“I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?” I ask, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“How you can find me angry and sad and make it all go away.”
“I wish I could make it all go away, but I think you found the answer to that asinine invoice tiny-dick sent your parents. How about this weekend we take a trip to Holland?”
She nods as my cock remembers that Sami and I are more than friends.
We’re friends with benefits, and now that we’re awake and unclothed, it’s time for more benefits.
Sami
“Did you request Feliena’s Room?” Marshal asks for the third time during this thirty-minute drive.
“Yes, but on short notice, they couldn’t guarantee we’d get it. Honestly, we may not get a room at all. Besides, I’ve been thinking. How can we prove that we didn’t install cameras if we find them?”
“This isn’t about legal action against the bed and breakfast. It’s about confirming our suspicions.”
I stared out the window of Marshal’s car as we made our way into Holland. “You know, this is such a cute town. I hate that he has ruined it forever.”
Marshal’s hand comes down gently on my knee and squeezes. “Only if you let him.” As we brake at a stop sign, he looks both ways. “It’s been forever since I’ve been here.” He turns his sexy smile my way. “Do you remember coming here for field trips?”
“I do. I think my mom still has wooden shoes with all of our names on them, even Byron.”
“With the upturned toe.”
“Yes. If I remember, the shoe is made that way so you can walk. The wood doesn’t flex, so you kind of roll when you step.”
“See,” he says, “I told you that you’re smart. I’m an architect and I didn’t know about wooden shoes.”
“You better not make a bid to build the little old lady’s house.”
Marshal’s gaze narrows as he looks my way.
“You know...the little old lady who lived in a shoe.”
The car fills with his laughter. The sound washes over me like a warm shower. It’s so familiar and yet unexpectedly comfortable. I lay my head against the headrest as we approach the Centennial Inn. “Parking is behind the buildings, off Central Avenue between 12th and 13th.”
Marshal slows and turns into the parking lot, and as the tires bump over the joining of two uneven surfaces, my stomach drops. “Stop.”
Marshal hits his brakes and we both lunge forward, only to be stopped by our seat belts. “Well, fuck,” Marshal says. “Maybe that’s not his BMW.”
I shake my head. “No. It’s his.” My eyes go to the second floor of the clinic building. It’s the rectangular building behind the main old Victorian home. As I scan the windows, I feel the growing pressure as my heart thumps against my breastbone.
Marshal pulls his car next to Jackson’s BMW.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask. “We’re leaving.”
“Or we can go up to that room” —his chin lifts toward the clinic building— “and knock on the door, tell him exactly what we know, inform his companion that she’s most likely being photographed, and let him know if he so much as sends Paul and Jean a fucking Christmas card, you will take his photo collection to Fred Wilson.”
With each of his phrases, my eyes open wider. “Shit, you’ve thought this out.”
“You’ve said parts of that.” He reaches for my hand. “I just put it all together in a nice little concise package for you. But hey, honey, if you have a better blackmail in mind, forget mine and go with your gut.”
I inhale as I look up at the building before us. “My gut says run.”
“That’s not your gut.” He lifts my hand to his lips and brushes kisses over my knuckles. “It’s not. You are the girl who convinced me to sneak out of my house and walk around the cemetery after midnight. You were the one who took the beer from your refrigerator, and we shared it in the boathouse.”
That makes me smile. “The beer was warm and gross. I think I threw it up.” I tilt my head. “Now, the more recent memories of the boathouse were your idea.”
He extends his hand, palm up. “That’s because we’re a team.”
I lay my hand in his. “Are you sure we can’t be a team back at my place or yours?”
“We can be a team anywhere. I suggest we walk around the city, grab some food and drinks, and enjoy Holland because you’re not going to let a tiny-dicked asshole ruin this town for you. Besides, I haven’t seen the windmill since fifth grade.”
I take one more look up at the windows of Feliena’s Room. “Fine. This is better anyway. I won’t need to go to his office. I can get it over with and move on.”
“As long as I’m with you, I’m all for moving on.”
My focus moves from the building to Marshal. “I like you with me.”
“Convenient. Now, let’s go so you can wipe this turd from your wooden shoes.”
“You really want to walk around the city and riverfront?”
“I do.”
I reach for the door handle. “Follow me.”
The thing I know about Marshal is that I never have to ask him twice or wonder if he has my back because he always does. We reach the outside door as a man I don’t recognize exits with a nod, allowing us access inside the building without a key.
“That was lucky,” I say as we face the staircase to the second floor.
“I had it all planned.”
“No, you didn’t.”
The higher we climb, the more I question my sanity. If this were only about me, I’d walk away and let Jackson enjoy his kink even if it’s wrong, but it isn’t only about me. I see my mom’s face as she showed me the stupid invoice and hear her tone as she fretted about finding the money to pay Jackson.
Cash out their retirement.
Hell no.
By the time we reach the top of the stairs, my shoulders are square and my neck is straight and tall. I turn to the door to room 7, Feliena’s Room, and knock.
“Just a minute,” a woman’s voice calls.
I don’t recognize the voice. I look at Marshal as we both shrug.
The doorknob turns and the door moves inward.
Ellen’s eyes open wide with recognition.
“Ellen.”
She pushes on the door, but Marshal is too fast, blocking the jamb and holding the edge of the door. “Hello,” he says. “I believe we met at The Rooftop bar.”
“Where is Jack?” I ask.
“He...he...” She resigns herself to the fact that the door won’t close as she steps back and wraps her arms around her stomach. “He went to get ice.”
“I’m not going to ask,” I say, “if we can come in. We are.”
“Samantha” —she begins as Marshal and I enter the room— “I don’t know what to say.”
I turn and face her. Thankfully, she’s clothed, wearing a pair of tan slacks and a bright orange halter top with a high neck.
“I understand your dilemma. After all, a speech that includes I’m sorry I fucked your fiancé in your bed three weeks before your wedding probably requires some rehearsal. Don’t bother.”