The Deepest Red (19 page)

“Yes. Mine,” he says after a weighted pause.

His beautiful eyes burn into mine, trying to express something that in my sheltered life, I’ve had no experience with. All I’m conscious of is the unnatural pull I have towards him, the inappropriate emotions flaring when I should extinguish them. It’s too consuming, this yearning for the man in front of me.
Is it normal to be this way or is something wrong with me?

His grip tightens near my shoulders, fingernails biting into my skin. I scrutinize Connor’s dark expression. He’s still continuing to struggle internally with himself. His eyes scan mine as if questioning me. I witness the moment he lets go, when whatever he’s struggling with no longer matters. With his decision made, he pulls me into him, molding us together. Butterflies explode from my stomach and chase each other around my arms and legs sending tingles in waves. I melt into his hard body.

My constant companion of loneliness gives way as Connor leans into me. His face draws nearer, as if testing my boundaries.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

I don’t respond. My breath begins to mingle with his and I take in the unique fragrance of him. His musky scent combined with the aroma of tilled earth, sweat and a smell of something I can’t identify. It brings up a memory of summer nights lying in the fields breathing in the cool air.

He is irresistible like this. My hands move lightly, tracing the line of his back, my right coming to rest on his shoulder as I guide him closer to me. He shutters.

“Tell me,” he pleads.

“No.”

Connor’s lips hesitate before touching mine, only to withdraw once they do- the moment too brief. I moan when he brushes against my mouth again.

“Connor, please,” I say tortured, until his hands move possessively to cup both my cheeks.

He takes my lips again more firmly, determined. I surprise myself with my reaction. Heat engulfs my body but the shiver that runs throughout fuels my lips to move frantically against his. I can’t get enough of his taste while he devours me with every kiss; each caress weakens my defenses. Every doubt, insecurity and feelings of guilt fade away. What he gives, I take, clasping onto him as if I need his touch to survive. My mouth parts slightly and Connor takes the action as an invitation to nip on the plumpness of my lower lip. Fire rips through my chest when he strokes the edge of my mouth with his tongue before invading inside again and again, angling his head to breathe his desperation into me.

Connor groans when my fingers start to tangle into the hair at his nape. The soft strands tickling my sensitive skin. The space between us non existent as I’m made aware of his hard excitement pressed against me. Involuntarily, my hips curve into him renewing his already blaring passion. A growl releases from Connor’s throat and I’m suddenly slammed into the house’s living room wall causing picture frames to rattle on their rusted nail supports. He repositions me roughly sending a thrill up my spine.

My skin burns as his lips travel down my jaw to the base of my neck. I revel in the weight of him pressed against me. My hands travel to the waistband of his blue jeans, skimming light touches beneath his stretched black shirt. One of my legs lift to bring him closer, a callous hand grips onto my thigh as he presses into my hips, allowing me to feel his solution to my ache.

The combination of Connor’s touches, his weight upon me and the frantic kisses that only linger in sensitive places causes my senses to overload as my arousal sharpens into an unbearable force. The undeniable lust flows through every vein- ending in my rapidly beating heart. The impulses spurring my actions demand I crave more, always more of him and him only. I cling to Connor and throb for him to become a part of me.

I take the bottom of his earlobe into my mouth, sucking gently. The pleasure of being allowed the sensual gesture on this deadly beautiful man transfers sparks to my core. At contact, I hear Connor’s surprised gasp followed by the sexiest moan I’ve ever heard. His grip on me tightens. I breathe him in again and flick the tip of my tongue onto the hollow space behind his ear. His hips rock into me creating a friction that releases a frenzy of nerves bouncing around in my skin. My hands fly to his face crooking his head so I can graze my teeth down his neck before kissing his hypnotic skin. Excitement fills every inch of my body.
I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

Passion, I am alive with it. The energy engulfs every fissure of my sanity. I latch onto it with both hands. My breathing quickens with the taste of his jaw, his neck, his tongue, the friction, his lips, Connor’s scent; I faintly hear his moans as the stinging ache builds more and more in me, the pressure building at every overwhelming sense. I’m lost.

