I’m no expert with making shit look good, but I know several women who think they are, and they did a damn good job helping me out. The cabin had never been updated from when Rage built it, and while it was functional in a utilitarian kind of way, it wasn’t what I wanted to bring Chey home to. Now, after months of work, the wood floors shine with fresh sanding and a slick polish. The walls have been patched where needed, and each room is painted a different color that Chey loves. I managed to veto hot pink from the design team, who almost went rogue and did it behind my back anyway, but almost everything else was a go. I don’t give a shit that the walls are violet or that the sofa’s gray fabric has a tiny bit of sparkle to it. Not that it’s going to matter in a few months anyway. That shit is going to get so worn out the sparkle will be forgotten.
“Is that the rug Holly and I spotted in the city?” Chey asks, pointing at the black and white rug that sits in the center of the living room. Holly called it a chevron rug, but I think she’s lost her mind. That rug doesn’t look like it belongs in a gas station. Again, another piece that looks good now, but who knows how it’s going to wear. More hard-earned money spent on shit I don’t care about. It’s my fault really—I told them to do something that would make Chey happy. And judging by the happy tears, it worked.
She walks around the corner to the kitchen and reaches for my hand. She gives it a squeeze and thanks me about a hundred times. I’m glad she likes the updated and extended countertop and the new appliances. It’s just stuff, but it makes her happy, so it’s worth every dime. She leads me by our joined hands into the bathroom where she giggles over the rainfall showerhead and the makeup station.
“But all of this looks like this place is for me,” she says. “What about you?”
“Baby, as long as I get to fuck you on that pretty couch and under that fucking shower head, I don’t give a fuck what any of this shit looks like.” Because I don’t.
We walk into the bedroom, and she eyes the king-size bed. With a happy sigh she says, “There’s your influence,” in response to the framed mirrored headboard I had made in exchange for a new strain of bud we just started growing.
She turns around and places a soft kiss to my lips. Unable to control myself, I grab her by the hips and buck into her. A breathy groan escapes her, urging me on. I do it again, which earns me a desperate plea. “Make love to me in our bed,” she says. Like she even has to ask.
We undress one another with frantic movements, pulling and shoving nearly to the point of ripping everything in the process. Soon I’m without my shoes, pants, and boxers and am left with my top half fully clothed. Her chest rises and falls in desperation as she gently removes my cut and tosses it at the foot of the bed, but once that’s out of the way, she nearly chokes me trying to get my red shirt off. Her hands trace the outline of the tattoo I’m having done. Just three more sessions and all the tiny details will be complete. It’s the scene from that fucking van, in that fucking moment when everything changed. But I didn’t want faces because those distort bad as you age, so instead the van is empty. There are no people crying, and no blood—just lines made up of names and dates that I can’t ever forget, no matter how hard I try.
“It’s almost done,” she whispers as she slows down her movements.
“Yeah.”
Chey leans in and places a kiss over the lines of the names of each of the men we’ve lost. She doesn’t cry about it anymore because my girl knows it doesn’t do us any fucking good to think about that shit. Instead, she does the best fucking thing she can—she honors our losses by making sure we all fucking live for the ones who didn’t make it.
I’m slightly less rough with her as I free her of every one of her articles of clothing. When we’re both naked and my dick is throbbing so hard it’s almost painful, I lay her down on the bed so that I can see us in the mirror.
Yeah, this view is totally fucking worth the bud I had to give up for this.
She parts her legs, welcoming me in. I could slam into her right now, especially with how much I need this. But I’d rather not hurt her. She needs to enjoy this as much as I do, and with finals and all the bullshit with graduation and finishing the house, it’s been almost a month since I got into her pussy. Almost a month would have been a godsend back when she first left for school. We were lucky if we got together every other month. But after her being gone so long and once I’d earned my top rocker, we made it a point to see each other more often. Come hell or high water I’d see her every other weekend at the very least. Sometimes on a transport down south, I’d sneak away and we’d have a quick fuck at her place. It was always too short and made me feel like shit for running in, busting a nut, and running out. When it upset her, she’d say it—loudly and until her throat went hoarse—but that was rare. Now, though, I’m not letting her get so far away.
I slide down her beautiful, naked body and kiss her hip before making my way to her slick center. No longer nervous about her body or afraid to ask for what she wants, she parts her legs even more and moans when I finally give in and tease her tiny bud. Soon enough, she’s unable to stay still, close to coming and a panting mess. When I crawl back up her body and slide into her, my eyes roll back in my head. The best part of our lives is beginning now, in this bed, with just the two of us making this place our home.