Brutal Game (9 page)

L
aurel doubted
she’d ever eaten a meal half as delicious as tonight’s. The secret ingredient was relief, she supposed—relief that her body wasn’t hurting anymore, that she was finally free of maxi pads and backaches and that nagging feeling of tenderness, more emotional than physical.

She’d gone to see her gyno a few days earlier, to make sure the miscarriage had run its course. Everything had looked good, considering, and while she’d been there they’d inserted an IUD, as she no longer trusted the Pill any farther than she could spit one. As a bonus, the IUD didn’t rely on hormones, which was bound to be better for her moods.

Mixed with the relief was excitement.
I have an interview.
Something about the miscarriage—or the scary, brief reality of the pregnancy—had lit a fire under her ass. She’d applied for more jobs in the past two weeks than she bet she had in the six months preceding them. This was the first interview she’d been offered in all that time. She wasn’t foolish enough to get her hopes up, but just scoring an invitation felt big.

She looked to the driver’s seat, at Flynn’s stoic face lit by the dash and the chasing streetlights, gaze nailed to the road. Fists at ten and two. Which was a little odd, as half the time he drove one-handed. He seemed strained, in fact. She’d been so wrapped up in her good news, she’d failed to notice until now.

“You missing your workout?” she asked.

“No way I was passing up a date with you. Especially not with something to celebrate.” Pretty words, but his tone was strange and flat and
off
, like an instrument missing a string.

She nearly asked if he was okay, but held her tongue. She was guarded, she knew that, as guarded as Flynn was normally forthcoming. She’d never known him to hold back, and she was at a loss for how to approach him.

You’re overthinking it. Approach it the Michael Flynn way.
“You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just tired.”

Liar.
“I’m only going to ask this one more time—are you sure?”

He looked her way. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

His eyes sought the road. “You know how I get when I don’t blow off steam after work. That’s all.”

“Oh, sorry. Is it too late to—”

“I’m fine.” He said it too quick, too gruff.

Laurel watched the scene streaking by her window—brick and ocean and sleeping steel cranes and more brick—for the rest of the drive, triumph forgotten, worries settling in like old friends around a smoky bar.

It’s been over two weeks since we’ve had sex.
That couldn’t be helping his anxiety. Still, the thought buoyed her some; she felt strong again, stronger than before the pregnancy, even. No doubt he was waiting for her to initiate, after what she’d been through. Well, no problem there. She’d be happy to peel the sweater off him when they got back to his place, remind herself that his body was for more than merely holding her, those hands capable of feats far less kindly than marathon back rubs.

He parked behind his building and they slammed their doors in the quiet night, the rest of South Boston feeling as though it had gone to bed, though it was barely eight.

How much am I up for, tonight?

Probably not role-playing. She didn’t want to go there until she felt him return to her, his usual self.

His usual self.
It occurred to her then, Flynn was the most consistent person she’d ever known. He didn’t have mood swings, not unless bloodlust and horniness counted. He got annoyed now and then, but he never went quiet like this. She supposed most people did, and of course he was entitled to, but something about it… It was unnerving. It felt as though he were made of stone as they rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. Cold and silent.

He let them into the apartment and eased up the lights. Laurel had brought her overnight bag and she tossed it on the loveseat. Force of habit from these past couple of mopey weeks urged her to pull out her pajamas and get comfy, but she caught herself. Not tonight. She was wearing a skirt, after all. It’d be a shame not to get fucked in it.

Flynn was unlacing his shoes at the couch and she passed by on her way to the bathroom, leaned down and planted a kiss on his temple. He kept his eyes on the task. That taste of coolness dug the worry hole deeper, but she forced it from her mind as she brushed her teeth and her hair, dabbed her shiny forehead with a wad of toilet paper.

She looked how she felt—lit up and alive. Maybe a little nervous and rusty, but more awake than she had in so, so long. She’d show Flynn that she was better again. Show the both of them that her body wasn’t a fragile, fractured shell in need of kid gloves.

