Chapter Thirteen

HOW MANY PEOPLE EVER get to know on a true, deep level what the word “idyllic” means?

I remember learning that word as a kid, reading it somewhere, looking it up. I imagined people who had perfect lives, but I thought of their lives as artificial constructs. I thought of the Brady Bunch as plastic. I was so jaded, even then. I think I was the only kid who didn't just swallow it.

I've had a taste of it now. And it's beautiful and terrifying and real.

I've spent all week playing housewife. Not that I've done any actual housework, other than washing a few dishes, making Joshua's coffee every morning before he goes to work. And sometimes I cook for him, which I love in a completely sentimental and ridiculous way. I feel so proud when I serve a meal to him. It's pretty wonderful simply indulging myself, doing something I love. But so much better doing it for him. I feel like I should be wearing an apron and a God damn string of pearls sometimes, some twisted version of June Cleaver. Twisted far beyond any sort of amusing irony. But I still love it, even then.

We haven't talked about what I'm doing here, exactly, or when I'm going home.

During the day I walk through town, go down to the beach, and sit on the sand. Sometimes I bring a book with me. I've been reading a volume of Walt Whitman that I found tucked in a bookshelf in Joshua's house, but in a lazy sort of way. It's so luxuriously sentimental; I can only take a few pages at a time.

Sometimes I think ahead to what I might want to do with my life. I'm thinking a lot about those young girls I read about in the magazine. I wonder if there's any way I can help. I don't know where to begin, who to talk to. Maybe Lydia can point me in the right direction, when I'm ready.

Mostly, though, I just watch the water and the sky, the colors shifting with the time of day: blue, green, gray. The beach is so peaceful; I could spend hours there, and I do.

I've already made a habit of getting an iced mocha latte and a brownie in the afternoons at the little café closest to the house. The girl behind the counter with the facial piercings and purple hair knows my name already, knows what I always order. The ritual is comforting to me. And I realize I am creating these new rituals in an almost conscious way.

It's Friday morning, and as I get up, shower, dress, I realize I'll have him all to myself tomorrow. Lovely. I don't know what I'll do today. Probably what I've done all week. Or maybe I'll take the Lexus out and do some shopping. I've been wearing the same few pieces of clothing all week long.

I don't want to go back to my house yet.

But maybe I can check my messages, make sure there's nothing important from my housekeeper, my accountant. Hardly anyone else has my home number, just those few impersonal people—hired staff—and even fewer friends.

I dial and enter my PIN. I have four messages. One from my housekeeper, letting me know my orchids are fine. Sweet of her. And three messages from Regan, each one more frantic than the last.

Shit.

I should call her. I know I should.

It makes me nervous, to even come close to my old life. But that's ridiculous. That was my life for over nine years. And Regan is my friend. An unusual friendship, but one of the few I actually have.

I take a breath, dial her number. She picks up on the first ring.

“Val! Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine. I just got your messages.”

“Have you been out of town? You didn't say anything. God, never mind. I just want to know what's going on. Zayed wants us to go to Miami tomorrow, but The Broker says you're not going. She's sending Bella instead. You're not sick, are you?”

“No, not sick.” I take the phone and sit on the end of the bed. Joshua's bed. It's solid beneath me, a safe haven. “Regan, I… Look, I've quit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've quit the business.”

“Are you kidding me, Val?”

“No, I'm not.” I tug on my hair, twist a strand around my finger. “Regan, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I should have. But I've been … I have a lot to work out. Do you remember that guy I told you about? Joshua?”

“Jesus, Val. Don't tell me you're still seeing him.”

“It's not like that. I mean it is, but it's … more. I'm with him. And he knows about my life. I've told him what I am. What I was, because I've stopped. I'm never going back.”

“Jesus,” she says again. She's quiet a moment. “This is a lot to take in.”

“Yeah. For me, too.”

“I just have to ask, Val… Are you sure about this?”

“I'm not sure about anything right now, except how I feel about him. And that I've given up the business. For good.”

My heart is pounding. But it feels good, too, to say it out loud, to know the truth of it deep down.

“I can't believe you told him. Wow.” She's quiet for several long moments. I can hear her breathing. Then, “I'm going to miss you, Val.”

“We'll still see each other. Don't worry about that.”

“Will we? And how will you introduce me to your new boyfriend?”

That point hits home, like a small knife in my chest.

Regan lets out a long, sighing breath over the phone. “I'm sorry. I am. God, I don't mean to be a bitch. I'm just… trying to figure out how this is going to work out for you.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

My fingers clench on the phone. My skin feels too tight, suddenly.

