We Were One Once Book 1 (10 page)

As the plates are set in
front of us, I can see that she’s only getting more agitated, ready
to run again. As the waitress walks away, I grab her hand from
across the table and without letting go, I move to come over to her
side. I force her to slide further into the booth and block her
escape by sitting down.

“You okay?” I can add a lot
of fake concern when I need to, but I
am
actually worried about her, a
little anyway. She looks scared. I only want that look to be in her
eyes when
I
put it
there.

She takes one big breath,
steadying again, but doesn’t make eye contact with me. “Look. I
don’t mean to be rude...”

“So don’t be.” I add a
little anger, just to see her reaction. It’s not good. I was hoping
for a quick backing down.

Instead, she turns to face
me more, aggressive with her head cocked to the side and a half
smile now on her face. “I was going to say that breakfast is sort
of a ritual for me. I like to eat in peace.” She leans in a little
more. I can smell her spiciness mixing with the sweet pancake smell
in here. It’s making me want to dip her in syrup. “So, if you don’t
mind, we’ll talk after I finish eating.” But she ends with a small
note of almost submission; her eyes drop down to her lap, voice
getting softer, “Okay?”

I relax but stay sitting
next to her. “Sure. I was taught not to talk with my mouth full
anyway.” She smiles and turns back to her plate of pancakes. I
chuckle to myself seeing that they’re the chocolate chip ones with
whipped cream in the shape of a smiley face.

She transforms again,
becoming completely focused on her plate. I have to stop myself
from staring. She mumbles something before picking up her
silverware. A prayer? You’ve got to be kidding me. She’s religious?
I didn’t see that coming. I haven’t seen any evidence of it before
now.

She doesn’t take her eyes
off the plate, keeping her silverware firmly clutched in her fists.
The only time she lets go is after every third bite, and that’s to
take the glass of milk with both hands to her lips. It’s truly the
strangest thing to watch. A ritual is right. I hope to shit she
doesn’t eat every meal like this.

When the glass of milk is
gone, she pushes the plate away and sets the silverware down
slowly. I have to stop from laughing again because the only part of
the pancakes not eaten is the smiley face covered piece. “You know,
you can order them without the whipped cream…”

It takes her a second to
respond to me, like she was too deep in her own thoughts still.
“Oh. Yeah. Maybe next time.” As I pay the waitress, she looks down
at her jacket and rolls her eyes at a dribble of syrup on it,
mumbling, “Sloppy!” She dabs at it with a new napkin.

“You were pretty focused
eating. I’m surprised anything could get away.” I laugh openly at
her this time.

She glares at me, still
dabbing the spot. “What are you doing here? You don’t live around
here.”

“No, but I met a client
nearby.” This is true. I’ve decided to put all new orders on hold
for the time being, but this is an old friend, so I wanted to tell
him in person. He wasn’t happy about it, but what choice does he
have really?

Her eyes narrow more at me,
and she turns a little with that same aggressive cock to her head.
“I thought you were a trust fund brat, all play, no
work?”

“I am. The work I do
is…more play…recreational.” I grin at how true this is. “And I
thought models lived on water and diet pills, not alcohol and
pancakes.”

“High metabolism, I guess.”
She purses her lips into a sarcastic grin. I’d like to smack her
for it, but I settle on a mental list of behaviors to change. Top
one right now is making faces at me, maybe followed by the weird
eating habit. I’m still grinning, not letting her in on the joke
just yet. She’ll learn soon enough.

“So this has been fun,
Trust, but I’ll need to change now before heading out…” She’s
trying to push me out of the booth. I slide over and put my hand
out to help her up again. She seems thrown by the simple gesture,
hesitating and staring at my fingers.

My grandfather was a very
gentlemanly old man. I know when to be, how to be; I just don’t
choose to be very often is all. I find it useful at times, though,
especially when it’s unexpected. It can really throw a girl off her
game. It works on Grace.

As she takes my hand, I
yank her firmly against my side. She tilts her head up, starts to
close her eyes, and opens her mouth for the kiss she’s already
expecting. The pancakes make her lips even sweeter and her level of
response, at least sexually, is good.

I grab her waist in a
tighter grip with one arm and lead her towards the door. “Come on,
I’ll walk you out.” She moves next to me, same as before—a cat
strut, ready to pounce. I don’t let go and she just keeps walking
with me. I know we’re heading back towards her boyfriend’s
apartment. I have no intention of letting her leave my side
today.

Seattle: Miles
Vanderson

Hanging up my cell phone, I
head back to my chair next to the fireplace. I was reviewing
financial statements and minutes from the board meeting when
Spencer interrupted with his good news. Like my father, I still
like to have reports printed. I prefer to feel them in my hands.
It’s just another way I know I’ll never be free of his
influence.

I toss the papers into the
fire. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else tonight
anyway. Leaning back into the wingchair more, I watch the fire
dance and lick the edges of the papers, following the ashes as they
float, the embers darkening. It’s soothing for only a
moment.

Spencer is “zeroing in on
Gillian’s whereabouts.” He has a flare for the dramatic for a
one-dimensional type. He’s already impressed me with his tenacious
gift for sifting through the information that his predecessors
managed to mangle over the years. He’s a real bloodhound with his
tracking abilities, and he has Gillian’s scent now. I could hear
his excitement at the chase. The prize is within reach. I
hope.

