by Pam Godwin
I turn, my pulse singing at the sound of her voice.
She leans her head back on the ledge. “Thank you.”
I doubt she’s thanking me for a specific thing. Her gratefulness is always all-encompassing. Christ, I love this girl.
“I’ll be right back.” I slip out and shut the door.
Shane already has the body wrapped in tarp and duct tape. He sweeps the towel over the wood floors, clearing away any urine or blood, his expression colorless and etched in torment.
I step beside him. “You look like you’ve done this before.”
“Never.”
Fear, shock, revulsion…there are so many overpowering emotions in that whisper, I believe him.
With the body bagged, we haul it down the hall. I leave him at the stairs and return to Ivory.
By the time I dress her, give her the medicine, and tuck her into bed, she’s deep asleep beneath the weight of sedation.
I spot check the wood floors for blood with each pass I make through the room. I’ll do a thorough cleaning later, but to the unassuming eye, there’s no indication a crime was committed here.
I change into a Henley and jeans and find Shane sitting on the top step, staring into space.
“Let’s finish this.” My voice makes him jump.
A few minutes later, the body is loaded in the Honda in the garage.
I hand Shane a shovel. “Where’s Schubert?”
He takes it, his glare digging into the closed trunk of the car. “Shouldn’t we deal with that first?”
“At dusk.” I head toward the hall that leads to the back yard. “We need to talk.”
Outside, the sun slips behind the monolithic tower of my estate, fading the sky into streaks of violet.
Surrounded by oaks and blooming bushes, I set Schubert’s body on the ground and direct Shane to a spot beside the concrete bench in the garden. “Where have you been for the past three months?”
He stabs the shovel through the mulch and starts the hole. “Not in New Orleans.”
If I press, he’ll likely lie about his location. He said he flew in. Maybe that will help the PI track him this time.
I sit on the bench and take in his receding blond hair, pale complexion, and the stupidity emanating from his dull eyes. Hard to believe he’s related to Ivory.
With a deep breath, I rest my elbows on my spread knees. “Tell me how this came about.”
Working the shovel through the dirt, he says quietly, tiredly, “Lorenzo called me yesterday, said he was released—” He stops, glances up at me, hesitating. “He was in jail for burglary.”
He’s either fucking with me or he doesn’t know my involvement in Lorenzo’s arrest. As dumb as he is, I’m leaning toward the latter. That means he didn’t want to mention the burglary conviction for another reason. I can guess why.
He returns to his task. “He called me when he got out, said he lost his apartment and needed fast money.” He shovels more dirt, avoiding my eyes. “I owed him my life, so I offered him a solution and flew home to help him.”
I look up at my estate as the pieces slowly click together. Shane must’ve been following Ivory before he approached her in the parking lot. If so, he already knew where she lives. When he saw me that night and recognized me as the guy who punched him, he figured out our relationship and who she lives with. Our schedule is obvious, so he bet on the assumption we would be at school.
“You came here to rob me.” My hands clench. “How did you get in?”
He pauses then resumes digging. “I guessed her code.”
Fuck. That’s a huge goddamn oversight on my part.
So then what? Lorenzo went in alone while Shane kept watch? She fought him. Somehow the cat was pulled into it. I won’t demand those details from Shane. She’ll give me an honest account when she’s ready.
He stares at the ground, voice tight. “She wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“Except she was. What do you think Lorenzo intended to do to her after he raped her? Would he have left her alive to point him out in a line up after he robbed the place?”
“Oh God.” His head lowers, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the handle of the shovel it has to be cutting circulation.
“Do you know why I punched you that night?”
He glares at the dirt, nostrils flaring.
“She came to school with a busted lip.” I let my disgust clip the words.
His eyes close, face pinched in pain.
I find a sick sort of comfort in his guilt. “A brother is supposed to protect his sister. Stand up to bullies for her. Walk through fucking fire for her.”