“Regan, I mean it. I want to see you and Rosalyn. I just have to figure this out… my life. This relationship. I need to come to some conclusions before I can do anything else. I just don't want you to take it personally that I've been out of touch. That I might be for a little longer while I get my head on straight.”

“I won't. But I'm worried about you. I'm worried about how you're going to feel about yourself, putting yourself into this situation where someone who's important to you might be comparing you to some standard that doesn't even apply to people like us. I don't want you to do that to yourself. Can you tell me you're not doing that already?”

She's twisting the knife, and it hurts. But I have to consider what she's saying, because there's some truth in there.

“No. I can't tell you that's not happening. I don't mean him, I mean me.”

“It's all too easy for girls like us to lose our confidence, what self-esteem we're able to pull together from our weird lives. From nothing more than being wanted.”

She's getting emotional now; I can hear it in her voice. And this is something I've never really heard Regan do. It's affecting me; I can't help it.

“Just protect yourself, Val,” she tells me.

“I will. I'm trying. I understand the validity of what you're saying. But I have to do this.”

She's quiet again. “Val, call me any time, okay? If you want to talk … whatever. Okay?”

“Yes, sure.”

But I know I won't call any time soon. It's too much, talking to her, hearing these truths from her. Too much to face right now.

“I have to go, Val. I have to get packed for this trip. I wish you were coming with us.”

“I know.”

What else can I say? That I wish I were, too? That would be a lie. I can't stand the idea.

“Go, Regan. Have a good trip. Tell Rosalyn you spoke to me. Tell her I'll call her soon.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself. I mean that.”

“I will.”

We hang up and my gut is all twisted inside.

Did I think talking with her now would be easy? I don't know what I thought. My brain is full, overflowing. And everything in there is obscured by some sludgelike pool of murky water that I can't see through no matter how hard I try.

Except for one thing. The one thing I can see clearly is that I love this man.

I wish that were enough. But there is so much more, I don't even know where to begin.

I HEAR JOSHUA COME in the door and I pull him inside, start tearing his clothes off, and my own. I know I'm frantic. I don't care. I've had too many hours in which to think—to over-think, I know damn well—and now I just need to feel something good. To feel him.

“Hey, baby,” he says with a smile, that beautiful, devastating smile, before I kiss him hard, still trying to get his pants off.

He's cooperative, kicking off his shoes, helping me with my bra before I sink to my knees before him, slide his boxer-briefs down over his muscular thighs.

His cock is hardening, beautiful, the shaft thick, the head glistening with one pearly drop of pre-come. I dart my tongue out, lick it off. He groans, his hands going into my hair.

“Ah, Valentine. Love that, baby. Love your mouth on me. Come on, take it in.”

I do, wrapping my lips around his flesh, sucking him deep into my throat. Oh, yes, that's a trick I learned long ago. But I don't want to think about that now. I don't want to think at all. No, just focus on the flavor of his skin, the scent of desire coming off his body, the way every muscle clenches when I stroke his balls with my hand.

His hips are pumping now, an easy thrusting rhythm, his cock moving deeper into my throat. I want all of him, want to please him, want to give him the best head of his life. I want him to love me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not why he will love me. Or why he won't. But this is all I have right now. This is what I know. I am vaguely aware of how desperate I'm feeling.

Still, his cock feels so good in my mouth. I've always loved giving head. I really do. I suck him harder, and he's groaning now. So damn sexy. My own body is already hot for him, wet. But I can wait for my own pleasure.

“I'm going to come,” he says, gasping.

I grasp his buttocks, pull his hips in, swallow him, right down to the base of his cock, sucking, sucking. There is nothing else for me at this moment but his cock in my mouth, his flesh. And my need to make him happy.

“Jesus, Valentine! Jesus, Jesus … Ah …”

He comes, bucking, his seed sweet and salty going down my throat. I swallow it all, wanting that from him, like some sort of gift. I need it. His hands are tight in my hair, possessive. His grip loosens as his body calms, but I hold his cock in my mouth, loath to let go even as he softens.

“Come on, baby. Come here.”

Pulling me to my feet, he holds me against him for a moment. I can feel him shivering the tiniest bit, just beneath his skin. He half-lifts me, lays me back on the sofa, kneels on the floor, and slips my panties off. His face is soft, his features loose with the aftermath of his orgasm, his mouth lush and full. I reach up, trace my fingers over his lips, over that small scar which only makes him more beautifully masculine. Grabbing my hand, he holds it as he pulls my fingers into his mouth and begins to suck.

