Never Let You Go (a modern fairytale) (26 page)

“And it fucking k-kills me that you ever thought you deserved some dickhead like Jonah in your life because you deserve the best, Gris. And that’s exactly what I want to be for you: the best. Exactly what you got coming to you.”

“Holden,” she sobbed, leaning forward to kiss him.

He held her face in his hands, leaning away so her lips wouldn’t touch his. As much as he wanted to get her naked and sink into the sweetness of her body, he needed to see it in her eyes first—that she believed him, that she would allow herself to love him and consider a future with him.

“No, sweet girl. N-not yet.” He smiled at her tear-streaked face, letting his thumbs swipe away some of the wetness. “First I need to know you heard me.”

She searched his eyes, her bright blue ones circled with pink from her tears, huge and glistening.

“You mean it?”

“Every word.”

She licked her lips, clenched her jaw, and sniffled, taking a deep, shaky breath that made her breasts push into his chest. “You think I saved you?”

“I know it. You’re my savior. My angel.”

Her eyes were searing as she stared at him, as though seeking a glimpse of his soul to verify that his words were true. The almost imperceptible nod of her head was his first indication that she’d found it.

“I’m your angel?”

“I got the wings on my skin to prove it.”

“You going to marry me, Holden Croft?”

“As soon as you say yes.”

“You going to help me go to college?”

“I’m going to insist.”

“You going to be the father of my babies?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the idea making him so hard, so fast, he felt dizzy with desire for her. “Hell, yes.”

“Then I think we should get in some practice,” she said, finally smiling at him with her whole face, sassy and confident, finally—
finally
—believing what Holden had known from the first time he’d laid eyes on her: they belonged to each other, and they always would, until the end of time.

***

Griselda stepped away from him and took his hand, leading him into the cabin, walking purposefully through the small common room to the tiny back bedroom, which was bright and sunny.

Standing just inside the room, she didn’t know if it was the heat of Holden’s body behind her or the warmth of the mid-morning sun that made her skin feel so hot. Her heart throbbed with anticipation and longing. Her eyes closed slowly as she felt Holden’s hands land on her shoulders. Pushing away the hair on the back of her neck, he dropped his lips to her skin, nuzzling and sucking gently as one of his hands looped around her waist, resting warm and flat on her abdomen, just beneath her breasts.

She leaned back, into him, tilting her neck to the side to give him better access to her throat, to the pulse there that rocked and throbbed. He pulled her closer, his erection bumping her backside as his hand drifted lower, over her belly, into her shorts, under her panties, his longest finger landing effortlessly on her aching clit. She let her head fall back on his shoulder as the pad of his finger rubbed and circled, pulling breathy whimpers and urgent moans from the back of her throat as she thrust shamelessly against his digit. Two of his fingers dipped lower, slipping into her drenched sex and making her gasp with the sudden feeling of fullness as his thumb continued pressing and rubbing her clit. His other hand let go of her hair, smoothing over her shoulder and down her chest, into her bra, cupping her breast and freeing it to gently pinch her nipple into a tight, aching point.

“Holden,” she gasped, every part of her body electric, on fire, aware of his every movement, inside, outside, rubbing, stroking, pinching.

“What, angel? Tell me,” he murmured, his lips like a feather touch under her ear.

“I want . . .,” she said, her breathing quicker and more ragged as her body, his plaything, gathered, bunching together in anticipation of imminent release.

“What do you want?” he asked, taking the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth and biting.

She fell apart standing up, supported by his arms, her sex convulsing in ripples and waves, her head a dead weight on his shoulder as her knees buckled. Suddenly she was swept up in his arms, and he was placing her in the center of the bed, unbuttoning her shorts and slipping them down her legs. He raised her arms over her head and a moment later her bra and shirt joined her shorts on the floor and she was completely bare, bathed in the warm sun, staring up at the love of her life, who quickly shed his jeans and threw his T-shirt on the ground.

He reached for her legs, spreading them slowly before kneeling on the bed between them, the mattress depressing a little from the solid mass of his body joining hers. Reaching forward, he ran his fingers from her clit to her opening, letting the slick of her recent orgasm coat his skin. Holding her eyes, he touched himself, circling the tip of his shaft until it was shiny with her essence, and fuck, but it was the most erotic thing Griselda had ever seen in her entire life.

“What do you want?” he asked again.

“I want you,” she panted, her body clenching with arousal, desperate to feel him moving inside her.

“Who do you love?”

“I love you.”

