#centrifugation

Confused is the best way to describe how you feel right now.  That, and exhausted; like you’d worked a long day on the Donor Floor with a full rack of charts.  At this point, you’d prefer that over what just happened.

Your ears are ringing from the gunshot.  Your head is pounding, like someone stuck it between two cymbals and slammed them together.  The ringing is getting worse by the minute, turning garbled and ricocheting off the walls of your skull.  Or—is that someone talking?

“Ma’am?  Did you hear me?” An officer asks, crouching to meet your eye level.  You’re seated on the front porch of your grandparents’ farmhouse, dazed.

“Huh?” You ask, squinting up at him.  The puffy, gray clouds from earlier rolled away, leaving blue skies, bright sunshine, and little tufts of cloud dispersed along the horizon.  The irony of it makes you half smirk.

“Something funny?” He questions you, annoyed.  You shake your head and blink several times to reset.

“No, sorry—what did you ask me?”

He sits next to you on the porch and flips to a new page of his small, spiral notebook.  There’s about 8 cop cars parked in the driveway, lights flashing.  As if you needed more bright lights right now.

“Do you know the man that broke into your house?”

You pause and stare off into the vast fields beyond the driveway, retracing your earlier steps.

“JOEL!” You screamed.  Silence.

“Joel, please tell me you’re alright!” Pleading and crying, you bang on the door—as if you can’t open it from the inside.  You hear shuffling, and the doorknob jiggles.  The identity of the person is still a mystery.  You remember Joel’s voice instructing you not to come out unless he said so.  Panic fills your chest quickly, seizing your ribcage and all impending breaths.

“Wait—no,” you whisper, squeezing the doorknob as the unknown person tries to twist it open.

“Baby, it’s me—please open up,” the voice of an angel, one you recognize, calls out.  Relief fills you so quickly that you almost pass out—that, and you forgot to breathe.  You let go of the doorknob and lean your back against the sink as you pant, sweaty fingers gripping the old countertop.

Stars fade in and out of your vision as the door opens and a blurry Joel walks in.  Instantly, he scoops you into his arms and hugs you with an ironlike strength that threatens to crush your bones.

“Urgh,” you spit, words mushing together much like the organs inside your chest.  Joel lets go.

“Sorry, darlin’—are you alright?” Worried amber orbs peer at you, waiting for a response.  You blink.

“I—me?  Joel, you just shot someone, and you’re asking me if I’m, I’m—” you sputter, lips trembling.  He shushes you and pulls you flush to him, wrapping his arms around your back and shoulders and stroking your hair.

“Shhh, baby.  S’okay.  Deep breaths.”

His velvet voice slows your racing pulse, calming you.  Time passes and you hear sirens in the distance.

“Did you call?”

He grunts in affirmation against your temple, kissing it softly before pulling back.

“Yep.  You should stay in here until they get ridda him.”

“Wait… he’s dead?  Who even was he?” Anger starts to fill your insides, threatening to overflow.  You just can’t catch a damn break.  Joel can feel it as your skin heats up and your cheeks turn pink.

“No idea, baby—but I reckon he was tryin’ to rob this place.  Dressed in all black and a ski mask.  He’s good as dead.  I’m leavin’ him for the cops.”

Suddenly, you hear voices from the front of the house.

“Police!  Hands up and call out so we can find you!”

Joel steps out into the bedroom as he lifts his arms, giving you a look that says stay here.

Sounds of heavy boots storm the hallway, stopping at the ajar bedroom door.

“Anyone else here, sir?” The voice is loud, authoritative.

“Yes, sir—my girl’s in the bathroom.  She experienced a traumatic event not too long ago and I didn’t want her to see this.”

The tone of the officer’s voice softens slightly.  “Ma’am—come out with your hands up and announce when you’re entering the room.  Close your eyes if need be.”

You gulp and stick your hands up, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Coming,” you squeak, hoping it’s loud enough for them to hear.  Slowly, you tiptoe into the bedroom.

“Stop right there, ma’am.  I need identification.”

“That’s it… I have no idea who he is.  Was,” you correct, remembering the random guy who broke into your grandparents’ house is now dead.

“Is there anyone who would want to hurt either you or your boyfriend?”

You sigh heavily and tilt your head back, closing your eyes in anguish.  “Um… I was stabbed a few weeks ago at my job.  The cops showed up and there was a showdown.  He tried to lunge at them, and they took care of him, if you catch my drift.”

The officer nods and scribbles what looks like gibberish on the small, ruled paper.  He stops and looks at you, urging you to continue.

“Right,” you say, nodding slowly, “Well, he was a donor at the plasma center I work at in Omaha.  He ended up getting deferred and wanted revenge.  Junkie,” you blabber, unsure why you can’t just get to the point.  The officer raises an eyebrow at you, and you get the sense that he’s unsure, too.

“Other than him, no.  But a couple of days ago I started getting anonymous texts that felt, um… threatening,” you admit.  The officer sits up straight as he studies your face.  The eyebrow that was relaxed is now level with its twin, his expression turning from irritation to a mix of concern and intrigue.

“What makes you say that they’re threatening?”

You unlock your phone and pull up the unknown number’s messages, letting him read.

“Sorry for the language—I was, uh, pissed,” you concede, bashful.

“You have no clue who this is?  Does your boyfriend?”

You shake your head.  “Nope, but they obviously know both of us.  They followed him and took pictures.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need these and those pictures.  Here’s my card—send them to this number.  I’ll have a detective speak with your boyfriend about this once he’s done giving his statement at the station.”  He hands you a small white business card with no name but Chadron Police Department and a phone number.

“Is he being charged with anything?” you ask, rubbing sweaty palms together nervously.  The officer stands up, offering you his arm as you follow him.

“Not at the moment.  From what we’ve gathered, this person was likely a vagrant looking for a place to stay or some petty cash.  He came to the wrong place, intruded, and was rewarded with a single shot to the chest.  Pretty open and shut self-defense case.  I doubt the DA will want to press charges.”

Your throat feels tight and bone dry as you try to swallow.  This is the second time in a month that you’ve witnessed someone die.  You wondered if this was the new norm.  And what would Joel think—that you’re nothing but drama?

“I’m assuming we can’t stay here until everything is… cleaned up,” you say cautiously.  The officer nods.

“Your relatives were notified earlier, and they have made arrangements for both of you and for the cleaning.”  You perk up at this new knowledge.

“How did you know who I—oh.  Right.  Small town,” you say, mustering a small smile.  The officer chuckles.  He looks young and somewhat familiar—you can’t think of who he is now.

“Yes ma’am.  Recognized your last name from your ID.  I know your family… well, all the officers do.  Your aunt is the one I called first, and then your mother.”

Fuck.

“You called my mom?” you groan, gluing your index fingers to your temples.

“Sorry—I know her, too,” he says, laughing in a manner that indicates he’s familiar with the many unpleasantries of your mom.  He continues, “But your aunt insisted.  She is the owner of this house.”

You nod, rolling your eyes underneath your closed eyelids.

“Ma’am—I’m truly sorry this happened to you.  Would you like a ride down to the station?”

“Um… may I drive myself?  No offense, but… I’ve never been in a police car.  And I don’t want to add that experience to my current list.”  He chuckles.

“Yes.  Though an officer will have to retrieve the keys for you, and anything else you may need.  The crime scene isn’t cleared yet.”

“Okay.  The keys are in the kitchen and my bag is there, too.”

Officer Friendly nods and steps under the yellow caution tape to grab your things.  You stare off into the vast farmland before you, feeling another twinge of sadness.  It seems like wherever you go, trouble follows.  You grimace at the thought of what your mother and folks around town will say.  But mostly, you’re worried about Joel.  This can’t be easy for him, cleaning up all your messes.

What if this is the final straw for him?

Icy pangs of anxiety circulate through your vessels, seizing and freezing the muscles along their path.  A nudge snaps you back to reality.

“Ma’am, your belongings.  You can follow me to the station, if you’d like,” Officer Friendly offers, walking you over to the Bimmer.  You nod and force a weak smile, reaching out for Joel’s and your belongings.  The officer opens the driver’s side door for you, and you shakily climb into the plush leather seat.

“Are you sure you can drive, ma’am?” He asks hesitantly, eyeing you with concern.  You can’t look very good right now—tear-stained cheeks, post-sex hair, oily skin that you didn’t have time to wash this morning, disheveled clothes.  You guffaw at the mental image, surprising the officer, who raises an eyebrow at you again.

“I’m sorry—this is such a shit show.  I haven’t been back to Chadron in years, and I can’t even spend one day here without something crazy happening to me,” you say, voice a mixture of incredulous laughter and melancholy.  You finally catch his name on a tag sewn into his shirt—Adams.  He reaches out for your shoulder, lightly grasping the fabric there.  The look in his stormy blue eyes looks like more than just platonic concern for a civilian.

“It’s not your fault, and it probably seems like a lot right now, but we will figure this out.  Focus on your breathing and it’ll be alright.”

He’s right—this home invasion could just be a fluke.  Either way, you had no control over it and needed to focus on what you could control.  Placidity blooms in your chest, slowing your breathing.

