Speak (The Voice trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

              He tips my head with his finger and swallows me with a slow, deep kiss, savoring every second as I melt to the ground. When he finally breaks from my lips, I am bereft, wanting him to kiss me like that every minute.

              “What is on your mind, Sophie?”

              “Nothing. I just got off the phone with Mary, my boss. I was supposed to go in today.”

              “Uh oh. Are you in trouble? I wouldn’t want you to lose your job….Again.” He squeezes me tightly, and nips at my neck before letting me go.

              “No. Everything is fine.”

              “Then what is bothering you?” How does he do that? How does he know when something is on my mind?

              “Oh, nothing.”

              He drops his shorts and stands before me in nothing but his boxer briefs. They hug every part of him in a way that makes me envious. “Nothing rarely means nothing.” He sits and pulls his socks off before walking into the bathroom.

              “It is just something that Mary said.”  I watch him move around my bathroom, like he is familiar with the space. He splashes water on his face and reaches for a hand towel.

              “What did she say?”

              “She was just teasing me about your money.” I shake my head, trying to shake off the doubt. “She called you my ‘wallet’.”

              “Does that bother you?” He wipes the sweat from his body with the hand towel and drops it to the bathroom floor. He walks back into my room and sits at the end of the bed, waiting.

              “I just don’t want people to think that is what is going on.”

              “You don’t care about money.” The humor in his voice should be reassuring, but it stings, he couldn’t even fathom that I may be so shallow. I am not so sure. It turns out that I do covet the things he can give me, the things that he has. “You only want me for my hot body,” he teases me and pulls me into his lap. Oh, the feeling of being in his arms. That feeling definitely has nothing to do with money. Money cannot buy the way he makes me feel. The way he reads my body, that is instinct. You cannot buy the kind of connection we have built. Can you? How could I have been so righteous? Resting my hands on his strong biceps, I relish the feel of his soft, sun kissed skin under my fingers. I don’t want to give it up. But surely he won’t want me when I confess. Looking into his eyes, I want to believe that it isn’t about his money, but the lie in my head bites my tongue. The silence seems to stun him. He balks for a moment, and wrinkles his brow. “Sophie?”

              “I…” I don’t know what to say. How to say it.
Hey, turns out it is about your money.

             
“What is going on?” His grip on my arms is just a little too tight, his hands tensing in wait. My heart thuds against his grip. Blood rushes from my head, dropping like pebbles to my toes.

              “What if…?” Is all I can muster.

              “What if, what? What are you on about?” His eyes beg for an explanation, reassurance. Could he really care so much? He does, I know he does. The subtle shift in his embrace, the way he chews his lip. He cares, maybe more than he wants to. “Put voice to your thoughts, Sophie. Tell me what you are thinking. Speak up.”

“I’m afraid that it is about your money.” The words fall out of my mouth in a rush, and Rhys laughs. He pulls me into a hug, squeezing me around the shoulders.

              “God damn, Sophie, I thought it was something serious. Don’t scare me like that.”

              “No, listen, I am serious.” I pull away from his chest and force him to look at me. To hear the words that could drive him away. “What if it is your money? What if I am just like everyone else, I just didn’t know it until now. I mean, think about it. Everything we have done, everywhere we have been. It has all been paid for, owned or optioned by you. We have been surrounded by luxurious things, delicious food, no cares. You cornered me at a five thousand dollar a plate charity auction. That is not real life. Not for me. How could I not fall for you? You make me come so hard I can’t think straight, put me up in a mansion, send me gifts, and show up at a moment’s notice.” My heart cracks with each word of truth. Saying it out loud makes it sound even more horrible, more undeniable. The words hang in the air, dancing before my eyes. “Private jets, cross country drop-ins. This is not normal relationship fodder for a girl like me. Your money has been a part of every moment we have had together.” He drops his hands to the bed, white knuckled, bunched in the duvet. The whites of his eyes are larger than normal, and he listens intently. Watching my lips pass the words, the heat of his gaze burns my mouth. I pull at my lips, unable to shake the feeling that he is willing me to stop talking, to shut up. But, still I ramble on, tugging at my bottom lip. “How could it not be about that?”

