Shattered and Shaken Read online

  As I enter the home, I'm awe struck by its beauty. The architectural features in this home are indescribable. Above me are barrel-vault ceilings, and just above my head hangs an upside-down crystal chandelier. It's absolutely stunning. Blinking several times, I take a few steps forward and take in the rest of the home. The walls are painted a shade of gray and they're outlined with thick white crown molding. The cherry hardwoods shine as if they've recently been waxed. I can see my reflection in them. To my right is a spiral staircase with a white banister topped with a cherry wood-like railing, and I'm left wondering what it looks like upstairs.

  As if Blake could read my mind, he takes my hand and leads me toward the staircase. “Allie and I are gonna go up and get settled,” he says, leading us up the steps.

  “Do you think I'm letting you two sleep in the same room?” Clair questions, raising one of her perfectly arched brows. Blake doesn't stop to answer her; he just continues leading up to the room, one step at a time.

  “Answer her Blake,” I say so only he can hear. I stop following him and tug his hand back, causing him to still.

  He leans over the banister, our hands still entwined. “Yes ma'am. We share a place back home, why not here?” He pushes off the banister and pulls me forward.

  “Blake, no. There will be no baby makin' under this roof,” she yells up the stairs.

  Blake pays his mother no attention. I yank my hand from his. “Blake, we can't be disrespectful. Show me to my own room... please,” I plead, clutching my hands to my chest, batting my lashes, and pouting my lip.

  He tilts his head back and lifts his eyes to the ceiling as if he's considering it. “Um, that's cute and all, but no.” He turns on his heels and makes his way up the steps. That's it? No explanation, nothing? I stand still and cross my arms over my chest, refusing to move until he caves. When he realizes I'm not following behind him, he turns around and gives me a questionable look. “You coming?” he asks, slowly making his way back down to me.

  I shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes. “No. Not unless you let me have my own room. It's Clair's home and I don’t want to be disrespectful,” I reply.

  He tucks his hands into the front pocket of his jeans and steps off each step with a bounce. He has his head cocked slightly to the side and he’s biting his bottom lip. He pauses on the step in front of me. “Oh yeah?” he asks, eyeing me seductively.

  “Yeah,” I reply, placing my hands on my hips.

  “Huh,” he bends down, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder; a squeal escapes me. Bringing my hands to my mouth, I try to silence myself, but I can't contain the laughter that escapes me. He carries me up the rest of the steps, down to the end of the hall, and into a dark room. He kicks the door shut behind us. He walks us over to a bed and lays me down, turning back to lock the door. I scoot up the bed until my back's against the headboard. “Where you goin' baby,” he asks, holding his hands out to the side.

  I pull my knees up to my chest and lock my arms around them, dropping my head into my knees. “I hear no evil, I see no evil,” I chant, but he just shakes his head and smiles. In my mind, I'm committed to not having sex with him under his parents’ roof. I hope it's a commitment I can follow.

  A short while later, Blake drags our bags upstairs, and despite his efforts to persuade me to share his room, I'm sleeping solo. As he removes his belongings from his duffle bag, I make my way across the hall to the guest room, rolling a suitcase behind me. When I open the door, the mango aroma overtakes my senses. I enter the room and look around; it's immaculate. The walls are a pastel mint green, trimmed with the same crown molding as downstairs, and over in the North West corner of the room, there's a fireplace embedded in river stones.

  I roll my case over to the bed and see that there's an archway leading into a bathroom. I can't see much, all I can see is a marble top double vanity and window. I set my case aside and curiously make my way towards the bathroom, and holy shit, I must be in the wrong room. There is no way the rest of the house looks this way; this has to be Mr. And Mrs. Andrews' room. To the left of me I see an oval-shaped sunken tub with a stone fountain attached to the side of it, and there's a television at the edge of the tub - right where your feet relax. I turn on my heels and abruptly exit the room, making my way to Blake. He's in his closet hanging up his clothes when I rush through his door. “Um, I think you told me the wrong room,” I say in a panic. Don't ask me why I'm panicking, because I don't have a clue. All I know is that for some reason, my pulse is racing, and my throat's constricting.