“Thank you.  I think I’m ready now,” you say, shifting in the seat and putting the seatbelt on.  He removes his hand from your shoulder and walks to his patrol car, and only now do you realize that he was rubbing your shoulder with his thumb.  Odd.  Something doesn’t feel right here, but you can’t pinpoint it.  Perhaps your state of mind is causing you to misread the situation, though your gut tells you otherwise.

Tucking that thought away, you start the car and the familiar purr of the engine calms you.  With your hands folded in your lap, you close your eyes and inhale deeply.  The smell of Joel invades your nostrils.  You think of him sitting in this seat, his fingers rubbing your skin as he drives on the highway.  Your mind drifts to the events of the drive down here last night, stomach flipping in response.

The officer finally pulls out of the driveway.  Shifting the car to drive, you follow him to the station, the smooth handling and suspension of the car ridding you of the last of your nerves.

Ten minutes later, you pull up to a small, gray block of a building labeled “Chadron Police Department.”  There can’t be more than 10 parking spaces out front, half of which are filled with rusty black and white Crown Victorias.  They don’t look like they’ve been used in a hot minute, and they’re different from the Ford Explorers at the farmhouse.  Chuckling, you whip into a spot and wait for Officer Adams to escort you inside.

He strolls up from the side of the building, where the Explorers have camped out.  His sunglasses cover his blue eyes, though you can tell he’s checking you out as he walks up, the subtle nod of his head giving him away.  The thought sends shivers down your spine, but not like the ones you get when Joel stares at you.

Officer Adams is attractive, yes—tall, toned, ropy biceps and thick quads, cropped blonde hair, and a strong jawline.  You imagine a six-pack hides underneath that black button up shirt.  Had you not been with Joel, you might’ve indulged the possibility of testing that theory, but a nagging voice in the back of your mind tries to redirect you.  Something is not right with him, and it’s irritating you that you can’t decipher what that is.

He flashes a rottenly handsome smile at you and escorts you into the building, nodding at the older, overweight, scowling woman at the front desk.  She reminds you of Roz, the grumpy slug receptionist from Monsters, Inc.  She grunts, lifting a clipboard and scowling at you as you traverse the lobby.  Officer Adams puts a hand up to her.

“I’ll sign her in later—she’s a family friend,” he assures her.  Roz purses her lips and eyes you as she sets the clipboard down on the front desk.  Family friend?  You barely recognize this guy.  You follow him as he flashes a key card up to a locked door, which leads to a corridor filled with more locked doors.  He guides you to the last one on the left.

“Joel is in here.  He is free to go.  Wait here with me while I instruct the officers in here to usher him out,” he says.  You nod, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the thought of seeing Joel.

Officer Adams pulls the radio from his belt and speaks into it.  A light above the door turns red, accompanied by the sounds of locks shifting inside the door.  Finally, the door opens, with one uniformed officer and a detective exiting first.  Joel emerges last.

He looks exhausted.  The frown lines on his face have deepened, mouth curled into a slight scowl.  Once he sees you, though, his entire expression morphs into quiet joy.  Finally, the sparkle in his amber eyes returns, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins at you.  You can’t help but smile back at him.

“Joel!” you yelp, jumping into his arms and wrapping your legs around him.  He squeezes you tightly and kisses your ear, chuckling.

“Little excited, huh?” he croons into your ear.  You giggle as he sets you down, unable to stifle the huge smile plastered on your face.  Momentarily, you forget you’re at a police station—until Officer Adams emits an annoyed grunt.  Both of you let go and turn to face the officers.

“Joel, you’re free to go.  Both of you should stick around town for a while as we gather more information about those texts and pictures you received.  Inform us if they contact you again,” the detective says, handing Joel a business card.  Joel shakes his hand and nods.  Officer Adams escorts everyone out into the lobby, turning back to look at you with a fake smile as he peers into the lobby.

“Um… you have guests here,” he says, wincing as he watches your face contort into a mixture of resignation and disgust.

As soon as you step into the lobby, two familiar figures bum rush you, pulling you into a group bear hug.  Your mom and aunt, who though several years apart, could pass as twins.  You choke out a greeting as they squeeze the last of the air from your lungs.

“C-can’t—breathe—,” you stammer, pulling giggles from the two of them.  They let you go, and your mom holds your face in her hands.  Tears have welled in her usually stern eyes.

“Mom, I’m good,” you assure her.  She lets go with a heavy but relieved sigh.  The familiar everlasting scowl resumes its normal place on her face.  Sensing the impending tension, your aunt grabs both of your hands and leans in close.

“Is this your man? Wow!” She giggles, peeking at Joel.  You smirk and turn around to find him blushing and scratching the back of his neck.  You beckon him closer.

“Joel, meet my mom and my aunt,” you introduce him.  Ever the gentleman, he reaches out to shake their hands, only to be sucked into another hug by your aunt.  Your mom, usually chilly with newcomers, surprises you by also hugging Joel.  When he lets go, he pulls you to his side, arm glued to your waist.

“Well, I’m glad you two are okay,” your aunt says, tone genuine.  “Do you have any idea who it was that broke in?”

Joel and you shake your heads.  “No idea,” you reply, “The police think he was a vagrant looking for some quick cash.”  Your aunt nods.

“Well, don’t worry about it—once it’s cleaned up, you’re good to stay there again.  That is, if you’re willing.  Totally up to you,” she says with a warm smile.  Your mom stiffens imperceptibly next to her, likely at the fact that you and Joel are sleeping in the same bed.

“Thank you, ma’am.  So sorry to bring this kinda burden here,” Joel laments.  Your aunt shakes her head and waves him off.

“Not your fault at all.  I’m just glad you’re both here and you’re in one piece,” she says, picking up your bandaged arm to inspect it.  “Well… sort of,” she adds with a chuckle.  Your mom pipes up.

“How is your arm?  Are you changing dressings like you’re supposed to and taking your medicine?” Her expression is that of a typical mom lecturing her child on following regimen: eyebrows raised, head tilted, small arms crossed over her chest.  You resist the compulsion to roll your eyes into your skull.

“Yes—Joel has been great at making sure I’m good and well,” you say, covering his hand with yours on your waist.  You peer at him to see a familiar blush creeping over his tanned neck.

“Nah, she needs no help from me—smarter ‘n I’ll ever be,” he adds, squeezing your side three times, almost like he’s saying those three little words with his hand.

Your aunt beams at the both of you.  Eager to maintain a happy disposition and sensing a lecture brewing, you avoid your mom’s eyes.  Your aunt breaks your train of thought.

“You two are staying at my house.  I’m taking a quick trip to Chadron for two nights to see some old friends.  We got all your stuff from the farmhouse, and I’ve got it in the car.  Didn’t seem like you two had much time to unpack,” she rambles.  You nod.

“We got in late last night and then had a rude awakening this morning,” you joke.  You’re happy that she’s letting the two of you crash at her place—she has a modern mansion on the outskirts of Chadron, surrounded by rocky buttes.  Makes sense—she took over most of the farming business and her husband, your late uncle, came from a farm family.  Your cousins are all grown now and out of the house, leaving your aunt alone in a giant, six-bedroom house.

“Well, why don’t you two head over there now and make yourselves comfortable.  I’m heading to Crawford.  Want to do dinner with your mom and visit your grandma when I’m back?” She asks, beckoning everyone to leave the stuffy police station reception area.  Roz breathes a sigh of relief at the prospect of everyone leaving.  Joel leans into your ear.

“Boy, she’s quite the stick in the mud,” he whispers, making you giggle.

“Not much different than my mom,” you whisper back, making sure you’re out of your mom’s earshot.  Joel shakes his head before kissing your temple.

Outside, your aunt is parked next to the Bimmer and has the back door of her Cadillac SUV open.  Joel jogs over to unload your bags.

“I’ve got it, ma’am, thank you,” he says, Southern chivalry on full display.  Now that Joel is occupied, you’re left alone with your mother.  She makes the first move.

“You two are welcome to come over any time,” she says with a microscopic hint of hesitation.  You decide to ignore it.

“We will once we get settled.  Do you need any help around the house?” you ask, changing the subject.  She perks up.

“Yes—that darn gate in the backyard needs fixed.  I got some estimates from some local places, but it seems astronomical,” she gripes.

“Joel does this kind of thing for a living, he’ll be happy to take a look,” you add as the two of you watch him make quick work of the bags.  He comes over and raises an eyebrow at you, as if to say Everything good?  You wink at him, squirming at the bashful smile it pulls from him.

“Joel, it was nice to meet you.  Don’t be afraid to keep her in check,” your mom says, with a chuckle.  Again, you fight the urge to drop your jaw.  This is not normal behavior for her, but you’ll take it.  Joel nods.

“Yes, ma’am, though she’s feisty, that one,” he says, grinning at you.  This time, you don’t stifle the urge to roll your eyes.

“Believe me, I know it,” your mom says before pulling you into a hug.  “Come over anytime,” she says, squeezing you tightly.  She lets go of you to hug Joel again before getting in her minivan.

Joel opens the passenger door of the BMW for you, grabbing your arm just before you sit down.  Warm chocolate eyes scan your face.  He cups your face gently and stares at you for a moment before speaking.  His expression almost takes your breath away.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” he asks, thumbs gently swiping over your skin.