Oh, this is lovely, this warm, wet sensation. And his gaze intent on mine. Fucking amazing. My sex is swelling, needing him. I push my fingers a little deeper into his mouth, and he takes them, his tongue swirling against my fingertips. I'm squirming, barely able to hold still.

“Joshua, that's so good. I need more …”

He takes my fingers from his mouth. “Shh, baby. I'll take care of you.”

He pulls them in once more, soft and hot. And I almost feel like his mouth is on my hungry sex. But I wait.

Excruciating.

Lovely.

While I watch, and with his green-and-gold eyes on mine, he slips my fingers from his mouth, uses one hand to part my thighs, and takes my hand, my own slippery fingers, and guides them between my legs.

A shock of lust goes through me. Even better when he presses my damp fingers to my aching cleft, uses his free hand to spread my pussy lips, guides my fingers so that they are on either side of my swollen clit. Then he moves my hand with his, rubbing, rubbing. Pleasure, like a hot current, moves through my body. And the whole time, his gaze on mine, so intense I can barely stand to look at him. But I can't look away.

“Do you want to be fucked, Valentine?” he asks, his voice quiet. His eyes are hot with desire again. Burning.

“Oh, yes.”

He picks up my hand, slides it into his mouth once more, leaving my fingers wetter than ever. Then he does the same with his own fingers. I am nearly dying from anticipation.

He moves my hand between my thighs once more, finding my clitoris, holds my hand and begins to rub, circling, pressing. It feels so damn good, better than my own hand should. And then he slides his fingers inside me, into that wet, needy hole, and begins to pump. And God, I am ready to come almost instantly. His fingers moving inside me, my own sliding across my hard little clit, and most of all, his gaze on mine, as though he can see inside me.

I moan, pant, and watch his dark pupils expand. His gaze bores into me, burrows deep, as deeply as his hand in my body, pumping, pulling pleasure from me in long, lovely strands.

“God, Joshua … Yes, fuck me, baby, please …”

He moves deeper, faster. And I no longer know if I am moving my fingers over my clit or if it's him. And everything is so slippery, so burning hot. And I am poised on that keen edge, waiting to fall.

“I love you, baby. Love you, love you,” he whispers.

And I tumble over, stars behind my eyes, exploding in my head, like a million points of diamond-bright light, expanding into an entire universe in which nothing exists but he and I.

It's much later when I wake up from a deep sleep. He is lying next to me on the sofa, his long body stretched out against my side, one arm thrown over my waist.

It's dark outside, the dim moonlight coming through the windows, but filtered by the fog, as it often is here at the beach. It's peaceful. So quiet that I can hear the faint sound of the ocean, that soothing white noise I have come to love these past days.

I have come to love everything about this place. But mostly that it's his.

I want to be here. I don't even want to go home. And that scares the hell out of me.

A hard thump in my chest.

This place is not yours.

No. I have been pretending. I'm good at that. This is not news.

How can I be so happy and so bitter at the same time?

He stirs a little, his hand wandering over my side, caressing my breast. I look at his face and I see his eyes are open, two dark orbs in the pale light of the moon.

“Hi, baby,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “Are you hungry? We didn't have dinner. Again.”

“No. I'm not. What about you?”

“It can wait. I don't want to get up yet. This is too good.”

I run my fingers through his hair, touch his cheek, needing to know he's real. He is as solid beneath my hand as anything has been in my life.

“It is,” I tell him. “Too good. That's it exactly.”

I really did not mean to say that out loud.

He raises his head. “Valentine? You okay?”

“Yes. Sure.” But I have to look away. I can't look him in the eye and lie.

He takes my chin, forcing me to face him. “No. Tell me.”

I shake my head. Why can't I keep my mouth shut? I don't want to ruin the evening. But it's too late. He sees right through me.

“Come on. Talk to me.”

He pushes himself up on the pillows, taking me with him. I'm shivering a little in the night air; he pulls a throw blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over both of us. It would be a warm, sweet cocoon if we didn't have to talk right now. But we do.

“Joshua … I'm sorry. I've been thinking a lot today. Well, I've been thinking a lot in general.”

“And?”

I can hear the tension in his voice. I don't blame him.

“There's a lot going on in my head. A lot of… thoughts, ideas. A lot of … doubts.”

“About me?”

“Mostly about me.”

“Mostly. But not all.”

