Page 21 of Light Up The Night
Shocked out of lust, I rinse off and get out, towel off, run some gel through my hair and give it a quick brush, and then dress in my usual jeans, gray tee, and work boots.
I find Cadence still in the kitchen, leaning a hip against the sink as she stares vacantly out of the window above the sink.
God, she's so fucking beautiful.
Look, I'm a player, okay? I don't use women, don't get me wrong. I just don't try to make things last beyond a few nights, maybe a few weeks at most. It's always consensual, from the sex to the casual, limited-time-only nature of things.
Point being, I've been lucky enough to be with some seriously hot chicks.
Cadence is not hot.
She's truly, exquisitely, classically beautiful. Megan Fox washotin the firstTransformersmovie; Marilyn Monroe wasbeautifulinSeven Year Itch.See the difference?
I hang back and just look at her. Her dress today is ankle-length, plunging in a straight line from bust to hem, white cotton that floats loosely around her figure. I can't say for sure from two outfits, but my guess is she dresses for comfort rather than looks. But yet, the dress flatters without being provocative or revealing. Her hair is loose and as wild as ever, a chaoticprofusion of strawberries-and-cream curls that in this light looks more strawberries than cream.
I have a brief but powerful mental image of my hands snarled in those curls as I kiss her senseless. The image, however, quickly shifts from an innocent but passionate kiss to something altogether more potent: my hands buried in those curls as she wraps her lips around my cock…
FUCK.
I savagely suppress that image, forcing myself to think of that time I accidentally walked in on Grandma fresh outta the shower. As much as I loved my Grandma, that's a real boner-killer. I go through the latest Lions stats. I think about being in the prison shower full of naked dudes.
When none of that works and the image of Cadence doing gloriously sinful things to me while I hold on to that glorious mass of curls remains burned indelibly on my mind, I pull out the biggest guns of all.
The wreck.
The day that ruined my life.
Those images will haunt me the rest of my life—
The world spins and wobbles. It's dark. Late. My stomach is sour and full of pressure. I know I should have listened to Cole, but I didn't. Oh well. Almost home. That godawful Uncle Kracker song I hate so much starts playing, so I glance down and turn the knob to find a different station. When I look up, the world freezes. A tiny red Kia is turning in front of me. I've drifted across the centerline while fucking with the radio.
I hit the brakes and jerk the wheel, but it's too late.
The impact is abrupt and violent, a deafening, jarring, jolt of smashing glass and crumpling metal.
In reality, that's when I blacked out. I have no memory of anything past the impact.
Turns out being “black-out drunk” isn't a valid excuse for murdering a 76-year-old widow with your car.
The nausea, guilt, shame, and self-loathing does the trick, dousing my horniness more effectively than any cold shower or visions of naked grandmothers ever could.
I step into the kitchen, clearing my throat. "Hey, you ready?"
She's utterly motionless except for the slight rise and fall of her breathing, and shows no sign of having heard me.
I move closer and put myself in her line of sight. "Hey, you. Ready?"
She doesn't startle this time, but seems to…turn back on, almost, blinking her eyes and shaking her head. "Riley. Hello. Yes, I am ready."
"Where do you go when you're like that?" I ask.
She frowns, a cute little furrowing of her brow. "I went nowhere. I am here."
I suppress the laugh—she's misconstrued it every time, thus far. "No, I mean mentally. I'm asking what you were thinking about."
"Oh. Of course. I am thinking about South Sudan. More to the point, I am trying to come up with an alternative solution to the problem of attaining the requisite funds."
I hold out my hand. "Well, let's talk about it over brunch, yeah?"
