Frayed Rope (14 page)

I’m still not sure how to take that since I’m not one hundred percent comfortable with my purchased face, but I tell him.

“I’m cleaning up. And if you object to me helping with that then I won’t eat with you again. Ever,” I say, deadpan.

“Well then, I would love the help,” he says, standing and collecting the rubbish to take into the house.

I grab the wine glasses and the almost empty second bottle and follow him in. I begin to set stuff on the counter when his arms come around me from behind.

“Thank you for coming, Elle. I honestly didn’t think that you would, but I’m really glad you did.”

He turns me around in his arms and I have little strength left in me to push him away. He’s been absolutely perfect. The fact that he fed me was just icing on the cake.

“I’d say I’m the one who should be thanking you for feeding me, but I already did that,” I say, looking up into his beautiful black eyes.

He’s held back all night and I know it’s been hard for him. Hell, it’s hard for me too. I can feel the wetness gathering between my thighs just from being in his presence.

“I’m going to kiss you now babe and you can push me away if you want to, but I hope you don’t.”

I can’t hold back much more than he can so I press myself up onto my toes and meet him halfway. We’re both still barefoot and I’m much smaller than he is. His mouth meets mine with a slow, wet kiss that only lasts for a moment before my mouth opens and it turns frantic.

He pushes one hand into my hair and another around my lower back, spinning me so my back is to the wall. My hands fly up into his hair and I hold on tight as he rocks his hips into mine. I feel his hardness on my stomach. I can’t hold back the moan that escapes my lips before he pulls my legs up around his waist grinding into me harder.

“Fuck, Elle,” he says between breaths before skimming his hand down my thigh and running it up under my long skirt that has gathered around my thighs.

His warm callused hand raises goose bumps on my flesh as it moves around my leg toward my center. It brushes the side of my panties, as if he’s asking for permission. At this point I can’t deny him, or my own need for him to touch me. His fingers slip past the lace and his fingers skim along lips.

“Fucking Christ, you’re soaked,” he growls into my mouth before his fingers dive between my folds.

I push harder against him, wanting more friction and he takes the hint and pushes two fingers inside. I gasp at the pressure; it’s been so long since anyone has been there.

“So fucking tight, beautiful,” he rasps.

My head falls back as he begins attacking my neck with open mouth kisses. I can feel the wetness running down my leg as he abruptly pulls his hand away and my feet fall to the floor. I whine out in protest.

“What the fuck Ryder?”

I yell at him, but he’s already on his knees in front of me bunching my skirt up around my waist.

“Hold your skirt before I rip it off of you.”

He thrusts the fabric into my hands, and just as quickly he’s yanking my panties down my legs.

“I have to taste you,” is the last thing I hear before my head pounds back against the wall and his tongue is inside me.

He throws my left leg up over his shoulder and shoves two fingers back inside as he feasts and bites on my clit like we didn’t just finish a huge dinner.

“Fuck, Ryder!”

I moan while riding his face and fingers. My leg is shaking and I know it won’t be much longer before it gives out. My eyes are starting to roll when he replaces his fingers with his tongue.

“You taste so fucking good Elle,” he growls into my pussy.

“Come, Elle. Come on my tongue.”

I couldn't stop it if I tried and I wail as the first orgasm in a year that’s not self-induced rages through my body. His strong hands hold onto my hips and his face stays buried in me until every last drop of pleasure is gone.

He lowers me into his lap and straddles me around his waist. He places both hands on either side of my face before slowly, lovingly attacking my mouth with a brutal kiss. I can taste myself on him and it only spurs me on even more.

He trails kisses down the side of my face and buries his head in my hair.

“Thank you, beautiful,” he whispers into my locks.

“Why are you thanking me Ryder?”

I frown because I don't understand. The man hasn’t gotten his yet, why the hell would he thank me? He pulls back and locks his eyes with mine.

“I know it wasn't easy to give up what you just gave me Elle, and not only do I appreciate that; I’d like to do it again. So thank you.”

I appreciate his kind words, but still feel the need to put some light into the seriousness of this encounter.

“You speak of me as though I’m a virgin, and I’m not. Second of all, I notice the menu tonight lacked dessert, so I figured I’d provide for you.”

His head falls back on a deep belly laugh that I’m happy to have put on his face.

“Vixen, you want to provide dessert every night I’ll go back for seconds. I promise.”

He smiles wholeheartedly.

I am completely serious when I reply.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He lifts us both up off the floor and pulls me in for a hug. It feels warm and wonderful, yet too much to handle at this moment so I slowly pull away.

“I’ll finish cleaning up. You head on home before I try to bury more than my face between your legs,” he says, swatting my ass.