I'm quiet for a moment, tugging on a bit of fringe on the edge of the blanket, twisting it between my fingers. “I have to wonder, Joshua … I can't help but think about how things are going to go between us. I don't claim to know much about relationships, but I do know they're never easy. And we have this extra thing to deal with. My past. You can't deny it's a huge issue. I don't know how you'll handle it long term. I don't even know how I'll handle it. It's just so damn hard.”

His jaw is clenched. I've made him angry. And that makes me want to cry. But I don't.

“Do you think this is easy for me? That I fell in love with a woman with your history? I don't mean to hurt you, Valentine, I really don't. But we have to be honest with each other. And the truth is, loving you scares the hell out of me. But I love you. There's no getting around that, so I deal with it. And it's not denial, if that's what you're worried about. It's a process, but one that's happening on the inside. I feel like it has to, or I'd be punishing you for the way you've lived your life, and I can't do that to you, to what we have together.”

He stops, rubs a hand over his face. I can see beard stubble shadowing his chin. He looks so human to me right now, so vulnerable, the tension around his eyes, his mouth. I hate that I do this to him.

He goes on. “I need you to know that I don't think there's something bad, evil, in what you did. I didn't think it of those girls I paid for sex in Amsterdam all those years ago. But I understand there are reasons why you ended up in that life. I know you're working on it now. And I'm sticking while you do that. I think you can do it, overcome your past.

“But I'd also be a liar if I said I can be one hundred percent certain everything will be okay. I understand I have very little control over how it all goes with us, and that makes me fucking crazy. But I love you. What else can I do but wait and hope you get it worked out in your head? There's not one more God damn thing I can do.”

I want to cry, the tears fighting to come out. I bite my lip, hold them back. “Alright. I get all that. I really do. But… Joshua, I need to know if … if you forgive me.”

He looks taken aback. “Forgive you? Of course. No, that's not it. Because I don't think there's anything to forgive. I couldn't be with you otherwise.”

“I guess I don't understand how you can be with me.”

He's quiet again, but his jaw is loosening a bit. I'm still shivering, but it's not the cool night air.

He's quiet a few moments, gathering his thoughts.

“I told you how in love my parents were. They were really happy for a long time,” Joshua goes on. “And then they went through a rough period after my sister was born. Lanie was a difficult baby, didn't sleep for two years. She was sick a lot. It took a toll on them both. And Dad cheated.”

“What?”

I don't know why I feel so shocked. It happens all the time. But the relationship between these people sounded so solid. So sweet.

“Yeah. I didn't know about any of this until Dad died. The day of the funeral, Mom was sitting out on the back porch, alone, while there were probably a hundred people in the house. I found her out there and it all came pouring out.”

“God, Joshua. You were so young to hear all that. To handle it.”

“It was part of the reason why I took off for Europe. Knowing too much damaged the way I thought of my dad for a while. It hurt. I'd always had him up on a pedestal, and when people die, we tend to deify them, anyway. So it really blew my mind. But eventually I realized that we are all human. We all fuck things up. And the fact is, my mother took him back, forgave him. And together they got over the hurt. She made a point of telling me that. They did it because they loved each other that much. Because that's what real love is. That's how powerful it is. I believe that. That's what helped me work through my own shit. Knowing that is helping me work through this with you. It showed me what a force love can be, defined it even further than just knowing how much my parents loved each other. It showed me that people who love each other can get through anything. Anything.”

“I understand it works that way for you, Joshua. I understand that your experiences, your parents' experiences, led you there.”

“But… ?”

“But I'm not there yet.” I'm trembling, but I need to be honest with him. “I love you. But I don't have that kind of faith.”

He blows out a long breath. Runs a hand through my hair, his fingers catching in a tangle. “Fuck, Valentine.”

The tears are stinging my eyes again. I blink, hard, shake my head mutely.

“Fuck,” he says again before he pulls me into his arms, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. “As long as you love me. As long as we can work on this.”

I'm nodding into his shoulder. “I do love you.”

“Okay. Okay.”

He strokes my hair with his hand, and I swallow my tears, warm and weak all over with relief.

I'm going to try to believe that love is enough, that it will get us through this. That we can survive not only the reality of what I've done, but my own shame.

I wish I could make the heavy pit sitting in my stomach go away. That pit still holding on tight to the belief that things will be over, sooner or later. That I am not worthy of his love.

You do not deserve him.

Oh, yes, that is the thought running through my mind like a broken record. Even now. No matter how much I've thought things through, faced the issues of my past. How much stronger I've been feeling lately, how determined.

I don't know how I will ever make it stop.