Before & After (11 page)

She
screams, her whole body shuddering as she slides down my cock, hard, and my
teeth close on her nipple, and I laugh as she fucks me.

I
might be a kinky bastard, but she fucking loves it.

Chapter 18
:
After

The problem is that I am

Never content.

I want more than your smiles

and
sweet words, more than your mind

I want to be your first and last thought,

the
laughter in your eyes, and safe

haven
you long for.

the
press of lips you remember upon waking.

(
Rike’s
poems to Peyton)

Brody
has grown up.

That’s
the thing that hits me the hardest. My brother has grown up.

When
he steps into the hotel room, he ignores it completely, his gaze narrowed on
me.

In
theory, I know what Brody should look like: a gangly, teenager with a sly smirk
and laughing eyes.

That’s
the brother I remember, the one who kept me sane through the hell that was high
school and growing up as the daughter to a political family.

The
man who stands in front of me. He’s taller than me, long and lean, with a buzz
cut hairstyle that screams military, and a sharp gaze that misses nothing as it
takes me in.

A
smirk turns his lips and I let out a tiny sob. Because just like that, there he
is. My baby brother. He opens his arms, and I crutch across the room to hug
him. “God, I missed you,” I mutter. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Working,”
he says noncommittally, and pulls back. “Why the hell are you in this shithole?
I tried the house first, but it looks deserted.”

“Scott hasn’t been there much. I don’t know where Rike
is,” I say.

His
eyebrows go up and he frowns. “How the hell do you not know where Rike is? Why
isn’t he here?”

Because
I’m terrified, because I don’t know how to be with him, because I want him so
much it’s scary. I don’t say any of that. Just chew on the inside of my cheek
while Brody stares at me, and I can watch him puzzle through it, putting the
pieces where they belong.

He
sighs. “How much did you forget,
Pey
?”

“Everything.
Everything from that last stint in rehab to when I woke up. I remembered
Lindsay’s mom’s name, but I couldn’t tell you why. I remember that I don’t like
Mom and Dad.”

He
snorts. “You’d have to be dead to forget that sweetheart. I assume that’s why you
didn’t call them?”

I nod and he grins.

“Good
call. So. Tell me what you want.”

I
shake my head. “I don’t know.” I’ve thought, so often, about calling Brody. But
he’s always been the one to push me, to demand my very best even when he love
me at my worst. It’s why I haven’t called. I can’t be my best right now.

“Do
you want to go home? Or do you want me to get you away from everything for a
while so you can get a grip on things?”

He’s
watching me, closely enough that he sees the hope flare in my gaze, and he
smirks. “Ok. Then let’s pack you up and get out of here. Ok?”

And
just like that, a chapter of my life is closed. Brody goes to work packing up
the books and clothes and shit I have in the hotel room, and I direct as much
as I can while he ignores me. Tommy comes by and I cry a little, saying goodbye
to him. I know that it isn’t the last time I’ll see him, that I have his phone
number to call him. That eventually, my life will settle.

But
for now, I’m running and there’s no room for him.

And
because he’s always been amazing, and just what I need, he merely smiles and
waves at me as I drive away with Brody.

My
brother eyes me as we hit the expressway that will take us away from Austin.

Away
from Rike.

“Are
you sure this is a good idea?” I nod, and he lets out a deep sigh. “Ok. But
there’s no harm in being wrong. You can change your mind. And when you do, I’ll
still love you. I’ll bring you home, without a word. Do you understand?”

I
twist my head to look at him. I do. My brother is an absolute gem. “How did I
get so lucky to have a brother like you?” I ask softly.

He
laughs. “Well, God had to give you something to compensate for the rest of the
family.”

Chapter
19
:
Before

“But
what the hell is wrong with the couch we have?”

I
swallow my laugh as Scott glares across the apartment full of boxes and empty
beer cans.

Lindsay
narrows her eyes and stares at her boyfriend. “I was one of your one-
nighters
, Scotty. I’m not a fucking idiot, and that piece
of shit pussy magnet is not going to be in my house!”

“I
like my couch!”

She
pops a hip out and crosses her arms, eyebrows climbing as Peyton comes out of
the kitchen with two beers. She’s laughing. “Do you like getting your dick
sucked? Because if you keep that? We’re out. I’ve still got my room at the
sorority house.”

“Couch
goes, bro,” I say from the floor where I’m assembling Peyton’s bookshelves.

“You
are so fucking whipped, man,” Scott says.

I
shrug, and Peyton sashays over to me, leaning down to kiss me briefly. “He’s
not whipped.”

“No,
baby. I’m whipped. And if he got to fuck you, he’d be whipped too.”

She
flushes and I laugh. Even after six months together, she’s still slightly
scandalized by the laissez-faire approach Scott and I have to sex.

When
her clothes are on. When I’ve got her naked in my bed, all of that good, proper
girl melts away.

