Page 19 of Fanged Secrets
That realization prompted my next question. “I understand that, it’s so peaceful up here. Even the apartment feels like a haven. How do you do it – how do you keep your home life so separate from your… work?”
A shadow passed over Dylan’s features then. “Trust me, I don’t.”
She looked at me with an odd expression that I couldn’t quite place. Dylan moved like she wanted to take my hand, but then decided against it, instead choosing to fold her arms over her chest. “Look, the less you know about my work, the better it is for the both of us.”
Worried that she might close up entirely, I quickly added, “It’s just that, I worry about you sometimes – when you just disappear without any warning. I wish you would at least tell me where you’re going, and when you’re going to be back.”
I found myself walking a knife’s edge between truth and deceit. My concern for her was real, but I also needed information. The balancing act was exhausting, veiling my intentions under layers of truth.
Dylan’s expression smoothed out, settling into that all too familiar mask she wore when we first met. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
I balled my fists in my lap, mouth opening and closing without a sound. She didn’t trust me. Of course she didn’t trust me. And why should she? I was using her. But the notion crushed me anyway. Because Ididcare, and Ididworry. I needed that information to give to Don but I also needed to know for my own sake. I needed to know so I could quite pacing through the apartment wondering if she was all right, worrying if she was hurt.
Caring for someone was a double-edged blade, loving Aliyah had taught me that. The more I reached for her the more I hurt the both of us. This was no different.
Tears of frustration pricked my eyes and I dashed a hand across my face, angling myself away from Dylan while I struggled to keep my composure. I stared out at the city, dotted lights blurring as I blinked away tears. I sat like that for a while, half-expecting Dylan to get up and leave. Or maybe just up and disappear like she always did, like she always would. Because we would never be anything more than what we were.
Instead, I felt cold fingers lightly touch my wrist. They uncurled my stubborn fist and pressed a shred of paper into my palm. I lifted it to my face and read the scrawled writing:
Monday, Red Hook Dock
Home in the morning
Confused, I looked up at Dylan who shrugged stiffly. “That’s the next job. I’ll be out all night so there’s no need to wait up for me. Anddo not, under any circumstances, follow me again. You’ll get us both into trouble.”
I stared at her, astounded, and Dylan scowled in response. “Don’t make me regret this. And don’t read too much into iteither. I just don’t want you watering my plants with your tears again. Salt is bad for the hydrangeas.”
A small smile crept across my face and I pocketed the note, typing out a sincere thank you on my cell, sniveling back my tears all the while.
Dylan shook her head, raking a hand through her hair. “Fuck, if I knew how easily you’d get under my skin I would never have let Jordan talk me into this marriage.”
I laughed then, loud enough to feel it in my chest, and quickly cut it short with a hand over my mouth, apprehensively glancing at Dylan. On instinct, I expected ridicule for whatever sound came out of my mouth. But Dylan only looked pensive, leaning closer and lowering my hand. Her hands were cool to the touch, porcelain white and slender like the rest of her.
“You don’t need to do that. Me and my plants don’t have anything to say about it.”
Her words brought fresh tears to my eyes and Dylan promptly snatched her hand away. “Oh god, don’t start crying again. Please, think of the hydrangeas!”
The laughter bubbled up alongside a massive sob and Dylan watched with faint bewilderment while I giggled and hiccupped and wiped tears from my eyes. When I was finally breathing normally again, Dylan started flipping through the rest of the sketchbook, crossing a leg over her knee and slouching against the bench.
I allowed it, considering they were all sketches of her plants after all, until Dylan turned another page and paused.
“Well, well,” she mouthed, and my soul damn near left my body when I got a look at the page she was inspecting. It was the drawing of her, moody pout, abyssal eyes and all. I jolted upright and made a grab for the sketchbook, but Dylan lifted it out of my reach, holding me back with a palm to the face.
Through her fingers I could see her cackling, catching some of her words as she teased me. “I’m honored – feel so special – maybe next time you can draw me like one of your French girls.”
Mortified, I lunged at her, scrambling onto her lap while I reached for the book. Dylan leaned back against the bench, holding the sketchbook above her head and laughing, the glee on her face sending my heart somersaulting. It was only when I finally managed to get a hold of the sketchbook that I realized I was straddling her, one hand reaching upwards for the book and the other bunched in the fabric of her shift.
I froze instantly, and Dylan did too, arm still raised skywards alongside mine. Her face was inches from my own, her lips parted slightly, and her chest rose and fell with each breath. Her other hand was on my thigh, holding me steady, and I felt her grip tighten when I nervously bit down on my lip.
I could feel the weight of what was expected of me, of what I had to do to get the freedom I so desperately wanted. But I could also feel Dylan’s heart beating steadily under my fist. I unfurled my fingers and flattened my hand over her pulse, and Dylan drew in a ragged breath in response.
Slowly, she lowered the sketchbook and dropped it beside us, gripping my free hand and bringing it to her chest. Her lips moved slowly, while I shivered against her. “You’re really talented, Amara.”
I couldn’t respond, couldn’t compute. I was preoccupied with the way my thighs parted around her waist, the way the muscles in her throat moved, the way her hair draped over her shoulders like ink-black waterfalls. It was as if someone had plunged a flaming blade through my neck down to my pelvis. Governed by my senses alone, I wanted to close the gap between us. But I couldn’t bring myself to move – not when I knew how this marriage would end.
Finally, when I thought my heart might pound right out of my ribcage, Dylan’s lips curved into a small smile and she nodded slightly as if in acknowledgment of my unspoken thoughts. She gently shifted my body off her lap and stood up, straightening out her collar, and helped me to my feet.
“Well,” Dylan gripped my shoulders to steady me, keeping herself at arm's length, “it’s been a long day – we should probably get to bed. I’ll take the couch tonight.”