He leans on the shovel like a crutch, his entire body shaking. “I fucked up, okay?” He lets go of the handle and scrubs his hands over his head, his eyes stark with anguish. “She tried to tell me for years, but I didn’t listen. I was just so…angry with her. About the school thing and her relationship with Dad. Then here she is, living in this huge mansion…”
I don’t think he’s talking for my benefit, and I don’t give a shit what his justifications are. I just need to know if he’s going to be a continuing threat to Ivory.
Rising from the bench, I grab the shovel and dig. “So Lorenzo’s call gave you the idea to take from her. With his robbery experience, you jumped on the opportunity to steal some of her happiness for yourself.”
He drops his arms to his sides and stares at the house, his voice a croaked whisper. “Yeah.”
I settle the cat in the hole, swallow a knot of sadness, and return the dirt. “I should be burying you instead of Schubert.”
A frown contorts his face, his ignorant eyes backlit with conviction. “I promise I won’t cause her any more trouble. Fuck, I’ll spend the rest of my fucking life staying the hell out of hers. It’s the only thing I can offer her.”
I’ll have a PI on my payroll for the rest of her life to make sure of it. “It’s time to deal with the other thing.”
“Yeah.” He lifts his chin, gazing out toward the darkening sky over the eastern horizon. “I know a place.”
The moment I wake, my muscles tighten in memory of the day’s events. A dim lamp glows in the gloom of the bedroom, casting shadows over my brother’s dour expression where he slouches in a chair beside the bed. It’s disturbing to see him in this house, in a place that’s always represented safety, happiness, and love. But I’m not scared. Emeric would kill him before allowing him to be alone with me again.
I shift my attention down the length of the mattress and find watchful devotion in eyes of shimmering blue. My heart hums.
Emeric told me once if anyone touched me, his response would be murderous. He’s a man of his word. Lorenzo is gone. Dead. No longer able to hurt me. I still feel heavily weighted by shock, my insides aching with the loss of Schubert and coiling with worry over Emeric taking such a drastic gamble with his future to protect me. But we’ll get through this together, no matter what.
Sitting on the bed beside my feet, he traces a hand along the outline of my leg in the blankets. His chiseled face is smoothed into a calm mien framed in exhaustion. His black hair spikes in a chaos of perfection, and a steel gray Henley stretches across his shoulders, accentuating the strength of his neck. He risks that neck for me repeatedly, and today was no different.
My grateful smile comes easily. “How long have I been out?”
His jaw shifts, mashing the gum in his mouth. “Six hours.”
I’m aware he spent that time dealing with Lorenzo’s body. What did he do with it? The flicker in his gaze tells me he anticipates the question, but there’s a hard glare there, too. He’s not going to tell me.
I don’t want him to carry this burden alone, but it would be important to him to keep me isolated from the details. Pushing him on it would only make him frustrated and conflicted.
I can be rational on this one thing.
His hand moves over the bend of my knee, his thumb stroking against the covers. “Your brother is leaving.” H
e looks at Shane and steels his voice. “For good this time.”
Blowing out a breath, I check what I’m wearing—another one of Emeric’s t-shirts. No panties. I shift to sit against the headboard, dragging the covers with me, and meet Shane’s eyes.
He scoots to the edge of the chair and rubs his palms over his jeans, watching the movement. “It’s a little late, but I’m saying it anyway.” He glances at me. “I’m sorry.”
Two words don’t erase years of abuse and bullshit. However, his actions today, his choosing me over Lorenzo, hit hard and true, fracturing the ugly barrier between us.
A fracture doesn’t bring down a wall. But it does leave behind a precious weak point, one that will always be there. Whenever I think of him, I’ll feel that fracture and remember it fondly.
Emeric studies our interaction, his expression neutral, his caresses lingering on my ankle.
Shane lifts a hand and reaches for mine, making an awkward hesitation in the space that separates us before hooking our fingers together.
He smiles sadly, squeezes my hand, and whispers, “Fuck you, Ivory.”
I squeeze back. “Have a nice life, Shane.”
He pulls his hand away, then his gaze, and walks out the door without looking back.
