Page 18 of Honeyed

In my wildest dreams, I would have carried her back to some hotel room or venue suite, all the white lace she’d be wearing draped over my arm as she clung to my neck.

I’d have let her slide down my body as I lowered her to the ground, then bent on my knees to unstrap the fuck-me heels from her feet. My hands would roam up those beautiful legs, kneading the smooth skin as I teased and nipped at her ankles with my mouth. When she begged me to lay her down, I’d slowly unzip her wedding dress and let it fall, revealing whatever mouthwatering lingerie she’d picked for the occasion. If I knew Alana, she’d pick some bombshell scrap of lace to make me lose my mind.

And as I wriggled her free of it, revealing those perfectly round, bouncing tits, she’d strip me of my bowtie and tux. I’d take her to the bed, laying her down as my cock ached to be inside the woman who’d just become my wife. She’d watch me with love shining in her eyes as I settled my mouth between those gorgeous thighs and inhale the scent of her. One time, Alana let slip that she got waxed for special occasions. Thinking of all that bare skin, her juices glistening just for me to taste … it made my head spin.

When she was good and writhing, pleading with me to take her, I’d crawl up her body and push into her on a groan. I’d make love to her, slow and diligent, while never letting my eyes stray from hers. Our climaxes would explode together, dragging us under as I wrapped myself in her. Eventually, after many days and nights of “practice” and creative new ways of exploring each other’s bodies, I’d hope to make a baby with her.

Needless to say, I ended the night with my hand wrapped around my dick, dreaming of my wife whose bed I’d never share if I could help it.

I’d slowly torture myself by living under the same roof as her, but I survived this long keeping my hands off her. Surely, I could do it for a while longer … right?

Keeping the look of nerves and fear that her eyes held in that courtroom fresh in my brain would do it. Alana was so unsure of this, so cautious. Look how easy it had been to walk away from me after our wedding? I haven’t heard from her since.

No, there would be no long nights spent between the sheets. It’s just agony that I know exactly what that feels like with her.

“Warren Teal, it’s good to finally meet you.”

I’m so lost in my head as I round the street on my way into work that I don’t notice a soul around me. With still no word from Alana and hoping I could catch her here to discuss moving my stuff in, I headed to the pizzeria to distract myself. I’m good at work; I slip easily into the role of manager that I’ve held for years. The customers know me and rely on me. Local businesses always come to me to put in their catering orders or request a reservation for an event or party. People I’ve grown up with stop by to chat on their lunch breaks over a slice.

My life isn’t the fairy tale I imagined it could be when pro scouts were coming out to watch me play high school football, but I’m happy. It’s enough.

My steps falter, and I direct my full attention to the man who just said my name, leaning against the brick wall outside the front door of Hope Pizza.

“I’m sorry, do we have a meeting?” As far as I’m concerned, the only thing on my schedule today is re-organizing all the chipped or broken dishes in the kitchen.

“We don’t, but I’ve been curious about you for longer than you know.” The guy is a head shorter than I am, wearing blue jeans and a red polo. He extends his hand, and I cautiously shake it back. “Mason Klein, director. I’m here to talk to you about doing a documentary I’m shooting.”

Immediately, my hackles rise, because I have an inkling as to what this could be about. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m late for work. If you want to email me, I can grab—”

“It’ll just be a second of your time.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. “I’m shooting a documentary series for a big streamer on your father’s crime and sentence. We would love to get you on camera, hear about the murder from your point of view.”

This guy, Mason apparently, speaks as if we’ve had intimate conversations about my mother’s death and go way back. He stares at me, his unsettling blue eyes holding mine expectantly, as if he isn’t a complete stranger accosting me on the street about the worst moments of my life. Cass has talked a time or two about Hollywood or film types having no souls, about how they’re only in it for the notoriety and fame. I can safely say I’ve never experienced that until right this minute.

“Leave,” I grit out, trying to contain my anger. “Not only is it inappropriate for you to show up at my place of business, but it’s completely invasive of you to phrase anything like you just did. I don’t know if you’ve spoken to my father or what kind of crime junky you are, but I won’t be talking to you. Not today, not ever. Stay away from me.”

With that, I swing open the door to Hope Pizza and stomp inside, all the way to the back, as I ignore a call from Leona at the lunch counter.

Even after I stick my head between my knees and huff out some breaths, I feel like I might still pass out. A documentary. My father. Large streamer.

It’s been seventeen years since I last saw my mother alive, seventeen years since I learned of the atrocities my father committed against her. Now some rubbernecker was going to dredge it all back up and put her death on a screen for the whole world to judge and dissect.

I’m clenching my jaw so hard my molars almost crack as I stalk into my office and throw myself into the chair. A vise grips my lungs, making it hard to breathe. My vision goes spotty, like everything I’ve experienced in twenty-four hours is catching up to me and it is all I can do to stay conscious.

Out of all my friends and the Ashton family, I am the calm one—the easy, laid-back guy. I don’t get worked up easily and never let my emotions best me, but underneath it all is a venomous poison. If I let that loose, if I let people see the immense trauma, I’ll never be able to keep it from drowning me.

From the funeral to the lies to the wedding to this documentary filmmaker … my system is on overload, and the reliable, nice guy facade is slipping.

“You good?” Patrick walks into my office with a stack of papers in his hands.

It takes my brain a second to come out of the fog and for my panic to subside. “Fine. All good.”

Except that I married your sister yesterday, and no one on this godforsaken earth knows except for two random people in Truesdale. Oh, and that I was just accosted about my murderous father. But other than that …

Jesus, lying is becoming a personality trait for me, I guess. Witnessed by the wedding ring I pulled off my hand and stuck in the glove compartment before I got out of my car.

My friend eyes me like he doesn’t quite believe me, but I know he won’t push me. Patrick and I, along with the other two Ashton brothers, have become close over the years. They know I look out for their sister, and since we all spend so much time together, it’s not odd for us to strike up relationships of our own. Liam, Patty, and I all go for beers often, or we hang and watch sports on the weekends.

“The architecture firm we catered that company party for last year wants to do it again.” He lays an intake form on my desk. “You’ll call them?”

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