The red towel was folded on the shelf above the toilet. She eyed it.
No,
no goring. Not tonight, anyhow.
She flipped off the light and fan.

He was still on the couch when she exited, perusing a piece of mail, its ripped envelope in one hand.

“Riveting news?” she asked.

“Mm?”

She plopped down beside him. “Your mail. Anything thrilling?”

“Nah. Gas bill.”

“At least those’ll be getting smaller, now.”

“Mm.”

He hadn’t looked at her once since they’d gotten in, had he? In a blink, she realized what must be going on—he was feeling insecure. What Flynn himself called “Uptown Girl Syndrome.” How working-class guys could be real dicks if they were involved with women who outpaced them, education- or profession-wise. Plus Flynn had told her before he’d wanted to be more than a construction worker, once upon a time. He’d wanted to do what she’d trained to, basically, to be a civil engineer or an architect. Maybe her good news, her chance at a career, was giving him blue-collar angst.

She knew better than to ask. If that was the culprit, best to go with carnal distraction, rather than make a big deal of it.

“May I?” she asked, plucking the bill from one of his hands, the envelope from the other. She set them on the coffee table and leaned close, rubbing his chest.

He accepted a kiss—at first stiffly, but softening in seconds, rewarding her with a hot sweep of his tongue. She felt her body soften in reply, relief morphing to excitement. Much as she’d needed to keep herself protected since the miscarriage, kissing this way instantly felt right, felt essential. She’d missed their sexual bond more than she’d realized.

She pulled away, pushed him until he sat back. “Stay there.”

“Stay?”

She smiled, feeling wicked and electric, so ready for this. “You’ll see.”

Hesitance tempered his expression but she was only too happy to show him how solid she felt in her body and her heart. She moved to the floor, twisted around to push the coffee table farther away, then settled between his legs. The familiar bite of grit and hardwood met her bare knees, a welcome reminder of a hundred filthy memories. Memories of what they’d lost track of these past couple weeks.

She splayed her palms over his legs, stroking from his knees to his hips and back down.

“You don’t need to…” He trailed off as his lids grew heavy, stare glazing. She warmed through to watch it.

“Of course I don’t. I want to.” She raked her nails over his hard thighs, loving the shudder that rolled through the length of his body. She went for his belt, slipping the end free of the post, pausing to rub her palm across the shape of his growing erection. He covered her hand with his, wanting to slow it or to follow its motions. She squeezed gently, earning another shiver and a tensing of that hand.

“Honey.”

She took that as approval, smiling to herself and turning her attention to the button of his fly.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“Why not?” She murmured it, more seduction than question.
I’m not as delicate as you think.

“Not yet.”

“I’ve missed this,” she told him, letting another slow stroke of his straining cock underscore that truth. And if she’d missed this, Flynn had no doubt
mourned
it.

His voice was thick, unsteady. “You don’t need to,” he said again. He held her hand but she slipped free, seeking his zipper.

“Like I said, I want to.” She hurt for it, physically. Literally. Arousal was a hot, grasping ache inside her, and her salivary glands stung and watered, anticipating the weight of his hands on her, guiding her, holding her hair. His voice, mean and bossy once more, a change so welcome after weeks of patient encouragement. She spread his fly open, greeted by that intoxicating scent. It seemed nearly new after all this time.

“Honey, don’t.”

She cupped him, traced the edge of his erection with her thumb, but then his hand was around her wrist, tight, jerking her away.

“Jesus, Laurel. Knock it off.”

She sat back, feeling slapped. She had no words, but her expression seemed to speak for her—he looked chastised in an instant. He scrubbed his hands over his face and hair, eyes squeezed shut, mouth set.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not sounding especially sorry.

“I’m
sorry. I thought you’d be more than up for that, after all this time.”

“Not yet.”

“Sorry,” she said again. “It’s just… I’m ready. You’ve been, like, superhumanly patient, and I wanted to get there again, tonight. I’m ready, really.”

In a breath he was up and walking away, zipping up and buckling his belt as he went.

