She nods. “Hey—stop here real quick.” She points at a liquor store up ahead, its sign glowing green neon against the darkness. I pull up to the curb and Chelsea gets out. She returns a few minutes later, a large brown paper bag in tow. When we get to her house, she stays in the car while I grab Cousin It, then we head to my place.
Chelsea sets the dog on the floor in my living room and walks straight into the kitchen. I stand in the doorway, watching her, as she takes two shot glasses out of the cabinet and fills both from the bottle of vodka she pulled out of the bag. Her movements are sharp, angry. She downs one shot like a pro and goes back for a second. She breathes out hard after the second shot, then fixes her gaze on me.
She picks up one of the glasses and stalks toward me; a little of the clear liquid sloshes onto the floor as she moves. Her face is serious, hard, and those crystal eyes glow with an almost predatory light. And fuck me if my cock doesn’t respond to the frantic energy pouring from her. I take the glass from her offered hand, and keeping my eyes trained on hers, I swallow the burning liquid down.
Chelsea licks her lips and backs up a step. Then she unbuttons her shirt slowly . . . like a challenge. The shirt hits the floor and her jeans smoothly follow.
“I can’t stop thinking.” Her usually sweet voice is lower, rougher—almost a growl. “I can’t turn my brain off, you know?” Her eyes fall to the shot glass as she pours herself another, but she doesn’t drink it yet. “It’s making me fucking crazy. I don’t want to think at all—about any of this.” Then she looks up at me through long lashes. “Think you can help me out with that?”
I move fast, surprising her. My hand lashes out, gripping the back of her neck. It’s a harsh grasp, forceful, and I drag her closer until her bare skin is pressed right up against me. I pick up the shot glass.
“Open.”
Chelsea’s lips part and I raise the glass to them, pouring the liquid down. As soon as she swallows, my mouth is on hers, crashing and clashing, tasting the sting of vodka and her pain.
I pull back and she’s panting. My other hand skims up her stomach, covering her breast. Her nipple hardens under my palm and I rasp, “Yeah. I know just how to help you with that.”
And neither one of us gets the chance to think the rest of the night.
• • •
Sunday morning, Chelsea wakes up before I do. I feel her move around the room, gathering her clothes, getting dressed, taking care of the dog. She comes back into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for me to open my eyes. When I do, there’s more life to her features. More . . . determination. And the knot that has been my stomach for the last two days loosens just a little.
“I’d like to go to church today.” The corner of her mouth inches upward. “Rachel and Robbie used to take the kids to church every week, but I haven’t managed it yet. Getting them all dressed and out the door is such a production.” She pauses, probably picturing the kids and all their delightful difficulty in her mind. “But I’d like to go today. Do you want to come with me?”
I’m a pure cynic when it comes to religion. Besides funerals, the occasional wedding, or services on the base with my mother when I was a kid, I don’t do church. But I hear myself say, “Yeah, I’ll go with you.”
We leave Cousin It at Chelsea’s house, where Chelsea changes into a demure short-sleeved yellow dress with matching high heels. I follow the crowd at Mass, the kneeling and standing, but mostly I just watch her. The way her lips touch her hands when her head is bowed in prayer, the serene expression on her face as the priest gives his final blessing.
We stand outside my car in the parking lot of the church. “I don’t know what to do with myself.” Chelsea laughs humorlessly. “All these months there never seemed to be enough time, and now that there is . . . I don’t want it.” She glances my way. “You have that thing you do on Sunday afternoons, right?”
She’s noticed I disappear every Sunday—but she’s never asked me about it. I wonder if she was waiting for me to tell her about it myself.
“Yeah, I do.”
She nods and just as she starts to look resigned to a lonely afternoon, I say, “You want to come with me?”
Her head whips back to me. “Only . . . only if you want me to.”
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
• • •
I hold Chelsea’s hand as we walk down the halls of the Brookside Retirement Home. Marietta is just exiting the Judge’s room when we get to his door.
“Hey, Jake.” She greets me with a wide smile.
“Hi, Marietta. How’s he doing today?”
“Oh, honey, he’s having a really good day.”
I blow out a relieved fucking breath. The last thing I wanted was to make Chelsea more depressed than she’s been—and the Judge on a bad day is not a happy sight.
I nod past her and walk into the room with Chelsea just behind me.
He’s reading in his leather chair by the window, dressed in a dark blue sweater and tan slacks, those ugly brown loafers on his feet.
“Hey, old man.”
His face is alight, his eyes confident and wonderfully aware. “Jake!” He closes his book and rises, wrapping me in a strong-armed hug. “It’s good to see you, son. How are you?”
“I’m doing good, Judge.”