A pang of loss tightens my chest. The urge to stop him tenses my legs.
But he broke into Emeric’s house. He beat me for years. I’m no longer a victim. With those reminders, I let him go.
Emeric follows him out. When he returns a few minutes later, he strips naked, slides into bed behind me, and curves his body around mine. I revel in the warmth of his skin and twine our legs together, melting against his chest with a sigh.
Instead of demanding I talk or eat or take my medicine, he touches his mouth to my shoulder then my neck and jaw. When I turn in his arms, he teases my lips apart and sinks his tongue in to slide against mine. The scruff on his chin rubs softly. Cinnamon flavors his breaths, his lips a firm pressure of sensuality.
His mouth is the best place to get lost in.
With my hand on those sexy indentations in his waist, I nip, lick, and taste, taking my time, following his lead. It’s a kiss without expectation, a melding of lips simply for the comfort in the connection.
We maintain that gentle mood for the remainder of the evening.
The next morning begins with a fight.
He says we’re not going to school. He can do what he wants. I’m going. He thinks I need rest and refuses to leave me home alone. It’s Friday. I can rest over the weekend. If we both miss another day, we might as well announce our relationship over the intercom.
We argue for an hour. I win. It turns out to be an uneventful day. And fruitless. My concentration is shit. Emeric might’ve been right about one thing. I need rest—the mental kind.
By Saturday afternoon, the sore spot on my stomach where Lorenzo kicked me turns a violent shade of purple. Emeric’s horror at seeing it is the impetus for our inevitable conversation.
We soak in the tub, my back against his chest and his legs bracketing mine. As I walk him through what happened, he swirls soap over my skin, his fingers massaging and soothing. I give him every gritty detail, my voice strong at the beginning. When I tell him about my brainless attempt to use my safe word, his body turns to stone beneath me. My voice wavers from there. By the time I recall those final moments with Schubert’s body in my arms, I crumble against him.
It hurts. That little fur ball was such an essential part of my life, and I ache in his absence. But I’m not broken. Not like I was when I lost my dad. It’s easier this time. I feel it in every touch and glance Emeric gives me, that much-needed support of another person holding me up during those times when I struggle to stand on my own.
That night, he snores softly behind me, his chest pressed to my back, our limbs entangled, bodies aligned. I can’t join him in sleep, my mind too restless, thinking about his reaction to using my word with Lorenzo.
Nothing has changed between Emeric and me. We haven’t had sex since that day, but I’ve had a bladder infection. His lingering glances still make me purr. His kisses curl my toes. What I don’t know is how I’ll respond when he straps me down, grips my throat, or raises that belt. I trust him, unequivocally. But do I trust a word—any word—enough to use it again?
Before I met him, Scriabin’s sonata was a black mass in my mind, the place I went to when terrible things happened to my body.
Over the past five months, those dark notes have become synonymous with Emeric and the safety he gives me. Did I ruin it by using it with the wrong man?
I play the sonata in my head, but I don’t feel it. I need to hear it.
Sneaking out from beneath the heavy weight of his arms, I listen for his even breaths then tiptoe to the music room.
With the door shut, the room is supposed to be soundproof. I sit behind the piano, soaking in the silence and clearing my head. After a few calming breaths, I run my fingers over the keys and ease into Scriabin’s Sonata No.9.
It’s rough at first, the melody banging through the room in a disjointed rhythm. But I keep at it, transforming my interpretation from eerie and neurotic to something more nebular and meditative. The sonata drifts around me in a cloud of notes. My mind absorbs it, reflects it.
It feels safe. The kind of safe that enwraps me during my darkest times. It’s doing that now, melting away the room, fogging my headspace, and immersing me in dissonance.
Except I suddenly don’t feel like playing it. I rest my hands in my lap. The sonata is a place to go to, a word to speak, when I’ve reached my limit. But do I enjoy it? Not really. It doesn’t…thrill me.
I want to try something different. Something beyond Chopin, Rachmaninov, and Debussy.
