Mended Affections (The Affections Series Book 2) (9 page)

"He hadn't said it for a long time, but once he became sick, he started to talk about it again. When I thought my heart would shrivel up and die right along with him, he would remind me that my heart would continue to grow and love far," she whispers, and wraps her arms around my neck. "I thought he was just trying to tell me we would continue to love one another, even when he was gone, but I'm starting to realize it was his way of reminding me that I can love both of you."

I place my hands at her waist, fighting the urge to pull her hips closer to me. "My heart has always been full of you, Rea. Do you think you could?"

"Could what?" She asks.

"Make room to love both of us? Make room to love me like you used to?" My words come out weak, in fear of what her answer might be.

"I hope so. At first I didn't think I would be able to move on, but then one night I realized, I moved on from the loss of love before. I can do it again; especially if we can find what we used to have, then the fight will be worth it. I just worry. What will the boys think?" Rea meets my eyes, and the wrinkled skin of her forehead gives away her anxiety of telling the boys.

I love those boys. I know we can work past guiding them into a family where Reagan and I are together. Shit, they handled finding out Dylan is my son. If they made it through that, then they can make it through this. Not much will change, except for the amount of happiness and joy that will be felt in our home.

I can't fight the urge anymore, and pull Rea's hips until they are flush with mine. "For just a minute, can we pretend like everything is perfect? I really need to feel those soft lips, Rea."

She doesn't respond with words. I watch as she takes in what I've said. Her bottom lip slips between her teeth, and her tongue glides across to moisten the area I can't take my eyes off of. Her head nods only once before I move in and place my lips to hers.

They are soft and full. This is nothing like the kiss we shared in the office. This is want and need, pure desire to love one another. Our lips move together for a moment, before I risk sliding my tongue across her lips, begging for access. To my surprise, she lets me in. The warmth of her tongue melding with mine, sliding against each other, causes a low rumble to form in my chest. I can't help but let my body take over. One hand grabs at the back of her neck, deepening the kiss, and the other moves to her lower back, allowing me leverage when my hips rock forward on their own accord.

Rea’s fingers are grasping at my hair, pulling just enough to cause a small bite of pain. She's driving me crazy. Allowing herself to have this moment, turns me on even more. I'm still shirtless and can't stand the feeling of her shirt against my skin. Reaching down I grab its hem, pulling my lips away from hers, only to rid her of the aggravating material. Once the soft, warmth of her chest presses to mine, I lose all control. I flip us over, pressing her into the bed, causing a small yelp to escape Rea.

My hips rock again, grinding against her heat. My right arm is still wrapped around her back, lifting her slightly from the mattress. My left slowly travels from her neck, causing her skin to break out in goose flesh. My eyes follow my hand, landing on her taunt nipple, begging me to pay it some attention. Her breathing is erratic. I can't tell if it's from fear or excitement, but she hasn't told me to stop. I proceed slowly, giving her enough time to voice her opinion on me taking things further.  I place a tender kiss to her chest and continue this movement, lowering my head slowly. The contact of my lips to her breast causes a stuttered moan to escape Rea's lips.

She feels so good, against me and under me, allowing me free reign to do as I please this far. Just when I reach my goal and am about to wrap my lips around the hardened peak, a loud crash sounds in the hallway, causing Rea to jump. I'm thrown onto my back on the bed, and Rea is scrambling to get her shirt back on.

"Max, stop! What are you doing?" Dylan yells, outside the door.

I rush to the door, tucking my raging hard-on along the way. Another loud crash sounds outside the door. I yank it open, and take in the mess that is scattered across the floor. Dylan is standing there and turns in my direction when he hears the door open. He looks concerned for his brother.

"I don't know what's wrong. He just woke up and started throwing things out of his door. I tried to go in to see what was bothering him, but he almost took my head off," Dylan says and turns back toward Max's door.

Rea pushes past me, making her way toward her son. "Dyl, honey, just go downstairs, take Colt with you, please."