              Shaking his head, either in disbelief or denial, maybe frustration, I don’t know. He stands, easily moving me from his lap, towering over me. His shoulders are set, his stance that dominating, powerful, squared-up stance that he does so well. I love that stance, love the set of his shoulders when he is in that mode, the urge to dominate and control too much for him to overcome. It’s like his wild side. Only, it is so contained. He pulls me to my feet.

              “Sophie.” Winding his arms around my hips, he lays his palms against the small of my back and presses me to him. “Do you feel that?” His soft whisper sends a shiver down my spine that meets the spark between us and I shudder in his arms. Under the weight of what he wants me to feel, his heat, his hands. The way they make me feel, like I am falling and don’t want to be caught, burning in a divine fire, dancing upon the flames, skirting the pain. “You can’t buy that.” He lowers his mouth to mine and flicks my bottom lip with his moist tongue. A breath catches in my throat and as I part my lips, he takes his opening. His lips are soft against mine, kissing once, twice, before softly exploring with his tongue and retreating to take a nip at my lips. I love kissing him. I was made to kiss him, he was made to kiss me. Everything he does fits me just right. He is right, you can’t buy that.

              I try to bury my hands in his freshly shorn hair, missing the longer Miami curls. The way they twisted around my fingers, begging for a tug. Now I can barely get a grip. And his cheeks, so smooth and empty, not a shadow to be spied. How precisely groomed he is when he is on New York time. I run the back of my hand down his cheek, storing the feel of his satin skin for a rainy day. He groans and pulls back, looking into my depths, his eyes warm and melt into soft, serene pools, and I want to swim. Struggling to wipe the worry from my face, it hangs there stuck, like a bad mask. I can’t shake the feeling that Mary is right. He reaches for his pants, unceremoniously surrendered to the floor so late last night and pulls his wallet from the pocket, thrumming through the contents. A small stack of hundreds rests in the fold, enough to pay my rent, no doubt. And the card slots are full, my eyes going directly to the Black Amex. I have heard about those. He thrusts the wallet into my hands, clamping his hands around mine, closing my hands around the supple folded leather.

              “Here.”

              “What are you doing? I don’t want this!” The words tear from my throat in a gust.

              “I know you don’t. That is my point.” Rubbing his hands over mine, I relax slightly, my hands still reluctantly wrapped around his wallet. “But, if it makes you uncomfortable, then let’s put it away.”

              Stunned, I stroke the supple leather of his wallet and think. There is nothing normal about Rhys being here. Nothing normal about how I feel. Maybe we weren’t meant to be…normal. What is normal? All of the luxury and opulence, crazy ex-partners, that is normal for Rhys. How is this going to work? How will he not find me immediately dull and move on?

              “We won’t do anything that you can’t afford. OK?” His eyes are wide, swimming with mirth. My eyes betray the coolness I wish to exude at this moment. I want to shrug it off, like no problem. But my eyes jut from their sockets, bulging at the thought of racking up a tab with Rhys. Even when I am swimming in a pool of self-made anxiety, he teases and pokes me. “We have the weekend to spend together. How much money can we spend?” I know he is teasing, but the tally in my head is reaching the clouds with no end in sight. He takes his wallet from my hands and pulls open my top drawer. My mind catches up too late. And as I lunge for the drawer, my stomach lurches into my throat, wound in a strangled knot. The drawer falls open to reveal mostly panties and bras, but what is lying on top of it all is enough to make me pass out.

              All the blood drains to my feet, heavy like bricks, while my head feels light as a feather. My cheeks burn, my ears crackle and I want to disappear. Rhys drops the wallet and a wide, devious grin cracks across his lips. He runs his long finger down the smooth, purple shaft, caressing the length, sliding to the tip of my vibrator. He doesn’t look horrified. He looks excited. When Collin found my vibrator, I thought he would lose his mind. He was furious, took it so personally. He made me throw it out and promised never to have something so filthy in our home again. I bought a new one the day after he moved out. And now Rhys rakes it over. I am stunned into a searing silence, waiting for his reaction. First money, now vibrators, is there anything more uncomfortable that we could talk about? Just when I think the silence is going to swallow me, leaving a gaping sink hole to hell in my bedroom, he picks it up. Gripping it with his fist, he runs his hand from tip to bottom before turning it on. It rears its quiet little head, the pitch getting higher as he turns it to full speed. His eyes are wide, like a child at Christmas, when he turns to me.

              “Oh, we have to use this.” His grin wide and unguarded, a child with a new toy, a toy he wants to use on me.