Frozen there on her knees, Laurel could only watch him stride to the sink and fill a glass with water. The hard floor beneath her, so welcome only moments before, felt humiliating. Her throat was tight, words too thick, lodged deep. She managed to pry free the only one that counted right now.

“Flynn?”

He set the glass down and braced both hands on the counter. When he dropped his head she could see his back expand and contract, his breaths looking slow and forced.

“Baby,” she said, instantly realizing she’d never called him such a thing before. “I need you to talk to me. Or to tell me to go, and we can talk some other time.” Her voice was calm but her heart was pounding. He’d never been like this with her. If he sent her away with no explanation, she’d be a wreck until she heard from him again.

An almighty inhalation swelled his entire frame, then he raised his head. He turned, met her eyes, leaned back against the counter looking older, somehow. After a moment he seemed to wilt, expression going from stony to weary. “Get off the floor, for fuck’s sake.”

She moved to sit on the coffee table. “Did I say something wrong?”

Another gigantic breath and he rubbed at his face again. “No. Yes and no.”

“Tell me.”

He dropped his arms and met her stare. “You said you’re ready.”

She nodded. “I am.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Okay. That’s fine. I didn’t mean to rush you. I just assumed you must be pretty hard up by now.” She cracked a little smile, not earning one in return. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

She felt herself tipping from panic into exasperation, her backbone restacking itself. “Well, tell me what’s wrong or tell me to go.” She brushed the grit from her knees. “It feels like I’m only going to keep saying the wrong thing if you don’t help me out, here. Do you want me to go?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone soft and cold.

Another psychic slap, and she rose on unsteady legs.

“Wait—no. Sit. Fucking sit.”

She did, watching as he made his way across the room. He didn’t sit beside her but instead on the floor, his back against the couch and his arms crossed atop his knees. It made him look small, a feat she’d have thought impossible before this moment.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, addressing his wrists or maybe her shins. “I know I’m being a royal dick. I’m just… I’m feelin’ a load of stuff and I don’t know what the fuck to do with it.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t want to. You’re just gettin’ over everything. You deserve to be gettin’ over everything. I don’t wanna shit all over that.”

“‘Everything’ meaning the miscarriage?”

“Yeah.”

“God knows how much time you’ve spent listening to me cry and talk about it. You’re allowed to have feelings about it too.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you
really
are.”

He shook his head. “I’m not the one who had to go through that. Not all the pain, in my body, and not all the emotional stuff either. And I was never the one who was stuck havin’ to make the decision, beforehand. You’ve been through plenty. Last thing I want is to drag you back into it when you finally seem happy.”

“Well, too bad. It was your experience as much as it was mine. Just because it was my body doesn’t mean you don’t get to have feelings about it.”

A giant, silent sigh seemed to say,
That’s your opinion.

She paused, eyeing the counter. The bottle of wine he’d bought her when he’d picked up the pregnancy test was still there beside the toaster, untouched. She crossed the room and dug through the junk drawer for the opener. She took two of Flynn’s hideous Christmas-patterned wine glasses from the cupboard and filled each near to the brim.

His brows rose when she turned, a dose in each hand. She delivered his and took her seat on the table once more.

“I don’t drink,” he said.

“You’re not an alcoholic, though. Just trust me. It might knock some of your feelings loose. Like an emotional laxative for constipated tough guys.” She sipped her own wine, enjoying the tight smirk that quirked his lips.

“Booze turns me into an asshole.”

“You’re already being an asshole. Double down. Let it all out.”

He shook his head, but ultimately put the glass to his lips. A deep swallow screwed his face up in a wince. “Jesus. Why d’you let me pick out wine?”

She took another taste, considering. “This is one of your better selections.”

“Tastes like cherry rubbing alcohol.”

“You’re just out of practice. Now choke it down and spill your guts.”

She realized in that instant that she was Flynn, tonight. He wasn’t necessarily being Laurel, but she was the take-no-bullshit partner, the strong one bullying the lost one into action. It felt nice. She felt…taller.

He suffered through another gulp then set the glass on the floor beside him. He met her gaze. “I dunno what to say.”