  Blake drops his shirt and hanger and rushes to my side. “You okay?” he asks, concerned.

  I force a swallow and slightly nod my head. “Yeah, it’s just, well, that room's immaculate Blake. It's not fit for a guest.”

  He backs away and looks at me in confusion. “So what you're saying is, you don't think you're good enough to be in that room?” he points across the hall. That's not what I said, really, but if I lived here that would be my room, not a guest room.

  “Yes. No... I mean, you directed me to the guest room and clearly that,” I extend my arm toward the room across the hall, “isn't a guest room. It's a freaking penthouse suite, Blake,” I shout in a whisper-like tone.

  He turns away chuckling and proceeds to hang up his shirt. “If you think that room's too much, you should see theirs. It takes up most of this floor. Its square footage is as much as my condo.” Why does anyone need a bedroom so large when all you do is sleep, fuck, and make love in it? Blake hangs his shirt and shuts the closet. “Yours is the guest room. I wanted you to have your own bathroom while you were here. This is a large house, and you’re accident prone,” he says with laughter in his voice, “so I can't have you wondering around in the dark by yourself. It'd be disastrous. Plus, I planned on sharing that room with you, but your insistent ass threw me out before I could show you around. I had plans for all that space over there.”

  Damn. Why does he have to say things like that to me? You know, they say our bodies are made up of mostly water; we're practically a sponge. And when he makes statements like that, I swear the only thing made up of liquid on my body is my lady. She's heated and wet. I'm reconsidering my commitment. Technically, it's Blake's house too.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE LAST THREE DAYS have flown by. The Andrews have been so kind to me, treating me as if I'm a part of the family. We have breakfast together each morning, coffee and scones before lunch, and we always eat dinner at seven sharp, something I haven't experienced since my father's passing. Before each meal we all hold hands, and either Blake or Aken - Blake's father - say blessings over our food. It's been so long since I've prayed. The holding of hands and bowing of heads seems foreign to me. I just close my eyes, bow my head, and pretend. Unlike the Andrews, I've learned from experience that God doesn't listen to us; if he did, I'd still have my father and brother here in the flesh. If he listened to our cries, he would've sent Wyatt back to me after I begged for help to heal my broken heart. Over the years, I've cried, I've plead, and prayed for peace, and yet I received nothing. I gave up.

  When the food's blessed, Blake always ends by lifting my hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss to the back of my hand, squeezing it gently before he releases. It's a simple gesture, but the meaning behind it means much more to me than it probably would to anyone else. It's a action most people take for granted because they're used to affection, but not me; I embrace the moments, commit them to memory. My only wish right now, is that time would slow down. I love being here with the Andrews. It's nice to feel wanted and to be involved with the family. Back home the only family I have is my mother, and she's wrapped up in Jack so tightly I'm surprised either one of them are able to breathe.

  Okay, enough wishing; wishing is useless. Making a wish is like pissing in one hand and wishing in the other; one's going to fill up and the other will remain empty. And I've got a date to finish dressing for. Clair and Aken have a charity event they have to attend this evening, so Blake
asks me where I would like to go for dinner. I tell him the Cheesecake Factory. He breaks out into a smile as soon as the word “cheese” exits my mouth. “Cheesecake Factory? Have you been Googling local restaurants love?” he asks surprised. I burst into a fit of giggles from his reaction. His face lights up like a child on Christmas morning.

  He has a not-so-secret obsession with cheesecake. I wrap my arms around his back and rest my head on his chest. Looking up to him, I say, “No, I saw the sign as we were in the cab, driving through town.” Even though I didn't Google local restaurants, I did look up their menu; their list of different types of cheesecake is never ending. I was sold when I read over the description of their “Toasted Marshmallow S' mores Galore” cheesecake.

  We arrive at the restaurant twenty minutes later; traffic in this area is congested and out-right ridiculous. Most of the drivers are complete assholes. No one uses their blinkers; they ride your ass like they own it, and they cut you off as if your car doesn't exist! I'm also agitated because of the humidity here. As soon as I walked out the front door, my hair frizzed up and sweat consumed my entire body. My dress is sticking to me and my thighs are rubbing together. Gross.