“Again… me?  Joel, you shot someone today—you’re asking me if I’m okay?” you gape, incredulous.  He chuckles, still staring deep into your soul.

“Nothin’ else matters unless you’re alright,” he says softly.  “I did what I had to t’keep you safe.  And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”  Fuck.  Your heart jumps, threatening to escape your throat.

“I love you,” you murmur as he leans in to kiss you.  He stops just short of your lips and smiles slowly.

“S’like music to the old ears, baby.  Say it again,” he croons.  You chuckle softly.

“I love you, old man,” you tease.

“Mm.  Not as much as I love you, Sassy,” he says before capturing your lips with his.

Several hours later, after food and a much-needed shower, you find yourself in one of your favorite places—caged in Joel’s strong arms.  You’re both snuggled into your aunt’s giant sectional, underneath one of her ancient quilts—presumably made by your grandma.  Joel is scrolling through the TV channel guide absentmindedly, lips pressed to your temple as he mumbles to himself.

“Pick something already,” you urge him.  “You don’t let me scroll through Netflix for half this long.”  The laugh that leaves his lips is deep and rumbling, tickling the hairs on your ear.

“S’true.  Think it’s your turn to look, then,” he says, handing the giant remote to you.  Now with two free hands, he wraps his arm around your stomach and pulls you flush to him.  His warm lips and stubbly chin nuzzle into your neck, pressing soft kisses on the skin there and leaving tingles in their path.

“Any suggestions?  Sports?  Movie?” you ask as you flip through the channel pages.  He murmurs a deep uh-uh into your neck as he continues to kiss you, nose nudging the skin at the base of your neck and behind your ear.  You’ll have a hard time picking something if this continues.

“Joel—if you don’t wanna watch TV then just say so,” you tease as his lips continue caressing your neck and ear.  He mumbles something unintelligible into your skin.

“Say again?” you ask.  He laughs into your neck again, sending shivers down your spine.  Soon, his warm tongue slips out as he continues to kiss you.  Arching your back, you feel his hard length at your ass.  You moan softly, and he places a hand around your neck.

“Feel what you do to me?” he groans, thrusting his hips forward slightly, his erection digging harder into your backside.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you moan back, laughing breathily.

“That’s the problem,” he growls, his other hand fiddling with the waistband of your sweatpants.  He tickles the skin there, delighting in the way your stomach jumps at his touch.  His fingertips travel further south, caressing thick curls before reaching your wet folds.  He growls again, feeling your arousal for him.

“So fuckin’ wet all the time, baby,” he pants, biting your earlobe and sucking the flesh into his mouth.  You moan louder, throwing your head back on his shoulder and slowly circling your hips on his hand.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he coaxes you.  “Gonna make you feel so good.”

Before you know it, your clothes are gone and you’re pinned underneath Joel on the couch, the large quilt covering both of you.  He’s buried inside you, lips smashed against yours, setting a slow but deep rhythm as he thrusts in and out of you.

Something is different about the way he makes love to you.  It’s gentle.  Loving.  Deep.  He’s touching the innermost parts of you in more ways than one.  He holds you like you’re the most precious thing, like a small bird enclosed in the palm of his hand that he has been tasked with caring for, ensuring its survival.

You feel a lot like that bird.  He’s seen the worst of you and has never left your side.  He’s kissed your tears and nursed you back to health—though he’s never complained.

“I love you,” you whisper in between moans.  He’s pushing you closer to the brink of orgasm, your muscles spasming around him.

He pauses for a moment.  You peer at him, faces only inches apart, exchanging labored breaths.  The obsidian orbs that stare back at you are sprinkled with gold flecks, sparkling in the dim light of the large room.

“Fuck—that almost made me come,” he pants, still staring at you.

“So come, Joel,” you soothe him, swiping curls out of his face.

“Say it again,” he commands you, pulling back until just the tip remains inside you.

“I love you, Joel,” you repeat.  He thrusts back inside you, hard.  You yelp at the pressure and pleasure.

“Fuck,” he spits.  “I love you too, sweet girl.”  You cry out as he continues this new punishing pace.  Your back arches and your eyes snap shut, the pleasure he’s giving you settling over your vision like a hazy cloud.

“Look at me.  Look at me when I make you come,” he commands you, snapping his hips into you.  He grips your jaw and pulls your head down, forehead locked with yours.

“Oh, fuck—Joel!” you scream, your orgasm squeezing the air from your lungs.  Joel follows suit, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he empties inside you.

 A few beats pass before Joel finally rolls off you with a groan to pad into the kitchen for some water.  You pick up your phone from the coffee table and gasp at what you see on the lock screen.  You look around the house frantically, trying to remember if you locked the doors.

“Joel,” you whisper, panicked.  It’s quiet in the house, but he can’t hear you from the kitchen.

“Joel!”

Hearing you shriek, he trots back to the living room as quickly as he can.

“Sweetheart, y’alright?” Joel pants, setting the glass of water on the coffee table and sitting next to you on the couch.

You show him your phone.  His face instantly curls into a scowl.

“Goddammit,” he growls, “Better call the officers and tell ‘em we got company.”

The anonymous number texted you again—and sent pictures.  Pictures of Joel on top of you, inside you on your aunt’s couch.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: You two just didn’t learn your lesson, huh?

You forward the text messages to Officer Adams in a heartbeat.  Joel pulls you into his arms, smoothing your hair while he murmurs into your temple.

“S’alright, baby.  We’ll be okay.  They’ll figure this out.”

You want to believe him, but the knot in your gut tells you otherwise.

The seven-hour drive to Chadron, Nebraska was going swimmingly.

Traffic was quite light, the weather was perfect, and a gorgeous Nebraska sunset crept slowly over the horizon, the clouds perfect orbs of pink and orange cocktails.

Earlier, Joel packed quickly and parked your car in his garage, where his Bimmer usually sat after loading both of your bags and other items.  He’d kissed your hand and gazed into your eyes for just a moment before backing out of the driveway, the amber flecks of his eyes having resurrected after your reconciliation at the gas station.

Five hours later, he’s still holding your hand with his right.  His left is clutching the leather steering wheel as he maneuvers the sedan smoothly on US-20.

You’re both filled with sparks of excitement, anticipation—both of you feel like a new chapter of your relationship has begun.  Something gnaws quietly at the pit of your stomach, though.

Who sent those texts and pictures?  Neither of you had any clue.  You didn’t want to bring it up, not wanting to tear the fresh stitches of your newfound harmony.  Joel didn’t either, though he knew it would come up again eventually.

Joel peeks over at you, noticing your eyes and muscles of your face warped in thought.  He strokes the skin of your hand with his thumb.

“Y’alright, baby?”  The question snaps you back to reality.  You look at him and admire him for a bit before answering, eyes sweeping from the crown of his head to his tan, bearded face and down to his thick neck.  His hair is somewhat unkempt, silvery brunette curls less tamed than usual.  His mouth chews absentmindedly on an old piece of gum he popped some hours ago, jaw muscles flexing about.  A bolt of electricity zings up your legs and into your core as you watch him.

Fuck, you wanted him badly.  You needed his mouth on every inch of your skin, teeth nipping and tongue soothing up and down your bo—

“Darlin’?” Joel interrupts your impending fantasy.  You shake your head and blink a few times, clearing your throat.

“I’m good, swear!” You promise, giving him a lopsided grin.  His eyes fleck down to your lips briefly before returning to your eyeline.  He crooks an eyebrow at you.

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinkin’ ‘bout?” He nudges, voice laced with suggestion.  Your face warms and you bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a full-fledged grin.

“Oh, nothing—just about how comfy this seat is,” you lie, your free hand smoothing the beige leather as you avoid his gaze.  He lets go of your hand and squeezes the top of your thigh, startling you.  You snap your head up to meet his gaze.

“Lyin’ to me now, are ya?  Baby—thought we were good,” he croons, voice dropping an octave into that sexy rumble he uses when things start to get hot and heavy.  You swallow loudly.

“We are good, Joel,” you promise him.  His fingers creep further up your thigh, traversing your goosebump-ridden skin and dipping under your shorts.  He stops once he reaches fabric and strokes the border of your panties slowly.  You clutch the door handle involuntarily and suck in a sharp breath, pulling a devilish chuckle from Joel.

“Jumpy, huh?” He murmurs, eyes latched onto the road.  He continues stroking the leg of your panties, getting closer and closer to where you want him most each time.  Your pussy throbs and you clench nothing.

“Fuck, Joel,” you groan quietly.  He squeezes your thigh in response, chuckling.  His gaze never leaves the highway.  You realize now that you’re squirming, hips circling ever so slightly.  Joel is enjoying this a little too much, evident by the swell in his denim.

His fingertips dip lower slowly—achingly slowly—and caress the seam of your thigh.  His pressure is light, almost light enough that you can’t feel it.  Two of his fingers cross the border of where thigh meets panties and press softly on your core, feeling the wetness there.  You gasp, the sensation jerking your hips forward.  He growls lowly.

“Mmm, baby—wet as fuck for me already,” he groans.  He still isn’t looking at you, though his jaw is clenched and flexed.  You circle your hips more, trying to get his finger to move over your clothed pussy.  He doesn’t oblige you.

