The Other F-Word (4 page)

The generous inheritance my father had left me had allowed me to purchase it—I still couldn’t believe he’d done that, since my parents had kicked me out of the house when I’d turned up pregnant at eighteen. I’d used the bulk of that money to buy the house, reasoning that it would provide a proper foundation for my family. I’d worked two, sometimes three jobs to make sure my girls had what they needed.

They didn’t always get what they wanted, but all we really needed was each other. I was so proud of them. They were brilliant, beautiful women. I’d made sure each of them had got to college and followed their dreams. I’d raised them, and in turn, in a way, they’d helped me grow up.

“I can’t believe you’re selling it,” Billie interrupted my reverie, although she echoed my thoughts.

“It’s too big for just me. Don’t worry, whatever apartment I rent will always have an extra bedroom for you.”

“I know…it’s just that this house is special.”

“It’s just a house, Billie. It’s the memories that are special, and we will always have those.”

She took off her shoes and sat on the chenille couch, cross-legged like she had when she was little. “Mom, you know why Marley wanted you to catch the bouquet right?”

“Because I’m a single lady?”

Billie laughed, untying the ribbon that held her silky smooth blonde locks. This one was my philosopher, always insightful with a little bit of wiseass thrown in. “You haven’t dated in so long. As kids we never thought about it, but it’s obvious to us now that you stopped when you found out about Marley.”

I couldn’t correct her because she was right. How could I worry about finding companionship when I’d failed my daughter? I’d promised myself from that day forth, I would never bring a man into my girls’ lives. Marley needed a place to feel safe, and I’d vowed never to make her uncomfortable in her own home.

“What’s your point, daughter?”

“You’re a beautiful woman. People always ask if you’re my sister. It’s time for you to get out there.”

“I see you girls have been discussing my social life.”

“We’ve had a few dish sessions without you.”

It made sense that it was Billie having this discussion with me. She was the diplomat of the family. A born peace-keeper. Stevie was demanding and Marley could be brash, but Billie always put things in a delicate manner, characteristic of the way she wrote stories.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me,” I said, taking the seat next to her. I put my arm around her shoulder and kissed her head. “Now come on and let your momma tuck you in tonight.”

I turned off the lights to Billie’s room, blowing her a kiss before shutting the door. The ice-blue walls and floral bedspread were just her style—soft and feminine. Instead of going straight to my room, I stopped at Stevie’s and took in her eclectic yet elegant black and white damask wallpaper and orange accessories. Finally, I looked into Marley’s chocolate brown and hot pink room. It was just like her—tomboy chic. Poor Rick hadn’t even complained about the colour scheme. Perhaps that was why she’d let him have his way when he’d wanted to paint the master bedroom in their new house pale blue. Little did my daughter realise he’d chosen that colour because it reminded him of her eyes.

I loved being a mother, even though I’d failed so many times. The worst part was feeling helpless, unable to alleviate my children’s pain. I’d felt it all with Marley—all those nights she’d woken up screaming, clawing and punching. The harsh words hadn’t been aimed at me, but they’d always managed to slash my heart. They were meant for her father. I owned them just the same. The next day was always the most traumatic. My daughter never remembered, but if she caught a glimpse of a scratch or black eye she’d caused the night before, her guilt became unbearable—there weren’t enough words in the English language to remedy guilt. That was when I’d started playing her music. It was my way of always communicating with her. We’d all started doing it, and not just for Marley. It was a form of relief for all of us. Rick had moved in with us for a while. Part of that was to help Marley, who’d never been good with change. But it had been for me too. After my accident last year, I’d needed extra assistance with all my doctor’s appointments. I was a stubborn woman, like my daughters, so it never came easy to ask for help. Fortunately, I hadn’t had to—those two had been there for me in every way. I was a hundred per cent back to normal now, except for the dull pain in my heart that my children had their own lives now.

I walked into my room. The only one with stark white walls and second-hand furniture. I’d been so busy helping the girls decorate their spaces, I’d never thought about mine. I turned my iPod on, knowing the music would soothe me to sleep, then changed into my flannel pyjamas, my thoughts churning to the handsome man in the limo. He was young. Much too young for me. Why did he look so familiar? He wasn’t at the wedding. I’d have noticed him.
Oh, God! Did he go to school with one of my girls?
Damn…that was awkward. I might as well pin a sign to my shirt that read ‘stranger danger’.