Dylan hurries past the door, grabs Colt from his room, and leads him down the stairs.

I hear Rea trying to get Max to settle down. I don't know what I should do. Do I go in and give her a hand or let them have some privacy? Walking up to the shattered pieces, I notice they are models of cars. Broken fenders, cracked paint, and solitary tires lay among the mess. I reach down and pick up the body of a 1982 Ford Mustang. At least I believe that's the year. Dalton was way more into cars than me, and the only reason I guess that year is because that was Dalton's first car. It was beautiful, painted black, with chrome wheels.

"Please don't break them, Max. You'll regret this one day, and I don't want that for you." Rea sounds calm as she tries to talk Max down.

I keep hold of the model car and walk into Max's room. "I remember when your dad brought this car home. God was he in love, made me ride around with him for hours. I think we stopped and refilled the tank at least twice that day."

"Yeah, well you can keep it then. I don't want to look at it anymore," Max says, causing me to look up from the car in my hand.

Rea is standing in front of Max with her arms crossed over her chest. "While Dalton cooked the turkey, he would spend time with the boys, building model cars. Well, usually just Max, the other two weren't that into it. Every year they would pick a new model."

"Not anymore. So why keep them, huh? I'll never build a model again!" Max yells at his mom then plops onto his bed.

"Rea, can you give us a minute?" I ask.

"I really don't want to leave while he is so upset."

"Please."

Rea looks back and forth between me and Max, but he doesn't notice since his chin is tucked to his chest. I plead with her silently. I know where he is right now. Trying to burn the memory because it's too painful to remember, but Rea is right. He will get older, and he will learn to heal. Once he reaches that point, he'll be angry with himself for ruining such a great memory.

Rea finally concedes to my plea. "Max, honey, talk to Striker. If you need me, I'll just be downstairs."

I watch Rea as she leaves and then silence takes over the room. I watch Max for a minute before taking a seat next to him. I remember days like this, after my parents passed away. I wanted to scream and yell, lash out. Life wasn't fair to me back then, and it hasn't been fair to Dylan, Max, and Colt. You can't possibly understand why things like this happen to you at his age. I was older than him when I experienced the loss of my parents, but it was so confusing. How can God take such an important person away from you? Especially your father: the man who is supposed to help guide and mold you into a man.

I wonder what Max is thinking. Will he want to talk to me about it? Some kids may think you're trying to replace the person that they have lost. I know I did. I think that is why I was never really close to my aunt and uncle. While they supported me, and provided a roof over my head, I kept my distance. Life was just never the same after my parents were gone.

"Do you want to talk about it, buddy?" I ask.

He shakes his head no.

"Ok. Do you care if I talk and you can just listen?"

He responds in the same way. It's hard to get my thoughts together. I take a moment to look around his room. It's decorated in blues and greens, with very few pictures on the wall. There are no posters, or anything on the walls, to give you an indication as to what Max likes, but he likes it this way. Plain. He has one shelf, which is where his model cars once sat, that is now empty.

I look over to him; his chin still hangs to his chest. "I remember when my parents first died. I was lost and feeling alone. I moved in with your dad and his family, but it never really felt like home. I lost everything, my parents, my home, my friends, and my school. I know things seem tough, and there is not much I can say to make it better." I reach over and place my arm around his shoulders. "I was angry with my parents for the longest time. How dare they abandon me? They could have stayed home that night, and they would never have died, but we can't change things that have already taken place. We can't change the past. We just have to try and move forward, and that's the hardest thing to do, because when we move forward, we leave them behind, since they're not with us anymore. At least that's how I lived for a very long time, but then one day I realized, they've been with me all along, in here," I say, placing my other hand over my heart.

"Carry him in here, Max. Don't make the same mistake I did by trying to bury the memories. The memories are what keep them with us. It's what keeps them alive." I drop the hand over my heart.

Max looks up at me. "I hate Thanksgiving."