“Patience, darlin’,” he chides you playfully.  “Though I bet I can make you come without goin’ under these panties.”

You suck in another sharp breath and feel electrical currents flow from all your limbs to your aching core.  You’re white-knuckling the door handle with one hand and clutching Joel’s wrist with the other.

His fingertips stroke the damp fabric of your panties slowly, ranging from your tingling clit to your soaked entrance.  You moan quietly, not wanting him to know how wrecked you are—a lousy effort, given that he can feel how wet you are.

Over the next few miles, he slowly picks up the pace of his strokes, eventually moving from the linear pattern to a circular one over your clit.  You’re jerking your hips around with the movement of his fingers, clawing his wrist and forearm as he works you.  He groans every now and then, but manages to stay completely focused on the road, which impresses you.  Suddenly, he pulls his hand from your shorts.

Frustrated, you look at him.  He’s panting and sweating, beads of condensation forming on his brow and temple.  He finally turns to look at you, face just as wrecked as yours.

“Know I said I’d make you come without goin’ under your panties, but I can’t help myself— I needa feel you,” he hums.  Your stomach flips in anticipation.

“Move your leg over this way, sweetheart,” he coaxes you, pulling your knee up so your foot rests on the seat.  He strokes the now sopping fabric a few times before needing more.

“Pull ‘em to the side f’me,” he orders.  You obey immediately and pull the fabric to your right, exposing your wet heat.  The cool air of the cabin kisses your wet folds, making you squirm.

Joel looks down at your exposed pussy and growls before looking into your eyes, his teeming with desire.  Finally, his fingertips touch your now-bare pussy, stroking your clit with more pressure than before.  You tip your head back against the seat and cry out softly, his touch igniting you.  He quickly finds your entrance and plunges two thick fingers inside.

“Fuck, baby—you’re soaked,” he rasps, voice almost a moan.  He curls his rough fingers, tips kissing your G-spot, making you twitch on the leather seat.  He increases the pressure of his thrusts, sending you reeling.

“Oh my god, Joel—shit,” you cry out as his pace quickens.  The coil in your belly is stretching faster than normal, and he knows it.

“Yeah, baby, just like that.  Give it to me.”

His fingers ravage you a few more times and the coil snaps, your vision blanking momentarily as you ride the wave of your orgasm.  It’s intense—your legs are clamped tightly around his arm, head lolled back on the middle console of the sedan.

“Fuck—can’t get enough of you,” Joel growls.  He pulls his fingers out of you and sucks them into his mouth.  Your eyes widen as you watch him taste you.

“Always taste so fuckin’ good.  C’mere,” he says, leaning on the center console, eyes still fixated on the highway.  You prop your elbow up next to his and nuzzle your nose in his neck and ear, pressing soft kisses on his tanned skin.  Goosebumps ignite in the pathway of your lips, sending shivers down his spine.  He groans softly.  You kiss his cheek before meeting his lips.

He kisses you as best he can while driving 70 miles per hour in the sunset, fighting to keep his eyes open as you swirl your tongue around his.  He pulls away with a low growl.

“Mm.  We’ll finish that later.”  You suck your bottom lip into your mouth and stifle a giant grin, excited for him to fulfill that promise.

You settle back into the passenger seat and check the navigation status on the sleek screen of the BMW.  One hour left until you’re at the farmhouse in Chadron.

“Almost there.  You excited?” Joel asks, glancing at you.  You nod slowly, watching the landscape.  Western Nebraska is so different from the eastern side—flat, grassy plains with deciduous trees turn to the rolling hills, buttes, and rocky plateaus of a semi-arid cold desert.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been here,” you reply quietly.  Hopefully, your grandma still remembers who you are when you visit.  A pang of melancholy reverberates through your chest at the thought of her, stopping at your stab wound and aching just a bit longer.

Joel’s hand slides around yours and squeezes gently.  A silent y’alright?  You exhale and turn to him, smiling.

“I’m good.  Good to be back here.”

He smiles back at you, warm and comforting.

“Attagirl.  Should I be worried about seein’ your mother?” he asks.  You chortle.

“Nope—you should be worried about me seeing my mother,” you reply honestly.  Joel snorts, shaking his head.

“You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?  We ain’t gotta spend too much time with her if y’don’t wanna,” Joel promises, concerned, his voice rich and smooth like velvet.  Not hearing it for a day made you appreciate the Southern twang and low timbre a little more—and it made you squirm.

“I really just want to see my grandma and enjoy the quiet with you,” you murmur, watching the dry, bristly trees pass by the window.  Joel’s hand travels up to your shoulder and squeezes gently.  A beat passes before he responds.

“Looking forward to it, sweetheart.  M’glad you forgave me,” he hums contritely, hand moving from your shoulder to your hand.  He pulls it toward his mouth and kisses the back softly.

Guilt grips your guts.  It’ll take a while for you to forgive yourself for what you’d said to him, how you’d acted.  Your lips tremble faintly as you watch him revere your hand.

“I’m s-sorry, Joel—I don’t know why I just jumped to the worst possible thing,” you choke out.  He soothes you, thumb tracing shapes on the back of your hand.

“The last few weeks ain’t exactly been easy for you,” he says matter-of-factly.  His fingertips trace your forearm and stop at the gauze covering your wound.  You meet his eyes and see pain and melancholy sewn into the ring of amber around his iris.

Your lips tremble again.  You try to force the words out of your throat, but they stop, like they’re too big to escape.

“You’re okay, baby.  I promise, s’okay.”  You sniffle and nod, leaning your head onto his arm, propped on the middle console.  You close your eyes and inhale.  The sleeve of his rolled-up flannel shirt smells like his room, his skin like his shower gel he’s used for god knows how long, mixed with your scent.  Time passes as you lie there, feeling the grooves of the highway and listening to the quiet hum of the engine.

An hour later, you arrive at the farmhouse.

The Bimmer glides down the gravel road before turning onto the long, windy dirt driveway.  Dozens of old cottonwood trees dot the sides, heart-shaped leaves swaying with the wind.  The familiar dial-tone call of red-winged blackbirds perched on the barbed wire fence echoes throughout the wide space.  The sun has almost fully dipped below the horizon, leaving flecks of pink in the lower half of the sky.  It’s beautiful—and then you see the house.

It’s almost exactly how you remembered it, with some minor tweaks.  The roof and siding were replaced—the colors were the same as before, only new, and much brighter, lacking the chipped paint and dirt from years of farm life.  The grass around the front porch was longer, less tame, though the flowerbeds were very well-kept.  You’d guessed your aunt took care of the flowers religiously and called someone to come cut the grass every now and then.

Joel parks in front of the garage and gets out first to open your door.  He offers his hand, and you take it as you step out of the car.  He guides you to the front door, warm palm strong on the small of your back.

“Go on.  I’ll bring the bags in,” he says, tickling your back briefly before stepping down to retrieve your luggage.

You stare at the front door, eyes tracing the metal sign of your mom’s maiden name that’s been hanging on the door since your grandparents got married 60-some years ago.  A small smile plays on your lips as you picture them when they were your age.  Young and in love farmers, with their entire lives ahead of them.

Sighing, you remember the front door key is hidden somewhere around here.  It’s been years since you’ve had to use it, though you have a decent idea where it’s stashed.  A familiar, old, rusty watering can propped next to the front door catches your eye.  Bingo.

You try to stick your hand in the top hole to grab the key, but it’s too small.  Turning it upside-down, you jiggle it a few times and listen to metal clanging inside the can before a small brass key lands on the porch.  You retrieve it and unlock the door.

The inside is largely unchanged.  It’s an open floor plan, which surprises you given the fact that the house is over one hundred years old.  The front door opens into the living room, containing several floral couches with quilts thrown over the back.  Pictures of family, including several unflattering ones of you, line the plastered walls.  Your favorite part of the room is the brick fireplace, a cross and dried palms from Palm Sunday decorating the hearth.

The front door swings open and Joel steps in with the bags.  You don’t notice, though—you’re too busy battling with nostalgia.  Every Christmas, you’d sit in front of the fireplace and watch the flames dance.  Your grandparents didn’t get a TV until Grandpa retired from farming, so you’d spent holidays here playing outside or in the company of your many relatives.

Two strong arms loop around you and pull you into a sturdy chest, effectively removing you from the Land of Nostalgia.  Joel’s nose lodges itself behind your earlobe and inhales slowly, deeply.

“Mmm,” he breathes.  “Y’smell good, darlin’.”  You shiver, goosebumps erupting in the path of his breath.  His voice is lower, deeper than usual—like he wants you.

“I smell like sweat and leather,” you gripe, leaning your head back onto his shoulder.  He chuckles, lips caressing the soft skin of your neck and stubble scratching behind them.  His hands slip under your shirt to feel more soft, warm skin.  You suck in a sharp breath and moan quietly.

“Joel,” you murmur, hands gripping his forearms lightly.  He hums into your neck as his mouth moves toward your shoulder.

“I’m supposed to give you a tour before you get all handsy,” you scold him, pushing your butt against him to create some space between the two of you, feeling his hard on in the process.  You pry his strong grip from your torso with a huff—he’s tough to move, especially when he’s on a mission.  He chuckles and throws both hands up in surrender.  You quirk an eyebrow at him and shake your head, fighting the grin threatening to erupt on your face.