My attention shifts toward the door, and I startle.
Emeric leans against the frame, arms relaxed at his sides, his phone in one hand. He’s been in constant communication with his PI over the past couple days. Probably tracking Shane. Maybe something involving Lorenzo, as well. He doesn’t tell me, and I don’t ask.
Black pajama pants sit seductively low on his trim hips, the V of his abs pointing like an arrow to the soft bulge beneath the cotton.
I raise a brow. “How long have you been there?”
“I followed you.” His brows lower, his eyes dark, haunted. “You played Scriabin.”
“Yeah. I needed to know.” I glance at the keyboard. “I won’t be afraid to say no. With the word.” I return to him. “Trust me to use it.”
He straightens, studying me intently. “Be sure, Ivory.”
“I’m sure. It’s safe.” I wrinkle my nose. “And kind of boring.”
His eyes light up. “I’m intrigued.” He prowls toward me. “Name a song that’s not boring.”
The tick of your watch. The harmony of your breaths. The tempo of your heart. The notes I feel whenever you’re near. “‘I Will Follow You Into The Dark.’”
He stops behind me and places his phone on the bench beside my hip. “Death Cab for Cutie?”
I nod.
“Interesting choice.” He moves my hair aside and traces his knuckles along the line of my neck. “Play it.”
“I don’t have the music sheet.”
“You don’t need it.” His lips touch the path of his finger, his breath stroking my ear. “You have the world’s greatest teacher.”
I shiver. “So cocky.”
He gives my neck a warning bite and steps back. “Raise your arms.”
I do, recalling his words the night I sucked his cock in Le Moyne’s theater.
I want you naked, sitting at my piano and rolling your hips like you’re fucking the notes.
He pulls the t-shirt over my head and drops it, leaving me completely bare beneath his gaze. With his hands on my waist, he lifts me, takes my seat, and positions me on his lap, facing the keyboard.
This is different. I’m up a little higher, but as his arms come around me and his hands guide mine to the keys, I relax my
weight on his powerful thighs. Knees together between his, I tremble in anticipation.
He cues up the song on his phone and sets it on the bench. In the next breath, the inspiring arrangement of music and lyrics trickle from the speaker. His hands move beneath mine and guide me through the simple complexity of chords.
I spread my fingers through the spaces between his. My hands are smaller, bonier, and darker-skinned, but they mold around his exquisitely, like our hands are meant to be joined this way, for holding each other, for creating music together.
Fumbling along, I become frustrated by my inability to catch on. I can recreate classical pieces without sheet music, only the ones I’ve played a gazillion times. How does he just pluck mysterious notes out of the air without visual guidance? It’s insane. And brilliant.
“Listen.” He brushes his mouth across my nape. “Feel it.”
I close my eyes and focus on the beats, the glide of his fingers, and the sway and flex of his tensile muscles around me. His breaths on my neck and the twitches in his legs make it easier to predict his movements and rhythms. I don’t just feel the music. I feel him as the vocals lead us through each measure, painting passionate imagery about fear being the heart of love.
I don’t know how many times he replays the song. I’m lost in his arms and the meaning of the lyrics. Our love is risky, adventurous, and real. Is it founded in fear? Maybe, but it’s a respectful fear, because our love is almighty and powerful.
The taut skin on his chest rubs against my bare back, the friction erotically pleasurable, his body a conductor of sensual heat and sound. I roll my hips against his, liberated by my nudity, rocking to the music and fucking the notes.
He groans, a seductive rumble, and one of his hands slides out from beneath mine. I carry the tune, missing keys but keeping up as he trails his fingers across my thigh, along my ribs, and around my nipple.
I sigh as his cock swells beneath my ass.
His other hand slips from the keyboard to join the first, and my pulse speeds up. His fingers rove hungrily around my breasts, up and down my legs, over my arms, always returning to my chest. When his lips fall to my throat, my hands falter, ruining the melody, but I don’t care. He’s strumming a better song, our song, set to the tempo of our breaths and beating hearts.