A New Forever (2 page)

Elodie had been amazed at that intimate confession. But she couldn't quite bring herself to stop her sister from continuing.

April admitted that night that Clay spanked her.

Completely mesmerized, but still not sure if she wanted to know the answer to her question, Elodie asked shyly, "You mean playfully? Like a little smack smack before wild sex?"

April was already shaking her head even before Elodie finished. "Oh, no. There's nothing playful about my butt when he gets through with it, believe me!"

"Come on…"

"I'm serious. Clay spanks me."

Elodie giggled and then stopped when she could see that her sister wasn't kidding.

"But, April, isn't that abuse?"

The younger woman shook her head vehemently. "No. He'd never beat me. Ever. I feel so safe in his arms, I can't even put it into words."

"But… he…" Elodie didn't want to read things into what she was being told, but there was really no way around it. Her curiosity would drive her crazy if she didn't ask questions now, while she could. "How does he…"

April smiled. "Just like you are picturing it. I think you know what a spanking looks like."

"He takes you over his knee?"

"Sometimes. More often, it's over his lap on the bed."

"More often? How often do you get spanked?" Elodie was trying not to appear too interested, and could only hope she was pulling it off.

But April seemed not to notice that Elodie was sitting forward, her eyes bright, her ears perked till they hurt. April was looking far away, as if she was over his lap right then, worrying about nothing beyond the health of her bottom in the next few minutes. "Not a lot, really. Just when I royally screw up. Or do something he feels is disrespectful or dangerous. Clay does not like to be disobeyed."

Elodie shook her head, stunned at the words she was hearing. "You let him spank you?"

April smiled warmly. "Yes. And, truth be told, I like it. Maybe not at the time it is happening, since it hurts like hell, but I really do like when he punishes me." She laughed before adding. "Just don't tell Clay that."

"He punishes you?"

A giggle and a casual shrug from April was her only answer.

"When was the last time?" Elodie felt like she was guiding someone in a hypnotic trance. Her voice was deliberately low and soft so as not to startle her sister out of her reverie.

April snorted. "Do you really have to ask?"

Elodie couldn't think enough to come up with a likely time.

"It was when I banged up his Ford diesel truck. It wasn't even hurt, really—just some scratches."

Oh, that time, Elodie thought to herself. When April had come fervently knocking on Elodie's door, looking for refuge after having had a bit of a fender bender while trying to parallel park downtown. She'd barely been able to get out much of anything beyond, "Oh, man, am I in trouble!"

That Ford truck was as close to a baby as Clay had, and he had saved nearly a year for it. April had taken it because her own car was in the shop. Without telling Clay. And now it was in need of repair—preferably before he missed it.

April's cell had rung, and it was Clay, calling her back home, and not happily so. Her younger sister had left as if she were going to her own funeral. Elodie had been concerned, but she'd never seen any evidence of abuse whatsoever, so she figured that all April was dreading was the inevitable fight about taking Clay's truck without asking or telling him. She had certainly never suspected that Clay would spank April when she returned home.

"Oh man, was he pissed!" she breathed into her wine glass, taking a healthy swallow. "I barely made it in the door before he had my pants and panties down. He put his foot up on that tapestried chair I have in the foyer—" she looked to her sister to see if Elodie remembered the one, and the picture was all too vivid in Elodie's mind "—and hauled me over his knee. I was hanging there, over his leg. My feet didn't touch the ground, and neither could my hands. I worried the whole time I was going to overbalance and end up falling on my head, but I should have known better. I wasn't going anywhere until he let me go, which was when my butt was about the color of..." April looked around Elodie's living/dining room combination for an example of the color she knew her butt had been. "That!"

Her younger sister was pointing at one of Elodie's recent paintings, which was propped up against the wall. She was specifically pointing to a painted field of red poppies.

"It couldn't have been that bad..." Elodie said. She didn't like to think that Clay would be so cruel. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But April was adamant. "He stopped—eventually—and tugged me upstairs, into the bedroom, and I could see my butt in the tri-fold mirror on the vanity before he started up again where we would both be more comfortable."

"Again? He spanked you more?"

"Oh-ho-ho, yes! He spanked me so hard and long I think the only reason he stopped was because his hand started to hurt." April was shifting on the pillow she was using as a chair in the sparsely decorated apartment, as if she could feel the spanking even now, though this had happened weeks ago. "And he's so damned strong; I can never get away from him—no amount of wiggling or writhing—and, of course, that all just gives him a better show—"

Elodie figured that that was just about intimate enough. "I wouldn't have thought that Clay would ever hit you."

"No, not hitting. I don't want you to get the idea that he is in any way abusive. He's not. At all." April looked Elodie—who undoubtedly had a disbelieving expression on her face—right in the eye, and spoke in no uncertain terms. "He spanks me. He would never punch or kick me. He does no more than what Dad used to do when we were kids." April reached back and rubbed her bottom reflexively. "Although his spankings sure hurt a lot more." She paused and studied Elodie before adding, "It's not as uncommon as you think. Husbands have spanked their wives since the beginning of time, and many still live by that belief. You would be surprised to find out how many modern day women still get—and
like
—a spanking from their men. When Clay and I first got together, this was something that was very important to him. Both his father and grandfather lived by this belief, and it was what he wanted in a marriage, as well. We discussed it at length, and I have to say… I'm happy I agreed to it."