His eyes fall to Chelsea and he throws me a wrinkled smirk. “I can see why.” He offers her his hand. “Hello, my dear, I’m Atticus Faulkner.”
Chelsea sets the dog on the floor in my living room and walks straight into the kitchen. I stand in the doorway, watching her, as she takes two shot glasses out of the cabinet and fills both from the bottle of vodka she pulled out of the bag. Her movements are sharp, angry. She downs one shot like a pro and goes back for a second. She breathes out hard after the second shot, then fixes her gaze on me.
She picks up one of the glasses and stalks toward me; a little of the clear liquid sloshes onto the floor as she moves. Her face is serious, hard, and those crystal eyes glow with an almost predatory light. And fuck me if my cock doesn’t respond to the frantic energy pouring from her. I take the glass from her offered hand, and keeping my eyes trained on hers, I swallow the burning liquid down.
Chelsea licks her lips and backs up a step. Then she unbuttons her shirt slowly . . . like a challenge. The shirt hits the floor and her jeans smoothly follow.
“I can’t stop thinking.” Her usually sweet voice is lower, rougher—almost a growl. “I can’t turn my brain off, you know?” Her eyes fall to the shot glass as she pours herself another, but she doesn’t drink it yet. “It’s making me fucking crazy. I don’t want to think at all—about any of this.” Then she looks up at me through long lashes. “Think you can help me out with that?”
I move fast, surprising her. My hand lashes out, gripping the back of her neck. It’s a harsh grasp, forceful, and I drag her closer until her bare skin is pressed right up against me. I pick up the shot glass.
“Open.”
Chelsea’s lips part and I raise the glass to them, pouring the liquid down. As soon as she swallows, my mouth is on hers, crashing and clashing, tasting the sting of vodka and her pain.
I pull back and she’s panting. My other hand skims up her stomach, covering her breast. Her nipple hardens under my palm and I rasp, “Yeah. I know just how to help you with that.”
And neither one of us gets the chance to think the rest of the night.
• • •
Sunday morning, Chelsea wakes up before I do. I feel her move around the room, gathering her clothes, getting dressed, taking care of the dog. She comes back into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for me to open my eyes. When I do, there’s more life to her features. More . . . determination. And the knot that has been my stomach for the last two days loosens just a little.
“I’d like to go to church today.” The corner of her mouth inches upward. “Rachel and Robbie used to take the kids to church every week, but I haven’t managed it yet. Getting them all dressed and out the door is such a production.” She pauses, probably picturing the kids and all their delightful difficulty in her mind. “But I’d like to go today. Do you want to come with me?”
I’m a pure cynic when it comes to religion. Besides funerals, the occasional wedding, or services on the base with my mother when I was a kid, I don’t do church. But I hear myself say, “Yeah, I’ll go with you.”
We leave Cousin It at Chelsea’s house, where Chelsea changes into a demure short-sleeved yellow dress with matching high heels. I follow the crowd at Mass, the kneeling and standing, but mostly I just watch her. The way her lips touch her hands when her head is bowed in prayer, the serene expression on her face as the priest gives his final blessing.
We stand outside my car in the parking lot of the church. “I don’t know what to do with myself.” Chelsea laughs humorlessly. “All these months there never seemed to be enough time, and now that there is . . . I don’t want it.” She glances my way. “You have that thing you do on Sunday afternoons, right?”
She’s noticed I disappear every Sunday—but she’s never asked me about it. I wonder if she was waiting for me to tell her about it myself.
“Yeah, I do.”
She nods and just as she starts to look resigned to a lonely afternoon, I say, “You want to come with me?”
Her head whips back to me. “Only . . . only if you want me to.”
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
• • •
I hold Chelsea’s hand as we walk down the halls of the Brookside Retirement Home. Marietta is just exiting the Judge’s room when we get to his door.
“Hey, Jake.” She greets me with a wide smile.
“Hi, Marietta. How’s he doing today?”
“Oh, honey, he’s having a really good day.”
I blow out a relieved fucking breath. The last thing I wanted was to make Chelsea more depressed than she’s been—and the Judge on a bad day is not a happy sight.
I nod past her and walk into the room with Chelsea just behind me.
He’s reading in his leather chair by the window, dressed in a dark blue sweater and tan slacks, those ugly brown loafers on his feet.
“Hey, old man.”
His face is alight, his eyes confident and wonderfully aware. “Jake!” He closes his book and rises, wrapping me in a strong-armed hug. “It’s good to see you, son. How are you?”
“I’m doing good, Judge.”
His eyes fall to Chelsea and he throws me a wrinkled smirk. “I can see why.” He offers her his hand. “Hello, my dear, I’m Atticus Faulkner.”
