“Nothing’s changed, it’s how you left it,” she barely stated, her voice thick. Heading back to the main bathroom, I went inside, where our relationship changed forever. Much like before, I didn’t close the door.
Removing my jacket, I allowed myself to look at the suit I’d put on quickly. It was stylish. Classic fit but modern touch. Something I wouldn’t be caught dead in unless it was at a funeral. Guess it kinda was, the end of the era where I could pretend she didn’t exist.
The blazer was first to go. Uncuffing my wrists, I began unbuttoning my shirt. As it left my chest, I felt freer. Ink bled through my vision as I exposed my skin. Tattoos scattered across my torso, down my hips, leading to my cock.
Leaving stones unturned, or in this case, skin uncovered, wasn't in my plan. That fucking squid from years ago was my only piece unfinished. Something about completing it felt fucking final. Like if the ink spread over my hip and finished around my back to my ass, it meant I had to move forward. I wasn’t ready for that.
When I reached my pants, I unclipped the metal button and then unzipped, watching the material separate before it slid down my legs.
I smiled, feeling happy about the way my body mirrored every sad part and moment. A dictionary of Madden. A broken soul. The crucifix of all things damaged.
“Madden, did you—” She rounded the doorway, just as I pulled on my ripped jeans. They weren’t even buttoned yet, showing the top of my dick, no doubt. It took her all of two seconds before her eyes roamed across my body when they reached my own, she let out a gasp. It took her too long to put a hand over her eyes and feign shock.
The way her teeth dug into her lip as she cleared her throat would be stuck in my spank bank for a long time to come.
No. That's wrong.
Shaking my head and the bad habits too hard to drop, I smirked at her in kind. “See something nice?” I taunted, hating myself for about five seconds, until she swallowed. Her cheeks pinked, making my smirk transform into pure happiness.
“I'll be out there in a moment. Need to put on a shirt.”
She nodded and hurried away. When I was fifteen and wanted her more than I wanted air, confusion set in. Her being kind to me, attentive even, it made me want things from her. Made me think there was something between us. It created a taboo fantasy inside me that lived in me still. Then I came back at sixteen and it worsened.
When I was here last, and she sucked me off, it allowed the feelings to fester. If my parents didn’t die, would we have fought the temptation or fucked each other until it fucked us up irrevocably?
After putting on my shirt and packing my hiding gear in my bag, I stowed it away in my old room and headed to the kitchen. Inside, Andy stood above a frying pan, flipping stir-fry and humming to one of Dad's old songs.
My heart squeezed at that moment, feeling the pinch of his loss. Of Mom being gone. Of the songs Dad would never complete. They were perfect parents in their own rights. The fact that my thoughts of them constantly flipped wasn’t lost on me.
They taught me a lot, telling me not to idolize anyone since it gave others the ability to hide their monstrosities, but my parents were the epitome of trying their best with what they had.
I loved them.
I fucking hated them.
Life was complicated.
Andy stirred, her left hand holding the pan. She shook her hips, her joy present and wistful.
“I miss your cooking,” I noted, making sure she knew I was near. Andy always jumped and screamed when surprised, and even now, she gasped and flinched a little. Sometimes the anger of not knowing why she did that overwhelmed me. Did someone hurt her? Right behind her, I hovered my fingers across her shoulders, wanting to feel the exposed flesh and relishing in the goosebumps that rose with the action.
Even without my touch, she felt me.
“I miss your company,” she whispered, turning toward me. Her nose scrunched in the way it did when she got emotional. I wanted to correct her, tell her that even before they died, she avoided me. Fear divided us much like pain still did.
Leaning into her, I inhaled nectarines and a sweet scent only she ever offered. She let out a satisfied breath when her hands gripped my hips
I froze at the contact, not knowing what to do. It wasn’t like I was opposed to Andy, but touch, it affected me. A shudder shot up my spine. Not like when I thought someone else was touching me, but knowing it was her made it overwhelming.
I couldn’t push her away.
Detach her limbs from mine.
The ick didn’t come, the opposition of touch, but unease settled in, promising to make me scratch or cut later.
I peered down at her, familiarity promising me feelings long lost. She and I were never the same height, but now, I towered over her like a god. I loved the way she kept the gap between us, not pushing for a hug. Hovering over her forehead like I’d kiss it as I once did, the scent of her branded me, bringing me peace.
My body hummed, burning for the single-inch gap between my lips and her skin to connect. It begged for that simple touch, the yearning opening a yawning chasm in my chest. Vast and empty.
We broke apart and the way her eyes set on me overwhelmed every nerve inside me. It was the same way I looked at her when I never should have. “What's his name?” I questioned, cutting the tension. She swallowed and turned back to her food, stirring. Was it too much for her too? The bleeding of emotions, triggering an episode of pain and more fucking pain.
“Brandon.” So, not Chad.
She didn’t offer any more information. No last name, no I love him, nothing significant but his first name. Before I could pester her, knocks at her door interrupted my thoughts. “Will you answer that?” Why doesn’t he have a key? They were getting married, wouldn’t he have access to her apartment?
Is he already here? I’d come early to grill her about him, pester her for answers. Be alone with her, when it was the last thing I should want. Why isn’t she greeting him? Like me, Andy kept people at a distance. The part of me who loved the idea came alive at that thought.
Heading to the front door, I put on a face. Not kind, not rude, but almost blasé. When he saw me on the other side of the door, he smiled.
His teeth were perfect, his smile too. The way he held himself felt fake and plastic, like he had a veneer to hide the disaster beneath.
He reeked of Hollywood.
A thousand-dollar suit of fuckery.
“You must be Toland.”
“Reaver,” I corrected. He clamped a hand on my shoulder like old buddies would or even how an uncle would. I winced at the contact, not wanting to appear weak, and shook it off. That cloying feeling, the film of absolute abhorrence filled me to the brim, and I knew the feeling would last all night. He either didn’t notice or care, I was betting on the latter.
“I'm Brandon Frost.”
I offered a nod and led him inside. Andy didn't stop her cooking to greet him, instead, she yelled, “In here!” Brandon grinned, his face full of happiness, but already I didn't like the dude.
I knew nothing of him, but he wasn't good enough for her.
The feeling in my gut solidified that. I wanted to punch him in his happy face and tell him to get fucked. But I couldn't do that.
She wasn't mine.
She definitely couldn't be.
He would have to prove himself to me or I'd fuck up his world. Even if he proved to be worthy, he wasn’t. No one would be. Ever.