"You agreed to be spanked?"

April nodded. "Clay wouldn't have done it otherwise. This was a decision we made for the sake of our marriage."

"Elodie? Elodie, are you all right?" Clay waved his hand in front of her face, trying to get her to come back to him. It wasn't like her to space out like this, at least not unless she was painting.

"I'm here, I'm here." Elodie wrestled her mind away from the vivid memories of April describing the way the man who was currently sitting less than two feet away from her used to spank his wife's bare bottom. She crossed her legs delicately under the table, but it was really just to see if she could alleviate the ache those thoughts created in several places at once—in her heart, in her mind, and in much more earthy areas on her person.

But clenching her legs together only served to help her soil her panties.

"You were miles away. What were you thinking?"

Elodie racked her brain to come up with an answer that was not provocative or related in any way to what she'd been rolling around in her mind. "That I can't afford Red Creek. I'll meet you here again next month."

She started to scoot across the maroon vinyl bench, but his hand over hers stopped her dead. His touch felt as if he was an E.R. doctor laying a live paddle on her hand. Clay had never been a touchy person with anyone but April. For his wife, there had definitely been an exception. He could barely keep his hands off her; they always held hands when they walked together, his arm naturally looped around her waist when she was close. Every move he made towards her was filled with incredible affection and such a stark love that it was always plain in his eyes for everyone to see.

So, he'd spanked her sister. He'd also obviously loved her, and April had been ecstatically happy the entire time that they were together, and that was more than most people ever got to experience in this lifetime.

"You're not listening to me." That voice was like a swath of rich velvet being pulled over a chunk of rough granite. It was soft, but it commanded obedience. Elodie's nipples loved it, begging in tight, aching peaks for just a little of his attention. "Next month, on the fifth, at Red Creek. I'll pick you up at seven."

She only got the "n" sound of "no" out before he cut in. "Not one word."

Elodie glared at him, but continued to get out of the booth, clutching her check like a banner to ward him off. She didn't want to take his charity, in any way. Not companionship wise, and certainly not money wise. That was one of the reasons she always insisted they eat here—she knew she could afford it, once a month.

They both paid, then he walked her out to her junker of a car, shaking his head as he always did at its condition. "This thing should be condemned."

"Ya' know, you need to get a new line to insult my car with."

"There's certainly a lot to work with."

Elodie slid behind the wheel and rolled down the window when he crouched beside it. "Remember. The fifth of next month. I'll pick you up at seven."

"Uh huh. You're too busy for that. You'll have something else to do that night."

Clay frowned, and it was a truly terrible thing to see. "If I do, I'll cancel it," he growled. "Drive carefully."

That was it. He'd ordered, and she knew from her sister's experiences with him that she'd better obey.

Or else.

Would he spank her, too?

Elodie shivered at the thought, then pulled out into traffic and tried—unsuccessfully—to forget about Clay Carver.

Elodie pulled into her parking space later that same night, hearing the styrofoam crunch of the dry snow beneath the tires of the car. Damn, she hated winter—snow wasn't common for her town to get, but this winter had been unusually wet and cold. She gathered up the few small groceries in their useless, thin plastic bags and slung her purse over her shoulder, then climbed the three flights of outside stairs to the only apartment in town that she—the brilliant starving artiste—could afford. At this point, she was much more starving than brilliant. She'd already realized that the cold hard fact about being a painter was that you had to die in order to be appreciated, and despite the fact that she was largely alone in this world, she wasn't in any particular hurry to leave it.

She plunked her keys, purse, and the groceries—which consisted more of Ramen soup than anything else—on the countertop of her galley kitchen, then flipped on the ceiling light that illuminated her small apartment, and all of her 'children'.

That was how she thought of her paintings; all of them. They were like the children she'd never had. Probably never would have. She stuck to those things she loved—the ocean and red flowers—as much as possible, but occasionally indulged in a portrait or two. The canvases were lined up around the perimeter of the cramped apartment, like soldiers leaning against a wall for a moment of R and R in the midst of battle.

Elodie couldn't have picked a favorite amongst the non-portraits if she had to. She loved them all equally—she and the sea were partners, and always had been. Her landscape visions were played out in loving brushstrokes that were incredibly detailed, and every time she looked at them, they magically transported her to the sea. They were so realistic she could swear she should be smelling sea air inside her apartment. Luckily, the subject of her fascination was less than fifteen miles away, and she often spent her time—when she wasn't trudging through her waitress job—sitting on a dune, letting the ocean absorb her, letting it paint itself through her hands.

She never felt as much at peace as she did when she was painting on the beach. Everything else—every worry, every dunning phone call, every pang of loss or regret—escaped her soul, and she was left open and vulnerable but safe and sound in the arms of Mother Ocean.