              “Together?” I choke out the words. I have never thought of my vibrator as a tool between two lovers. It is a substitute, a pinch hitter, not a team player.

              “We’ll keep that for later,” he teases, dropping it and pushing the drawer closed, loving the shock that has frozen me in place. “Surely I will think on it all day. But, in the interim, let’s do what you would normally do. What is on the agenda for today?”

              “Well, I usually go to the farmers’ market on Saturday morning.”

              “Then to the farmers’ market we will go, Ms. Noelle.”  And just like that he drops the vibrator, shuts the drawer and closes the subject.

Chapter 5

We walk along the dirt path, winding between farm stands. Table after table is piled high with the summer’s bounty, ripe summer tomatoes, gargantuan cucumbers and bunches of onions are draped over folding tables. Herbs of every variety lined up under the dripping tables, pots of basil and rosemary, mint and thyme circle prolifically blooming pots of geraniums and hanging baskets of petunias. The temperatures have not yet topped out so it’s still comfortable to stroll and take in the variations. I love the farmers’ market in the summer time. I always find something interesting to cook with, or some unknown pastry. There are butchers that smoke and dry their own jerky, cheese mongers that make specialty cheeses and coffee trucks that run the gamut from black coffee and a donut to French Press and elaborate croissants.

              “Ten dollars for a tomato!” he exclaims as he stops dead in front of a tomato stand. The crates are filled with ugly Heirloom tomatoes in a dozen different varieties, Green Striped Zebras, Lemon Boys and Deep Purple Cherokees. But the one he holds in his palm is a Mortgage Lifter, and boy, do they live up to their name! It is plump and bulbous, weighing a solid four pounds and eclipsing the massive size of Rhys’ outstretched palm. I take the tomato from his hand and replace it before picking up a bunch of Campari tomatoes still on the vine.

              “Heirloom tomatoes are rare and harder to cultivate,” I explain. “The flavor is unique and pure, they are well worth the price, and these are organic which makes them even harder to grow. I always buy my tomatoes from this stand, they donate a large part of their harvest every season. It’s well worth it in my opinion.” I continue to gather a rainbow variety of tomatoes and pay for them. “I am surprised you would be so…frugal,” I tease him, walking past a stand selling local apples and peaches.

              “I do know the value of a dollar, and the good that money well spent can do. Don’t be fooled by the trust fund, Baby, it’s not all daddy’s money.” His grin is infectious. I can’t help but reflect and bask in his light mood. So relaxed and open. “I made my first million at sixteen.” He grabs an apple, popping it off his elbow, and casually strolls to the next tent. I pay for the apple and follow quickly behind, in awe.

              “Are you serious?” Baffled by the mere idea of one million dollars, at sixteen years old? Our worlds could not be more distant if I had grown up on the moon.

“I have always had a head for numbers and business, investments really. My father gave me a challenge, he loaned me one hundred thousand dollars to invest. I told him I could double it. Within a year I had paid him back, with interest, and made myself a cool mil in the process. I turned around and invested that, and….here we are.
Not
spending that money.” His sharp tone betrays his playful mood.

“What did you invest in?” I’m unable to quell the curiosity, even though I know nothing about investing.

“Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” Grasping my hand, he tugs me through the crowd with a zealous grin that spreads from ear to ear. “I love this place. Look at those monster zucchini. Ooh, let’s get a coffee.” He pulls me towards the shade, under the awning of a food truck offering French pastries and pressed coffees. He twirls me around and hugs me so tightly, resting his chin atop my head. He speaks over my head to the woman in the truck. He orders an almond croissant and two espressos, planting a kiss at the crown of my head before we step back and wait. He pushes me back, extending his open palm, cocking his head to the side. “I need some money, Mama.” Oh yeah. I forgot we were doing this. I fish in my pocket and pull my carefully folded stack of cash out, handing him a ten dollar bill. He pays and pockets the change with a wicked grin. We sip our coffee perched on the curb and share the croissant.              

              “I just have one more stop to make if you don’t mind.”

              “Of course not, Beautiful, you lead the way.” He stands and offers me his hand before tossing his coffee cup into the recycle bin. “Where to?” The lovely weight of his hand settles at the small of my back as he leads from behind.

