Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel) (24 page)

He stopped and held his cock poised, his body jerking and grunting as cum spilled from his swollen, pink head, puddling into pools on his sweat-dampened abs.
Oh my God! Oh. My. Fucking. God!

Desperate to finish myself off as well, I swivelled around, laid flat on my back and spread my legs wide for him, rubbing my clit until my thighs trembled, my pussy clenched, and I cried out his name.

***

Brad and I more or less repeated our FaceTime chats on and off during the weeks that followed. Some nights, I was just too tired after rehearsals and not in the mood after sexting, and Brad was pretty much the same—tired and all sexed out. But we enjoyed just being able to see each other’s smiles nonetheless, wishing we could trace them with the tips of our tongues, which luckily enough, was what we’d be doing the following day.

Cori, Josh, and Brad were due to arrive in Melbourne for a four-day break, and I couldn’t wait. As in, I was jittery, jumpy, flappy-hands excited. I’d cleaned the house—crazy, I know—changed my sheets, bought food, and waxed every single hair on my body that was not on my head or a part of my neatly trimmed eyebrows. I was set. I was ready. I was baking.

I never baked.

“Hang on a minute,” I said to my sister, Sarah, who was on speakerphone, and who was also the culinary expert in the family. “So what does stiff peaks mean, other than the obvious? I can’t see this stuff peaking. It looks like clear jizz.”

“You’re disgusting. Trust me, it will thicken when you beat it. Just keep adding the castor sugar as it mixes, and make sure your beaters are set to high.”

“I’m making jizzeringues. Excellent!” I danced on the spot.

“No, you’re not. You’re making meringues.” My sister was the serious type. Straight and narrow. No nonsense.

“Whatever. So how will I know when it’s soft and peaky enough?”

She sighed. “Okay. Let me break this down for you, even though you’re quite capable of reading a recip—”

“Recipes are lies,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear her namby-pamby bullshit. “I’ve never known a recipe to tell the truth.”

“Alright. Yep. Let’s go with that theory then.” Seriously, my sister ate sarcastic for breakfast and washed it down with a glass of cocky bitch.

Daily.

“So …” she continued, “the mixture will bubble when you beat it initially.” She paused. “You’ve put a pinch of salt in, right?”

“No. What’s the point? It’s just a pinch.”

“Ugh! Em … Put. A. Pinch. Of. Salt. In. Now!”

“Why?”

“It helps to stabilize and stiffen.”

“You don’t say, huh? Does that also work with the male appendage?” I tried to sound as serious as I possibly could, knowing it would annoy her further. I loved my sister to the moon and back, but one of my favourite pastimes was stirring her. She loved it. True story.

“Add the fucking salt,” she barked.

I laughed. “I love it when you swear. You should do it more often.”

“I do it when I see fit. Now, after the mixture has bubbled it will turn white and glossy as you slowly add the sugar. Do not, I repeat, do not dump in all the sugar at once. I don’t care what you have to do or where you have to go. Add it gradually.”

“Got it. Don’t dump and run.”

She ignored me and continued, “Soon enough it will resemble fluffy clouds, and when you dip your finger in, a peak forms as you pull it back out. That’s when it’s ready.”

“Jizz clouds. Excellent!”

“Okay, I’m going. Pete wants to head to some art exhibition in town.”

“Sounds nice.” I licked some egg mixture from my fingers and nearly gagged. It definitely didn’t taste like jizz.

“It should be nice. Oh, before I go … it’s imperative that you turn the oven down from 130-degrees Celsius to 90-degrees Celsius just before you put the meringues in. Bake them for an hour and a half, and leave them in the oven until they cool completely. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Don’t forget to turn the oven down, okay?”

“Okaaaaaay,” I drawled. “I won’t. I’m not stupid.”

As it turned out, I was stupid.

I forgot.

The Jizzeringues didn’t survive.

“Shit-fuck! Damn it!” I cursed, waving the tea towel at the fire alarm, which sang of my cooking failure. “Shut up. I didn’t mean it. You don’t have to tell everyone in the apartment building that I suck.” I quickly ran to the front door and opened it, hoping the smoke would prefer to be free. “Go. Be free. Get out of my house.” I pushed and waved it along, encouraging it outside.

“Emily, are you okay in here—”

Mike stepped into the frame of my door, an extinguisher in his hands, his look of concern morphing into one of confusion when he spotted me shooing the smoke away.

“So you’re a witch, huh?” he shouted over the noise of the alarm. “That makes sense.”

“What?” I shouted back, continuing my waving, blowing, and twirling around.

He shook his head and smiled before walking into the room and reaching to push a button on the alarm, silencing it. “I thought you were going down in a blaze of glory. Instead, you’re up here doing some ritual smoke-dance.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny,” I said, playfully glaring at him. “But thanks for switching that awful thing off.”