Her other favorite subject, red flowers, or roses in particular—were a hang over from her daddy, who worked three jobs to keep his family fed, but on those rare days off, spent his time growing roses in the back yard. Elodie never could get over their stark beauty, so she strived to reproduce it, never quite managing to match the images in her mind.

She sat down on the beat up old couch—which she also spent many a night on, since it seemed to make her feel less lonely than sleeping alone in her bed—and flipped on the TV, but her eye was already caught by the canvasses that were in front of her. Two portraits; one of April, and one of Clay. They were bigger than any of the others. One was still on the easel because she couldn't resist tinkering with it, although it had been finished long ago. They were both done from memory, one a tribute and the other... the other a sad testimonial to what might have been—to what still lived inside her, and always would.

They were her best works, and could never, would never, be seen by anyone.

The portrait of her sister April was perfection itself—just as she had been. Familiar tears welled as Elodie stared into her sister's clear blue eyes. She'd gotten the curl of April's almost white blonde hair just right, and the fairy like, ethereal quality of her expression shone through so clearly that it was almost eerie. It was something she'd had to do—a compulsion she couldn't deny, and she'd painted it six months after her sister had died, painting for nearly a week straight, barely stopping for food or sleep. When it was done, she had collapsed into a heap on the couch, much as she had this evening, just staring at it as if it held the key to her salvation. It was a masterpiece, and it would never see the light of day.

Clay, on the other hand, seemed to smolder on the canvas—she'd always wondered why the fabric didn't smoke beneath the paint. It was him, in all his dominant, self-assured, unbelievably sexy glory. His head was just slightly cocked, chin down, one coal black eyebrow raised the tiniest bit. He really had too big a nose and too prominent a jaw line to be considered classically handsome, but that expression would be enough to stop the heart of any woman, from eighteen to eighty. That was partly why Elodie almost always kept it at the back of her closet—because that look was just too intense for comfort.

She'd portrayed him the way she always saw him—in jeans and his cowboy boots—but had taken the liberty of making him look much more rumpled than she had ever seen him—as if he was just recovering from a particularly deep, sexual kiss, and was about to reach for her to turn her onto the desk beneath him. The usual flannel shirt was pulled out of his waistband, and several of the buttons were open, so that the material hung just artfully enough to display the smattering of chest hair over the tanned, muscular ripples beneath. He was leaning back against a desk, his arms folded on his chest, and Elodie always imagined that that must be what he looked like either just before sex, or just before he delivered a spanking.

That painting wasn't so much a portrait as a wish unfulfilled. It was the way she wished, in her heart of hearts, that he would look at her.

It was funny, because if he ever did look at her like that—as if he was going to sweep her up into his arms and carry her to their bedroom to ravish her—Elodie would turn tail and run into the next state. It wasn't that she didn't want Clay—she did. More than almost anything in the world. Her passion for him was as deep and true as her passion for painting, but it was also more raw and uncontrolled. That was one of the reasons why, even though she had always been close to April and maintained that even during her sister's marriage, she had never allowed herself to become particularly comfortable around Clay.

Her feelings wouldn't allow for comfort, and seeing him too regularly, being reminded of that which she would never—could never—have, was just a bit too much. April had noticed that Elodie tended to refuse to go to dinner with the two of them, and that she rarely made an appearance at the house if she thought Clay was going to be there, and she told Elodie outright that she understood. That Clay made a lot of people nervous.

Elodie had choked on the hard lemonade she had been drinking, and managed not to disgrace herself by telling April that the reason she was uncomfortable around Clay was that he could make her wet just by his mere existence. She let April think what she wanted to think. No one in this world knew just how vulnerable Elodie was—or could be—to her former brother-in-law.

Most particularly not the man himself.

She got up and poured herself a Diet Coke, coming back to stand in front of her version of Clay and eye him with a glare she would never dare to use in real life. She loved him. She wanted him. But at the same time, she hated him because he'd found and fallen in love with her sister… instead. Elodie had to deal every day with the fact that she'd been beside herself with jealousy while he and her sister had been married, and now that April was gone, she had to deal with incredible guilt about the fact that she coveted her dead sister's husband. A miniscule part of her worried that, somehow, April had known about the lustful thoughts that had filled Elodie's mind whenever Clay was within a three-mile radius. That somehow, she'd caused April's death with those naughty, taboo thoughts. That maybe her punishment for being such an awful sister had been God taking April away from her forever.

And yet, despite the guilt that sometimes snuck up on her, Elodie still coveted him, although, as far as she was concerned, he was just as off limits since April had died as he had been while she was alive. He didn't want her. He didn't need her. He kept seeing her out of the goodness of his heart, and because she was the family member he was closest to. Elodie snorted. She was the only one who had stayed in town; it wasn't like he had much choice. Everyone else in the family had moved away, or died.

"Why do you torture me?" she whispered at the portrait. Sometimes she hated him at least as much as she loved him.

Elodie stood there, tears dripping down her cheeks, and stared at her image of perfection, of what she ached for but could never have, as it seared its way slowly through her heart.