Just A Woman (The Porter Trilogy Book 2) (6 page)

Of course, I already know the answer. He sent me flowers the day my father died and, like an idiot, I texted him. My manners demanded I thank the man for his condolences, but I knew I was opening a door I was going to have a hard time shutting again. He’ll be at the funeral and I don’t know if I will be able to stay away from him again. I’m going to try, but my defenses right now are weak and, if he pushes me, I won’t be able to keep the wall between us erect.

The electricity between us is strong, and magnetic. If you’ve never felt anything like this, you won’t truly be able to understand the pull he has on me and my heart. I can only hope that he keeps his distance and respects my wishes, but deep down, I know he won’t. He’s self-assured, cocky, and manipulative, sporting an arrogance I’ve never seen outside of the four legged animal kingdom.

All I can say is I have only a few days to fortify the wall around my heart and I am truly thankful right now that he can’t see this, and find out how easy that wall would crumble. My brain is trying to stay strong, but I’m weak, and I don’t think I can take much more of this fight.

Alex

I’ve always hated funerals. It’s not the attire, in fact my traditional outfit of choice is a well-manicured three piece suit. It’s not the grieving people surrounding a lifeless vessel, devoid of all character and placed on display for the living to immortalize. It’s not even the hour long service, having to sit and listen to a man talk about the preciousness of life and how much the deceased was loved, as evident by the weeping family and friends around. No, I always hated funerals because they stink of finality.

In my world, nothing is final. Nothing is ever done, and nothing is ever non-negotiable. Everything and everyone has a price, every palm can be greased up to do my bidding, and bargaining is an everyday occurrence when working with people;  except death. Death doesn’t discriminate and it doesn’t take bribes. It doesn’t care about money. Death only concerns itself with the souls of the willing and unwilling, ferreting them across the sea from the living to the dead.

I didn’t like thinking about the final act of my life. I was still too young to even consider that, but the cliché, reasonable part of my brain warned me that life was too short and I needed to make every minute count. So, as I sat in the back of the sedan, heading away from my penthouse and towards the church across town, I thought about Charlotte. I thought about the month apart, and I thought about how to make her believe that I loved her more than myself and would do anything to have her back in my arms.

“Bracks?” I hollered through the partitioner, “Stop at the drugstore for me.” I stated, when he lowered the glass enough to be heard.

I jumped out of the sedan when we pulled up to the store, not waiting for Bracks to open the door, or ask what I wanted from inside. I wanted to spend as much time as I needed searching for the perfect card. A card I could spill my love into. If I wanted her back, I needed to approach her head on, no matter the circumstances. No, I wasn’t a pig and didn’t intend on coming on to her at her father’s funeral, but I was going to make damn sure that she knew I wasn’t done with us yet, and our relationship was non-negotiable in my eyes.

I searched through sympathy cards with flowers on the front, or little kittens. I read through verse after verse of petty, impersonal apologies for loss, and after ten minutes, I highly considered yanking my hair out by the root, until something caught my eye. It was simple, a mountain in the distance, amidst a sunset. Red and orange hues spread across the sky filling the scene with peaceful warmth. From the top of the mountain ran a small stream falling down the side, collecting in a small pond at the base of the card. The sun shining off the water gave it an iridescent emerald hue, sparkling with clarity and serenity. This card was the embodiment of Charlotte.

I reached my fingers out to grasp the card and said an internal prayer that the wording inside wasn’t incredibly corny or at least held something poetic or real. When I flipped it open, I let out a sigh of relief. It was blank. Nothing adorned the inside of the card, almost as if the front did all of the speaking and the inside didn’t need to intervene. I could write whatever I wanted.

I paid for the card and headed back to the car, the ideas swirling inside of my head conflicting with my own emotions. I didn’t want to write something profound or cliché. I wanted to write something that would speak to Charlotte, something that would let her know I was here and always would be. I wanted beauty to reflect in my words and my heart to be felt in every sentence.