His open hand strikes the wall behind us. The stiffen muscles support him as his breath rattles out. Connor’s eyes are heavy and unfocused. I realize he’s shaking, his weight now fully leaning on his braced hand. He shakes his head, Connor’s internal struggle reappearing in his gaze. Breathing heavily he whispers

“I’m sorry, Millie. I shouldn’t.”

He breaks away leaving me wanton.

“I don’t-” I tremble as I try to clear the fog from my head. Connor steps toward the front door. “I don’t understand,” I say baffled.

He spins.

“Forgive me. I can’t,” he pleads.

Confusion rakes me as I struggle to make sense of his actions. Connor turns to leave.

“Asshole!” I yell, not daring to follow.

I stand alone staring at the door where he vanished.
What the hell?

Outrage begins to fill the void left behind by his lack of closeness. My body calls out for him. It screams to understand. I clench my fist. For a moment, I was happy. In Connor’s arms I felt safe and fulfilled; nothing else mattered but the moment. I‘m beside myself with pure fury realizing I’ve tasted something I didn’t even know I wanted. Something that having been ripped away, stings bitterly. My fists tighten as I attempt to control my breathing. Confusion laces my annoyance. I want to yell, to scream,  to rip all the pictures off the  walls.
I’m over reacting.
I reach toward a side table lamp and grab the slender shape. With a frustrated growl, I throw the useless object across the room. It hits the wall breaking the tiny bulb inside. My breath slows as I shake out the tightness of my fingers.
I’m really over reacting.

A light tap at the door draws my attention. Clover steps into the door frame. She takes one look at me and steps right back out.

“I’m going to stand right here while you look around,” she says, turning her back toward me. “Just don’t….” she pauses in her sentence rethinking what she wants to say. “Take your time,” she finishes, remaining right outside the door.

I appreciate the privacy and the fact that she hadn't mentioned the lamp now laying in pieces on the floor.

“Thank you,” I say peering over at the mess I made.

I have things to accomplish, a home to go back to. For an instant my body refuses to move.
Get a grip
. The urge to race after Connor becomes strong. So many of my questions ramble together, all demanding to be answered, but I’m afraid all I will end up doing is punching him in the face. I recall all the infected he fought right outside these doors. Challenging him wouldn’t be a smart idea. Kissing him hadn’t been a smart idea either.

I walk over to the house’s log mantle and pick up one of the family photos. The glass jiggles in my hand. The frame is coated with a layer of thick dust. I endeavor to regain my composure and focus on the family again.
Breathe,
I tell myself calmly.
Focus.
The shaking in my hand slowly subsides.
Where do I know the father from?
I ignore any other thoughts of Connor and his frustrating behavior.

I decide to do what I came here for and search the abandoned belongings. Something inside of my subconsciousness wanted me to find this place for some unknown reason so I would be stupid to waste this opportunity. I ascend up the house’s creaking stairs. The wood is rotten in a few spots but still sturdy enough to support my weight. I’ve never seen a house with wooden stairs before or for that matter, a home for only one family. The whole layout is fascinating to me. In the prison, we fashioned the cell blocks into living quarters for families and individuals. It isn’t much but it’s your own space to do what you like with. The boarded up bars give you some sense of privacy which helps.

At the top of the stairs, I find a small loft area. I lean over the railings peering down at the living room below.

“Damn Connor,” I whisper aloud.

I scold myself for allowing him one more thought and focus my attention on the open doors of the narrow hallway.

“Here goes nothing,” I mumble to myself.

The first room I peek into has faded green paint on the walls. The vast space must have belonged to the small boy. Toys litter the musty carpet as pictures of fast cars decorate the boy’s bedroom walls. A shelf area proudly displays baseball trophies and blue ribbons. I could never imagine this much room for only myself. I sigh, knowing this family’s fate probably didn’t end well. Remorse mixes with my heartache as I slowly back out of the boy’s shrine.

