A Love So Deadly (6 page)

I tell her with my hands that I never want to leave her, that I will love her forever, in whatever place I end up after my life is through, and by the time she dunks her head to wash away the shampoo, tears are streaming down her cheeks all over again.

“I wanted to help you stop crying,” I say as she emerges, swiping soap and water from her face.

“You’re really good at washing hair,” she says, sniffing as she reaches down to pull the plug from the tub. “Like a professional.”

“I could have made a career of it, you think?” I tease. “If the lawyer thing hadn’t worked out, and I hadn’t grown myself a tumor?”

She turns to me, the ravaged look on her face banishing my smile.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m an asshole.”

“You
are
an asshole,” she says as she reaches for me, snatching my face in her wet hands and pulling my lips to hers.

The kiss is desperate and hungry and sad, but it’s hot, too. It’s electric because Caitlin and I are electric together, no matter what the sad ass circumstances. In a moment, my blood is pumping faster, in two, my cock is rock hard and pulsing between my legs, dying to be inside her, to shove into her tight heat and lose myself in the woman I love.

“Bed,” I mumble into her mouth as I pull her out of the bath and into my arms.

She wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist and clings to me, dampening the front of my clothes with her fresh-from-the-bath body. She is hot and wet and smells like flowers and smoky spices and Caitlin, a potent combination that makes my head spin.

But it’s a lustful head spin this time, and the pain and vertigo blessedly leave me the fuck alone as I snatch a towel from the overflowing door hanger and throw it around Caitlin, concealing her nakedness from any kids who might be wandering the halls as I carry her from the bathroom into her bedroom.

But as soon as the door shuts behind us, she squirms out of my arms, pulling me toward the bed, helping me strip out of my clothes with shaking hands. I can feel her desperation echoing through my bones, and I know this isn’t going to be slow or sweet. This is going to be me and Caitlin, raw and hungry, affirming that we are still alive and still in love and neither death, nor murder, nor pain, nor anything else is going to steal that away from us.

Not yet. Not fucking yet.

I fall on top of her on the bed, swallowing her cry of need with another kiss as I spread her legs with a sharp nudge of my knees and guide my cock to her entrance. I shove inside, groaning at the feel of her body fighting me as I push through her only slightly damp outer folds, but then I reach the core of her and she is molten hot and wet and as crazy for me as I am for her.

She arches her back, taking me deeper, coating me with her slick heat and then I am gone. I am soaring above it all with the only girl who has ever made my blood rush like this, made my heart break open, and love I didn’t know I was capable of come spilling out.

She is my match, my partner, and the only girl I will ever love for however much longer I will live.

CHAPTER FIVE
Caitlin

People live in each other's shelter.
–Irish proverb

He drives to the end of my unprepared body and it hurts, but only a little. It’s not enough, not near as much as I want it to hurt. I want to be bruised by the force of our coming together. I want my body to feel as ravaged as my heart. I want to come screaming for mercy, not begging for release.

I dig my nails into his ass, forcing him deeper, faster, harder. I arch my back, shoving my hips into him until I start to feel sore and tender, and still I fight him for more. I score his skin with my nails, dig my teeth into his lip, his neck, the thick muscle of his bicep. I mark him, crying out in relief as he marks me back. His teeth dig into the sensitive skin between my neck and shoulder, and his fingers pinch my nipple hard enough for the sting to go rushing out along every nerve ending.

“Yes,” I growl into his ear. “Harder. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“I always fuck you like I mean it,” he says, shifting the angle of his penetration until his cock rams even deeper inside me, the thick head of him slamming against the entrance to my womb, sending sharp waves of discomfort coursing through me with each battering thrust.

But I don’t want discomfort. I want to hurt. I
need
to hurt.

“More,” I beg, wrapping my legs around his waist and lifting my hips. “Fuck me, Gabe. Please, fuck me. Don’t hold back, don’t fucking hold back.”

He grips my hips in his hands, taking control of my body, jerking me up and down his cock as he slams home again and again, taking me so hard and fast my breasts shake and my spine twinges from the reverberations of each brutal thrust. My jaw begins to ache and my temples pulse as every muscle in my body strains closer, closer, until I’m tearing at him with my nails, gritting my teeth against the dark wave of pleasure-pain rolling in to pull me under.

My orgasm slams into me with the force of a tsunami hitting shore. It is savage and cruel and beautiful, all at the same time. The pleasure is smothering, blinding. It sucks me down to the sea floor of myself, down into the utter blackness where there is no light, and no place to hide, and it is so cold and lonely there. It is barren and bleak and empty, a post-apocalyptic landscape where nothing will ever grow again.

No matter how fiercely I cling to Gabe as he loses himself inside me, down here, down at my very core, I’ve already let him go. He’s already gone, already dead, and I am a shell of a person who will have to find some way to keep going without him.

“God, I can’t,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face for the thousandth time tonight. “I can’t do this without you.”

And then I am crying my eyes out again and Gabe is holding me close and whispering that he loves me and that he’s sorry and that I’m beautiful and strong and he’s going to make everything as easy for us both as he can. He doesn’t promise everything will be okay; he doesn’t say I’ll be fine. He just keeps repeating that he loves me, and believes in me, and that he will love me forever.

“Forever,” he whispers into my hair as he cradles me close. “Until men are fairy tales, and the world goes up in a ball of fire.”

Finally, his soft voice and his hands stroking my back—as gentle now as they were ruthless a few minutes ago—calm me. I curl into him, resting my cheek on his bare chest, holding him close. My hip muscles are sore and aching and the delicate tissue between my legs is so bruised I know I’ll need to sit carefully tomorrow, but I’m glad. I will treasure this evidence that Gabe is real and alive and still with me, at least for a little longer. I wish I could keep these little hurts for the rest of my life, wish I could have proof of the man I love imprinted permanently on my body.

