Sustained(70)
She sets a tall glass of water in front of me, her expression neutral.
“Thank you.”
I don’t remember everything about last night, just a few words and images. But I still feel the need to say, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“Why?” she asks, stacking dishes in the sink. “It’s not like you accosted me.”
“No—I definitely would’ve remembered that.”
She glances at me with a quick, fleeting smile.
“Chelsea.” There’s a desperation in my voice that makes her stop and meet my eyes. “I’m sorry about what I said the other day, too. You’re not just a ‘good time’ to me—you know that, right? You have to know that, you’re . . . so much more. And I don’t handle . . . more . . . very well.”
Her stiff expression melts and her eyes go soft and warm. She licks her lips, considering her words, then says, “I missed you. I know it was only a day, and I know that’s probably going to freak you out . . . But I like having you around—and everything that goes with it. We don’t have to . . . move forward if that makes you uncomfortable. I’m good with keeping things just as they are. I think they’re . . . pretty awesome.”
I take her hand, sliding her closer. I press it between my two hands, watching it disappear. So small. So beautiful. “I think they’re pretty awesome too.”
And her smile grows. “Good.”
I yawn and stretch . . . and goddamn, I’m actually beginning to not feel like a dump Death took anymore. Raymond may be onto something with that drink; hope he wrote the recipe down.
“I have to get to work, but before I head home for a change of clothes, I really want a shower.”
Chelsea runs her fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp. “There are five showers in this house—take your pick.”
I grin. “I like the one in your room.”
The hot water feels amazing on my tight muscles. I hang my head under the rain-shower spout, letting the water run over me, and yesterday washes away. My conversation with Mrs. Holten and Tom Caldwell and the feelings they resurrected circles the drain and goes down.
I step out into Chelsea’s room with a towel around my waist. She’s there, putting sexy scraps of folded lace and satin into drawers. She watches me, staring at the drops of water that trail down my chest, across my abs. My cock preens under her gaze.
And she definitely notices that.
Looking hungrily at the hard outline beneath the towel, she asks, almost breathlessly, “Feeling better?”
I run my tongue along my bottom lip. “Much better.”
And the towel doesn’t stay on my hips for long after that.
• • •
In the days that follow, Chelsea and I find our rhythm again, in and out of the bedroom. My life goes back to normal—a strange, different kind of normal that includes her and the kids. One day, Chelsea joins Brent, Sofia, Stanton, and me for lunch—and Sofia holds Ronan on her lap the whole time. I take Rory to Little League tryouts and we all celebrate with pizza on the back patio when he makes the team. Rosaleen starts lessons with a new piano teacher who comes to the house—and I supervise to make sure there’s not a ruler in sight. Riley discovers 5 Seconds of Summer and One Direction gets downgraded—though to be honest, they all look exactly the same to me. Ronan starts sleeping through the night—a huge plus—while Raymond enjoys his torment-free days at school. And Regan flexes her power with her newly expanded vocabulary, telling us all “no” every chance she gets.
It’s pretty great.
But then . . . a day comes along that changes everything. And it all goes to hell.
• • •
After Mrs. Holten’s strong repudiation of her statement and her refusal to assist the prosecution in any case against her husband, Caldwell had no choice but to drop the charges against the senator. And that was recorded as a win in my column. It’s a big fucking deal for me professionally. I’m now Jonas Adams’s pet employee and the favorite guy in the whole world of Senator Holten—a man with considerable influence in DC. Late one Friday afternoon, the senator makes room in his busy schedule to come to our firm, to Jonas’s office, for a meeting with me. To hobnob and discuss my future.
To talk about all the deals the devil wants to make.
We sit on the leather couches in Jonas’s office, enjoying an afternoon scotch. Holten talks about a good “friend” of his who’s being investigated for money laundering. His eyes are dark, bottomless, almost soulless. And it’s kind of creeping me out.
As the senator drones on, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at it discreetly—Chelsea’s name glows on the screen. I send the call to voice mail. But a few minutes later, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when her silent call comes again.