The next room I come across belonged to the parents. The large king size bed lays perfectly made- the lady’s jewelry box opened with her necklaces displayed. I see socks lying on the floor opposite of hers. I frown at the site. My Dad always left his socks in the same location, right beside his bed. The memory brings a slither of regret as I explore the room further, checking the closet and pulling out clothes that might fit. Thankfully, the mother and I appear to be about the same size.

I raffle through each piece of clothing deciding what may be useful and end up settling on a pair of blue jeans and thin soft jacket. Multiple pockets line the front and inside of the tailored leather. The new clothing will be perfect with colder weather coming so soon. I also pack two extra shirts inside my supply bag, just in case.

In the large walk in closet my eyes land on an oversized mocha colored beret, I snatch it up discarding my dirty fisherman hat. Twisting my hair up and around, I hide the strands within the confinement of the soft fabric. As I’m securing the new hat upon my head an awkward box catches my attention. Allowing my curiosity to get the best of me, I reach for it. My fingers run along the smooth wooden finish. The cold metal lock unlatches with a pop.

Lying on a beautiful brown lining inside are two uniquely fashioned weapons. The first is a simple lined hammer but where it should be flat to drive in the nails, a small point juts out. My eyes widen as I pluck the item out of its resting place, testing the weight. The handle is made of red marble that fits the groove of my hand. Returning it back to the brown lining, I take a second to examine the other weapon. It looks like a tomahawk but the blade is the shape of a butterfly’s wing. Along the opposite side of the wing it narrows into a sharp point. Picking the weapon up by its matching handle, I perceive it is just as lightweight as its companion. The weight feels at home in my hands.

A strange feeling seeps into my mind as I turn its blade over to glimpse an engraving. Etched into the metal is the likeness of a centipede. Cold chills run through my nerves at the familiar creature. I drop the tomahawk instantly allowing the well crafted weapon to crash into the wooden container. My eyes close as Tom’s smile surfaces in my thoughts. The image is short lived, replaced by the imprint of his lifeless eyes staring at the calm sky. I shudder as I shut away the weapons, twisting the box knowingly to view words carved into the bottom. There in a thin font the words “The Red Centipede” stare back at me.

I’m up and on my feet moving before I register where I’m going. The door to the little boy’s room bounces off the wall when I throw it open. In three large steps, I grab the first trophy I come across. The plaque below the statue of the golden baseball reads “First Place Championship Tom Watson.” The words leave my lips in a breath. My mind freezes on the name Tom Watson, Old Tom. My breath catches in my throat as I process every crazy detail. I’m in Tom’s childhood home. The memories he shared with me just the other day become more real to me. I replay his story again and all my senses heighten. That’s why the father in the picture looked so familiar. He looks like a younger version of Tom without the beard and Tom’s spark in his eyes.
Where did his dad go?
The house seems almost perfect, nothing out of place, so why would he not go to the school to find his child? It couldn’t have been that hard.

I don’t realize my face is wet until I observe a small drop of moisture fall on the face of the trophy. Shocked, my fingertips extend to trace the line of dampness on my cheek. With a crack, my heart breaks. The tears begin to flow freely from my eyes- flowing down my cheeks and dripping off my jaw line. I was wondering when I would finally break. I tried so long to ignore the child inside me who only wanted to sit down in darkness and sob. I was distracting myself with whatever I could find but no longer. I hear nothing but my ragged breath and the quiet surrounding the large room. Recalling everything at once sends me over the edge.

I sit down, rocking back and forth with Tom’s childhood trophy clutched in my grasp. I allow myself to feel this gut wrenching pain- the overwhelming ache that grabs hold of you and shakes you hard till your brain says no more. The chaotic emotion drains my body and leaves me weak and helpless. I continue to sit long after the tears stop and my cheeks are dry. Staring blindly at nothing, I internally attempt to cope with my new reality. If Clover or Connor comes to check on me, I don’t hear them. Maybe they heard my silent cry and decided it best to leave me be or leave me here alone for good. I wouldn’t blame them. I’m disturbed, I reason with myself.