Walking Heartbreak (7 page)

“Tell me what you do. You’re a student, right?” I rock her back and forth, soothing her. I’ve got practice in this, five years with my ex, only with her I’d been the reason for her sadness, not just a catalyst.

“Yeah, besides working with Zoe at the café, I finally finished my GED.”

“Which is?” I stroke her hair while I ask.

She pulls back enough to study me. “You don’t know? It’s a high school equivalency test. It’s something you do when you never completed high school. You get your diploma afterward and can go on to college.”

I’m puzzled. Slant my head so I can look into her stunners. “Do they allow people to not finish high school in the US?” Nadia blinks back at me, embarrassed, until she understands that I’m curious, not disapproving.

“Umm, not really. My parents homeschooled me because of their religion, and they didn’t do a very good job.”

“Oh come on. It was you all along. You were a terrible student—be honest,” I tease, risking that she breaks into sobs. Instead, she chuckles, getting my humor.

“Try being educated by born-again extremists,” she murmurs, her amusement fading.

“Are you serious? Like on TV?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Because you can’t watch TV?”

“Or more because I’d rather not see what others have been through. Zoe tells me I should go to support groups with people who’ve been through what I have—which would have worked for her. Me, I don’t need more reminders than the ones in my head.”

I let my fingers brush over her cheek. “Your friend would rule that group.”

“Yep, and hold them captive in all senses of the word,” she says, smiling at her own addition. I love it.

Layers upon layers breathe below her surface; she’s a secret keeper. All the stuff I keep bottled up, the shit I only litter out through my music, stems from a focused, obsessive nature, and right now, that nature is focused on her.

“I’m going to ask you another question, and I don’t want you to freak out on me,” I say. She doesn’t object, but her lithe little body tenses as she braces herself.

“Tea?” she deflects, and I let go to pour the overly boiled water.

“Living room?”

She nods, and I balance our cups as we leave the kitchen. Our couch is a deep two-seater boasting wide, too-soft cushions. With a single lamp lit on a coffee table, it’s pretty intimate-looking, I’d say.

“Okay. My question.” I watch her lift her gaze from the tea. When she fixes it on me, I dive in.

“So you moved here from Argentina. To become part of a religious cult?” In lieu of a “yes,” Nadia pulls her knees up in the corner of my couch, steeling herself. I pick my guitar up by the neck, rest it in my lap, and start plucking out some notes.

“Does that sect decide who their women marry?”

She doesn’t answer at first. I let my hair fall over my face to give her a moment. Through my bangs, I observe her while I fiddle out a new string of chords.

She remains quiet, so I tip my head up to meet her eyes. They shimmer in the semi-dark, but her voice is steady when she eventually replies. “Yes. We were to marry good men selected by the church leaders.”

She must see my next question coming. “Was your husband one of those good men? Selected by your leaders?”

She laughs out loud. It surprises me, and I commit a D minor, drawing an accidental cacophony from the guitar. I stop. Give her my undivided attention.

“Ha, no. Jude was anything but. The church hated him and his parents after the first few months. It didn’t take the Bancroft family long to realize what they’d gotten themselves into at the Heavenly Harbor. With no apology, even withholding most of their tithe, they migrated to a mainstream Lutheran church. Elder Rafael was furious.”

“But the two of you got to hang out?”

“God, no.” She grins big, displaying a wicked streak she hasn’t shown before. “Jude and I, we noticed each other the minute he entered the Harbor during their first sermon with us. We kept stealing glances and small smiles throughout.

“Afterward, we had church coffee with the members and their children, and with Mother and Father being outstanding, long-lasting members of the congregation, they had a job to do, inviting the new family in. Harsh penances and such came later. See, in the beginning it was always about love and inclusion and securing the tithe.”

“And tithe is…?”

“It means that people pay ten percent of their earnings to the church.”

“Jesus. People do that?”

“Depending on the church, they do. Ours was pretty notorious about guilting people into it. Anyway, after that, Jude and I would be in sermon together, and he’d sit as close to me as he could. He’d always have a million questions for me during church coffee, and during class, he’d be the only student who chitchatted.”

“You were in the same class?”

“Yeah, for a little while. Mother taught at our church’s school, and I attended it, so Jude told his parents he wanted to go too.”

