Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Esme

The hike was lovely, and I’m still floating on the endorphins while I turn on the lights in the darkened kitchen.

“Cressida has gone home for the night, but she always keeps good snacks in the house,” I say.

I’m also feeling positively giddy over the fact that I had a friend—a real friend who’s not going anywhere—to walk with me.

Sure, we had a difficult discussion, but it’s easy to remember that Sagan means well. So does Dr. White.

As far as I know…

Still, it’s two days away from Christmas, and so far, this is still the best Christmas yet. We can disagree and still have a fantastic time together.

That already proves that this thing we have can last, right?

Maybe I’m naive. But I’m feeling almost happy for the first time in so long, that I do not care if I’m naive.

Sagan wouldn’t hurt me. He lied to get to me, but he had a good reason.

“Forget snacks. You need real food,” Sagan declares, perusing the contents of the cabinets.

“You’re right, I’m starving,” I say, opening and closing the fridge, not knowing what I want.

“Sit down,” Sagan says. “I’ll fix you dinner.”

I perch on a barstool on the opposite side of the broad marble island and watch Sagan go to town. He emits a low whistle when he regards the double-sided fridge with a glass door, containing rows and rows of labeled jars and drawers. “Never seen a mess hall like this before,” he says.

“What kind of kitchen are you used to?” I ask.

He laughs, unwrapping some fish from the meat drawer and then going on a hunt for the salt. “Nothing like this. I’ve got a glorified hot plate in my apartment above the tattoo shop.”

“What’s a hot plate?” I ask.

He laughs again, but I don’t feel like it’s a mocking kind of laugh. It’s warm and low, and I want to make him laugh again and again until it silences all the voices in my head.

I can’t wipe the silly smile off my face as he moves around the kitchen, firing up the stove and the oven. He plops some butter in a cast iron pan, does something with spices and broccoli in another pan, and starts water for pasta.

The conversation flows as I watch him cook. Eventually we end up talking about how each of us spent 2020.

Sagan flips the sizzling hunk of salmon, then adds a bit of pasta water to the other pans. “I lived in a halfway house in Fate when I first got out of prison. We shared a pretty small, crappy kitchen, which wasn’t fun. The Wood Brothers gave me a construction job which paid enough to keep me fed and helped me save for a deposit on an apartment. Eventually, I landed an apprenticeship at Fated Ink. The owner temporarily closed the shop in 2020 due to the pandemic. He felt bad about leaving me without a paycheck. He offered to let me crash in the store room above the shop, which I was grateful for. The place isn’t much but I made it work. It was that, or spend the pandemic stuck in the halfway house, sheltering in place with a bunch of other guys. I took my chances at being alone, and honestly, having my own private space for once was pretty great.”

“What did you do?”

“Earned some money working construction, until that eventually slowed down. Converted the space into an actually livable apartment. Taught myself how to cook. Read a lot of books. Worked out. Painted the apartment twice. Watched a shit ton of reality TV. Then, in 2022, the owner offered to sell the shop to me through a self-financing option, and here I am.”

Sagan plates the pasta with some broccoli and sauce next to the salmon. The aroma is intense, and my stomach growls as I pick up my fork.

“What about you? What’d you do in a great big castle all to yourself?”

“In the pandemic? So much online shopping,” I say, laughing. “I ordered so many gadgets, the staff was forced to reorganize the kitchen and pantry. I learned to bake sourdough bread. I mastered how to culture yogurt. I even learned how to age cheese.”

“Cool.”

“What’s less cool is I taught myself about crypto.”

Sagan laughs and covers his mouth because he’s just taken a bite of food, and he’s simply the politest stalker I’ve ever had.

“Not because I’m interested in investing in it,” I explain. “But because the news is so damn bad at explaining it! Did you know I once thought there were physical mines digging for heavy metals and minting them? Now, of course, I get it. And I still hate it!”

By the time I finish my little rant, Sagan cannot eat from laughing so hard.

“I fucking love you, Esme.”

Pleased that I told a good story, I take a bite of my salmon while I think about how to reply to the “love” thing.

“I think…I think you’re an amazing cook.”

The conversation continues to flow, but not quite as naturally after that. I know it’s because I didn’t say “I love you” back.

I’m just not ready.

But I am happy that I still have room for dessert. Sagan fills two bowls of peppermint ice cream and carries them out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

He pauses. “To the den. We’ve got you, me, ice cream. All we need now is a TV.”

“Wait. We’re eating ice cream in the TV room?”

He gets a playful glint in his eye. “Is that not allowed? Is Frye going to pop out of a broom closet and scold me?”

I laugh. “No, he’s gone home for the day.”

“Well, that brings up an even more important question. Are you alone here in this massive house every single night?”

I nod. “The cook arrives at 5 a.m. and I’m usually asleep at midnight, so it’s not really that long to be alone.”