              “Just down the end there.” I point to the end of the market. Amidst all the stark white awnings and clean looking farm stands, nestled between and herb stand and a stand selling homemade soaps. The white tent is hung over every inch with richly worn tapestries. Brightly colored tie dye T-shirts and shorts hang from every corner. Smoke wafts around the entrance and an oddly soothing musical gong welcomes you out of the hot sun into the over warm, dark and smoky tent. Behind a long table covered with altars and tributes, stands a short round woman. She is cloaked in a long, swaying broom skirt and layered tunics, her feet are bare. Her arms are covered with bangles up to her elbow and her hair is twisted in a loose gray knot at the top of her head. When she turns she almost loses her balance as the bells at her waist jingle and sing.

              “Well, I will be a monkey’s uncle! Sophie Rose, you get over here right now!”

“Hi, Roseanna.” I let her embrace me and inspect me as she has always done. She is my Godmother and was my mother’s best friend.

              “You are looking more and more like your mother every day, young lady, so beautiful, so natural.” She twists my loose hair between her fingers, running her thumb across my cheek with a woeful look in her eye. “It’s almost hard to look at you.” Before she can get too deep into a reminiscent mood, she spies Rhys and an unbidden grin cracks her narrow lips. “And who is this?” she questions, taking his hand into hers. Slowly, she turns his hand over and traces the lines on his palm, watching his eyes. He just smiles and complies, cool as a cucumber.

“Roseanna, this is my friend, Rhys.”

              “Lovely to meet you,” he offers with his signature grin. She grabs his outstretched hand and begins to trace the lines on his palm.

              “Well, now, Sophie. This is much better than that other
boy.”
She looks from me back to Rhys. “This is a man. Your life line is strong, and your virility can never be questioned.”

              “You got that from looking at my hand?” his skepticism is hard to hide. She places his hand in mine before turning to grab a small candle.

              “I did. I could tell you a lot more if you were to have a reading. But I can assume that little Miss Sophie here won’t allow it.” He looks at me and I shake him off. Her tarot card reading is nothing more than a party trick, and often results in a dire ending message for her poor subjects. She lights the candle and sets it on the altar of Venus. “This candle is for you, Sophie. Let Venus guide you and true love will surely reveal your inner goddess.”
Damn Her!
A deep blush inches up my neck setting my cheeks aflame as Rhys chuckles under his breath. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Sophie. I just want you to be happy. It is my job to help look after you. Your mother would have wanted it.”

              “Well, I just wanted to stop in and say hi, Roseanna. We really should be going.” A long tendril of smoke swirls from a stick of incense she lights and plunges into a pot of sand.

              “It is always good to see you, Sophie. Don’t be a stranger.” She pulls me into a tight hug, her arms wound about my shoulders. “You look very happy,” she whispers into my ear before releasing me.

“It was very nice to meet you, young man. Be good to this one, the universe is watching.” She winks at him before handing me a short, white pillar candle. “Take this, Sophie, for your altar. Light a candle for your mother tonight. I will do the same.” 

              The thought twists my heart in a tight knot. We always lit a candle for our heartache. It was something my mother always encouraged. She said the heat from the flame would drive away the cold and when the flame dies, representing its last breath as fire, it would consume the heartache and leave you whole. I haven’t lit a candle for my parents in a very long time.

              We head back towards the car with our take from the market and the candle for an altar I no longer maintained.
Would my mother be disappointed?

             
After a quiet drive, I unpack and clean the veggies and fruit we picked up. I turn on some music and start to whirl around the kitchen. My ritual when I’m feeling low. Music and cooking almost always do the trick, distracting me from whatever is weighing heavily on my heart. I cannot get Roseanna out of my mind. In the last year I have really tried to dig myself from this hole of despair, to rid myself of the bad and focus on being whole again. It all started with kicking Collin to the curb. Granted, it took a couple of times for it to stick, but it did. But in the process, I shut myself away, avoided everyone who could make me feel sad or reminiscent. I have avoided Roseanna and she knows it.

              I start washing tomatoes and peeling onions, losing myself in the process, barely aware that Rhys disappeared almost the moment we walked through the door. I toss the tomatoes and onions on a sheet pan and slide them into the oven to roast and grab an avocado.

              “What are you making?” He winds his arm around my waist, catching me by surprise. I jump slightly in his arms and then settle into the warm comfort of his rock hard chest.