I wasn’t sure when I had turned into a lovesick fool, but I relished in it and I hated it at the same time. I wanted to shower Charlotte with words of love and material objects. I wanted to adorn her in diamonds and pretty things, and then I wanted to rip them off of her and throw her on the bed, crushing the breath from her while she writhed in pain and pleasure filled ecstasy. I wanted every single piece of her, the damaged and the whole, and I wanted it with a fierceness I couldn’t explain. I wanted to punish her for leaving me and then hold her in my arms forever.

I shook my head, clearing my thoughts of punishments and anger. I needed my new found soft side to write my thoughts in this card. I needed it to be perfect. She needed me to be perfect, even if she would deny that vehemently.

A half an hour later and many renditions of what I wanted to write wadded up on the floor, I sealed the card, half proud, and half scared shitless with my words. I watched as we pulled up to the large church, surrounded by hundreds of people waiting to enter and pay their last respects to a successful businessman and a less successful husband and father. I waited in the car until the church doors opened and most of the people had ventured out of the heat and into the air conditioned house of worship.

When I made my way inside, I slipped the card into the pile of condolences and flowers adorning the front entrance table. I signed the guestbook and sat in the very last pew in the back. I wanted to head to the front and find my wayward daydreamer and hold her to my chest, crushing the hurt out of her, but I was fully aware that giving her space would earn her favor, much more than a public display.

Occasionally, a fellow industry man would come up to greet me, and as someone who had worn masks my entire life, I had no difficulty with proper responses to the mundane questions feathered at me, but my attention and my eyes wandered the expanse in front of me, searching for Charlotte.

I knew when she walked into the chapel. Familiar electricity buzzed around me, enveloping me in a current of lust and fulfillment. Even as far as three hundred feet away, I could smell Charlotte’s unique scent as it wafted up my nose and settled into my heart. My eyes finally settled on her, turned away from me, talking to someone I didn’t know. Her back was partially exposed, but hiding under a thin panel of sheer black lace. I scaled my way down her body, taking in her slightly smaller curves and the way her dress seemed to cling to every outline of her beautiful frame.

The lace of the garment hung down to just below her knee but the black slip underneath stopped several inches above that, revealing her creamy thighs underneath the see-through material. My erection strained against my zipper, remembering those beautiful thighs wrapped around my waist, taking me into her very center. I let my thoughts float for just a moment longer before I regained my control and focused back on the object of my lust, and love.

Although I made no sound and drew no attention to myself, I knew it wouldn’t take long for the static between us to reach her and for her to turn and face me. I immediately knew when that realization hit her because her back straightened in an almost painful way and she turned gracefully to scan the crowd. I stared at her, willing her to find my eyes, and I hoped my own pupils didn’t betray the lust I felt deep within me. It wasn’t the time or place, and I wished someone had told my cock that. 

When her eyes landed firmly on mine, the emotion flaring within them made me internally shudder. I could feel the waves of pain, terror, love and remarkably, lust radiating off of her in waves, crashing in my direction. I could see the hesitation lingering within, and it took every ounce of my willpower to remain sitting and not rush her into my arms. I nodded at her and gave her a small smile. She nodded back and turned back around to the guests she had been previously talking with, but the tension never left her back and shoulders. Every few moments, I would catch her turning away from the crowd in front of her and innocently scanning the new arrivals, seemingly checking in on everyone but secretly meeting my eyes every time.

After a short amount of time, the minister took his place at the podium in the front of the church and the mourners took their seats. Charlotte sat in the front pew with a highly distraught woman who I vaguely recalled as Dimitri’s fourth wife, Abigail. I noticed that Charlotte sat a person’s gap away from her, clearly not comfortable or close to the somber woman. Every few moments, Charlotte’s hands came up to dab a tissue at her leaking eyes and the need within me to comfort her grew to unsurmountable levels.