His face broadcasts what he’s thinking: That ends now.

That’s a nice thought. But how long until he needs to step out of my world and go back to his? How long until he leaves, just like Briar had to leave to go back to school, making this house once again so quiet that the ghosts get louder?

“Come on,” he says. “And grab some spoons.”

We watch Miracle on 34th Street, the original one in black and white. That one was my suggestion, and Sagan is surprised at how funny it is. Sagan suggests Die Hard, and I go along with it even though I don’t like action movies. It helps that he bribes me with a second bowl of ice cream.

Sagan is strangely quiet by the time he walks me back up to the room as I chatter about how much I liked Die Hard.

“I can’t believe nobody ever made me watch that before!” I say.

And yes, I’m filling the silence with noise. The familiar anxiousness and sadness build as we climb the spiral staircase. By the time we reach the top, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s changing his mind about me. He needs to get back to the tattoo shop, and to his life, and I have no way to fit into that world.

Sagan follows me in.

Still yammering, I go to my closet, digging for my favorite pajamas. He’s already seen everything there is to see, so I don’t bother closing the closet door while I change.

When I’m finished, he hovers in the closet doorway, looking dangerous and tempting. “You know, the longer you stay, the harder it is going to be for me to say goodnight,” I say, playing with the button at the front of his shirt, eager to take another look at what’s underneath.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says darkly.

Heat floods my core.

“And go where?”

“I don’t know, but this place already gives me the creeps at night. And I don’t trust that guy,” he says.

“Who? Dr. White? He’s not here, silly.”

“Him, yes. But also Frye.”

I take a step back. “I told you, Frye’s gone home for the day. And that man has been with our family for decades.”

“Like the doctor has?”

I steel my shoulders. “Look. I appreciate what you’re doing to help me, but you have no idea the history here.”

He blinks, waiting for me to say more. We both know I’ve gone right up to the edge.

“Keep talking,” he says gruffly.

“We come from two different worlds. You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be a part of this family,” I say. “I mean this legacy…this…this…all of this is a lot of responsibility.”

Sagan is unflappable, even as the most condescending things come out of my mouth. “I know,” he says.

“You’re telling me I can’t trust a man who’s been working for my family since before I was born. My family is…well, I don’t have any family anymore but…”

This should not hit me the way it does. My parents have been gone for over five years. Grandmother, for ten years. I haven’t been in touch with my cousins since the funeral.

My shoulders begin to twitch as grief descends on me.

I turn away and head back to the closet, not wanting Sagan to see me like this. Why am I going to the closet? I don’t remember, but lightheadedness takes hold and I collapse on the chaise just as a noise rips from my throat. I’m heaving and sobbing uncontrollably, my face in my hands. My body curls into a fetal position, and the sobs keep coming.

“I don’t have a family,” I rasp.

Sagan says nothing, but keeps one big, reassuring hand on my back.

He remains here with me until the heaving stops.

“He loves this house. He cares about me.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

“You should go,” I say.

“I’m staying with you, dummy.”

This breaks me out of my funk, and I laugh wetly, wiping away my stupid tears.

“You are?”

“Yeah. But we should just go back to my house where it’s warm.” He holds out his hand and helps me up from the chaise.

Oh boy, this is where I’m going to start being a handful. Watch him walk out the door.

“The thing is, I won’t be able to sleep if I leave this house. I have a hard enough time getting to sleep as it is, and I have a whole routine.”

“Whatever you need to do is fine. If you want to stay, we stay. I don’t have to go back to the shop until next week.”

I don’t know anything about business, but that seems like an extreme amount of time to close down, and I suspect he might be exaggerating to make me feel less guilty about taking up so much of his time.

“I don’t have any pajamas for you, but I might be able to find something in the guest quarters.”

He scoffs. “I sleep naked.”

“Oh. Oh…”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“Problem? Not for me,” I say, unable to hide my blushing.

“Seems like it is. I can sleep on the sofa.”

“Don’t even start that with me. We are way beyond being polite,” I say. “But there’s something else I need to warn you about.”

“What is it?” Sagan asks, combing his fingers through my hair.

“I want to know if you see them too.”

“See what?”

“Remember what I told you when we met? About the weird shit that happens here?”

He nods. “You want to know if I see the ghosts, too.”

“You definitely must think I’m crazy now.”

“You know how I feel about that word, Esme. Now, time for bed.”

What they say is correct about getting naked under a blanket being the most effective way to share body heat. A naked Sagan throws off a lot of heat.

Sagan draws me in close, his arm around my shoulders. The tops of my feet press against his tree-trunk thigh, basking in his warmth.

“We need to get that damn fireplace fixed.”

I chuckle and tease him. “So, get right on that, chimney repairman.”

He laughs, and I take that opportunity to reach for his other hand and brazenly place it on my breast.

Sagan groans, low and filthy, which makes my body tighten in response.