“Ah. Small school?”

“Very, and Jude stood out.” She squeezes her eyes shut, embarrassed. “After his third day in class, Mother bought me wide sweaters in muddy colors and skirts that reached my calves. She threw away my regular skirts, and when I protested, begging to have my old clothes back, Father…” She swallows, cutting herself off.

“What,” I say. “Physical punishment?”

“A little bit. ‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right,’ as Father used to quote.” She shrugs and adds, “‘Whoever spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him.’ Let’s just say, Father was fond of his belt. I had a rough few weeks, but they were tolerable because of Jude.”

Jesus H.
Did she commit to this Jude at thirteen? I guess if you’re raised in Hell and you meet someone who can save you, you’re all for it.

“How old was Jude?” I ask.

“A few months older than me.”

I drop the guitar and haul her into me. Nadia’s story is the saddest thing. I’ve been through shit too, but it’s just regular crap that doesn’t shape your life forever. Nadia slinks into me, almost like a cat, and she seems so fragile, I mold my arm around her to protect her from… what? Her past?

“I don’t know why I tell you these things, Bo.”

I kiss her temple—just to comfort her. Then I think about her husband, how she said he’s not waiting up for her.

If they started dating at thirteen and she’s a few years younger than me, they’ve been together for a decade. As far as I know, she hasn’t texted or called anyone during this whole time, and the husband hasn’t been trying to get a hold of
her
. If I were him, I would; it’s really late. I mean, what douchebag isn’t worried about his wife at this hour?

To me, it seems that Nadia isn’t simply annoyed with her life and her husband. She appears plain unhappy about it. And that’s how dares are born for me. Now I want to glean contentment from this girl.

I hum softly, a melody I’ve been working on, and she doesn’t push away from me when I nuzzle her temple. It’s kind of addictive.

I have no intentions of taking advantage of the situation, so my hardening cock isn’t what I concentrate on. I don’t usually pause to think about a girl’s scent either, but Nadia’s? It’s this mouthwatering mix of skin and flowers.

She turns into me, a small hand going up to cup my face, and because my mouth is already on her, our lips connect without my doing. Hers are salty from tears and tasting mildly of black tea. When she opens, letting her tongue find mine, a new sugary flavor draws an awed grunt from me.

“Shit. Nadia?”

She emits the quietest little whimper, and it’s so hot my brain implodes with caveman needs. I want to throw her on her back and tear her clothes off starting at the center of her body. I want to peel her open like a birthday present, inhale the sight of her. Nuzzle. Suck—

My imagination is already going amok. What kind of nipples does she have? Are they light pink, bright red, or dark brown? Are they of the blooming, swollen sort or the small, delicate type? Somewhere in between?

I need to watch them stiffen.

Whoa, I’m ready to debauch a married woman. What kind of depraved person am I? Fuck. Whatever. I’ll just kiss her and dream. Then I’ll have my way with myself once she’s out of my house. I’ll definitely be picturing in detail everything I’d do to her.

For a moment, I press her close. Her thigh has migrated over mine, giving more access, the friction of my cock against denim already maddening.

I’m just making her think about something besides her sad life.

Her breath stutters, assuring me that she likes this. She moves slowly over me, her body shifting so she’s partly on top. Nadia’s hands travel into my hair, grasping, tugging a little while we kiss.

She makes me harder.

She makes it harder to stop.

I don’t want to stop.

“Ah you’re so hot,” I pant. It’s a complaint, and she knows. I grab her hips. Roll her over me, back and forth, back and forth. With each roll, I’m more demanding, and her breathing grows heavier and heavier. God, that is a beautiful sound. I catch her sighs with my mouth. We sort of gasp against each other, and like the teenager I’ve become, I’m so horny I’m about to erupt in my pants.

This is platonic
, I remind myself, and I’d laugh if I weren’t so horny. Sure, it’s platonic, and yet so, so, so not. Before I can summon my good intentions, they rush out of sight.

My hand trails down the fleshy part of her where spine meets ass, and wedges into her crevice. Nadia whines softly and bucks up, craving my touch. I think my heart actually pauses.

The situation turns me on so hard I see red—a soft, velvety, moist red I’d love to sink my teeth into.

