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chapter Twenty-Five

“What was that all about?” David asks. “Should I be running after him right now?”
“No,” I say with a laugh. “Just let him go.”
“What did he tell you?” He looks a little worried.
“That you’ve got it bad for me.”
“No news there.” Inside I am jumping up and down like a schoolgirl.
“And that he thinks we fit.”
“Is that right?” he says with a grandfather-like inflection. “I was unaware that Matt is such a good judge of relationships.”
“Yeah, well, it was kinda nice to have a neutral third-party’s opinion on the whole thing. Truthfully, I wasn’t really convinced until I heard it from him.” I am teasing him, but he looks almost chastened.
“What makes you think Matt is a neutral third-party?”
Oh. “What makes you think he isn’t?”
“He knows more about me than you might think,” he says. “Plus, he put you in the shower and saw you half naked.” It makes me wonder what Matt knows about David that I don’t. But I decide that now is not the time to ask.
“Well, regardless of the extent of his neutrality, I’m putting a great amount of faith into his opinion.” His brow raises in question. “And actually, what you just said makes his vote carry even more weight in my book,” I add.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. It means that either he must think you’re an okay guy, even with all the horrible things he supposedly knows about you, or that I am horrible enough myself to deserve to be with the likes of you. And frankly, I’m okay with either of those. Plus, he must not think I’m ass-ugly. I’m sure he wouldn’t want his mate to be seen with a hideous skank. Big relief there, that’s for sure.”
“First of all, I didn’t say that what he knows about me is horrible. And, secondly, he did not refer to your body as ass-ugly.”
“What did he refer to me as?” Hmm. Matt said he didn’t tell David about my panty dance, but clearly they talked about the fact that I was half naked. It makes me wonder why David isn’t making a bigger deal out of it.
“Are you trying to make me feel covetous again?” He looks at me coyly, trying to read my face. I’m guessing he thinks we are treading on thin ice. I, on the other hand, am having a ball.
“Damn straight, I am. Spill it.”
He looks cautious, as if whatever he is about to say might somehow hurt him. “You don’t need to make me feel that way, Emma. I already do. I feel that way every second of every day, whether you are with me or not.” My lungs draw in a rush of air, and I smile, knowing that I have never heard a better string of words roll out of someone’s mouth. “Let’s just say the man is lucky I cut him some slack for taking care of you. If the words that he said had come out of another man’s mouth, you would have had to pry me off his beat-to-death body with a crowbar.”
I pause for a second and then leap at him, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him.
David takes me to a restaurant down the street from my office building. As we are eating, he asks me if I’d like to go to the firing range again tonight. We decide to spend an hour or so there and then go out for a beer. I’m definitely getting the hang of shooting the gun. I do much better this time, hitting the target a dozen or so times. David, on the other hand, is a great shot.
When I ask him why he’s so good at it, he tells me that he once had a girlfriend who was “a gun hound.” She taught him how to shoot and even bought him his first gun. An S&W revolver that he tells me he still has. I wonder if Anna Spaight is the ex-girlfriend he’s referring to. The thought of a gun in the hands of someone so unstable is a sobering thought. As is the thought of David having other ex-girlfriends. I shut both ideas out of my head.
I ask how many guns he has now, and he tells me just those two. Any more than that would make him “a gun hound,” something he does not aspire to be.
“I really just keep them as protection,” he says. “I didn’t grow up around guns or anything. I just feel better having them around. They make me feel like if all hell breaks loose, I can keep shit under control. You know? And I definitely like knowing that you can load and shoot this one. Even though you’ve got a lot of room for improvement.” He grins at me with his noise-canceling headphones resting on top of his head, and it makes me feel all mushy inside. Gag.
“I’m trying,” I say quietly, “but my teacher keeps distracting me with his charm and good looks.”
“Charm?” he says brightly, as we walk out of the target area and into the lobby. “Wow. I’d watch out for that guy if I were you.”
“Oh, I’m watching,” I say. “His every move.” I’m making myself want to puke.
David reaches up, I think to touch my cheek, but instead he takes off my safety glasses and headphones and places them on the counter. The range safety officer is looking at us as if we are a pair of pandas at the zoo. As if he wants to gut us and hang our pelts on his family room wall. I think for a second David is going to kiss me right in front of the guy, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes the empty magazine out of the gun and signs us out in silence.