              “Just some snacks for us. I thought I would make some salsa and guacamole and we can grill, how does that sound?”

              “Sounds perfect,” he purrs against my ear, sending a shiver licking down my spine. He spins me around and in his hand is my old altar. A small carved platform with raised reliefs of the female forms in various goddess poses. It is covered with colorful drips from numerous candles, hard wax dripping down the sides. A fine layer of dust coats the whole thing as it has been sitting in the bottom of my closet for longer than I care to admit.

              “Where did you find that?” I bite my lip and fight the sob that sits high in my throat. Looking at it brings back so many memories, but most of all it makes me feel guilty, guilty for sticking it in the bottom of the closet, guilty for not carrying on what I used to share with my mom, guilty for not honoring her and myself. I stand stock still, watching him hold a piece of my mother’s memory in his hands.

              “I found it in your closet,” his voice is soft and unsure. I snatch it from his hand like a little child and cradle it in my arms.

              “You have a real issue with boundaries!” I snap, angry that he has snooped. “You cannot just change people’s locks, break into their house and go through their closets.” He balks at my reaction and takes a step back. In a silent standoff, I watch his face, the tick at the corner of his mouth, the way he pulls his lips through his teeth, anxious and unsure of his response. Taking a deep breath, my shoulders fall and my body bows under the weight of my growing guilt.

              “I am sorry if I upset you, Sophie. I didn’t mean to.” He watches me and waits. My heart is pounding a tattoo against my chest. “Are you really angry with me?” I have never heard Rhys’ voice sound so unsure, so remorseful. Every cell in my body is eclipsed by a feeling of sadness that I try to cover with anger, but it isn’t working. I shake my head, but cannot find my tongue.  Large tears form in my eyes, the kind that don’t immediately fall, but well-up and slowly steal your sight. A breath hitches in my throat and a heavy tear falls to my cheek, opening the flood gates.

              “Oh, no,” Rhys gasps and pulls me into his arms, wrapping his protective strength around me. I bury my face in his chest and sob, unable to stop. Salty tears soak his shirt, but he just holds me. His hands run up and down the planes of my back. The repetition is soothing and I allow myself to just cry. Just let it out and get it over with. I cannot hold it in anymore, if I do, I fear I will break for good. I can let it all go while he is holding me, I can surrender to the grief that I have ignored for so long. I want to let it all go.

              I couldn’t say just how long we stood in the kitchen, with me wrapped in his arms, him calming me with his touch. But when my tears ran dry, the sun was setting, casting a brilliant pink light through the kitchen window.

              “Do you want to talk about it?”

              “No,” the sentiment is heavy. “Let’s just eat.”

              I push out of his arms and he looks lost. But I don’t want to linger on the feelings that I let out. I just want to pretend it didn’t happen. I ask him to go and light the grill while I finish the salsa and pour some tortilla chips into a bowl. Rhys is clearly shaken by my reaction. After we eat, we sit quietly and watch random TV that neither of us is very interested in while he holds me close. He just holds me, doesn’t try to kiss me or caress me. He barely speaks a word. He just lets me be. I must have fallen asleep in his arms because when I wake I am tucked into the crook of his shoulder while he sleeps with his head propped upon his hand. I wake him with a kiss to his neck and a nibble on his ear. He groans and opens his sleepy eyes just long enough for me to coax him from the couch and lead him into my bedroom. He collapses on the bed in a heap and falls right back to sleep. I pull the comforter up over him and leave him to sleep.

              I wander through my darkened apartment restless, listless, but unwilling to do the thing that I know I should do. I sit at the kitchen table and stare at it. It mocks me. The altar sits on the table, right where Rhys left it, calling my name. Wondering why I have abandoned her, why I have abandoned the memory of my mother. I run my finger along the edge and pry off a piece of old purple wax. It still smells like the oils my mother used to make her candles, rosemary and lavender. I reach behind me for the candle Roseanna gave me, turning it over between my fingers. This one smells like jasmine and sweet pea. Roseanna was always partial to floral smells, my mother always thought them too overpowering. But I love the smell of jasmine, it reminds me of playing in Roseanna’s backyard when I was a child. The warm summer nights that she and my mother would spend together while I played, laced with the smells of flowers and sandalwood, they would watch me play and laugh. I could always make my mom and Roseanna laugh, though I never really understood what they were laughing at.