“I want to get a tattoo,” I whisper against his skin, words slurred by the exhaustion pulling at the backs of my eyes. “Tomorrow. I want us to get one together.”

“What do you want to get?” he asks, fingers trailing lightly up and down my arm.

“Dandelion seeds.” I kiss his chest, and flick my tongue out along his sweat-damp skin, wanting the taste of Gabe in my mouth before I go to sleep. “Dandelion seeds blowing away in the wind.”

He hums, vibrating my cheek. “Off in their different directions, but from the same source. Always a part of each other.”

I smile even as pain tightens the skin between my eyebrows. He understands. Of course he does. He always understands, in a way no one ever has, and no one else ever will.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” he says. “I know a good shop in Charleston. We can get tattoos and then go make another deposit in your account. I’m leaving you my trust fund—I’ve already had the will drawn up—but it might take time for the lawyers to sort that out after. I want to know you’re taken care of until then.”

“I don’t want your trust fund,” I say, knowing I’d start crying again if I had any tears left.

“Well, you’re getting it, so suck it up, blondie,” he says, making me smile.

“I love you,” I whisper as I fall asleep.

“Forever,” he says.

It is the last word I hear before I’m sucked into a cold, hopeless sleep, where no dream dares to tread.

CHAPTER SIX
Caitlin
Health to the men, and may the women live forever.
–Irish toast

We don’t wake up until ten, which is a minor miracle in itself. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late. The kids usually would have made way too much noise for such a thing to be possible, but when I finally drag myself out of bed and head downstairs, I find all the Cooneys camped out on the couch watching
The Wizard of Oz
, one of the only movies that captivates both toddlers and big kids, alike.

Danny has made popcorn, and everyone is so sucked in to the flying monkey scene they barely notice me padding down the stairs.

“I called the diner and said you were sick, then I called the daycare,” Danny says, nodding in my direction with a casualness that belies how scared I know he was when Gabe and I came home early this morning. “I told them Emmie and Sean were both shitting all over the place, so we were all going to stay home until we weren’t contagious.”

I nod as I head toward the coffeemaker. “Good.”

I’m too tired to get on to him about cussing, and who gives a shit, anyway. Let the kid cuss. Let him have his big bad words if it makes him feel powerful and in control. I have bigger problems than a brother with a colorful vocabulary, and so does the world.

“Danny, if I call Sherry to see if she can come help, can you help hold down the fort today while Gabe and I go take care of some errands?”

Danny shrugs. “Yeah, what are you going to go do?”

“Gabe’s going to be moving in with us for a little while,” I say, dumping water in the back of the coffeemaker and hitting the start button. “So we need to head into Charleston and put a few things in order.”

“He is?” Ray asks, tearing his attention away from the screen with a grin. “That’s cool. When is he moving in?”

“Today.” I focus on fetching mugs and milk and sugar, not wanting to make eye contact with my brothers. I’m going to have to sit everyone down and have a hard talk about what’s happening to Gabe, and how we’re going to help him, but not today. I’m not ready for a talk about death and pain and all the fucking unfairness of life, today. We’ll have that talk later, when I’ve had time to pull myself together.

I grab my cell and call Sherry, who says she can be over in a couple of hours and will bring the slip 'n slide from her garage for the kids to play on. I thank her profusely, and promise to give her all the gossip on what’s going on with me and Gabe at the earliest possible moment. She’s so excited that he’s moving in, I can’t stand to tell her the reason just yet.

We hang up as the coffee maker is huffing and puffing out the final drops of coffee, and I focus on breakfast. Simple things, getting through the morning one step at a time. I toast bread and coat four slices with butter—figuring Gabe probably isn’t up for a big breakfast any more than I am—pour two coffees, and take the tray back upstairs, surprised to find Gabe already mostly dressed and in the bathroom using my brush to tame his wild hair.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, smiling when our eyes meet in the mirror.

He looks so normal, so healthy and fine and like the old Gorgeous Gabe with trouble in his eyes. It’s so hard to believe that he’s dying, that in a few weeks—or months, if we’re lucky—he won’t be here anymore.

“I thought you were going to let me bring you breakfast in bed.” I set the tray on the back of the toilet before moving into his open arms, pushing the heavy thoughts away. I can’t think about it, I’m still too emotionally raw from everything that happened last night.

Last night, when we killed a man.

We killed a man, and Gabe is dying.

I feel like a character from one of those old cartoons, the ones where a one-ton anvil falls on someone’s head, squashing them into the pavement. But I’m not squashed, I’m still walking around, making breakfast, hugging Gabe, going through the motions, numb and sad and scared, but still here, still ticking.

Tick tock, tick tock
, like a bomb waiting to go off and wreck everything I touch, but I haven’t yet. Maybe I never will…but I think it’s too soon to tell.

“I realized I should head home first,” Gabe says. “I’ll go back to Darby Hill, tell my parents what’s going on, pack a bag, and come right back.”

“You could just call them,” I say, arms tightening around his waist as I press my face to the soft fabric of his white undershirt and inhale his Gabe smell. “And we could buy you new things in Charleston. Sherry’s coming in a couple hours to watch the kids, and I don’t want you to leave.”

Gabe kisses the top of my head. “I don’t want to leave, but I have medicine there, too. Pain pills and meds that helps keep the symptoms under control.”

Medicine. Symptoms. This is real. It is real, and it isn’t going away.

I pull back with a sigh, nodding. “All right. But let’s eat breakfast first, and then I can get dressed and drive you. I don’t want you to have an accident.”

“I won’t,” he says. “I’m feeling a lot better. The pain I’ve had the past few days is gone so…maybe I’m not going downhill as fast as I thought.”