Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
I sighed, and zapped myself back to A.J.
“Too soon!” A.J. shouted, his voice echoing off the bathroom tile and the walls of the shower stall.
Alison had to laugh. “I’m kind of not in control here,” she told him.
He had her pinned against the tile wall, the shower running and steaming up the entire room, creating a thick fog that swirled around them.
“I’m not either,” he breathed. He didn’t stop moving as he lifted his head to look into her eyes. He’d set a rhythm that
was both slow and steady—and not quite complete. He was withholding, just a little bit, and try as she might to change that, even by tightening her legs around his waist, her efforts were fruitless.
“You’re killing me,” she told him, and he smiled.
He’d carried her all the way from the kitchen, and although he was a big man, she was no lightweight at five-foot-eleven. But he made it seem effortless, one big hand beneath her butt as he used the other to turn on the shower.
She’d reached for her medicine cabinet, where she had a small supply of condoms—a gift from Hugh, who’d told her that even though he wasn’t allowed to be a Boy Scout, he’d embraced their motto:
Be prepared
.
So she’d grabbed a handful and carried them with her into the shower stall.
Only then did A.J. set her down.
He’d washed her, which was lovely, even as she returned the favor, careful of his shoulders and back—which really weren’t as badly scraped as she’d feared. She marveled at how nicely he was put together, loving the way he responded so visibly to her touch, but then finding and tracing a scar that he had both on his abdomen, and on his back. It looked like something had gone clear through him, but when she’d murmured, “That must’ve hurt,” he didn’t stop kissing her long enough to say more than “Hor al-Hammar.”
She’d wanted to know more. Was Hor al-Hammar a place or a person’s name or a type of weapon? She honestly didn’t know.
But he just kissed her and kissed her, his hands urgent against her body, lighting her on fire all over again.
He’d used one of her condoms to cover himself and …
Here they were.
Making love for the second time in an hour.
“Please,” she gasped. “More,
please
…” And just like that he pushed himself all the way inside of her, giving her exactly what she wanted. Just because she’d asked.
And God, it felt so good and yes, maybe it
was
too soon, but it felt right to her and she felt herself go and she heard
herself shouting, both his name and
yes
, like women did in clichéd romantic comedies. But maybe there was a reason shouting
yes
was a cliché—because she had never before in her life felt such a positive affirmative, and maybe the feeling was universal, at least when it came to off-the-chart orgasms and the amazing, wonderful, sexy men who delivered them.
Yes, this was great.
Yes, she was coming.
Yes, she couldn’t believe how in tune she was with this man, who was coming now, too, with his own strangled shouts of her name—Alison, Alison,
Alison
—as if she were a goddess he was worshiping, or the answer to his lifelong prayers.
But then it was over, and they were both breathing hard.
Alison kept her eyes closed, wanting to hang on to that feeling, that
yes
, just a little bit longer. But the tile was hard and cold against her back, and as strong as A.J. was, his muscles had to be well past the straining point.
So she sighed and shifted slightly.
But he didn’t release her. He just broke the silence. “Is it weird,” he said, his voice just slightly louder than the rush of the water, his forehead against the tile above her left shoulder, “that I’m filled with this … longing. To stay just like this, and maybe even take a nap, right here?”
Alison laughed. “Yes, that’s a little weird,” she told him. “Come on, let me down. I’ll get us some towels.”
He did just that, and she stepped under the spray for one final rinse, pushing open the shower door as he took a turn under the water.
She opened the linen closet carefully—her new procedure was to check every cabinet, every closet, every room for snakes before going or reaching in—and pulled out a clean towel for him. Hers was already on the rack.
She turned to hand it to him as he shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. “Is Hor al-Hammar a city?” she asked.
He hesitated just slightly before answering. “It was an area—a region. A part of Iraq that was … It was also a
marsh. There was a village—a really small one—at the edge that was called … Well, the name was long and difficult to pronounce so the army just called it Hor al-Hammar.”
“I don’t know much about the First Gulf War,” she admitted.
“Most people don’t.”
“Yeah, but I’m an historian.”