“That awful thing could one day save your life.”

After a two-day hiatus following our first coffee together, during the weeks that had followed Mike and I had constantly bumped into each other around the apartment block, and subsequently had become friendlier. He was easy-going, funny and polite, and we got along really well. He’d even joined me some mornings during my jog along The Esplanade, and it was there, and during the odd coffee together, where we’d gotten to know each other a bit better.

Mike was a retired long-haul truck driver and had never been married due to a constant life on the road. I’d asked him what had spurred his decision to give up his life as a truckie and make an urban sea-change to the hustle and bustle of bayside St Kilda, and his answer had simply been ‘I needed a change’.

It was a fair enough reason in my opinion, so I hadn’t pushed for further information. I’d also found out that he was forty-two years old, a Capricorn, hated birds, and that he barracked for the West Coast Eagles.

“So if you’re not a witch performing a smoke dance, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m making jizzeringues, also known as meringues,” I explained, walking toward the kitchen, knowing he’d follow and take a seat at our breakfast bar. It had become routine when he came over to visit.

“Want a coffee?”

He nodded. “Two questions: jizzer what? And why are you making meringues? There’s a perfectly good bakery down the road.”

   “I know, but I wanted to make them like my sister does.” I showed him a tray of what looked like black and brown turds, shaking my head with disappointment. “These are not like my sister’s. Hers come out looking like clouds or caterpillars. I wanted to make jizz clouds.”

“You’re gonna have to explain jizz clouds to me as well.”

I turned around and opened the cupboard, stretching on my tiptoes to reach two mugs. I deliberately put them on the higher shelf because it was a great way to stretch my calf muscles and practice my balance. Just call it a silly dancer quirk.

“Well,” I said, turning back around and catching him scoping out my arse. It wasn’t the first time, but meh … he was a man, so no biggy.

“The mixture reminds of me of jizz. When they’re cooked, they look like clouds. So … jizz clouds. Look,” I said, placing the mugs down and walking back to the bench, leaning over it to show him the different shapes I’d tried to make. “This one is a cockeringue. This one was supposed to be a mufferingue, and these… tittyringues.”

He didn’t answer, so I looked up, finding him completely zoned out of our conversation, his heavy-lidded eyes glassed over and fixated on my breasts.

My mouth fell open at the same time as his, which was when his gaze rose to my lips and focussed on them. I tried to close my mouth but what I did instead was lick my bottom lip and suck it into my mouth.

Why, Em? Why did you do that?

I looked down, quickly diverting my stare to his hand, which no longer wore the wrist brace, and that was when I noticed he had a tattoo. Familiarity and a sense of dread waved over me when I realised I’d seen that particular tattoo before, a tattoo of a small skull on the base of his thumb.

I sucked in a breath and stood upright, my hand shooting to cover my mouth, my eyes finding his. “H?” I whispered, barely voicing his name.

He moved so quickly, launching himself over the bench, grabbing the back of my head and pressing his mouth to mine. It took me by surprise and happened so fast that I didn’t react straightaway, feeling the slide of his tongue before it was too late.

He kissed me, and I kissed him back. I knew I did. Because by the time I snapped out of my shocked stupor, my lips were swollen and my tongue was near numb.

“No! Stop!” I yelled and pushed him away from me.

Backing myself up against the adjacent cabinets, my chest heaving, my legs trembling, I created as much distance as I could, given the space we were in. “What the fuck, H? What are you doing here?”

“My name is Mike, Emily.” His tone was calm, his step toward me even calmer.

“No!” I held my hand out in warning. “You stay there. Don’t you dare come any closer.”

He stopped and held his hands up. “Shit, love. Don’t be scared. I would never hurt you.”

A pain-filled sob escaped my mouth. “You need to leave. Now!”

H placed his hands on his head and gripped his short, dark brown hair, a pained expression evident with the remorseful look in his eyes. “Fuck. Sorry. I’ll leave, okay?” He backed up a few steps and turned around, exiting the room but stopping when he reached the doorframe.

I held my breath and watched his shoulders slump and his fists clench. And without turning back around, he lowered his voice and said sadly, “I love you. I always have.”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My heart pounded and my vision blurred as my eyes filled with tears.
What the hell just happened?

My legs buckled and I choked back a sob, sliding down the cabinet cupboards until I slumped on the floor, no longer able to hold it in, crying salted sorrow and drowning my cheeks. I couldn’t believe that he’d tracked me down and had been living in the same building as me for weeks, right under my nose. How could he? We’d become friends. Shared jokes. Helped each other out. Fuck, I’d even bought him a car freshener as a thank you for helping me with my bike.
He lied to me.