When I felt like I couldn’t take anymore and I needed to either reach out to her or leave the uncomfortable temple of sorrows, Charlotte stood and walked to the podium, her piece of paper shaking in her hand. My heart dropped to the floor for her and I wished for the millionth time that day that I could absorb her pain and hold her until she was whole again.

The crowd was eerily silent as she made her way up and took a stance behind the microphone. Her face was pale and, even from the back, I could see a bead of sweat forming on her forehead. With how vibrant and outgoing she was, I never pegged her for being scared of public speaking, but she looked as if she was going to be ill. Taking a deep breath, I watched as she looked up into the crowd and gave a shaky smile.

“Thank you all for coming and celebrating the life of my dad, Dimitri Hightower. My father was, as most of you know, incredibly dedicated to his work. Not only was he highly talented, but he was an amazing employer and the proof can be found in most of you. My father was loved by so many of you and I know that this tragedy has hit you all just as hard as it has hit our family.

Dimitri’s presence filled everyone here with warmth. I can’t express how many times he would tell me amazing stories of people from the highest management positions down to the hidden people in the mail rooms. He was always so proud of his staff, no matter their rankings.

Similar to his work life, he made a deep impact in his own personal life. His wife, Abigail, was the love of his life and I know I speak for her and the rest of Dimitri’s children when I say he will be greatly missed.

In honor of my father, the management at Hightower Holdings has decided to set up a scholarship fund for one employee's child every year. My father was extremely passionate about education and believed everyone deserved to succeed. We will have more details to follow in regards to the scholarship, but my family and I felt this would have made Dimitri incredibly proud.

Dimitri Hightower was a great man, who was loved by many and will be missed by all. On behalf of his family, I truly thank you for coming out to honor him today. Thank you.”

I watched as she carefully folded her paper, and stepped out from behind the microphone. She looked a mixture of relieved and sad and my heart went out to her. She took her seat at the front of the church and we all waited as one by one employees and family went up to pay their respects. I watched her back and the soft waves of her hair falling over one shoulder falling from her side bun. Almost as if I was next to her, I could tell when she was sobbing or when she suppressed a small laugh when someone would tell an amusing tale of Dimitri Hightower. Throughout the ceremony, I watched as her shoulders slumped and, after the proceedings were completed, saw her entire body shiver and shake as sobs racked her body. It tore my heart out.

Row by row, family and friends walked up to say goodbye and give the family hugs of condolences. I observed the way she spoke with each individual person and nodded in thanks to each apology. Her speech, although quite impersonal, was delivered with sincerity, strength, and grace. She was so incredibly strong and I admired her so much.

When my turn came to say goodbye, I walked up to the front of the church. Her eyes found mine as I made my way to the casket first. I wanted to run to her side, but I knew she wouldn’t appreciate me taking the spotlight off of her father, only to shine it on her. I needed to be slow about my approach. I needed to think like Charlotte.

After I stood in front of the wooden box for a seemingly respectable amount of time, I followed the line heading towards the family. I hugged his wife and offered a warm handshake to his sons. The grief rolling off of them all was enough to make the bile rise in my throat, but I choked it down for Charlotte.

When I walked up to her, I saw the indecision flit across her eyes before she pushed out her hand for a shake. My mouth came up in a half smile and I lightly shook my head at her before I spread my arms and pulled her into my embrace. She stiffened in my grasp for a moment before relaxing into my hold. A perfect fit. I pressed my lips to the top of her head and kissed her hair, inhaling the sweet smell of the woman I loved. I never wanted to let her go. The perfection in that moment was indescribable. It was as if our bodies had finally figured out what had been missing and were clinging to their other halves. She melded into me like she had never left, like I had never hurt her. I felt safe, and I knew she did as well, but I needed to let her go, the line behind me was building and I didn’t want to make a scene.

Before she could pull away, I gripped her shoulders and gently separated our bodies. Looking into her eyes, I leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. She tasted of salty tears and the morbid part within me wanted to drink all of the tears that had fallen. Before withdrawing, I bent to her ear and whispered a question, “Meet me at the LA Cafe after the service?”