Vulture (a Stepbrother Romance) -(29)

He studied my extended hand, wavering slightly in front of him, deciding if he was going to take it.

“Come lie down beside me,” I pleaded and added, “please, I need you.”

Nodding his head, he pushed back the covers and slipped in alongside me. He reached for me, easing his arms underneath me, his front nestled against my back and bottom, his muscular biceps strong and entangled around me. He took me in his arms, holding me closer than ever before, only one layer of clothing between his naked body and my covered back. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.





11





Sara





The next morning the coldness of the room woke me. A chilly breeze wafted inside, and I shivered. I pulled at the covers, inclined my head to the side and studied the time. It was past noon. I reached up and planted both of my palms against my face, feeling a sense of loss as last night’s events came crashing down upon me. Where was Harvey?

A vague memory surfaced in my mind of his lips on the back of my neck and my shoulders, his fingers exploring and stroking the length of my arms, but as I re-examined the vision, it faded away at the edges, and a hazy fog obscured the view. It was just a dream, I told myself. And yet I dimly recalled me telling him to stop… to go. Fuck, why couldn’t I remember?

Somewhere, echoing from downstairs, I heard a loud beep, and my sister’s voice came hurtling out of the answering machine. I groaned as I listened to message.

“Sara, this is Anita. Why aren’t you answering your bloody phone? Anyway, you know why I’m calling, so get off your fat arse and do me the courtesy of phoning me back as soon as you get this. We need to figure out the funeral arrangements.”





My sister’s voice stopped abruptly, and I presumed that was the end of the message. I slumped back down into the covers and stared up at the ceiling.

Time disappeared like sand through open fingers, and I didn’t realise that I’d fallen asleep again. When I awoke for the second time that day, the room was dark, with only a stream of moonlight giving shape to the furniture.

Loud protestations came from my grumbling belly, but I ignored them and fell back down to my pillows, tears streaming down my cheeks as I thought of my mom. Nothing would make the grief I felt inside my chest fade away, not food, not water. Perhaps there was one thing, but he wasn’t here. He’d left, even though he said he’d be here.

I closed my eyes again, and by the time I resurfaced, my stomach ached from the lack of food. I didn’t know what day it was. I tried to make myself move, thought about swinging my legs off the bed and hauling my ass out to the bathroom and taking a shower. But I didn’t do anything. I merely lay there and stared into open space.

“Where the hell are you? Are you really going to miss your own mother’s funeral?”





Shit, shit, shit! I thought as the message ended. That was today? How could I have let the days slip by? And where the hell was Harvey? He should be here, demanding that I get out of bed.

Warring with myself whether I should show up to see them lay my mother in the ground, her body buried in mud, as they had done with Eric’s, I felt bile travel up my throat.

I couldn’t face it; it would be the end of me. Not another funeral so soon after Eric’s! I envisaged the white flowers, lilies no doubt, strewn over the white coffin that I knew Anita would’ve chosen. And the people and their sad, pitying faces. No. I couldn’t. I was being selfish, but it would kill me…

I continued to debate with myself, as if there was going to be a different outcome each time, anxiety building. Telling myself that I should get up now or miss the ceremony. But instead I just lay in my bed, numb. Tears poured down my face, frozen against the time that continued to tick by.

I awoke to the sound of loud footsteps thudding up the stairs, and for brief second, hope entered my head. Harvey? But a lurid calling of my name brought a quick end to that. Anita came into the room, fists clenched by her sides. There was fury and determination in her steps.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she yelled.

My head pounded, and I winced from the pain. “Lower your voice, Anita,” I said, my voice coming out as a croak. “I have a migraine.”

My words seemed to infuriate her more. “Keep it down? Do you even hear yourself, Sara?”

“Please,” I begged.

“You have some fucking nerve. Why didn’t you come to the funeral?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to go, Anita,” I said, rubbing one of my temples. “Not another one.” It was self-preservation, I failed to add, knowing she’d never understand. She’d never had to deal with anything but light in her life.