  Once we take our seats at our booth, I take the thick menu and begin to fan myself, “You okay, babe? You look a little flustered... or am I making you all hot and bothered?” he teases.

  I look at him and smirk. “Let’s just say, I'm hot and bothered and it's not from you. Well, at least it wasn't until you dropped me that panty-droppin' smile just then,” I say, continuing to fan the heat away from my chest and face.

  He bites onto his bottom lip and reaches under the table, spreading his hand onto the top of my thigh. “I wish I could cool you down, but we both know that if I get any closer to you, we're going to burn this motherfucker down,” he whispers against my neck. And he's telling the truth people; the warmth from his breath that connected with the heat from my body just caused a spark. The temperature seems to be rising, and it causes me to fan faster, harder. “Let me help,” Blake says, taking the menu from my hand. He leans in closer and begins to blow, his air colliding with my neck. Heedlessly, I tilt my head back, resting it against the back of the booth, exposing my neck. The tickle from his breath sends delectable waves of heat down to my sex, and my insides are bubbling like a hot tub. His fingers begin to tickle the inside of my thigh; my eyelids close involuntarily and an unanticipated moan escapes my lips.

  “Ahem.” My eyes snap open to a young redheaded waitress ready to take our orders. More heat gathers in my face, and I know I must look like I have a serious case of rosacea. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?” she asks, clicking her pen. I'm too embarrassed to look the fiery redhead in the eyes.

  “You order the drinks. I can't look at her,” I whisper in his ear. He lets out a soft laugh and orders us two Mumm Napas. I don't know what a Mumm Napa is, but Blake has great taste so I'm sure it'll be delicious.

  When the waitress returns with our drinks and appetizer, I've gathered enough courage to order my food. She lays the dip, bread, and drinks before me and I immediately dig in. The dip is smooth and chunky. I take a spoonful and spread in on top of the grilled bread. “Mmm…” I can’t stop the noises; the dip is salivating. I take another bite, washing it down with the peach-colored wine Blake ordered. It tastes heavenly. It tastes of melon, and there's a touch of vanilla; it's crisp and the delicious taste lingers on my tongue after each sip I take.

  I scoot closer to Blake and snuggle into his side. I'm cool enough now that we won't combust and cause an explosive scene. I take another sip of the peachy crispness. “You're astonishing, you know that, right?” I ask, savoring the wine.

  He cocks his head. “Yeah, how so?” he questions. He has no clue just how astounding he is. Everything about him is impressive… noticeable… surprising.

  “This is the second time I've had wine, ever. Both times my taste buds have been slammed into overdrive. I'm just surprised you have such great taste,” I say nonchalantly.

  He has one arm resting over my shoulders, his fingers running up and down my arm. “Babe, that hurt a little,” he exaggerates, clutching his free hand to his chest as if I've hurt his feelings. “How does it surprise you that I've got taste? I mean look at me; I've got you, baby. Can't get more tasteful than that,” he says, squeezing my shoulder and pulling me closer into his side.

  I shake my head at his nonsense and continue eating the crab and artichoke dip, and I slowly sip the rest of my wine. Before we finish off the appetizer, the waitress is setting our food onto our table. I've ordered the chicken samosas, crispy wraps filled with savory spiced chicken; it's served with a white and creamy cilantro dipping sauce. And even though I'd like to savor the delectable wraps, I scoff it down, eager for cheesecake.

  “Damn, babe, you gonna chew your food or just swallow it whole?” Blake asks. I've devoured my entire plate in less than ten bites, and if you've seen the picture of the S'mores Galore I'm going to order next, you'd understand. I grin at his words, totally at ease with eating every last morsel off my plate. Hey, I like food.

  Shoving my plate to the edge of the table, I grab the menu, open it up and place it in front of him. “This - this is the reason I 'swallowed' my food. Read it,” I demand, pointing to the description, a huge grin on my face.

  He skims over it quickly, licks his lips, and pushes his plate away from him. “I'm officially finished,” he says, waving our waitress over. The redhead scurries over and takes our order; she pays close attention to the empty plate on the edge of the table and she eyes me with a shocked expression. I guess I would too, especially since she delivered it to me less than five minutes ago. She turns on her heels quickly and goes to fetch our dessert.