"Me too, buddy," Rea says, from the doorway.

I stand from the bed. "Well, it's a good thing we are skipping it this year. Breakfast will be the only meal we sit down for today. My aunt thought eleven was perfect, so we have a little while longer until she's here. I'll leave you guys alone and find something to make."

"Hey, Striker," Max calls out as I reach the hall. "I really love French toast."

Smiling at him I respond, "French toast it is, bud."

Reagan

I sat with Max for about a half hour in his room. We didn't talk much about him throwing his model cars, but we did talk a lot about Dalton. Out of all the kids, I think that Max is taking things the hardest. He's like me in the sense that he won't talk about how he feels, just holds it all in. I hate that he takes after me. I wanted all of my children to take after Dalton in the personality department. He was always happy and giving. I've realized, over time, that my depression caused me to be selfish, always relying on others to better my mood. I feel like I never really offered anything in return. How did I help others? That answer is very simple. I didn't, if anything I hurt them by pulling them away from their family.

I had Dalton move away from his mother and father, because I was too weak to deal with their opinions of me, mainly, his mother. His father worked long hours and was hardly around. My Dylan didn't have a chance to know his real father the way he should have, until he was ten years old. I can never get him that time back, and he deserved the truth. He deserved to always know where he came from, and maybe if I hadn't built a life based on all of the lies I created, then no one would have suffered from broken relationships. Dalton will never get that time back with his mom. I should have tried harder with her. That's why I want to see what she has to say, because I'm realizing that my boys deserve to know their father's mother, their grandmother. Which reminds me, she'll be here soon.

My throat thickens, making it hard to swallow as I think of sharing a meal with her. Mrs. Knowles has the ability to unnerve me more than anyone I've ever met, but I'm going to tough it out. Striker already knows what she has to say, and it would be so much easier on me to hear it from him, but I need it to come from my mother-in-law.

I'm wishing now that I was able to finish my conversation with Striker earlier, before getting distracted by his need for me. Who am I kidding? The moment I opened my eyes in that tub, and he was standing there with his hard chest on display for me, along with the huge bulge in his pants, I was distracted with need for him.

It's such a strange battle, to go back and forth between what your heart and body are telling you to do, and what your brain says is completely wrong and disgraceful. My life feels like it's repeating itself. When Striker left me pregnant, Dalton stepped in, and I was married a short time later. Here I am again, Dalton has left me, and while the circumstances are completely different, I still feel just as bad for moving on with his cousin. I felt such a strong sense of guilt for marrying Dalton for the first year we were together. It was hard to shake, and I know that if I jump into something with Striker, because I can't control my lust for him, then I will feel that same guilt again.

Sometimes I tell myself that I was Striker's first, and that Dalton took advantage of me, only to make myself feel better for wanting someone that I shouldn't. Then Striker tells me, we shouldn't blame Dalton and should only blame ourselves; that we are the only ones responsible for how our relationship turned out. While that is true, I also believe I would have searched for Striker after Dylan was born, but the guilt I felt for marrying Dalton kept me from that. In my young mind, it would have killed Striker to know of our marriage, but how could I think he would never find out. He was Dalton's family; surely he was going to pop up sooner or later. I was a fool.

I’m finding out that the game of what-if is never worth it. I need to look forward, but often I feel like I'm literally tied to the man in the grave. When I try to move forward, that string just pulls me right back to his memory and where I started.

I don't want to forget him, and for the longest time I didn't want to move on, but after seeing how resilient some of the women are in group, it's inspiring. There are so many of them that gave their all to their marriage, that when their spouse passed away, it gave them the freedom to truly find themselves. I want to feel that freedom. I want to have this weight of loss lifted from me, and I want to love again. First that love starts with me though, and I have to stand on my own two feet.