I lay in bed, trying to think about anything except him. As usual, my mind wouldn’t obey. The playlist wasn’t helping either. Every song was sexual. Why did I choose this?

Then the music changed and with the old, familiar song, a smile formed on my lips. I realised why Mr Hot Limo Boy was familiar. The memory came flooding back as Rodriquez’s smooth, sultry voice commanded I climb up on his music.

* * * *

Fourteen months ago

Stevie’s bachelorette party was in full swing. The drinks flowed, numbing me to that perfect state of bold bravery. I laughed as I got my groove on with Dillon, Billie and Stevie’s girlfriends at Club Cassbar. I’d questioned the midnight-blue sequined tank top Stevie had insisted I wear. Marley had said it was conservative, but it didn’t feel that way as it squeezed my breasts together, creating a Cyclops boob. Maybe it was the top, tight jeans and dangling earrings I wore. Maybe it was the Cosmos, or the three shots I’d consumed. Maybe it was the Christian Louboutins Stevie had so generously lent me. Maybe it was the sexually charged lyrics of
Porn Star Dancing
by My Darkest Days that boomed over the frenzied crowd. Either way, I felt sexy as hell for the first time in a long time. I’d even managed to get a number from a boy half my age with a tongue piercing for which I was sure I’d suffer endless barbs from Billie and Dillon about, but it encouraged me to bring out the free-spirited self I’d locked away so long ago. I took a break from the gaggle of giggling girls as they ran off to the nearest drink stand for refills. I swayed slightly, letting the music course through me.

“Dance with me,” he commanded over my shoulder, in a husky, deep voice as his muscular arms circled my waist.

“Yes,” I replied, catching a brief sight of his tall frame, dressed in simple blue jeans and striped button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves.

He pulled me back, until we were in a dimly lit corner. His scent put me in a trance—fresh beer, expensive cologne, a hint of mint and pure masculinity. I resisted the strong urge to move closer—to sniff it, to taste it, to lick it off him.

He ground against me in the crowded club. It was as if we were in a bubble, anonymous despite the swarming hordes around us. I leaned my head against his muscular chest. He tightened our embrace.

“You’re the most beautiful girl here. I’ve been watching you,” he whispered.

“I’m a woman…a regular cougar,” I said. I’d definitely surpassed my quota of drinks. He was young, as was everyone in this place…that was, everyone but me and that crazy, creepy old guy in the Elvis getup, who I’d warned the girls to steer clear of.

He laughed, a deep, throaty sound that rumbled through his body and vibrated up my spine. He trailed his fingers down my naked arm. A few harsh shrills signalling a rumble at the other end of the club broke the spell. I stepped away from him, watching as a huge crowd gathered in the area. “What’s going on over there?”

His arms, swift and graceful pulled me back against him. “Just some drunk idiots. Security will take care of it. It has nothing to do with us.”

“Stupidity knows no bounds,” I said, resting my head against his hard, comfortable chest. The song changed, and I smiled in response to the familiar masculine voice and the insightful words. Rodriguez’s
Climb Up on My Music
further encouraged my brazen, flirty fixation. He spun me around to face him. The music was loud, which was good because I…gasped. My body moulded perfectly against his. I draped my arms over his shoulders, clasping my hands behind his neck while his found their way to my hips.

I drank in the image of him, hoping my mind could conjure every delicious detail when this intense moment’s heat was a cold, distant memory. The face matched the body—powerful, brooding and beautiful at the same time. A light shone above us, illuminating his strong jaw, covered in the shadow of recently emerged stubble and complete with a sinisterly sweet smile. I bit my lower lip at the sight of his brilliant, green-gold eyes that were mysterious but kind at the same time. I broke the first rule of playing nice—I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. I lifted my arm from his shoulder, running my fingers through his silky, thick black strands. Okay, I probably could have helped it. He closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath and dipped his head down, encouraging me. Suddenly, he pulled my wrist away, kissing the underside. Actually, it wasn’t quite a kiss. He rubbed his lips against my skin, lapping his tongue across the area, tasting me. Funny how the body worked, because that contact made me wet in a very different place, and I wondered if he was providing a preview.