“Do
we at least get to help pick the damn thing?” Scott demands and Lindsay smirks.
I swallow my laugh as I stand, pulling a finished bookcase with me.

“You
already picked it, didn’t you?” I say, and she flashes me a wide smile.

“It’ll
be delivered in the morning, so
y’all
need to finish
this room before then.”

Scott
curses and I let out a heavy sigh. “
Linds
, that’s
just dirty. At least give us a little time.”

She
shrugs and turns back to the kitchen. “I’ve got another four boxes in here.
Have fun, boys.”

I
shake my head and look at Scott. “You really need to control that girl.”

“Fuck
you, dude,” he snaps. “Get that box out of my way.”

I
move the box of clothes. Scott is
pissy
, which is
making the whole process of moving even more hellish than normal.

But
he’s directing all that anger at Lindsay. It would bother me more, except I
know what she’s doing. I’ve been watching her single-handedly manipulate my boy
for half a year, and if there is anything I’m sure of, it’s that Lindsay
Illian
knows exactly what she’s doing when she pushes Scott
around.

Giving
him something to be
pissy
about keeps
him
focused on her and not on the terrifying elephant in the
room.

We’re
moving in together.

It
was her idea, although I know Peyton had a hand in it. And it makes sense. The
new school year is starting, and they spend more time at our place than
anywhere else. I knew all the reasons why it was a good idea, all the reasons
on paper. Saving time and money, and practicality.

It
was still terrifying, and part of me wanted to bolt. As much as I adored
Peyton, as sure of her as I was, I had never lived with a woman. I'd lived in
group homes, and by myself, and with Scott. I had never wanted to live with
anyone else.

"Where
does this go?" Scott asks, holding a big box with Peyton's handwriting on
the side.

"Our
room," she says bouncing on her toes. She cuts her eyes at me. "I got
new sheets for our bed."

And
that. That right there settles me. Because no matter what else there is, I'm
doing this with her. A girl who I've got no fucking doubts about. And the idea
of her in my bed, in my space, all the time—it's more intoxicating than it is
infuriating.

I
slap a screwdriver against Scott's chest and grin. "Come on. We need to
get the table put together before that couch arrives."

He
looks vaguely sick, but he follows me.

***

My
whole body hurts when we finally quit for the day. It took two days and enough coffee
to give me an ulcer, but we're done. Everything is out of our old place, and
aside from the couple boxes of random shit no one knows what to do with, the
new place is set up.
Linds
even cooked a first meal
for us.

And
Peyton has kept me out of our room as she worked on it for most of the evening,
shouting for Lindsay and even Scott when she needed help and shoving me away
every time I tried to sneak a peek. She's almost vibrating with excitement now
as she shifts from foot to foot in front of the closed door, her wide blue eyes
searching mine and nervous.

"Babe,
you don't need to be nervous," I say, pulling her into me. "All I
need is you and a warm bed."

She
shakes her head, her brow furrowed. It's this adorable look she does when she's
going to argue with me, or when she thinks she's right and I need to learn
something.

"You
deserve more,” she says stubbornly.

My
stomach drops, an unpleasant pitch that sends the three beers I've had sloshing
in a dramatic, not good kind of way. I reach past her and push open the door,
my eyes locked on hers.

Pull
her tight to me and lift her, just a little. Without hesitating, she wraps her
legs around me, letting me carry her.

It
feels right, somehow.

This
girl has always felt right, in a way that is hard for me to define or quantify.

The
room is lit by a few candles and a lamp by the bed—a queen-sized bed covered in
a dark spread and fluffy pillows. My sketch pad and pens are sitting on the
side table, waiting like I left them there earlier in the day. Books are
scattered on her dresser with a small, carved box and a few mysterious,
girly-looking bottles. An oversized desk is pushed against the wall overlooking
the window, and her computer sits on one side, my work shit and notebooks on
the other.

There
are small ropes wrapped around the bedposts that make me grin, and our shoes
and clothes are lining the walk-in closet.

The
walls, though. They snag and hold my attention.

It's
something that took me almost four months to figure out. Even now, Peyton is
quiet and almost secretive. She doesn't share herself naturally, and there is
very little that is more intrinsic to who she is than her art.

But
she is fantastic. Where I prefer ink and charcoals,
Pey
likes watercolors and the camera.

The
walls are a work of art. And a tribute to us. Pictures of me, on stage, smoking
outside
Keegans
, blowing on my hands. One is in a
field, and I remember when she took it. We had gone camping, just the two of us
and a shitty little tent that we found out had a hole in it. I'm crouched next
to a fire, and smiling at her.

I
told her I loved her on that trip, after we got rained on and stumbled,
cursing, through the storm. Thunder had been so loud, so fucking close, and she
had stopped, tipped her head back, and twirled.