“Who do you choose?”

“You,” she said, letting go of the tightness inside that had made her so cautious of looking beyond tomorrow.

“Forever, Gris,” he said, placing his hands on her hips and pulling her toward him, lifting her pelvis a few inches off the bed and resting her backside on his knees as he guided her sex to his.

“Forever, Holden.”

Pulling her forward with one swift yank, he buried himself to the hilt. She gasped with surprise, but her eyes held his with a tenderness, an intensity, that humbled him because he could read them so clearly, and he knew that she had finally surrendered everything to him. She wasn’t holding back anymore. Her heart, her life, her future—it all belonged to him.

“I want you,” he said, pushing her hips away, then pulling them back again until they were perfectly joined.

“I love you,” he said, sliding her back and forth on his hard, swollen, pulsing dick.

“I choose you,” he said, placing his hands under her back and raising her up into a sitting position on his knees, keeping himself lodged deep inside her body.

Her breasts were crushed against his chest, and he thrust up slowly, taking his time, watching her eyes roll back in her head before he leaned forward to capture her lips with his. His tongue swirled around hers, and he felt her ankles lock around his back, her legs flexing tighter and tighter around his waist as the walls of her sex clenched around his penis, which moved faster with each thrust.

“Wait for me,” he breathed, feeling the gathering, the heat, the swirling in his belly, the stars behind his eyes that told him his climax was building, was almost ready to burst.

“I can’t, Holden . . . I . . .”

His hands skated up the damp skin of her back, cradling her skull from behind, forcing her to look at him.

“I jump, you jump,” he said, the words falling off his tongue easily, even though they’d originally been hers. He searched her dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Wait for me, Gris.”

“Come with me, Holden,” she gasped, her inner muscles so tight their bodies were truly one.

“I am,” he rasped “Now!”

Wrapping his arms around her body and thrusting one last time, they came apart together, clasping and crying out each other’s names as their bodies moved to a primal rhythm of love and surrender and pleasure.

“Forever, angel,” he whispered against her shoulder, gently laying her back down on the bed, then pulling out of her and rolling behind her. He drew her into his arms, profoundly grateful, deeply in love. He was whole, happy, alive, back in captivity, his heart and soul owned by hers. Then, now, and . . .

“Forever,” she answered, curling her body against his and falling asleep in his arms.

“Holden?”

“Yeah?”

“You ever think about dying?”

Only all the time.

They’d been with the Man for six months now, and the beatings never stopped for more than a day or two before they did something wrong that made him start up again. On the list of forbidden behavior?

1.           
   Looking at each other.
   
2.           
   Talking to each other about anything other than the work at hand.
   
3.           
   Whispering to each other.
   
4.           
   Touching each other, even by accident.
   
5.           
   Referring to each other as Holden or Griselda.
   
6.           
   Back talk.
   
7.           
   Crying, talking, or moving when he was reading from the Bible.
   
8.           
   Crying at all.
   
9.           
   Addressing him as anything other than “sir.”
   

No doubt there would be more, but this list was hard enough to keep from doing. Not looking at each other was the worst of it, though, thought Holden, forcing himself not to look up.

Gris was stirring the huge vat of corncobs, then transferring them to a massive barrel full of ice and snow from outside.

It was up to Holden to take the cooled ears and cut the kernels off the cob with a corn stripper so he could pack the corn in the canning jars. When he had enough, he’d add a pinch of salt and pack the kernels, leaving an inch of room on top.

When he had six jars, the Man would take them to the pressure canner on the other side of the barn. That’s where he was now. That’s how come Gris had risked talking.

“N-n-no,” he said, looking up uneasily to see if the Man was walking back toward them, loosening his belt buckle to whip their backs. “And you shouldn’t either.”

“Can’t help it,” she said, picking up the tongs and transferring the blanched ears one by one.

She’d already burned herself twice this morning, and he couldn’t bear it if it happened again. “C-c-concentrate on what you’re d-doing.”

Holden measured a teaspoon of salt into the next jar. He reached for a handful of kernels and emptied them into the jar. One after another, packing them in, not too smooshed, or the Man would throw the jar at the barn wall and tell Holden to do it again. His eyes flicked nervously at the wall where October’s applesauce had crusted on the weathered wood like cement. His temple throbbed from the memory.

Gris walked back to the boiling cauldron, her ankle chain jingling. Like Christmas bells, Holden thought for a moment, thinking they must be close to Christmas now. Not that Holden had anyone missing him this Christmas. His gran had passed last year. He chanced a quick glance at Gris, thinking if he had to spend Christmas with anyone, he was glad it was her, no matter where they were.