He found a coffee shop
waitress at a hotel in San Francisco willing to swear it was
Gillian whom she served breakfast. That was only a little over two
years ago. She remembered Gillian’s strange eating
habits.

I smile remembering these
too. Gillian is a unique girl, a broken into a million pieces girl.
She’s fragile and weak, intense and stubborn, lost and unbalanced,
resilient and decisive. She’s been my everything since the moment I
first saw her.

I close my eyes to better
picture her, just as she was that first time we met. It was in this
very room, the library. It’s why I spend so much time in here. It
was Gillian’s favorite room in this sprawling place. She said it
was the dark, the feel of being surrounded and encased that she
liked. I open my eyes for a moment, taking in the floor to ceiling
shelves of books that no one reads, the panels of wood that add to
the masculine, warm feel. It looks impressive; it looks like a
library should. That’s all that ever mattered to Martin
Vanderson.

I close my eyes again and
can almost hear Gillian against the crackle of the fire. I’d walked
in on her crying soft sobs; she was sitting as close as she could
to the fireplace on the rug. Her skinny legs were tucked up under
her dress, her chin quivering and causing the tears to bounce over
the thin material.

She was an angel, a dark
angel against the orange flames. Her tiny face was illuminated yet
shadowed, her dark eyes coal and ice, her tears the most beautiful
sight I’d ever seen. She didn’t startle; she didn’t even react when
I entered the room and came near her. She gave no sound or movement
when I sat on this same chair behind her, keeping her silence as my
own.

When she slowly twisted
just her upper body to see me more and lifted her eyes that first
time, I think I actually gasped. I know I drew my breath in. How
could I not? She was perfection. The savage innocence in her eyes
was undeniable.

I didn’t move. I just sat
still with my hands on my knees, much like I’m doing now, and
waited for her to speak or move first. When she did, it was in a
quick fluid motion. She stood, turned to me fully, and then
stopped. Her face stayed in shadow, unreadable, but her small body
was in perfect silhouette, projected by the fire behind her. The
wispy ends of her hair were like the embers glowing. She stood with
her legs slightly apart and her arms at her sides but open. It was
like she was offering herself to me. She knew I could see her
outline in full; the dress almost disappeared against the
flickering light.

I groan even now picturing
her. I will have that imagine emblazoned in my memory
forever.

She stayed still long
enough for my eyes to slowly travel up and down her body…twice. She
was only starting to develop the shape of a woman. She was lean and
muscled, soft and feminine, the briefest moment between mature
angles and soft childhood captured in one body. I couldn’t take my
eyes away from her. I knew I should. I knew I should have broken
the spell, but I didn’t want to. So I didn’t.

Then she walked the few
steps towards me that it took to reach my chair. She lowered
herself in one fluid movement again. She knelt at my feet and put
her head against my knee, facing the fire once more. My fingertips
were covered by her dark hair, and I moved my hand to stroke her
head, to run my fingers through her wild mane.

She didn’t speak. She
didn’t cry more. I didn’t speak. I finally stopped petting her, and
we sat still together like that for I don’t know how
long.

Without any indication, she
stood quickly and picked up my hand, the one I had held against her
head only a second before. She raised my fingers to her mouth and
kissed the tip of each finger lightly. Her lips were soft and made
me smile and frown at the same time. I know I moaned when she put
my thumb in her mouth. When she licked and sucked, her mouth so wet
and warm, I let out a low, soft moan for the duration. When she
stopped, her eyes never leaving mine, she lowered my hand back to
my knee. Then she left the room.

I didn’t care if a maid
walked in, or even her mother or my father. Right then, I relieved
the pressure on my cock, making a mess of myself in my underwear. I
rubbed and pulled myself, imagining her tongue, her lips, her eyes.
I didn’t care that it was wrong to think of her. Wrong because she
was only fourteen. Wrong because she was my new stepsister. Wrong
because I was twenty and only visiting for Christmas break. Wrong
because my father would never allow me back if he knew. I didn’t
care.

I still don’t.

Gillian showed more of
herself to me after that first meeting. Slowly, I peeled her layers
away, though always in secret. It was another year before we made
love in front of this fireplace for the first time. It was a year
of strange discoveries, heartbreaking and exciting
discoveries.

I open my eyes again, the
memories lost. The flames burn brighter with my tears.

Gillian, my love, why did
you choose to run from me?

San Francisco: Simon
Lamb

“This is me.” I already
knew this but keep it to myself. The doorman opens for us and
stares at me, then Grace’s ass. I let her lead the way, liking the
view of her too. When the elevator doors open, a woman holding a
small dog moves to the side to let us on with a polite smile. I
push Grace back against the elevator wall and grab her hair to hold
her for a rough kiss, loudly banging her head. I can see the woman
watching us in the mirrors or trying to act like she isn’t anyway.
Grace doesn’t give a shit; she grabs my shoulders and holds me
harder against herself. When it’s her floor, she shoves against me
to free her mouth and loudly says, “This is us.”