Old me would’ve objected and returned the favor he just gave me. But I can see he’s not expecting it. Our moment was perfect as it was.

“Thank you, Ryder,” I say in the most sincere tone I have.

I truly mean it.

I turn for the door whistling for Norma to come as I go. I send a quick wave over my shoulder noticing him still watching me as I leave.

Ryder Callaghan.

He may be the fucking death of me.

Chapter Thirteen

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“Who the hell could be here now?”

I haul my suitcase back toward the front door of my mother’s house. Almost ready to load up and head for the hotel, I spent four more hours tied up behind the broken train and as much as I don't want to get back in a vehicle; I’m ready to hit the road.

I flip on the outside light and see two dark figures standing on the other side of the frosted window.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“I’M COMING!”

Fucking Christ, and I thought my patience was lost? I whip the door open and come face to face with two police officers.

What the hell?

“My mom get caught cheating at cards again fella's?”

Sometimes my humor comes at the worst times but the fact that Sylvia accused my mother of cheating at their weekly poker game last week, I had to get it out.

“Ms. O’Connor?” the older gentleman asks.

He’s all business. Despite the slightly wrinkled suit, he has serious eyes that give me nothing, not a hint of a smile touched his pudgy face.

His partner is not hard on the eyes. Maybe pushing forty, he exudes confidence and judging by their size difference I’d say he spends a lot more time at the gym.

“Yes, I’m Ms. O’Conner. However I don't live here, Mrs. O’Conner is on her way to the airport hotel at the moment.”

The officers share a look that makes me uncomfortable, I hate beating around the bush.

“Jesus, spit it out already. I’m late, seeing as I missed my ride to the airport due to the broken down train on highway sixty three today. You fella's don't seem big on small talk so can we cut the shit so I can hit the road please?”

I hate to be rude, especially to a police officer but after sitting in a car for so many hours at a standstill, I’m not looking forward to spending two more in the car, and now these guys are holding me up.

“Ms. O’Connor, I’m Detective Braumer. This is Detective Miller,” the old man says with a gruffness to his voice that tells me just how unhappy he is to be here, most likely because he probably missed his dinner. Or maybe it’s my attitude.

I never said I had patience.

“What can I do for you?”

I hope he can sense the exasperation to my tone because fuck I’m in a hurry. Good lookin’ Miller speaks up. His voice is as pleasing as I’m sure his body is underneath his clothing.

“Ms. O’Connor, do your parents drive a 2013 white Lincoln Navigator?”

My heart stops beating for a moment while I concentrate on his eyes. I’m good at reading people; I’m good at telling when they are lying. Most times I consider it a gift, but at this moment it’s nothing but a curse.

I can feel it.

His mouth is relaxed, but there's tension around his eyes. He doesn’t like his job at the moment.

He doesn't want to tell me.

“Yes, now spit it out!”

I’m reaching in my bag for my phone. I’ll call her, and then I’ll know what the hell this is all about. Oldie pipes up before I get the chance.

“Ma’am if you could-”

I cut him off.

“Don't fucking ‘ma’am’ me, officer. I said spit it out!”

I find my phone and I begin scrolling through my contacts to get to my mother’s mobile number.

“Ms. O’Connor, your family was in a car accident”

Miller tells me softly but firm enough to grab my attention. The blood is rushing in my ears. I know I have to ask it but I don't want to. I don't want to hear it. I know what he’s about to say because if it were a better case scenario they’d be rushing me to the hospital, or the hospital would be calling me to tell me to rush there.

My breathing is becoming shallow.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Dick detective Braumer cuts off my train of thought with the most un-sincere voice I’ve ever heard.

“I’m sorry Ms. O’Connor but no one in the vehicle survived.”

He’s sorry........

An accident?

I can’t fucking breathe.

My phone falls to the floor.

Then I do too.

I stare out the window as I remember when my life started turning to shit. I know my dream occurred because the day of their death is coming.

I hate it.

I want to forget why I’m here and why this all happened. I wish so fucking badly I was in the car with them that day so I wouldn’t have to be here but with them instead. I understand that it’s twisted fucking logic but sometimes we can’t help how we feel.

I shake myself out of it for now and head for the shower. Today might call for some extra wine and comfort food. The rain began late last night and has yet to let up. I don't enjoy the simplicity of rainy days like I used to but I’ll make fucking good on the food and wine.

* * *

My cart is half-full of the makings for comfort food; a good Irish stew is on the menu for tonight. The other half of the cart is filled with alcohol. One might pass me and think I have a problem, but since I never really gave two fucks about what other people think of me I add one more bottle.

The grocery store is pretty quiet today; obviously people aren’t very eager to venture out in a torrential downpour for food. Once again I’m not most people; therefore shopping while the store is practically empty pleases me.