Everything about him was a lie, a trick … betrayal.
But why? And how?

I didn’t understand any of it, but they were the only questions I could get my head around, and yet questions weren’t what I needed. I needed answers, and I needed them now.

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, the whistle of my boiling kettle grabbed my attention, snapping me from my shock and prompting me to get to my feet and make sure the front door was closed and locked. I knew he’d said he would never hurt me, but he’d also said he lived on the other side of the fucking country and that he was divorced with kids, so I wasn’t taking any chances.

I walked back into the kitchen to get myself a drink and screamed when H’s message tone sounded from my phone, which was lying on the bench next to the mugs.
Shit-fucking-fuck. Screw the coffee. I need vodka.

My hands fumbled as I put the mugs back and grabbed a glass, the bottle of Smirnoff from above the fridge, and poured it straight—no ice, no soda. I needed the burn, the calm, the reminder that I could deal with whatever it was I had to deal with.

I needed the courage to read his message.

Standing there, leaning against the cupboards, the rim of the glass hovered over my lips as I held it and stared at my phone. The pungent smell of alcohol stung my nose and allured my mouth.
You can do this, Em. No matter what he says, you control you.

I did control me. I’d been controlling me for more than a year now.

Drawing in a deep breath, I skolled the vodka and slammed my glass down on the bench, swiping up my phone and taking a seat at the breakfast bar as I opened his message.

Mr Happy: Emily, please let me explain.

I know you’ll understand if you just let me explain.

Let you explain?
How could he honestly think there was any justification to stalking me? Bewildered, I shook my head and replied.

Em: Let you explain?

How on earth can you explain this?

You lied to me.

You tricked me.

You betrayed me.

I’d barely pressed send when his response appeared.

Mr Happy: Yes, I lied.

Yes, I tricked you.

And yes, I betrayed your trust.

I’m not going to deny that.

I won’t even try.

But please just let me talk to you and tell you why.

Em: ‘Why’ doesn’t mean a thing.

Mr Happy: Of course it does, love.

It means everything.

Love.
Reading that word triggered a pain in my chest, a feeling it had never triggered before.
Love,
had always made me feel special. It had always …

I blinked a few times, his parting words only now just registering.
He said he loved me.

“Oh my God! He said he loved me as he walked out the door,” I whispered to myself, my hand shooting to mouth.
Oh no! No, no, no, no, no.

I needed another fucking drink.

Grabbing the bottle, I dragged my feet to the living room and sat on the couch, not giving two shits that I’d left my glass in the kitchen. I was beyond my relationship with the glass and had moved on to a more intimate discussion directly with the lip of the bottle. It fit my mouth better anyway, so I pressed my lips against it and tipped my head back, taking a swig.
I’m such a hypocrite.
Here I was, drowning the big ball of what-the-fuck I’d just been handed with the not so lovely Mr Smirnoff when I’d told Cori that doing this very thing was a big mistake.

I laughed to myself.
Big mistake.
My big mistake was collaring a man’s heart when I’d never intended to hold the leash.

Swig.

Laugh.

Swig.

Cry.

Swig.

Text.

Em: You said you loved me.

I pressed send, my fingers numb, my head swimming. This couldn’t be happening.

Mr Happy: Yes.

Em: No.

Mr Happy: Yes.

I shook my head then I shook it again, unable to stop shaking it while tears streamed from my eyes. This was never supposed to happen. He was never supposed to fall in love with me.

I wiped my eyes again and typed him the only thing I could.

Em: You can’t.

He didn’t respond, so I placed my phone down and rested my head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling because it was simple. It was just white, plain, bare, and predictable. Ceilings didn’t lie. Ceilings were good value. Ceilings were—

The sound of a guitar filtered in through the open door of our balcony, followed by a male voice singing lyrics about a time and a place and misused mistakes. I stood up, curious, because the vocals weren’t overly good, which made the notion of it being a street busker highly unlikely—the street buskers around town were usually pretty talented.

Stepping out onto the balcony, bottle of vodka still in hand, the warm breeze sweeping my face, I searched for the source of the music, not having to look for long when I found H on his balcony one level lower, playing the guitar. My eyes widened and my balance swayed. I gripped the railing with one hand, my bottle chinking against the metal.

H looked up and spotted me standing there, but he didn’t stop. He just kept playing and singing, asking for just one chance and just one breath in case there was just one left.

My jaw dropped and I shook my head. “You manipulative bastard,” I murmured. He was singing Nickelback’s “Far Away”, and I knew exactly how the chorus went.

I mouthed the word
don’t
pleadingly, knowing it was coming up and knowing I wouldn’t be able to hear him say it. But he ignored me, casually turning his seat in my direction and staring right into my eyes.