I finish with the last swipe of mascara and take a look at myself in the mirror. I still look thinner than normal, and my face is still pale, with prominent dark circle lining my eyes. Even when I do sleep, I'm interrupted by bad dreams. I'm not sure how much longer my body can handle living like this. I need to be better to myself. I need to care for me, so I can be there for the boys.

"Mom," Colt calls from the hallway. "Dad's mom is here."

Shit, I'm not sure I'm ready for this. Why, exactly, did I agree to this again? I was excited to get all of these talks out of the way, but as I think about how my talk ended this morning, I can't help but feel alarmed. My cheeks feel flush, and my blood pressure rises, causing a tension to build inside of me. I take in a deep breath and blow it out, trying to calm myself. What if she knows? She was always good at assuming things, but what if she can tell that something is going on between Striker and me, again?

Really, I'm worried about that. What about the fact that all this time she thought Dylan belonged to Dalton, when Striker is his father. Yeah, this was a bad idea. The sound of my heart beating in my ears worries me. I've done so well over the last several weeks, since my doctor placed me on anti-anxiety meds. I don't want to have a panic attack, but the thought of falling into one, only causes me more stress, and my ears start to ring. I brace my hands on the sink, close my eyes, and concentrate on breathing, in and out, in and out.

I don't feel like I'm getting any worse, but my symptoms are not subsiding either. I can't go down there until I'm completely calm. I can't have her looking at me like I'm a weak person. I want her to see me as an inspiration to my kids. Someone who can provide them with the kind of strength they need to get through this tough time in their lives.

I imagine the flow of air in and out of my body. I picture myself inflating like a balloon, with revitalizing breath, and then expelling all of the bad when I release a lungful of air. In with the good, out with the bad, and as stupid as I thought it sounded when I first heard this technique, it actually works.

My breathing is starting to settle, when I feel strong arms pick me up, placing me on the sink. My eyes dart open, and Striker is looking down at me, eyes filled with concern. He grabs my legs, spreading them wide, so he can move in close, and wraps them around his waist. His forehead comes down to lay on mine and he breathes me in.

"I thought you were falling into a panic attack. Are you okay?" His voice sounds pained.

"I thought so too, but I was able to pull myself out of it," I reply.

His hands land just below my ears, tilting my head back. His emotion filled eyes bore into mine, searching within my soul, causing something inside of me to crack. This is different and fulfilling in a way I haven't felt in a very long time. How can someone make you feel like this with just one look?

It's as if he is lifting me up, all the pieces of me, the whole and the broken. I feel light and free. I feel boundless. There are no limits. I feel like I'm seventeen years old again, speaking to the other half of my soul. He was built just for me.

Unable to deny the connection that I feel with him, I thread both my hands into his hair and pull his lips down to mine. My tongue penetrates his lips as soon as they make contact, and the warmth of his mouth mingles with mine. A low moan crawls up the back of my throat. There’s a pulsing need traveling through my body, begging to be released.

My hands grip tighter in his hair, as Striker's hands begin to roam all over my body. They are tickling, touching, and grasping anywhere they can reach. I feel like I can't get close enough. I want to feel his bare skin touching mine. Releasing my hold, I reach down, grabbing the hem of my shirt and slip it over my head. Our lips only part twice, once to remove my shirt and once to remove his.

The softness of his skin moving against mine brings me comfort. Such an odd feeling as we paw at each other, desperate just to feel, but there is no other word.

The old me emerges for a fraction of a moment, and all other thoughts fade into the background. I'm Rea when I'm with Striker, and at this moment it's exactly what I need. I just want to be Rea.

I feel his hand brush up my leg, until it reaches the apex of my thighs. I’m throbbing as my hands fumble to free him of his jeans. Once I get his zipper down, his pants drop to his ankles. I move his boxers to meet them at the floor, never breaking my lips from him. Our mouths are devouring one another's forcefully. Our teeth clash together, but neither one of us seems to care, desperation driving us forward.