How can she be like this with me?

I can’t figure her out. From my experience, the extremes in this country are so very extreme. In general, Sweden is sexually more lax, but there are minorities in the US, to which some of my groupies pertain, who are mind-bogglingly liberated. Other minorities, like the cult Nadia has broken out of, seem so repressed I can’t understand how they conduct physical relationships at all.

In neither camp is there consent to cheat.

What makes a woman as reserved as Nadia, one who has only good things to say about her husband, rub against a man she doesn’t know? Her body’s on fire for me, and there’s no mistaking that she wants more than grinding.

I squeeze my eyes shut, searching for my morale. Fight to care if a guy I’ve never met finds out that I’ve slept with his wife. With the palm of my hand, I lock over her breast, enjoying its firmness as she arches into my touch. I move upward, massaging slowly, and that nipple—whichever gorgeous type it is—does what I wanted. It hardens, and it makes me moan.

“I… Can we?” she asks sweetly, like I’d ever say no to her. “Do you want…?” she continues, too shy or too wanton to finish.

“Fuck yeah, I do.” I suck her lip into my mouth, breathing out harshly as I rock her closer. I squeeze her tight and inhale a long, calming breath, trying to refrain from combusting. I won’t talk about that ring. Hell, she knows. I’ll just make this night worthwhile.

I’m an expert in this field. I sense subtle signals from the female body. I touch, press, and build heat until they can no longer take it. I glide moisture through hidden crevices, intensifying the pressure in the exact spot and the precise moment when I know they’ll soar. Oh I’ll take care of Nadia. If she has regrets tomorrow, it won’t be on me.

Just like that, my wish to console this girl, to make her forget her lousy life, turns selfish. I stand abruptly, bringing her with me. She yelps, legs clamping tight around my waist. Our mouths are slick with lust and saliva, and I don’t stop kissing her as I move us. Her breathing is shallow. The girl is fucking starving for intimacy. Doesn’t her husband make love to her?

The front door slams open, and Emil and Zoe tumble in, laughing in each other’s arms. “Damn, they have hot magazines at the Twenty-Four Mart—Who knew?” Emil snickers.

“Shhh,” Zoe slurs, way more sloshed than when we last saw them. Besides X-rated magazines, they must have located alcohol too.

“Guys, you here?” Zoe yells. I’m frozen, my back against the wall and Nadia’s butt nestled over my raging hard-on.

“Ooh, they’re—Look at that,” Emil exclaims, arm heavy over Zoe’s shoulders. “They’re kissy-sweet with each other.”

Zoe bursts out laughing. “Oh pumpy! You say the strangest things!” Then she narrows her eyes against the darkness—who does that—and as I walk us down the hallway, Zoe’s slow, drunken applause erupts behind us.

“Yay, Nadia’s finally getting laid. Treat her right, ’kay, sweetie? Make it count. Cuz that happens, like, never.”

Whoa.

Neither of us replies to their cheers. I don’t waver as I take her to my room and shut the door behind us. I do sober up a bit. Good thing too, because I was seconds from slamming her into the mattress and just—yeah.

I look at her now, sitting awkwardly at the end of my bed with her enormous, brown eyes twinkling up at me. She’s shy, so damn gorgeous and shy. Is this the same girl who clung to me seconds ago, all but begging me to take her?

Christ, I don’t remember the last time I’ve reacted this way to a chick. There’s something going on between us—chemistry, electricity—whatever people call it. All I know is everything she does turns me on and makes me hornier than hell: the swirl of a lock of hair around a finger; teeth sinking into her lower lip.

I caught it back when I saw her at the Sunset show. It was our first concert warming up for Luminessence. Back then, she just gazed at me with those deep, secret-keeper eyes of hers, and I don’t even think she remembers. The room took a thousand people. Among the thousand, I saw her and didn’t forget.

“Are you okay?” I murmur, sinking to my knees in front of her. She worries her lip between her teeth. “I’m sorry about Emil. He’s always like that.”

Nadia shakes her head, and in the dim shine from the streetlamp outside, I catch the twist of her mouth when she answers. “No, don’t be sorry. Your friend, he’s sort of perfect for
my
friend.” She lets out a sound that could be a laugh.