“It doesn’t matter,” A.J. said as he finished drying himself. “You still wouldn’t have heard of Hor al-Hammar. The village, anyway. It was tiny. It was … People lived there and … A lot of good people died there.”
“Then I’m sure that I should have heard of it.”
“No,” he said. “They were civilians. Iraqis. They didn’t count.”
“That’s awful,” Alison said.
“Yes, it is.” He met her eyes only briefly as he wrapped the towel around his waist. “I’m going to go sweep up the kitchen floor.”
He left the bathroom, but then turned back. “Look, I just want you to know that … This is going to sound nuts, but … That’s the most that I’ve talked about it, since it happened. I mean, you know, aside from the times that they …
made
me talk about it, and even then, it wasn’t really me talking. It was me, telling them what they wanted to hear and … I do trust you. Very much. I just … Don’t like to talk about it.”
She had her own towel wrapped around her and she held it on with both hands as she looked back into the familiar blue of his eyes. “I’m just glad that you weren’t one of the people who died there.”
“For a long time,” he said, “I almost was. I still sometimes wonder …”
“You’re alive,” she told him past her heart, which was lodged firmly in her throat. She made herself smile. “I know, because … Well, let’s just say you definitely have a pulse and a very healthy circulatory system. Good blood flow.”
A.J. laughed. And then stepped back into the bathroom and kissed her.
July 26, 1898
Dear Diary
,
He is going to hurt me badly. Not tonight, because he is still recovering from a gunshot wound
.
No, not tonight, but soon
.
I am locked here in this tiny room beneath the stairs. I’ve tried to get out, but there are no windows, and the door is sealed with an iron bolt
.
I don’t regret what I did. I saved a man’s life—the gambler who came to our door, who risked his own life for mine
.
When I heard of the plot to kill him, I knew I had no choice
.
The monster was still in the parlor with the Texan, planning the ambush, and I slipped out the back door into the unearthly darkness before dawn, wearing only my nightdress, with my feet bare
.
I ran to the saloon, where the Texan had said the gambler was still playing poker, but went in the back door. The tiny kitchen was empty, save for one serving girl, whom I didn’t recognize. She didn’t seem surprised to see me in my nightgown, I suppose because she was wearing even less than I
.
I asked her to give a message to my gambler, requesting that he come to the kitchen to speak with me. I gave her the locket around my neck for the favor, and off she dutifully went
.
It seemed forever before the kitchen doors opened, but they finally did open, and he was standing there
.
It was only then that I realized the immodesty of my nightgown and my state of disarray. I could see in the gambler’s eyes that he was not immune to my charms
.
He moved toward me—he knew my name. “Are you all right?”
He was bigger, stronger than I’d thought, and my instincts were to shy away from him. But I lifted my chin and held my ground
.
“You’re the one in danger,” I said, and told him about the monster’s plan to kill him
.
The gambler checked his gun and his supply of ammunition as I talked
.
“What are you going to do?” I asked
.
“Well,” he said. “They want me to leave the saloon, so …’Pears to me that first thing I need to do is
, not
leave the saloon.”
“But the barkeep will be told to shut the game down,” I said
.
“There are … other games to be played in an establishment like this,” he told me, and I knew he was talking about the women who worked on their backs
.
I used to scorn them, but unlike me, they get paid for their pain
.
He seemed embarrassed. “Not that I’d … actually … It would just be to have someplace to go,” he explained, “until I have time to think things through.”
I started to protest—he should leave now, leave town for good—but he reached out and put a finger on my lips, then pushed my hair back from my face. I couldn’t believe a man could be so gentle. I still wonder if I imagined his caress, imagined the softness in his uncommonly pretty eyes
.
“I’ll be fine,” my gambler said quietly. “Thank you, but … Go home. Run quickly, before he misses you.”
I stopped at the door, looking back at him. “Don’t die,” I said, wondering at the fact that I should even care. It is an odd sensation, this caring
.
He smiled at me, a sparkling smile that I shall hold tightly to in my mind even as the monster hurts me
.
He smiled and it was like the sunrise, but then I slipped out the door, back into the darkness of the night
.