“Ch-Ch-Christmas is coming. D-d-don’t think about d-dying. Think about Ch-Christmas,” he muttered without looking up.

“Christmas,” she murmured wistfully. “Ain’t never had a Christmas like you see on TV.”

Holden looked up, but the Man was still at the canner, out of sight.

“It’s magical. Someday, when I’m a d-d-dad, m-my kids are going to have the b-best Ch-Christmas ever. You too, Gris.”

“You’ll be a good daddy, Holden. The best.”

The best, he thought, reaching for another handful of kernels. No matter what, I’ll be the best.

“Yes, I will, G-Gris. I guarantee you th-that.”

***

At first Holden thought the knocking was an extension of the dream he was having about canning in Caleb’s barn during that first cold winter. He shivered and pulled Griselda closer as his mind tried to reconcile the dream from reality. Canning = dream. Hunting cabin = real. Gris worried about dying = dream. Gris in my arms = real.

The knocking continued.

Knocking = real.

He blinked, squinting his eyes, and realized that it was barely morning. Dawn, at best, maybe four or five o’clock. And yes, someone was knocking on the cabin door. He bolted upright, every cell on high alert as he grabbed his jeans off the floor and pulled them on, buttoning and zipping before taking his T-shirt off the floor and jerking it over his head. What if fucking Jonah had somehow figured out where they were?

Satisfied that Griselda was sleeping peacefully and determined to keep her safe, he closed the door quietly and trekked barefoot through the common room. Whoever it was, he’d better not be bringing trouble, because Holden was ready. He cracked his knuckles, standing beside the front door.

“Who’s there?” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

“Seth? That you?”

His shoulders relaxed. It was Clinton.

Holden unlocked the door and threw it open.

“Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” said Clinton, offering Holden a cup of hot Dunkin’ Donuts coffee as he stood on the porch. “I know it’s early.”

“Early? It’s still
nighttime
.”

“Nah,” said Clinton, taking a step back. “It’s almost five. I gotta be at work at seven, so I thought I’d catch you early and then drive back down.”

“What’s up?” asked Holden. “Your dad okay?”

“Dad’s fine. Your, uh, your friend up?”

Holden shook his head, opening the spout on his coffee cup. “She’s asleep.”

“Come on out here and sit with me a spell?” Clinton settled into the rocker that Gris always sat in while she wrote her stories.

“Uh, sure.” Holden pulled the door shut behind him, wondering what was so important that Clinton would leave Charles Town at four o’clock in the morning to visit him. “Someone bothering you?”

“Nothing like that.”

Holden sat down, propping his feet on the railing. It was cool, the early-morning air misty over the wildflowers. For a second he considered waking up Gris because it looked like something out of her stories.

He turned to Clinton. “So?”

Clinton took a long swig of coffee, then leaned forward with his forearms resting on his thighs. “You need to come back, Seth.”

Holden bristled at being called Seth but didn’t correct his friend. “Your dad rent out the cabin?”

Clinton shook his head, grimacing, then sipped his coffee again. “I don’t know how to . . . aw, hell, Seth. Gemma’s pregnant.”

His lungs deflated. His hand pressed against his racing heart as he stared at Clinton’s somber face. “Wh-what?”

“She’s been trying to get a hold of you. Says you keep blowing her off, not answering her texts. She’s sick all the time. Finally broke down and told me why.”

“It’s a lie,” said Holden, feeling dizzy. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear his head. “W-we used protection.”

“She mentioned that. Said that a few nights, after drinking too much, though, maybe you two weren’t all that safe. Maybe the protection was . . . faulty.”

“It’s n-not mine.”

Clinton clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing. “She’s not perfect, but she’s not a whore. And she’s not a liar. Gemma wouldn’t say this unless it was so.”

Holden’s feet dropped from the railing, and he placed the coffee on the floor by his chair, raking his hands through his hair. Gemma was pregnant? With his child? He closed his eyes, listening to his heart beat in his head.

“H-how f-far . . .?”

“How far along is she?” Clinton shrugged. “She says twelve weeks. Just went to the doc a few days ago because of all the throwing up. Thought she had a nasty stomach bug. Turns out she’s knocked up. With your baby.”

His baby. His child. He couldn’t help the way his chest tightened with something painful and awesome at the thought. He was going to be a father.

Then he winced.