“You got 10 minutes, baby—after that, I’m finishing what I started,” he threatens, mirroring your raised eyebrow.  Your stomach lurches.

“Fine.  Pay attention,” you tease, pointing a finger at him.  He laughs, but his eyes betray him—they’re lust-filled, twinkling with desire for you.  You turn toward the kitchen, feeling his eyes traverse your backside as you walk.

“Kitchen,” you say nonchalantly, not giving him time to stop and appreciate the rustic farmhouse kitchen that was renovated a few years ago.  You turn into a corridor, stopping at the first door on the right.

“Bathroom,” you recite, moving quickly to the next door, cattycorner to the bathroom.

“Guest bedroom.  You’re sleeping here,” you tease him, pointing to the bed and raising your eyebrows at him.  He shakes his head, half-smile pulling his cheek.  You move to the last room of the hallway, on the right.

“Master bedroom,” you say, standing in front of the ajar door so Joel can come in.  He pushes your hip slightly, causing you to move further into the room so he can shut the door.  Your loud gulp seems to echo in the small room.

“S’this where you’re sleepin’?” Joel rasps, taking slow steps toward you, backing you toward the bed.  His head is lowered as he stares up and down your frame.  You stop, legs meeting the corner of the bed.  Your pulse quickens.

“Y-yes.  I’m sleeping here,” you answer him, watching him get closer and closer.  He stops when his feet touch yours.  You feel his warm breath on your face, your neck.  The veins in his neck are popping out—he’s straining himself to maintain control.

“Guess I’m sleepin’ here too, then,” he says huskily, eyes locked on yours.  He leans in until you feel the hairs of his mustache tickle your lips.  Your eyes shut instinctively and you lean in closer to him, preparing for your mouths to meet, but they don’t. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, gaze flicking between each of your eyes.  Wrecked is the only way to describe his expression.

“What?” you whisper back, voice hoarse and throat dry.  You lick your lips involuntarily and his eyes flick downward to watch.

Before your mind can register it, his lips crash onto yours and he pins you underneath him on the mattress.  His rough fingers slip under your shirt, and one travels up over your sternum, landing on your throat and squeezing softly.  You moan into his mouth.

His tongue pries your lips open before tangling with yours.  The hand on your throat slips out for a second, and both of his hands cradle your face as he continues kissing you fervently.  He moans at the feel of your lips and body underneath him, his erection pushing on the zipper of his jeans.

Without a word, he sits back on his heels to pull your shirt over your head, taking your ratty sports bra with it.  He growls at the sight of your naked chest before ravishing each nipple with his mouth.  You arch into him, the piercing pain of his teeth and warm soothe of his tongue taking over your senses.  He kisses down your stomach, curved nose gliding on your hot skin.  His mouth reaches the waistband of your shorts and kisses along its length as you squirm underneath him.

Impatiently, he bites the waistband and pulls back before releasing it, the snap of it on your abdomen making you jump.  He chuckles devilishly, black eyes boring into yours.  You can’t tell where his pupils end and irises begin—the ring of amber is gone, swallowed by his dilated pupils.  He wants you so fucking badly.

It dawns on you now that he’s still fully clothed, boots and everything.  Rough fingers hook into your waistband, but you place both hands on his forearms.  Immediately, he stops the impending disrobe and looks at you.

“You have to match me first,” you say, tugging the sleeve of his flannel.  He narrows his eyes at you briefly, relenting.  Impatiently, he unbuttons the plaid shirt, huffing as his fingers get stuck on the bottom one.  You giggle.

After a few more huffs and puffs, he manages to peel the flannel and undershirt from his damp skin, revealing a familiar, sexy torso and strong arms.  Warmth blooms in your chest at the sight.

“Better now?” he chides, making no efforts to disguise his frustration.  You place a palm on his chest and stare up at him.  His gaze softens ever so slightly.

“Why the hurry, Joel?  We have nowhere to be,” you ask him, fingertips tracing down his torso, brushing the dark hairs that dip below his navel and stopping at his waistband.  His eyes close as he relishes your touch.

When they open, obsidian wells stare back at you.  Joel grabs your hand and leans down to kiss it.  The act is so reverent, so delicate that it stops your breath for a moment.

“I know, darlin’—just can’t get enough of you,” he croons, head dipping down to kiss your collarbone.  He pins your hand next to your head and continues kissing down your chest, stopping at both breasts once again.

“I ever told you how much I love these?” he whispers into your skin, looking up at you briefly.  After letting go of your hand, he massages one breast as his mouth continues working the other.  A garbled moan escapes your throat.

In a blur, he removes your shorts, leaving your soaked green thong.  He scoots down the bed, getting comfortable with his head in between your legs.  Lightly, he blows on your core, looking up at you only when you start squirming.

“Guess we need to work on your patience, huh baby?” he teases, handsome smirk stretching his face.  You groan and throw your head on the bed, arching your back.

“Nice view from here,” he hums, turning his head to nibble on your inner thigh.  He moves over to the other thigh, ignoring where you want him most.  You squeeze his wrists, attempting to sway him—he doesn’t budge.  A deep chuckle travels from his throat into your skin.

“Mmm… you’re soaked,” he breathes, taking a finger and brushing up your middle, featherlight.  You gasp at the sensation, drawing his eyes.

“Y’like being teased, huh?  Naughty girl.”  He continues stroking your clothed cunt at a glacial pace.  “Look at me,” he orders.  You prop yourself up on your elbows and look down at his gorgeous face, brushing stray curls from his forehead.

“Wanna see your face when I do this—s’my favorite thing,” he murmurs, planting random kisses on your pelvic area, but never on your tingling core.  You nod, frustrated and panting.

He sits back on his heels again and finally hooks his fingers into your underwear, pulling them over your ass as you bridge up and then slowly down your legs.  He takes the opportunity to appreciate the view beneath him and lets out a low whistle.

“You’re so beautiful—are you sick of me tellin’ you that?” he asks, settling in between your legs again.

“Never,” you exhale, chest heaving in anticipation.  He smiles up at you before licking a stripe up your core.  Almost immediately, you groan, the warmth and wetness of his tongue on your pussy sending fireworks up your spine.  He dives right in, giving you no time to acclimate to the pleasure.

Instinctively, you throw your head back as he continues licking you.  He mumbles into your pussy.  It’s almost unintelligible, but then you remember his request from earlier.  Look at me, baby.  You obey, watching him eat you while he’s gauging your reactions.

It’s erotic and filthy, the sights and sounds of him undoing you with his mouth.  You know he’s enjoying this, given the moans that escape his lips and into your wet folds.  Suddenly, he stops moving his head and leaves his tongue out, eyes still glued to you—like he’s waiting for something.

“Joel—move,” you plead, running your fingers through his sweaty hair, getting frustrated again.  He murmurs a breathy huh-uh, tongue still glued to your lips.

Suddenly, you understand what he wants.  He wants you to fuck yourself on his tongue.  Your stomach flips at the realization and you gasp quietly.

A rush of adrenaline surges through your body at the chance to take over your pleasure—to use him as you see fit.  You oblige him, each roll of your hips inching you closer to orgasm.  He leaves his tongue out for the most part and just observes, groaning at the sight above him.  After every few circles of your hips, he sucks lightly on your clit to lap up your seeping wetness, making your thighs quake around his head.

With no notice, the coil snaps.  The room fades to black as you ride the wave of your orgasm.  Weightless, tingling bliss overtakes your consciousness.  You can almost hear Joel talking you through it, though his voice sounds faraway and echoey, like you’re inside a tunnel.

You barely register that he’s stripped himself of his jeans and boxers and is on top of you, kissing you with enough heat to burn the house down.  Unable to wait any longer, he flips you over and tugs your hips toward the edge of the bed, folding you over the quilted comforter.  Hastily, he reaches down and pushes the head of his cock inside you, hitting the edge of you in one smooth stroke.  The pain brings you back down to earth quickly.

“Fuck!” you yelp.  Joel cracks a hand down on one of your ass cheeks as he thrusts into you, making you cry out once more.

“That’s it, baby—take it,” he growls, rough and domineering.  This side of him exhilarates you.  You’ve never met anyone that can be dominant and affectionate simultaneously.

After what seems like single-digit strokes, Joel pulls out suddenly.  Hot liquid splashes your lower back and ass.  Immediately, the mood within the bedroom changes—hot and heavy to tense.  You crane your neck to look behind you.

Joel’s face is pinched in agony—brows furrowed, sweat dripping from his forehead, teeth clenched.  One hand is gripping your hip, the other emptying himself onto you.  He doesn’t notice your gaze at first.  When he does, the look in his eyes is bashful.

“M’sorry, baby—that’s never happened t’me before,” he apologizes, clearly embarrassed.  He avoids eye contact and lets go of your hip to search the room for a rag.

“Joel, it’s okay,” you promise him, watching as he shuffles around the room.  He continues searching in the small bathroom attached to the bedroom.

“Come here,” you plead, worried.  He emerges with his tail between his legs and a small washcloth in hand.

He stops at the bathroom entry and sighs as he finally meets your eyes.  He’s unable to stop the small smirk that creeps on his lips as he sees you, still on your hands and knees for him.  You match his smirk and beckon him.