It’s cooler because of the rain and I get to wear my full armor today, a long black jacket with a high collar around my neck and tall black boots once again with my knife tucked inside. The rain also warrants my trendy hat so I feel well and truly protected at the moment. The only skin showing are my hands and face—no marks visible. My tights are black as well which suits my overall mood.

Despite my release with Ryder yesterday, which was fucking heaven, my shit mood still occurred when I woke up this morning. I don't suppose that will change any day soon since I’ve been this way for years, especially around the day of their deaths.

Someone might wonder why I don't call it the ‘anniversary’ of their deaths.

The reason is that an anniversary usually signifies some sort of celebration. Whether it’s a wedding anniversary, a graduation anniversary, or any other anniversary, it’s a day that ‘celebrates’ a past event that occurred on the same day at a different time.

So, in my opinion why the fuck would someone want to celebrate an anniversary for death?

It’s bullshit.

Celebrate their birthdays; celebrate their life randomly throughout the year. But for god’s sake unless someone was suffering and death took away their pain I see absolutely no reason to consider their death any type of anniversary.

My entire family was healthy, and not for one damn second do I believe any of them were ready to die.

Aside from my bitchy rants  I know will surely continue throughout the next month—or year—my sharp wit and sarcasm are the only things that give me some sense of normality anymore, which is good because I might need some of that wit or sarcasm rather soon.

I begin to head towards the checkout when an irritating voice pierces my eardrum.

“If it isn’t Belle, I believe you owe me an apology.”

I’m embracing my bitchy attitude as I turn my head to the left to greet the plastic behind the voice. With fake tits pushed up to her neck, dressed for a day at the beach instead of a rainy day in a fishing town, Ginger gives me a look that says she thinks she is better than me. Which is funny considering she lacks the common sense to dress herself properly.

Stupid cunt.

To top it all off, her cart is filled with salad.

Go fucking figure, they’re all the same.

Being supremely thankful for my shit attitude today, I respond to her.

“Apparently you’ve been watching too much Beauty and the Beast, seeing as I’m not Belle, she’s a Disney character, Ginger. Oh, and I don’t owe you shit.”

I’m not about to give her the time of day, but I sense this little argument isn’t finished. I’m in the mood for a good confrontation despite Tiny’s words of wisdom, so I’ll let her think she has me—for a minute or two.

“You rudely ruined my date. So yes, I think you do.” She says.

It’s now that I notice what appears to be a friend with her. I didn't think this bitch would have the balls to confront me on her own. She may have five inches on me, especially with those ridiculous shoes but I’m certain that anyone who looks in my eyes these days gets wind pretty fast that I don’t put up with anyone's shit.

I slow my cart and face her head on before speaking.

“A little lesson on dating for you Ginger; most women already know this, but since you can’t clue the fuck in, allow me to enlighten you. When a man drops a woman off at home early, it means he’s done with her. Simple as that. In the one percent chance he really did need to get going, you would’ve gotten an apology or at least a phone call the next day. Now, judging by the look on your face I’m going to go with the first option, which is that he’s just done. So don’t embarrass yourself. Pick the fuck up, and move the fuck on.”

I turned my cart so I could continue toward the cashier.

“Oh my god you are such a bitch, and for your information it’s not the first fucking date we’ve been on, and it won’t be the last.”

I can tell she’s trying to say that with confidence, but it just makes her sound like a two dollar hooker. I look over my shoulder to see her eyes when I reply.

“I’m truly sorry Ginger; he failed to mention that last night when he had his head between my thighs. But
come
to think of it, the man has great table manners. He knows it’s not polite to eat and speak at the same time.”

And with that parting shot, I cash out of the Green Grocer and make way for home.

Catty bitches.

* * *

I arrive home a little after three and haul ass from the truck to the house. I dump all my shit in the entryway while I rid myself of the wet clothing on the way to my bedroom. I throw on a loose pair of lounge pants and white tank followed by my comfy rainy day cardigan and big wool socks.

I put all the groceries away and get my stew started. I throw in lots of beef, a few cans of beer and some root vegetables. I’ll let it simmer on the stove for a few hours while I curl up on the couch with some smut and wine. I crave to be like my former self sometimes, and so long as the memories and the anguish don't take over, hopefully a good book will hold my attention.

* * *

The sound of the rain is soothing as I read my book in front of the fireplace. I look at the clock and realize two hours have passed and decide to check on my stew.

Almost ready and smells divine.

I add a bit of flour to thicken the sauce then turn up the stereo. I love music when I cook. Other than the odd silence during my coffee time in the morning, the quiet often kills me so the music is always on.