I tried to concentrate on something else. I counted. Two…two wisps of hair that fell across his forehead, pointing to his brilliant eyes. No. Four…four of his long fingers drumming against my lower back, synchronised to the music. No. Eight…eight buttons on his shirt, hiding what had to be a sexy six-pack. Shit—counting was a bad idea. He placed my hand on his shoulder, exhaling sharply. Was he having the same thoughts? That the electricity between us was liable to electrocute us both?

“This artist’s underrated. He’s one of my favourites,” he whispered against my ear.

My whole body shuddered in response to his heated breath against my skin. “I love Rodriguez.”

He grinned, arching an eyebrow. “You’re familiar with him?”

“Of course, he’s the poet of Detroit. The working man’s Bob Dylan, and the face of the South African revolution.”

“No one ever knows that,” he said, appearing impressed by my musical knowledge.

My thoughts were frenzied and fast. Rodriguez was before even my time, so how would he know it? How did the DJ even have this song? Rodriguez’s lyrics were pure poetry, but the man had never been commercially successful. Certainly not the kind of song you’d expect in a hot, sweaty, happening club on a Saturday night.

“I know my music. I’m surprised the DJ chose this.”

“I requested it. I’ve never met anyone who appreciates Rodriguez.”

“Well, you’ve never met anyone like me.”

A slow smile crept across his face. “I believe that.”

I trembled as his finger floated across my lips. I shamelessly opened my mouth and sucked on his finger.

“What shall I call you, Miss Cougar?”

He held me close enough to feel his jutting erection against my waist. He wasn’t grinding it into me, but he wasn’t hiding it either. He removed his finger and placed it in his own mouth. It was too much. I melted into his arms.

“Jessie,” I answered, because I didn’t want him to know my real name. I wasn’t sure if I knew it—nothing about this moment seemed real. The false name would only support the façade I’d put up in this brief moment. Besides, I’d loved that name ever since I’d heard Joshua Kadison’s song about a girl named Jessie. Although, she didn’t sound very nice by his lyrics.

“Jessie,” he repeated, his lips against my temple. “Jessie, Jessie, Jessie.”

“Why do you keep saying my name?”

“I’m trying it on for size.” He leant down, bringing his face so close, I could feel his stubble as it brushed my cheek. “It fits.”

Damn… I needed to fan myself desperately.

“I’m Damien.”

“Is that an omen?” My laugh was nervous.

“You’re a funny girl.”

“More like cynical. Scepticism is my shield. I wear it high.”

“It’s good to meet a fellow cynic. Your sarcasm only makes you sexier.”

The hairs on my neck stood up. The last time that had happened was when I’d attended The Rolling Stones reunion concert…their first reunion tour.

“I didn’t think this was the kind of place that accepted requests.” I intended to settle for casual conversation because my reaction to him wasn’t normal. I needed to safeguard myself from the rush of hormones that had successfully dissolved my rational inhibitions.

“I know people.”

I looked down at his muscular arms, smiling at the tiny sparkly blue circles dotting them—my clothes were trying to take themselves off. I watched as another sequin loosened from my top, sticking against his bare skin. The slight dampness of his body acted as glue, so they clung to him…much like I wanted to. I thought about peeling them off or telling him, but in the end, I kept it to myself. It was my way of temporality staking claim to this man who’d managed to take my breath away with a few seductive sentences. Well…it didn’t hurt that he looked like a modern day reincarnation of an ancient Greek sculpture.

The song finished, which was good because I was liable to attack him like a real life cougar, laying a claim with my teeth sinking into his flesh instead of innocent sparkles, if I didn’t get away from him soon. “I have to go.” I pulled away, which wasn’t easy. I was the metal to his magnet.

“Wait.”

I stopped, staring up at him.

“Do you have to go?”

“Yes, I’m here with people.”

“A man?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No. Bye, Damien.” I started to walk away, but his fingers circled around my belt loop, pulling me back. It wasn’t a forceful gesture. It didn’t have to be.

“Give me your phone.”