“Apparently I’m off my game, sweetheart,” he laments, wiping your skin with the warm rag.

“Oh, stop—each time is perfect, Joel.  No matter how long it lasts,” you say, waving him off.  He tosses the rag in a hamper near the opposite end of the room before pulling you off the bed by your hips and into his arms.  He kisses the front of your ear.

“Baby… I’m a gentleman, you know this.  I never wanna come before you do,” he murmurs into your ear, hands spanning the front of your chest and torso.  As his fingers traverse your skin, you lean into him and relax, the stress of the last few days leaving your body.  Exhaustion quickly settles behind your eyes, and you yawn.

“Bedtime already?” Joel whispers in your ear.  You mumble in affirmation.

“Go on, lie down.  I’ll make sure the doors are locked,” he says, kissing your temple chastely before pulling the quilt back and helping you settle into bed.  The room is dark, enveloped in nightfall that came unnoticed during your session of passion with Joel.  You hear his footsteps patter around the old wooden flooring of the farmhouse, getting louder as he returns to the bedroom.  He scoots in behind you, curling you into his warm chest.

“I love you,” he whispers in your ear before kissing the corner of your mouth.  Before you can reply, you’re sound asleep.

Morning arrives in puffy, gray clouds filled with heavy raindrops.  Their pounding on the bedroom window wakes you.

The room, also blanketed in gray, is filled with only the sound of rain and Joel’s patterned breathing.  He’s on his back, hands clasped on his chest.  Gone is the look of agony on his face from last night.  Pure serenity describes his features in this moment.  His lips twitch frequently—you wonder what he’s dreaming about.

Suddenly, an idea emerges in your sleep-hazy mind, fueled by last night’s events.  A sly, half-smirk soon follows.

Carefully, you climb on top of Joel, leaving soft kisses on his face, neck, collarbone, and chest.  He stirs momentarily, a quiet moan leaving his throat.  You pause, peeking up at him to ensure he’s still sleeping.  The steady rise and fall of his chest affirms it.

You continue pressing your lips on his skin, slipping your head under the quilt once you’ve reached his navel.  The long hairs leading further south tickle your chin.  With one hand, you reach for his cock, only to find that it’s rigid.  Either he was dreaming of you, or his body responded to your touch quickly.

You get comfortable between his legs and kiss the tip of his cock gently.  His hips jut imperceptibly.  You move further downward and swirl your tongue around his balls, and his thighs tighten around you.  Pausing again, you look up at him.  Still sleeping, or so you think.

Silently, you spit on the head of his cock and use your lips to coat his shaft with it.  Not caring whether he’s asleep anymore, you take him in your mouth and suck, adding enough pressure that his hips jolt upward.  The curses that slip from his lips let you know he’s finally awake.

Joel pulls the quilt off you, releasing the trapped heat in the process.  With two big hands, he pulls your hair out of your face and twists it into a knot as you work him with your mouth.

“Shit, baby—feel fuckin’ good,” he pants.  You moan on his length in response.

He bucks upward, letting you know he’s close.  Before he can finish, he cups your face and pulls you off his cock, tugging you closer for a messy kiss.  You whine into his mouth as you settle in his lap.  With silent strength, he lifts you by the ass and sits upright, back leaning against the headboard and legs splayed.

“Help me out here, baby,” he urges you, still holding you above his lap.  You reach for his cock and line it with your entrance before he slowly spears you with it, his palms squeezing your ass with enough pressure to leave bruises.  As always, the stretch of his cock sucks the breath out of you.

“Good god,” he groans through gritted teeth.  Your tight, wet heat ensheathes him perfectly.  Slowly, he reaches your cervix, pausing as your muscles continue to spasm around his thick cock.  Your arms loop around his neck, face tucked into the crook of it as you moan into his skin.  After a few beats, he slides you back up his cock and slams you back down.  You scream.

“Tell me how good it feels,” he growls, continuing to pound into you at a fierce pace.  You can’t speak—all the air in your lungs has escaped.  The only sound you can manage is a pained squeak.  With another growl, Joel flips both of you over while still inside you.  Now on top of you, he folds your legs forward with his hands as he continues thrusting into you, the new angle hitting deeper.  You arch your back and cry out again.

“Need to hear you, baby,” he reminds you, brows furrowed, teeth clenched as he watches you beneath him.

“Feels s-so fucking good, Joel,” you sputter, meeting his intense gaze.

“So fuckin’ pretty on my cock, darlin’,” he coos, watching where your bodies meet.  Your orgasm creeps closer, each deep thrust igniting flames inside you.

“I’m close,” you warn him.  He folds your legs back further and pounds into you several times before you come, hard.  Joel follows suit a few pumps later, spilling himself inside you and collapsing on you.

Both of you lie there for a moment, panting and stroking each other’s sweaty skin.  Joel breaks the silence.

“Am I forgiven now?  F’my shortcoming last night?” You chuckle at the inadvertent pun.

“Short… coming?  Is that what you want to call it?” you say, bursting out into laughter.  Joel’s rumbly chuckle shakes both of you.  He sits up and pulls out of you, the movement and your heightened sensitivity making you twitch.

“S’time to get up and movin’, do—,” Joel starts, interrupted by a loud thud.  He quickly stands and walks over to the door, leaning an ear on it.  Fear engulfs you, wiping the smile off your face.

Thud.  This one, much louder, makes you jump.  Joel turns to look at you, brow raised in confusion.  The sound of broken glass from inside the house almost makes you scream and turns Joel’s confusion into fear. You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes widened in pure horror.  Loud footsteps invade the living room, coinciding with the loud pounding of your heart in your ears.

Think.  Scanning the room, a lightbulb illuminates in your head.

“Joel—get my grandpa’s gun,” you whisper, “It’s under the bed in a case!”  He nods, throwing his boxers on quickly before pulling you off the bed by your arm and taking you into the bathroom.

“What? No, le—,” you rebel, but he cuts you off.

“Stay here.  I mean it,” he orders you, voice stern and expression serious.  “I love you.  Need you safe, y’understand?”

Tears pool in your eyes and you nod.  He kisses you quickly.

“Don’t come out unless I say.  And lock this door.”  You nod again, and he shuts the door.  You turn the old latch above the doorknob, the metal clicking in place.  The next thing you hear is the loading of your grandpa’s shotgun.

Fuck.  Who would break into a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere?

The sound of the door breaking open startles you.  Then, a loud boom shakes the bathroom.  You scream.

Somebody got shot—but who?

Tuesday, October 26th | 1505

Shaky hands reach up to unlock the door to your apartment, keys jingling with your movements.  Fuck.  Your hand falls to your side as you try to recollect yourself.  Eyes closed, you take a few deep breaths and straighten your spine.  Why am I nervous?  This is my goddamn apartment.

“Okay,” you say to nobody.  “It’s fine.  It’s just a door.”

Courage pools in your belly.  Taking one last deep breath, you unlock the door and push it open, eyes widening at your surroundings.  The place is spotless.  Keri stopped by your place to stock the fridge and clean up for you a couple days ago.  She must’ve either baked or sprayed some Febreze in here—it smells like cupcakes.  A smile forces its way on your face.

You set your purse on the kitchen island and gaze around.  Empty sink, full fridge and pantry, clean countertops.  Clean blankets thrown over the couch, new candles centered on the coffee table, remote on top of the TV.  There’s a small piece of paper on one of the candle lids.  You trod over to the couch and pick it up to read, grin creeping up your cheeks.

Hey, love.  I made your favorite enchiladas and stocked the fridge full of your favorite goodies.  Laundry is done and folded.  There’s some special liquid in the fridge, too—but don’t take it when you’re on your meds!! 😉 Call me if you need anything.

-Ker

Curling the note up to your chest, you walk over to the fridge and open the door.  Keri was right—she got everything you like.  Cheese, salami, fruit, wine, cookie dough, orange juice, and two giant containers of half and half.  A large, covered baking dish is calling your name.

Two enchiladas and what feels like half a pound of cookie dough later, you turn on the TV and scroll through Hulu until you find your favorite comfort show.  It starts halfway through the last episode you played.

“Picture it: Sicily, 1922…” Sophia Petrillo’s loud, Brooklyn-accented voice speaks to you.  You smile and sink into the couch, whipping your phone out to check your messages.

Joel: Have a great night, baby.  Sweet dreams.

You send him a picture of your blanket-clad body curled into the couch, along with a witty caption.  Missing your couch already.  He replies after a few beats.

Joel: Gorgeous as ever.  I’m missing more than that, though.  Gnight baby.  See you tomorrow.

You: Night, Joel. 🥰

Happy to be home and tired of binging your show, you decide it’s time to rinse off the day with some hot water and get ready for bed.  After hopping out of the shower and changing your bandages, you pick your phone up from the bathroom counter and stare at the screen.

Three messages from an unknown number stare back at you.  The area code is unfamiliar to you.  The fuck?  Your stomach flip flops like a fish on a dock as you shakily long press on one message to open it.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Better watch your man.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Sent 2 photos

Shock sucks the air out of your lungs.  You blink once, twice, three times to make sure this is what you’re really looking at.  Beads of sweat emerge from the pores on your forehead, and your hands tremble.  This is exactly how you felt after you left the hospital—panicky, lost, terrified.