This time, after it was over, A.J. had fallen asleep.
He woke up now, still sprawled half on top of Alison, entangled together in the sheets of her bed, his face against a sweet-smelling pillow that he was—nice—drooling onto.
He lifted his head and wiped his mouth and chin, and found her awake and watching him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“For what?” she asked. She was so beautiful, lying there, her hair disheveled and her eyes half-closed, her smile wide and warm.
As he shifted off her, she turned on her side to face him, head propped up on one hand, elbow out. She didn’t try to cover herself, even though it hadn’t been that long, hours-wise, since she’d been embarrassed by her nakedness, out in her kitchen.
Of course, that third time he’d made love to her, here in her bed, he’d spent a lot of time looking and touching and tasting.
And nearly no time talking.
So much for his plan.
He could’ve stopped what he was doing. And okay, certainly not that first time they’d gone at it. And not the second time, either. The urgency had been off the charts in both cases.
But number three?
The massage oil and the cunnilingus and the hours—literally hours, plural—of foreplay, before he’d slid inside of her and rocked himself to heaven …
That was on him. That was him knowing he’d screwed this up and willfully screwing it up even further.
“You hungry?” she asked now. “I don’t have a whole lot of food here in the house. A couple cans of soup, some frozen waffles …”
“Oh,” he said, “no. Thanks, but …” He wasn’t hungry. In fact, his stomach was tight, because it was long past time to get the conversation started. Unless …
“I’ve already kept you up way too late,” he added. “If you have to be up early for that location-scouting thing—”
She shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to Hugh yet, but he’s going to have to go without me. My priority has to be getting my books and files out of my trailer. As soon as it’s light, I’m going to start organizing that.”
“I can help,” A.J. said. “We can use my truck.”
“That would be great, thanks.” She leaned over and kissed
him, her mouth soft and cool against his lips. “You scare me a little sometimes. You just seem too good to be true.”
A.J. laughed as he shook his head. “I’m not, um … I’m … Um …” It was the perfect segue, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t find the right words. Probably because there were no right words.
Oh, by the way? I’m probably crazy
.
She kissed him again and sat up, swinging her long legs out of bed. “I know the idea of a postmidnight waffle didn’t thrill you, but I’m starving. You don’t have to move if you don’t want to. I can bring it back in here.”
She’d found a bathrobe that had been tossed over the back of a chair, and she pulled it on as A.J., too, sat up.
“No,” he said. “Actually, something to drink would be nice.” His towel was on the floor where he’d dropped it, and he picked it up now and secured it back around his waist.
This was good. This would get them into the kitchen, where they could sit at the table, and he could tell her … what he had to tell her.
He followed her down the hall as she said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said. You know, before the sky fell in? About Melody warning Jamie, and I just can’t make it work. But that’s part of the problem. I’ve never been able to make sense of the reported logistics of the shoot-out at the Red Rock. Silas Quinn left something out. Maybe if Melody were having an affair with Jamie, and Quinn was trying to protect her—”
“That’s not what happened,” A.J. said. And damn it, their wet clothes were still on the kitchen floor, along with all that dirt he’d never managed to sweep up.
“I’m just thinking aloud here.” Alison just stepped over most of it, scooping up her own clothes and tossing them into a laundry basket that was in the corner of the room. She went to the fridge and got out both a pitcher of lemonade and what looked like iced tea. “Help yourself. There’s OJ, too.”
She opened the freezer and frowned inside of it, rummaging around as he got out the same dustpan and broom that he’d used to sweep up the broken glass. Was that really just yesterday?
“You know, even if we embrace your story”—she turned to point at him with a box of waffles—“and I’m not saying that’s what I’m doing. I’m just theorizing. But you said yourself that you were just a child when your great-grandfather told you what he told you. You might’ve gotten the kid-friendly version. You know, Great-grampa helped Great-gramma escape from her mean first husband, instead of a more sordid truth. Great-grampa was fooling around with Great-gramma even though she was a married lady, and she fell in love and left her first husband to be with him. You don’t have to do that—it can wait until the morning.”