But not of Griselda’s baby. Of Gemma’s.

“Jesus,” rasped Holden, glancing at the cabin door, then back at Clinton.

“You gotta come home and take care of her, man.”

“The fuck I do.”

“It’s your kid,” ground out Clinton, his coffee cup frozen in midair on the way to his mouth.

“And I will take care of it. It’s mine and I want it and I will be there for it—I mean, him . . . or her.” He paused. “But Gemma is a g-grown-ass woman, and—”

“Fuck you, Seth.” Clinton put his coffee cup on the ground and stood up, bracing his hands on the railing. “She’s the mother of your fucking kid. She needs you. You need to come home. She was at the Poke and Duck last night—”

“W-wait, what?” Holden jumped to his feet, staring at Clinton. “She was at the Poke and Duck, d-drinking with my k-kid in her—”

“
Your
kid?” Clinton scoffed, facing Holden. “I just told you that you got to come home and take care of her, and you practically told me to go fuck myself.”

“She better not be p-poisoning
my b-baby
with—”

“She was drinking ginger ale. I know ’cause I was buying ’em for her. Jesus, Seth. Give her a little credit.”

Holden backed up a little, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the railing. His baby. His child. His kid. A father.
I’m going to be a father, Gris. I’m going to be the best daddy in the world.

“They’re a package deal right now,” said Clinton. “Her and the baby. And they both need you.”

“Sounds like you’re filling in just fine. Listening to her woes and buying her sodas.”

Clinton gave him a sidelong glance. “She ain’t my girlfriend.”

The word
anymore
hung heavy between them, and despite the fact that Clinton had outwardly approved of Holden and Gemma’s relationship, Holden had to wonder if that was entirely true.

“Ain’t mine either . . . once I get back. I want to be with Gris. I’m breaking things off with Gemma, Clinton.”

Clinton’s head whipped around to face Holden, his face reddening. “The
fuck
you are!”

“It’s
my
life, Clinton.”

“You know, you’re a cold bastard, Seth. I appreciate that you helped me get on the straight and narrow. Got me off the drugs. Helped me get a decent job that I like. But you’ve got an ice cube for a heart.” He shook his head, pursing his lips, his eyes angry and narrow. “She’s the
mother
of your
child
. And she needs you. I don’t know what you got going on with, uh, Gris. But you need to come and deal with Gemma fair and square. And let me tell you something else: It’s Friday morning. You don’t come home by tomorrow night? I’ll tell her where you are. And she can come on up here and deal with you herself. I owe her that. Fuck,
you
owe her that.”

Holden stared at his friend, who shook his head with disgust, then pushed past him and trudged to his truck.

“And you better get your fucking priorities straight, man! It’s your
kid!
A fucking kid, goddamnit!”

A moment later, Clinton’s truck was screeching out of the driveway, throwing up dust and gravel as he sped away, giving Holden the finger.

***

Griselda felt the bed depress a little as he joined her and pulled her against his chest, his breath warm on her neck. It was early. Earlier than they usually woke up. She could tell because the room wasn’t awash in bright sun. It was dim and grayish-blue. And that wasn’t the only thing that felt off: Holden’s hot, velvet-steel erection wasn’t pressing against her bare backside, firing up her body with longing and anticipation. In fact, she could feel the rough denim of his jeans pressed against her bare skin. He was already dressed.

She turned around in his arms, surprised to see him wide awake, his face a mask of worry. He stared at her with such sorrow—such terrible, terrifying sorrow—her breath caught and her heart started to race.

“Holden?”

“G-Gris,” he said softly, wincing as his eyes searched her face with such grief it hurt to look at him.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“G-Gris,” he said again, a whispered sob. He dropped her eyes, staring down at the sheets between them.

“You’re scaring me,” she said, her fingers tingling as panic sluiced through her body. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Clinton came to see me.”

“This morning? Is someone . . .? His father?”

Holden shook his head, swallowing. “No. Gemma.”

“God, is . . .? Holden, is she okay? Did something happen to her?”

His eyes, so deeply regretful, seized hers. “She’s p-pregnant.”

Pregnant.

Pregnant.

She heard the word in her head, staring at Holden’s lips as it reverberated around the room. His girlfriend was pregnant. Gemma was pregnant with Holden’s baby.

“Oh,” she gasped, her vision blurring as tears filled her eyes. Another woman was pregnant with Holden’s baby. Gemma would be the mother of Holden Croft’s baby, not Griselda Schroeder.