The first picture is of Joel’s truck parked outside of a Motel 6, with someone in the passenger seat next to him.  It looks like a woman, but it’s too dim to make out the rest of her features.  The second picture is the same angle, but of Joel leaning near the woman’s ear, smile plastered on his face—and there’s no question that it’s him.  Salt and pepper beard, curved nose, those fucking brunette tendrils you adore so much.  He’s even wearing one of his green flannels that you’ve worn while he’s fucked you.  This photo is better lit, almost like headlights of a passing car flashed on as soon as it was snapped.  The woman’s face is—gorgeous.  She’s Latina, with beautiful caramel skin, long, shiny black hair cascading down her shoulders, bright red lips, piercing hazel eyes, and a low-cut top that shows some massive breasts stuffed in a pushup bra.

The phone slips out of your hand and lands on the bathroom tile with a thud.  Fuzziness clouds your vision, and your pulse is racing so fast there’s barely any time between heartbeats.  Confusion hazes in your mind, interrupted by a loud voice telling you to sit down before you pass out.  You plop on the toilet seat and pick up your phone.

Nausea pierces your stomach as you stare at the photos again.  Clamping your eyes shut, you lean back against the toilet and take some deep breaths, allowing reason to squeeze itself back into your head.

When were these taken?  Where?  Is this pre-Omaha Joel?  Is that girl his cousin?

His hair and beard look the same as they did yesterday—and the motel looks like a Motel 6 near the Denny’s on 84th and Center, posted up right by Interstate 80.  Though it could be somewhere else, maybe in Texas, you’re almost certain it’s Omaha.  Oak and maple trees line the back of the motel, with leaves of various shades of red, yellow, and orange—you don’t know enough about Texas to know if they have fall foliage like Nebraska does.  Maybe you don’t want to know.

Your heart feels like it stops beating altogether at the realization that this was taken very recently—maybe even today.

A tear drips down your burning cheek and lands on the screen of your phone, painting the woman’s face in rainbow pixels.  Somehow, she looks even more beautiful than before with your tears plastered on her perfect face.

Anger sears your insides and clutches your throat.  You ignored every little voice in your head that was telling you something wasn’t right, shoved it into the depths of your brain and tried to stay present, optimistic.  Joel had given you everything—took care of you, made you feel safe and loved, went out of his way to be there for you.  What was the fucking point of this shit?  He could have easily dropped you and carried on with his life.

Standing up from the toilet, you lean over the sink and splash some cold water on your face and neck, arms propped up on the bowl as you hunch over and continue to take deep breaths.

How am I gonna address this with him?  Send him the pictures with no context?  Screenshot the messages, including the number?

No, no, no—the latter would be too easy for him to explain.  You wanted him to squirm and roil like you are now.  Sure, you weren’t exactly a fucking couple, but you never expected him to do this.  Fuming, you save the pictures and pull up your messages with Joel.  You look at his contact picture in your phone—it’s one of him and you from your date at Village Pointe, when he’d watched you admire the flowers at one of the boutiques.  God, he’s fucking handsome, and he looks so happy.

Fuck that.  You send the pictures over to him and shut your phone off before stomping off to bed.

Wednesday, October 27th | 0712

Cheerful chirps of the American robins outside your window wake you.  You rub your eyes, quickly realizing that they’re sore—probably from all your sobbing the night prior. Dread fills you quickly as you recall the events from last night.

Shit. Your phone is off. Probably wasn’t the best idea, considering you’re still recovering from a traumatic event and people might worry if they can’t reach you.

Anxiety weighs your arm down as it reaches for your phone. You hold the power button and watch the screen light up with fast, shallow breaths.

15 missed calls.  10 from Joel, 2 from Sarah, and 3 from unknown numbers.  20-something messages, mostly from Joel.  Your heart skips a beat and your finger inches toward one of them to read it before stopping.

Nope.  You’re not giving up so easily.  He can squirm for a bit.  After all, he made a conscious choice to do this.  Another question burns the back of your brain, though.

Who took the pictures?

You open your messages and see that the unknown number that sent the 3 messages is the same one that texted you the pictures.  You open them, and your stomach falls to the floor as you read.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Oh, girl.  You sent him those?  Tsk tsk.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Now you’re giving him time to come up with an explanation??

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: If you can’t get rid of him after he did this, imagine what else you’ll let him get away with.

Lips tightened and jaw jutting angrily, you puff out a hot breath and feel anger bubble inside you as you type a response.

You: Who the fuck are you?  What is your problem?

They don’t miss a beat replying.

(XXX) XXX-XXXX: Someone you don’t want to fuck with.  Let it go now and you’ll get over it in no time.

A rough, defiant snarl rips through you as your fingers zip across the screen.

You: You’re so threatening that you have to send shit anonymously?  Grow the fuck up.

You: Fucking clown 🤡

The number doesn’t reply immediately.  You sit up in bed, hot tears starting to brew behind your eyelids.  And your head is pounding—likely from the crying, which has no doubt left you dehydrated.  You slowly stand up and wait for the stars to fade from your vision before padding into the kitchen.

As you brew a strong pot of coffee, your phone rings.  You close your eyes, inhale deeply, and flatten your palms on the countertop to ground yourself.  The cold material heats up underneath your fingertips, leaving condensation in their wake.

You pick up the phone, slowly.  It’s Joel.  The air in your chest halts.  Do you answer, or continue ignoring him?  Part of you wants so badly to hear his deep voice, hear him tell you this was all a big mistake, and the photos are AI.

But you know that’s not the case.  You accept the call and wait a beat before speaking, lips sucked into your mouth.

“Baby, you there?” His voice is frantic, and you can hear him pacing in what you guess is his kitchen.  It’s early, and he’s probably making coffee of his own.

“Why are you calling me?” Your voice is frigid, distant, setting the stone blocks of the wall you’re placing between him and you.

He sighs heavily, footsteps echoing in the background.

“Darlin’, it’s not what you think, I—,” he groans, exasperated.  You interrupt him before he can finish.

“I’m sure you can, you’ve had plenty of time to think about it,” you snarl, voice scathing.  Joel is silent for a moment, shocked at the anger in your voice.  He’s never seen or heard you like this.  He chooses his next words carefully.

“Please, let me see you and we can talk about this,” he pleads, agonized.  Part of you wants to smile, making him grovel at your feet—the other part is heartbroken, the photos plastered in your mind permanently.

“I really don’t want to talk to you after what I saw.  I-I trusted you, and you had every opportunity to cut things off with me… Jesus, Joel, we weren’t even a couple!” you spit, voice transforming from strong and firm, to shaky and choked.  Your fists are clenched so hard, your knuckles are bone white, and salty tears roll down your cheeks.

“Baby, you don’t realize h—,” he starts, but you cut him off again.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you spit through gritted teeth.

“Please, please, just lemme explain and it’ll all make sense,” he cries, almost whimpering.  Frustrated, you hold a deep breath in your ribcage and pinch the bridge of your nose as you contemplate a response.

“I’ve seen everything I need to see,” you say, surprisingly calmly.  “You made me look and feel so… so fucking stupid.  I don’t even know who sent me the fucking pictures and now they’re threatening me, I j—,” you continue, and this time Joel cuts you off.

“Threatening you?” he hisses.  Your eyes roll so hard it hurts.

“Gimme a fucking break, Joel.  You’re pissed you got caught—you don’t give a fuck about me,” you sear, irritated.  Part of you knows that you’re not being entirely truthful—you know that he does care.  But you want it to sting, and it does.  He inhales sharply.

“Now you know damn well that ain’t true, and that I lo—,” he stops himself, your stomach twisting at the realization of what he was about to say.  He clears his throat.

“I want you to be happy.  If that ain’t with me, then I have no choice but to let it be.  But if you wanna talk, I’ll be here.  I’m askin’ ya one more time to let me explain,” he chokes, the pain evident with each syllable.  He sounds like he did when he first came to the hospital after the stabbing—broken and worried.

You close your eyes for a moment and think about your life since you’ve met Joel.

Happy, exhilarating, euphoric, a whirlwind.

A new version of you—confident, glowing, sexy.  Now it all seems so abstract, utopian.

What’s the worst that could happen?  He explains, you don’t believe him, and you never see him again?  As much as you’d like to stick to that plan, you know once you’ll see him it’ll be over.

“Baby, you there?” he asks quietly, hesitantly, trying not to poke the bear.

“Yes, I’m here.  Thinking,” you reply, matching his volume.  “Fine.  We can meet up.  Tomorrow,” you offer, tone stern.  You need a day to think.

“Whenever y’want.  Just let me know and I’ll be there,” he says, voice like a warm hug.  It’s pissing you off, how easily he can melt you.  You give him a pinched mhm.  He sighs.

“D’y’need anything?  Bandages, food, anythin’?” he asks, kindness slicing your heart open.

“No.  Keri stocked my place while I was gone.  I’m good,” you reply coolly.

Shit, you don’t want to tell Keri—you can’t bear to rehash what you saw last night and break your heart all over again.

“I’m—m’sorry, baby.  You mean the world t’me,” he laments.  You pinch your eyelids shut, running a clammy hand through your hair.  He’s not making this easy.