“I don’t want to get your heart rate up,” he says.

“You said Dr. White was a quack,” I tease.

“He is, but if you do have a heart condition, sex could theoretically be too much.”

I cover his hand with mine and move it an inch to the right. “See how fast it’s beating already? I feel fine,” I say, moving in for a kiss.

His mouth meets mine in a slow, sensual, growl-filled kiss. I know he doesn’t want things to escalate, just in case Dr. White is correct. But I can’t help but tease his bottom lip with my tongue. This man has awakened the long-neglected beast in me, and it needs to be fed.

I need to feel Sagan between my legs. Cramming into me, pushing me to the brink. God, how incredible that would be? I just know he’s got tattoos in places that would make me blush.

He pulls away from the kiss reluctantly. “You should sleep well tonight. You got plenty of exercise and a full belly.”

“You’re sweet,” I say.

“Believe me, baby girl, my resistance has nothing to do with me being sweet. You’d run for the hills if you knew what I wanted to do to you.”

My breath catches. “Suppose you tell me about those things while I touch you?”

Sagan laughs, then presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids.

“You’re gonna make me lose it, Esme.”

I press a soft kiss against his throat, my tongue lightly touching that tattoo. No timebo mala.

The sinews are so irresistible to me, I think about kissing his throat all the time. “That’s the idea.”

He huffs, “You’re a bad girl.”

“You started it.”

Sagan sighs and stretches out his arms. He must know how absolutely slutty he looks when he does that. As if that’s not enough, he rests his hands under his head, stretching out the bunched muscles around his pecs.

“Good boy,” I tease.

I move the sheet down to reveal the full mural of tattoos that cover his chest and stomach. Finally, I can read everything. Running my hands over his breastbone, I make out the words I spotted earlier.

“Negare Ego.”

“Denial of the ego,” he says, sighing. He sounds like a dog relaxing while being petted by his master.

“I’ve heard that before. It’s one of the main principles of Zen Buddhism,” I say.

“Say that in the form of a question and you win eight hundred dollars.”

“I love you for making me laugh,” I say.

We both go still for a moment, letting the L-word hang in the air.

“Don’t spoil the mood with overthinking, baby girl.”

I don’t know whether to give him a titty twister for that or agree with him. A twister would be a bad idea, considering he wears a small gold hoop in his left nipple. I tug the sheet down further, running my hands over another Latin phrase below that one.

“Affectum est Afflictio. Attachment is suffering.”

He grunts a laugh. “That one went out the window when I met you.”

I don’t know how to feel about that. If these philosophies truly helped him stay grounded while in prison, who am I to take them away?

Lightly, I run my fingers over the next one, just above his navel. Perceptio humana fallax est. “Human perception is faulty.”

“Still true,” he says.

“God, I hope so,” I say, thinking of all the things that haunt me day in and day out when he’s not here. When I don’t have friends to drown out the noise.

“There’s one more,” he says.

The size of the bulge in the sheet does not prepare me for what happens next. I tug the sheet away to reveal the stiff shaft, long and thick, pointing upward toward his navel. I can’t help but gasp, feeling fascinated and a little intimidated all at once.

“Can I …”

“Yes, for the love of god, yes,” he grits out through his teeth.

Instead, I trail my fingers over the lowest tattoo, just above the furry pleasure trail, and try not to think of whoever might have been the one to tattoo him here, in this almost-too-intimate place. Universum Coniungitur.

“The interconnection of the universe.”

The rise and fall of his chest speeds when I touch that hard length, noticing that my thumb and forefinger don’t quite reach. The thought of what this means makes my blood heat while I shiver at the same time. I don’t know if I can take something that big inside me.

But let’s not overthink this, as he says.

His jaw clenched, Sagan warns me, “Too gentle…too fucking gentle.”

It takes a moment to figure out what he means, and when it hits me, my pussy weeps. He needs it to be rougher, and the thought of that excites me and scares me.

My mouth waters, and I swallow it down. “Sh…show me.”

“Do you have any…never mind…lick your hand,” he says in a rush. “Please.”

He curses as he watches me do exactly as he says. “Damn dirty little girl.”

Once again, my brain hates it while my body loves it. I am positively leaking everywhere.

With a growl, he covers my tentative grip with his, guiding my damp hand up and down on his shaft. The skin is warm and surprisingly soft and pliable as I fist him.

“That’s it. Shit…baby…I’m gonna…fuck, that’s too good…”

It’s a heady feeling, watching him come undone with only my very inexperienced hand on his huge, rigid cock.

Two pumps, and he explodes despite his resolve to last longer. Hot liquid covers my hand. Sagan lets out a loud curse, his body stiffening, arcing off the mattress. His noisy climax is all rumbles and grunts, and I ache to feel him do that while buried inside me.

I did that. I did that to this lumberjack of a man.

And I’ll never want to do that to anyone else.