I held my breath.

The opening lines of loving me all along and being far away for far too long hit me like a truck, slamming straight into my chest. A B-double truck. Like the one he supposedly drove. Then again, who knew if that was more bullshit he’d fed me.

“Do you even drive a fucking truck?” I yelled at him.

He screwed up his face but kept singing.

“You’re such an arsehole.” I swigged the vodka then placed both of my hands on the railing, lowering my head to try and calm down.
Breathe, Em.

It was beginning to work … until he opened his big mouth and sang about giving it all for us, and that he wouldn’t give up. And that was when I lost it, throwing the bottle of vodka over the balcony at him.

“There is no US! There never was!”

He dodged the throw but only just, so I stormed inside, heading straight to my iPad, which was Bluetoothed to our speaker tower. I scrolled through my list of songs until I found the one I wanted to play
really
loud, loud enough for him to hear.

Tapping the song, I waited for the bass to kick in and for Nelly Furtado to sing “Say it Right”, swaying my hips to the music and trying to block out everyone and everything until the chorus. Because that was when I sang my loudest, practically yelling about him meaning nothing to me, repeating the lyric over and over until I heard a thumping on my door.

It startled me, but then I worried that it could be a very grumpy Mrs Lockwood or Mr and Mrs Brown. Not thinking straight—because vodka—I opened the door, ready to apologise when H stepped past me and stood in the middle of my living room.

“I mean nothing to you?” he shouted.

“Get out!” I shouted back.

“No. We’re doing this right here, right now.”

“Doing what? There’s nothing to do.”

“There’s plenty to fucking do.”

I slammed the door shut and crossed my arms, waiting for his ‘plenty’. He stared at me, so I stared back.

“Do I mean nothing to you?” he asked, his voice less aggressive.

I pointed to his mouth. “Your lips are stained with untruth, and your tongue is covered in lies,” I hissed. “How could you?”

He gulped.

“Yes, that’s right … swallow, arsehole. I wouldn’t want you to choke on the bitter taste of betrayal.”

“Do. I. Mean. Nothing. To. You?” he asked again, his calm tone penetrating my defensive walls and stripping them bare.

“Yes.” My voice was weak. And I inwardly cursed myself for it. I didn’t want to be weak right now.

H stepped forward, his eyes pleading and searching mine. It was the first time I’d really looked into them, looked into my Mr Happy’s eyes. My Mr Happy who’d been there every step of the way with me for the past one and a half years. My Mr Happy’s eyes that weren’t … happy. Instead, they bordered devastation and fury, and that was partly my fault.

“Then say it.” He took another step forward. “Say ‘You mean nothing at all to me’.”

I opened my mouth and took a step back, hitting the door behind me, but nothing came passed my lips.

“Say it, and I’m gone for good. Forever. If that’s what you want.”

H’s eyes held me captive without touch, and the beat of the song was nothing in comparison to the beat of my heart as it tore its way through my chest. I couldn’t open my mouth. I couldn’t say it. To speak those words would be the biggest lie I’d ever told. Because the man standing before me meant more to me than I would ever admit.

“Say it!” he growled.

“No!” I screamed, catching his face as he kissed me with desperation.

H lifted me into his arms and pressed my back against the door, my legs wrapping around his hips and locking at the ankles, securing me to him. Pleasure, anxiety, relief … it all swirled within and burst out of me, releasing as our frenzied mouths and tongues sought one another.

He felt so good—his hands, his lips, his touch. And yet he felt so wrong; so dangerous, so uninvited.
I can’t do this. I won’t do this.

“No. Stop. Please, H, stop,” I begged, separating my mouth from his.

His lips found my neck, tasting a warm, hungered trail along my skin to my collarbone. It felt amazing. It felt dishonest.

“No. We have to stop. I can’t do this.”

Unwrapping my legs, I pushed him back and held him there, the thud of his heart pulsing under my palm on his chest.

“Why?” he asked through gritted teeth. “I’ve never understood why. I’m here, Em. Right now. I came to you.”

I shook my head, a tear rolling down my cheek. “You shouldn’t have.”

H turned around and walked to the centre of the room, his hands gripping his hair. “Jesus fucking Christ, love. Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want you to. I’m sorry.”

Reaching behind my back, I found the handle of the door and turned it, stepping forward as I opened it for him to leave.

“So that’s it,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides. “You’re not even going to give us a chance.”

“I’m with Brad. And he’ll be here tomorrow. I just can’t do this with you right now. I need time to process you even being in the same town as me, let alone you lying and deceiving me. Please just leave. Let me breathe, babe.” I regretted the moment I let that word slip out of my mouth. It was a term H no longer deserved. A term that now belonged to Brad and Brad only. “Please just leave.”