“Do you realize how hard it is to believe that after seeing those fucking photos, Joel?  How do you think I feel whenever I think about them?” You sob, hands waving with each pained syllable that escapes your mouth.  He sniffles on the other end, but you continue.

“Seeing you close to that… that woman, who is clearly so much fucking better than me, that perfect fucking wo—,” he cuts you off.

“Nobody is better than you.  Nobody.  Get that through your head,” he says, voice angry.  You groan angrily as tears continue pricking your eyelids.

“What do you expect?  Like… I don’t understand what you thought I’d think.  Maybe you thought I’d never find out,” you mutter.

“Y’won’t believe me when I tell you what’s really goin’ on.  She’s not who y’think,” he sighs, and you can hear him hanging his head on the other line.  “I’ll tell y’everything tomorrow.”

Jaw ticking, you nod before realizing he can’t see you.  “Okay.”

“F’you need anything, y’know I’m here.  Bye, sweetheart.”

“Bye.”

Wednesday, October 27th | 1239

After the call with Joel, your crying and frustration exhausted you to the point that you fell asleep on the couch while watching TV.  The quote from the Golden Girls episode you watched struck a painful chord with you, sending you further into the abyss.

I don't want to talk about it. Oh, how could George betray me this way? Dammit, those wedding vows were sacred to me. Well, they must have been. I turned down hundreds, thousands of offers. Teachers, doctors, astronauts. I even said no to a journalist famous for his work on 60 Minutes. Now, if that's not fidelity, I don't know what is. Then I find out that the only man I ever loved cheated on me. On me! Oh, I could just die.

Blanche discovered her late husband had an affair that produced a child—but only when the adult child showed up at her doorstep.  It puts things in perspective for you.

One, you and Joel aren’t married—maybe this is a sign not to let it progress further.

But—you hated to admit to yourself that he was the only man you had ever loved.

Does the pain come with the territory, or is it an omen?

You roll off the couch, frustrated still but filled with a bolt of energy.  You needed to get out of here.  It’s not like you have work the next day, or anytime soon—somewhere far, far away was calling your name.

Fuck it.  You decided to head to Chadron early—your grandma’s house was ready for you and clearing your mind with some time at the rustic farmhouse sounded hypnagogic.  Thinking of the rolling hills, buttes, pine trees, and open skies filled you with tranquility.  Joel’s face sits in the back of your mind, beautiful brown eyes filled with love and adoration.  A wave of sadness engulfs you.

Joel would have to figure out fast if he really wanted this.

Having packed a decently sized suitcase in less than 30 minutes, you stuff it in your car and hop in the driver’s seat.  You quickly type a text to Keri asking her to check up on the place every few days before starting the car.  The gas tank was at half, and with you leaving later in the day, it was probably smart to fill up before starting the 7-hour drive.

You make a quick stop at a QT not too far from your apartment and fill up.  As you watch the numbers on the pump display tick, a sleek black truck pulls up to the pump next to yours.

Shit.

It’s Joel.

He steps out and saunters over to you.  It’s only been a day since you’ve seen him, but it feels like months.  His handsome face looks sullen, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes absent.  His frown lines have deepened, stubble grown out, some new gray hairs have erupted along his chin.

And then you see his eyes.  Despondent pools of dark chocolate, no traces of the golden flecks you’ve grown to love.  What pisses you off the most, though, is how much love pours out of them.  It’s so hard to be mad at him when you know that he loves you.

He stops at your side, and you turn away to stare at the numbers.  The nozzle clicks and the numbers freeze.  Ignoring him, you yank the nozzle out of your car and shove it back on the holder, fingers still gripping the handle.  His warm hand envelopes your forearm, rendering you motionless.  You can’t look at him.

“Sweetheart,” he says, tone of his velvet voice echoing the sullenness in his eyes.  He takes the pump from your hand and turns you toward him.

Tears pool in your eyes for the zillionth time the last 24 hours.  Your lip trembles, and you snap your eyes shut.  He cradles your face in his hands and tilts your head up to look at him.  Your eyes are still squeezed shut.

“Look at me,” he says your name gently, and the familiar scents of sandalwood and bourbon waft into your nostrils, relaxing you subconsciously.  Involuntarily, you inhale deeply and slowly open your eyes.  A single tear falls from the corner of your eye as you stare at him.

He winces at seeing you in pain—pain that he caused.  He leans in and kisses the tear on your cheek. Your gut feels like he reached in and twisted it.

“Where y’going, darlin’?” he says quietly, soothing your cheeks with his thumbs.  You can only imagine how this looks—the two of you wrapped in each other in the middle of a gas station, tears streaked down your cheeks and looking a hot mess.

“To Chadron,” you sniff.  At some point you grabbed his forearms, the familiar feeling of safety washing over you.

“So soon?  Baby,” he says, deep line etched into his forehead.  You reach up and smooth it with your thumb.  He closes his eyes, exhaling in relief at your touch.

“I needed to get away from here,” you say quietly and absentmindedly, distracted from smoothing his skin.  He grabs your hand and kisses it, featherlight, eyes locked on yours.  He opens your hand and leans his cheek into your palm.

“Let me come with you.  Please,” he pleads softly.  His eyes are melting you from the inside out.

“Not before you explain what the hell those pictures are… and who sent them,” you say, arching one eyebrow.  He sighs, long and heavy, glancing to his left as he shakes his head and rakes a calloused hand through his stubble. He huffs again before turning back to face you.

“S’my cousin, Valeria.  She left her abusive husband in Laredo and is stayin’ at that Motel 6 since that asshole cut her off.  I paid for her room f’the next few weeks while Tommy n’ I figure out somethin’.  I’m sure I was givin’ her a kiss on the cheek.  M’sorry I didn’t tell you—it was sudden, and she wanted me to keep it a secret,” he says with a loud swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing.  Your shoulders slump instantly. You feel like a fucking idiot.

“As f’who sent ‘em… no goddamn clue.  Pretty fuckin’ close to hiring a PI,” he grumbles, chest puffing out slightly. The knot that’s been tightening in your stomach the last day finally releases, relieving tension throughout your entire body. Your shoulders lift and fall as you take deep breaths, before tensing again as you realize you made a mountain out of a molehill.

Jesus.  You’re a complete asshole.  Of course, you assume the worst.  You’d be surprised if he still wanted you after this charade.

The tears flow before you can try and stop them.  You bury your face in his chest, and he wraps his solid arms around you, rubbing your back and soothing you as you sob quietly.

“Shh, baby, s’okay… I understand,” he murmurs into your hair.  “Don’t cry. You’re still my favorite girl.”

You alternate between giggling and sniffling into his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, Joel—that was psychotic behavior,” you bemoan.  You feel him shake his head.

“Don’t apologize, baby,” he coos.  “Y’didn’t answer me, though.”

“Hmm?” you say, craning your neck to look at him.

“Y’gonna let me drive you?” he asks, gazing into the somber pools of your eyes.  You roll them, small smirk stretching your cheeks.

“I ‘spose.  Only ‘cause you asked so nicely.  And ‘cause I’m a fucking asshole.”  He chuckles, pulling you into his warm embrace.  He kisses the crown of your head.

“My asshole,” he soothes.  You squeeze him tightly, a nonverbal apology flowing from your fingertips into his broad back.

“Baby,” he says, and you pull back to gaze at him.  His eyes flick between yours, a question hidden behind his pupils.  You arch one eyebrow at him.

“I love you—y’know that, right?” he says, the volume of his voice lowered, redness creeping up his neck.  He looks shy, almost childlike.

Shock doesn’t fill you; rather, warmth blooms in your chest.  You knew he did—it was just a matter of when he decided to tell you verbally.  He shows you constantly with his actions.  The corner of your mouth ticks up in a sly grin.

“Fastest you’ve ever told someone that, yeah?” you poke, and it’s his turn to roll his eyes.

“Been through more in 12 days with you ‘n anyone in a lifetime—seems like we’ve known each other a long, long time,” he says, picking some stray hairs from your face.

“Yeah, very true… I love you too.  Even though you hate the coffee I drink.”  He beams at you, shoulders shaking along with his deep chuckles.  He leans in and stops just prior to his lips brushing yours.

“Hey, I’ve tried and tried to like the sugary shit—ain’t my thing.  But you certainly are,” he croons, pressing his lips against yours before you can respond.

This kiss feels much like your first one, back at McKinney’s—passionate, fresh, experimental.  It doesn’t heat up immediately, either—you two savor each other’s lips and embraces, content in the softness and sweetness of this moment of forgiveness.  It’s almost a new beginning for both of you.  Liveliness surges through your veins, scraping the sludge of uncertainty, self-doubt, and anxiety from the walls that have built up since the stabbing.  His lips are chapped, longer stubble chafing your skin, hands holding you a bit tighter than they did when he kissed you goodbye yesterday.  He pulls back, teeth lightly pulling your lower lip with him.

“Y’know, you’re sexy when you’re mad at me,” he teases you, lusty undertones echoing in his deep voice.

“Don’t make it a habit, Miller,” you scold him, squinting your eyes at him.  He laughs again.

“Come over so I can pack, and we can hit the road, sound good?”

“Sure does.”