  When she returns my eyes almost pop right out of their sockets. There's a chocolate, marshmallow, graham cracker masterpiece before our faces. Now, there are a few things you should know; I love sex, penis, tattoos, muscles, ice cream, and chocolate - chocolate being my favorite - and this entire cheesecake is chocolate. It's chocolate from top to bottom, covered in melted marshmallow and crumbled graham crackers. Talk about tastebudgasm; my taste buds are totally busting from this chocolaty sweetness. See, this is why America has such a high obesity rate, shit this delicious is undeniable. The only person who could deny it would be a corpse, and I'm pretty sure the corpse would come to life just to have a taste. Blake and I finish sharing. Well, I say sharing, but I dominated the savory sweetness. He just sat back and let me take over the plate, just another reason to love him more; he treats me like a princess, or maybe he just knows when it’s best not to interfere with the orgasm going on in my mouth. Sensible man!

  We head back to Blake's after finishing our meal; it's too hot and humid outside to walk around downtown tonight. We rent some movies and we're going to chill out and rest. Tomorrow's the Fourth of July, and from what Blake's told me, the Andrews really know how to throw a party. They're expecting over 100 guests tomorrow afternoon. Aken and Blake will be roasting a hog, - in the ground I will add - grilling chicken, hot dogs, and hamburgers. I'm supposed to wake early tomorrow and help Clair prepare potato and macaroni salad, coleslaw, deviled eggs, baked beans, and help her set up the tables and decorations. She didn't come right out and ask me to help her, but she insinuated she wanted me to assist her. She even went as far as telling me, “Allie, you're like the daughter I never had.” Way to lure me in Clair! To be completely honest, I'm glad she wants me to help her prepare for the party, even if it brings back tragic memories. Maybe this could be the end of an era, helping relieve my anxiety towards parties. I mean, not all parties end in disaster, right?

  Every time I think of celebrating anything, my heart hammers against my chest. I break out in a sweat, my throat tightens, my head swims, and I ramble incoherently. My mind flashes back to the day I received the devastating news of Kyle's death, where I'm back in the kitchen laughing and making punch with my mom, right before the doorbell sounds, and
all my laughter was turned into heart-wrenching sobs instead. To some people this seems ridiculous, but to me it's called post-traumatic stress disorder. Kyle's death was life-altering, and now I'm scared for life. Just thinking about tomorrow sends panic throughout my entire nervous system.

  My alarm goes off at sunrise, but it's difficult to wake. I lack the desire to detangle myself from the strong arms engrossing me. The strength and warmth my body's experiencing at the moment is electrifying. And even though we're in his home theater, surrounded by thick black leather recliners, I couldn't possibly be more comfortable. I'm snuggled against his chest, his pecs assist my head like a pillow. His shallow breathing and the thudding of his heart act as my lullaby. Even while Blake's sleeping, he makes me feel happy, wanted, needed, and loved. All that and he’s sleeping sounding, completely oblivious to how much he truly affects me.

  Instead of removing myself from him, I lift my face to his neck and kiss just above his collarbone; a smile illuminates his face. He turns his head to the side, but his eyes don't open. Scooting up his lap, I place several feather-like kisses up the front of his neck, onto his chin, ending at his mouth. I bring my hand to cup the side of his face and trace his jawline with the tips of my fingers; his eyes slowly begin to open. “Mmm, mornin', baby,” he says, his voice raspy. He pulls my head into his chest, kissing the top of it.

  “Ah, a good morning it is, Dr. Andrews." I use his professional name because I know how it affects him. Dragging his teeth over his bottom lip he grins. “You tryin' to arouse me, Miss Anderson?” Hell yeah I am. I have the urge to attack his mouth and nibble his lip, but I can't, not this early. Now, I don't give a shit what you've heard or what you've read, no one’s breath is fresh in the mornings. Not that I can smell his or anything, but I know mine isn't winter fresh; so I'll keep my tongue to myself until our teeth are brushed and we're Listerine clean. I'm just saying, there's a reason it's been labeled “morning breath”.