I wrap my hand around him, stroking his warm, hard length. His hands tug at the top of my leggings, pulling my panties down with them. My legs fall from his sides, making his task easier. He pulls them from one leg, allowing them to hang from the other foot. Slowly he pushes me back until my shoulders are pressed into the mirror. I feel him there, exactly where my body needs him. Slowly, he strokes himself up and down my entrance, spreading my wetness, and sending delicious shivers through out my body.

Just as he begins to push forward, the weight of our situation crashes down on me, as the sound of my mother-in-law's voice travels through my bathroom door.

"Reagan, are you in there?" Her voice is soft and timid.

The coolness of the room surrounds my body. Striker is at the door turning the lock, so she can't come in. What am I doing? I don't know what's happening to me today. Twice now I've almost lost myself in Striker, when I was just asking him to be patient with me, and now with my mother-in-law in the house.

"Aunt Becky, could you please meet us downstairs? We're just talking for a minute before we come down," Striker says.

"Are you sure everything is all right? I heard a noise, that's why I came up. I just wanted to make sure you guys were okay?" She actually sounds concerned, which is so odd coming from her. She typically sounds callous and evil.

Striker turns toward me, with a look I don't understand. He seems disappointed in himself or ashamed. "We're fine. Be down in a minute."

He walks back toward me and gathers his clothes. We get dressed in silence, neither one of us looking at the other. I feel sick to my stomach, but I'm not sure if it's because I almost had sex with Striker, or if it's because he seems upset about what just happened. I can't bring myself to ask. I'm not sure I want to know what he's thinking, especially since I have to head down and face Mrs. Knowles.

I pull my shirt over my head, completing my outfit, then turn to wash my hands. I keep the water cold and splash a little on my cheeks. Striker’s reflection is vacantly looking in my direction, but he’s not seeing me. He's lost in his own thoughts. His lips are pressed firmly together, showing dislike. I start to feel uncertainty creep up on me. I know he says he loves me, but maybe he isn't ready for this either.

I right my stance and head toward the door. Not one movement breaks Striker from his thoughts, until I turn the lock and open the door. "Rea, are we okay? Should I have stopped this?"

I turn to face him, so he can see the sincerity in my eyes. "We're great," I say with a tiny smile.

"Will you tell her? You know, about Dylan," he asks, still looking like a lost boy.

"No more lies." I turn back toward the door and exit, heading to the one place I have avoided since we moved to this state. Now I get to face the witch, I just pray she has no clue what she actually heard upstairs.

As I enter, I find Mrs. Knowles milling around my kitchen with the boys. All of them are helping to set the table, while she is setting up the coffee maker for a fresh pot. The sun is shining brightly through the windows, illuminating the dust that covers our hardwood floor, and I begin to panic. I close my eyes and try to ignore the state of my house, as my mother-in-law walks around like she lives here.

"Um, Mrs. Knowles can I get that for you? You're our guest, you don't have to do anything," I say, and walk toward her.

"Oh please, dear, it's just some coffee." She waves me off and turns back toward her task. "Go have a seat."

Dear, she just called me dear. Who is this woman? I swallow the lump in my throat and stand there in shock. I feel like someone has taken over her body. She has always been demanding of me, expecting me to take care of all the womanly duties around the house, without complaint. At least that's what she calls them.

Before we moved, she would stop by our apartment, plop down on the couch, and ask me to grab her numerous things, so she could feel at home in our less than pristine home. Nothing I did was good enough for her. There were times when she would make comments about my outfits or hair, and how unkept I was.

Feeling confused, I force my feet to move and take a seat with my children. They finished setting the table and all three are seated, waiting to eat.

"Mom, can I say grace?" Colt asks.

While I would love to be more religious, I fail most days. "What made you think of that, sweetie?"

Colt bounces in his seat. "Grandmom said it would be nice, and that I could do the honor."

The discomfort I feel weakens its hold on me, as I take in his excitement. I smile at him and he smiles back. "I would love to hear you say grace, Colt. I bet you will do a perfect job.