groans as I position his cock at my entrance, our urgency wiping out our need
for anything more than coming together as one.

He surges forward and I jolt, my hand still in place,
bumping myself intimately.

Unwrapping my fingers and pulling away, I purr as my fingers
stroke through my folds, slicking alongside my clit, but not quite touching. I
think to go back, intent on my goal. Boston glides forward, distracting me
until I feel him seated deep within, his pelvis bumping mine, his pubic hair
scouring me.

“Mmmmm,” I hum, wiggling a bit. Instead of bracing himself
over me, Boston settles full on top, his lips teasing my temple and brow. His
hands stroke down my sides, resting at my hips, his fingers kneading. Moisture
builds in the heat between us, making our skin slick where it meets at thigh,
hip, belly and chest.

He moves, a pulse, barely a whisper of a beat. His hips
flex. I pull my knees up, hooking my ankles behind him, making room to respond
in kind, my hips fluttering, and rising to meet him. Our bodies quiet, our
breathing hushed, our hips move in a rhythm as old and as scorching as fire.

Moments become eternity as we stroke together. Boston’s hips
flex toward me and I tilt to him.

His hips flex away and I tilt back. I move faster, pushing
him to hurry. He’s inexorable, his cock scraping the top of my channel, his
shaft plowing through my folds with every exacting movement.

Breathing is a chore that seems unnecessary, yet it
continues shallow huffs with every stroke.

His chest slides against my nipples as my hands on his back
seek to urge him on. His breath gusts across my forehead, ragged yet
controlled, timed to his rhythm. My body slick with sweat and urgency needs
more, more speed, more force, more drive, more Boston. Still he holds back as I
dangle on a fraying thread, surging and spinning, tense and hesitant.

When the thread can take no more, it breaks and I spiral out
of control, falling into nothingness, expanding into the space around me,
contracting into myself. I am rage and calm, a roar and a whisper.

Through the haze I feel Boston’s hands at my hips, his
fingers pulling at me, prodding me on. I tilt my hips, the relief short-lived,
my nerve endings screaming in pleasure and agony as swells of sensation crash
into me, relentless, rolling and overtaking me.

Air rushes into my lungs, no longer compressed by the waves,
wait, no longer compressed by Boston. He has moved. We’ve rolled across the
bed, ending with me on top. Disoriented, I try to sit, almost tumbling, my
hands landing on his chest in support.