Fucking
twirled in the rain, dancing in it like a child.

I
fucked her in the field, thunder and rain all around us, her body running with
water, and whispered those three little words while she shuddered and came.

There
are more. Her in my bed, asleep. Us at Barrie’s, on New Year’s. Me and Scott
singing. Us in a park and on our shitty couch, and the back of the truck, and a
starscape
.

Our
whole fucking story is spread over the walls, in brilliant color and haunting
black and white.

“Fish,”
I murmur, and she makes a small noise.

“You
like it?” she asks, her hands twisting together nervously, and I walk her
backward, until she hits the wall and the picture of me grinning in the snow
rattles. She gasps when I push against her, my dick rubbing at her through the
layers of clothing.

“I
love it,” I whisper against her ear. “I love you.”

She
purrs, a soft noise of satisfaction and rolls her hips. Pleasure shoots through
me, and I groan against her lips. “You know moving is exhausting as fuck,
right?”

She
nips at my lower lip, kisses me, and grins. Pulls back. “Go lay down,” she
murmurs.

I
arch an eyebrow and she smirks.

My
shirt hits the floor and I
toe
off my shoes and shove
down my shorts before I sprawl across the bed, propped on my elbows as I watch
her.

She
ties my ankles first, and I drop back, grinning.

Peyton
loves games. She's sweet and proper outside our bedroom. She likes wearing her
artistic edge in her clothing and the hair she cut recently, the gauges in her
ears and nose piercing. But she's a sweet girl, for all that. Polite, and
considerate.

But
she's a demanding bitch in the bedroom. And she loves to play dominance games.
It's not hardcore shit—neither of us have the bent for true D/S—but sex is a
game. One mixed with pain and control and exhibition. It’s why she likes being
loud when she knows Scott is home, why I can finger fuck her in a bar, or on a
crowded city bus. It's hot as fuck, and I'm just kinky enough that I fucking
fly on it.

She
kisses me once when my hands are tied, and shoves a pillow under my head so I
don't have to crane to see her.

Whatever
game we're playing, she wants me to have a good view.

She
strips slowly, a coy tease as she sways around the room, coming close for a
kiss and brushing her bra-clad breast close to my lips before pulling away and
shimmying out of her jean shorts.

She's
naked and smooth and wet beneath them, and my dick jerks as I strain against
the ties.

I'm
not going anywhere.

It
might all be a game, and I might love to play it, but I'm also not under any
delusions about Peyton's seriousness when she comes to play.

"You’re
tired, right,
baby
?" she coos, stretching out
alongside me. Close, but not close enough. "So you relax. Watch."

My
mouth goes dry as she leans her head against my shoulder, her hand dropping
down to squeeze her tit. Her back arches a little, and her eyes go glassy as
her fingers circle and circle, teasingly light before pinching a nipple and
tugging, and her body goes bow-tight against me, her back arching as she moans.
Her free hand is trailing down her belly, and I watch it with avid hunger as it
smoothes
over her soft stomach, the pale, freckled
skin, down to her pretty pussy. She whimpers when she brushes her clit, and I
swallow. "Does that feel good, sweetheart? Do you feel good?"

"So
good," she groans, her fingers sliding along her folds. Her hips are
moving, and I'm not sure she's even aware of it as she teases us both. "So
wet."

"Show
me," I demand, yanking at my ties. "Come here and let me lick that
sweet pussy."

She
laughs, and the noise turns choked and broken as she slides two fingers deep,
her thumb pressed against her clit as she fucks herself. Her head is pressed
against my shoulder, digging in, and I can smell her hair and sex. The sound of
her fingers sliding in and out of her, the fucking sight of it as her moves
become frantic, desperate, her hips churning against her fingers, and she
screams, a long, low scream that echoes through our room as she comes.

She's
so fucking perfect.

"Don't
tease, baby. Let me fuck you."

She
twists her head a little, smiling at me sleepily, and her body convulses as she
slides her fingers free. Brings them up between us.

"Fucking
hell, Peyton," I groan, watching her lick her fingers clean. I'm so hard
it hurts, and she's laughing when she kisses me. Licking into her mouth,
catching the taste of her on her lips, it's almost like going down on her.

"Thought
you were tired," she whispers.

"If
you don't fuck me, I swear to god, I will beat your ass red."

"Promise?"
she breathes, and I groan.

Curse
as she rolls to straddle me. My dick sliding into her wet heat will never be
old. Will never be anything short of fucking amazing. I groan and rasp out,
"Fuck me, perfect girl."

Her
eyes flash and she moves, riding me hard, until I'm cursing and she's crying
out with every move, her whole body tight above mine, and then I'm coming, and
she screams, her body jerking against mine, clenching tight.

We
fall asleep like that. Wrapped up in each other, sticky with sweat and sex and
completely fucking in love. Convinced nothing could ever go wrong or change
what we have.