Page 27 of Caleb
“I—this is not a good idea.” I press my eyes shut for a second and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry.”
“I am not,” she whispers, moving her hands up my stomach and chest inside my t-shirt. “I won’t tell a soul.” She looks up into my eyes, and her lips twitch into a suggestive smile. She’s now teasing my waistband. “And I know you won’t either.” Her hand moves further down and catches my full-blown erection through my sweatpants. A low groan of pleasure builds at my throat, making her gasp.
I’m convinced that even if we both know there’s no turning back should we choose to move forward with this, we’re also too needy and drunk to pull away from each other at this point.
I unbutton her blouse as my way of replying to her last statement, revealing the cream-colored lace in her bra. Then I cup her breasts and circle her nipples with my thumbs, making her throw her head back from the evident pleasure. Kissing her neck, I take a few steps backward, pulling her toward my bed. She shrugs out of her blouse, and I unzip her skirt and let it drop to the floor, revealing the body of awoman. For a second there, I forgot she’s at least ten years older than me.
Annette pulls my t-shirt over my head and tosses it away. My internal alarm is blaring, but I’m drunk enough to feel comfortable ignoring it, and my dick wouldn’t forgive me if I pushed the brakes, especially when she’s pulling down my sweatpants and boxer briefs.
Her hand captures me again and slides up and down my shaft in slow, torturous movements. I fall back and sit on the edge of the bed, grabbing her waist and pulling her in against me. Her lips meet mine again, and there is nothing romantic about this exchange. It’s a mixture of hurt, sadness, and pure unadulterated lust combined with other primal needs pulsing between us.
“He cheated on me,” she says in my ear.
“Bastard.” I drop a line of kisses on her chest.
“I know.” She slides down and kneels on the floor in front of me, her hands massaging my thighs and her lips curving slightly into a smile. “I ended it.”
“Good. You don’t deserve that.” I gasp as her tongue circles around my tip, teasing me. She moans in return as her lips fully wrap around my cock, the sound of it loud enough to get me even harder. “Only this once, okay?” I warn.
She replies with a hum, and I close my eyes, letting my head arch back for a few seconds. As I try to find a scrap of composure, I run my fingers through her hair, bunch it inside my fist, and say, “And we’re going to have to be very quiet,fille.”
“I know,garçon.”
One Too Many
October 15, 2005
SUMMER FLEW BYwith haste and in a semi-haze. I’ve been drinking more than I should’ve; more frequently, that is. I’m careful not to go overboard with the vodka because I still need to wake up in decent shape for work. But I’m twenty-two, and I recover fast. I’ll worry about my recovery rate in my thirties. Aaron says a hangover hits differently at that age. Running helps loosen me up. And I’ve been doing a lot of that too.
It’s become harder to deal with the guilt of Yonathan’s death. I can’t seem to tuck the memories away since last May. They keep fucking with my head, trying to make me think about how I could’ve done things differently or making me obsess about all the things Ididn’tdo to avoid what happened. Like how I couldn’t prevent the guy from pulling the trigger on Yon and detonating the bomb afterward.
The realization that it was mostly shame that kept me from wanting to go back to the military hit me harder than expected. Shame and confusion. And I used to be all in. Yon had effortlessly convinced me to believe in the thingshebelieved. He was so sincere and passionate about his ideals that I found it easy to adopt them as my own.
But I failed Yon, and I will never forgive myself for it. I wasn’t good enough that day. For him and the rest of the innocent people we couldn’t save. What good could it do to go back to Israel and fight a perpetual war if I’m not even equipped for it? If I’m not being able to care about those closest to me. But I try not to dwell too much on that thought because it would inevitably make me question my place here as a personal security agent.
This is why I hadn’t opened myself to anyone about this. It’s Pandora’s box on crack, and even if it felt great to talk about it at that moment, just talking about itonceisn’t enough to make things feel right.
I need fucking therapy. But I’m too proud for that shit, and it’s not like I have the time. Besides, we’ve been pretty busy. Once Miss Murphy was out of school and had an open schedule, Ambassador Murphy took the opportunity to make her attend more official functions than he usually does. Some of these events were held in neighboring countries, so Aaron and I traveled with them.
Miss Murphy conducted herself in a very outgoing way and smiled at every event alongside her father. Her gestures were forced, though. Not that I think anyone noticed, but I’m starting to decode her face and what every movement means. I feel like I’m getting pretty good at it.
That’s my job, after all, to look after her. To keep her in sight at all times.
She would drop the smiley, perfect-daughter act in two seconds, looking exhausted the moment we left after an event was over. Hell, I’d also end up exhausted just by looking at her interactions. I’m sure it must be hard to keep up appearances when deep down, you’re going through a lot and can’t make yourself give a crap. And she doesn’t. She told me so once before arriving at a dinner event organized by the US Embassy in Vienna.
So yeah, we chat, but not much. It’s always for a few minutes during “transition times.” That’s what I call the fleeting moments where I open the car door for her to step out or help her carry her things. When I escort her to the restrooms at an event or walk her to her front door—everyday stuff like that.
Talking on the move.
I wish I could ignore her, for Aaron’s sake and mine as well, because whenever she shares something with me, even if it’s a simple bit of personal information, I can’t help but want to know more. To follow up with question after question. So I always end up biting my tongue and cutting the conversation short. I wonder if she thinks I’m trying to ignore her purposely. I mean, I am to a certain degree, but not because I want to. Not only is it impossible to ignore her when she’s talking to me, but it would be rude if I did. That’s what I keep telling myself to justify the occasional exchanges here and there.
Aaron seems happy with how I’m handling things, though.
I do as I’m told, and I get to keep my job.
The “bright side” of things is that this new dynamic between Miss Murphy and me doesn’t allow her to get too comfortable asking questions about her mother. So that’s one less thing to worry about.
My new normal, so it seems, is to keep secrets from everyone around me. I’m legally obliged to lie to Miss Murphy. I’m constantly smuggling alcohol into my bedroom. And I fucked Annette against Aaron’s wishes for me to keep away from her. But somehow, the latter is not a cause of concern. Annette is anything but stupid. I’m convinced that word getting out about her sleeping with any of the security agents on the roster is not something that calls her attention.