We leave the firing range and head to a nearby bar. After downing a couple of beers, our conversation turns to Matt. David tells me they met at a construction site. Matt was consulting with the design team about the electrical setup, and David was interviewing for a carpentry job. He got the job but ended up not taking it because he thought the gig with Carl was a better match. He and Matt ran into each other at a bar a week or so later and traded contact information, initially because of potential work opportunities. When David and his other friends began to organize regular poker nights a few months later, Matt got one of the first invites.
“When the game first started, we used to hang out quite a bit, but these days we’re both so busy that we don’t see each other much outside of poker anymore. But he did text me after he first saw you and me together. I think he about shit his pants when I kissed you in front of your office building that day. Part of me wanted to punch him in the face when I saw him come out the door with you. I don’t know how either one of us kept our mouths closed. He was aiming to get in your pants until he saw that kiss. I know it.” It makes me wonder if the primary reason David kissed me like that was to send a clear signal to Matt. I squish down the thought, especially because every kiss David and I have had since then has been just as rowdy.
“Uh, I really don’t think so,” I say. “He’s made it pretty clear to me that he has no interest in my pants. Or what’s in them.” Any money says my comment is going to open up a giant can of worms.
“What do you mean?” Just as I thought. The worms are out.
“He told me as much. One day at work he asked me about you, and we ended up having a little chat about how I am not a great conversationalist and how he doesn’t want to be the-guy-at-work-who-never-shuts-up. We decided to meet somewhere in the middle.” David looks as if he doesn’t believe a word I am saying. “I believe his exact words were ‘I’m not making the moves on you.’ I was kind of being a bitch, and he shut it down. In a nice way.” I know David was thinking my previous comment had something to do with what happened at his place on poker night when he wasn’t around. I still don’t think he believes me.
“What did he ask you about me?” Oh. His question is not the one I expected. Maybe I’m wrong.
“He just said you seem kind of intense and asked me what you do for a living.” I shrug my shoulders and take another sip of my beer. “Maybe he was trying to find out if I knew about the whole poker thing.”
“Maybe,” he says, seemingly placated, but I think he has more to say. And then it hits me.
“Wait a second, you said Matt was aiming to get into my pants until he saw us kiss. Did he tell you about me? Did he mention a new girl at work or something?” I’ve got it now. David is rolling his eyes at me and trying his best to look innocent. “And did you tell Matt about me before then, too? Did he know you were f*cking someone, but he just didn’t know it was me?” Oh, this is good! Priceless even. They were both talking—or bragging?—about me without knowing I was the same person. David looks trapped.
“Emma, he was there when I wiped the floor with Brad’s face. He knew I was hot for whoever’s shoe that was. He knew I had it bad for you even then. But he didn’t know who you were. I never mentioned your name.”
“And?” I ask. He looks uncomfortable.
“And, he was the one that drove me home that night. The night I slept on your floor. That’s when he told me about the new hottie at work. I didn’t even know where the hell he was working, let alone that it was you.” I am feeling so f*cking high right now. Part of me wants to squeal like a giddy middle schooler, knowing that these two men were crushing on me at the same time, but I know that David would not find it very amusing.
“That’s pretty funny,” I say, reining in my enthusiastic internal response.
“I’m sure you’re thrilled,” he says flatly. “But you’re stuck with me now because Matt knows better. He knows that I will take him down if he even so much as looks at you starry-eyed. Like I said, you would have to pry me off his beat-to-death body with a crowbar.” No wonder Matt didn’t tell David about my panty dance.
“And like I said, he isn’t interested,” I say. And then stupidly I add, “At least not anymore.” David’s eyes narrow, and I smile a full-on, gleaming teeth, shit-eating grin. “Plus, the only man I give a flying f*ck about is you.”
* * *

It is nearly midnight when we walk into my apartment. As soon as we open the door, David seems a little nervous. He is talking too quickly. Saying something about how I should tell Carl he needs to change the hallway carpet because it is so old and shitty. I have never heard him talk like this before, and it’s weirding me out. I tell him that I agree that the carpet is crappy, but that I’m not saying a word to Carl about it. I’m just happy he managed to get David to fix my kitchen. I don’t want to push my luck. David agrees and then starts telling me about how he should just change the carpet himself without even asking Carl.
I throw my bags on to the table and turn to David. He’s looking everywhere but at me. His face looks anxious. I am starting to feel tense myself. What is going on?
“David,” I say, unwelcome alarm rising in my mind, “what’s wrong?” I try to line my eyes up with his. He doesn’t say a word but grabs me by the hand and leads me down the hallway and into my bedroom. He goes in first and switches on the light. I immediately notice a small box sitting on the center of the bed. My heart drops in my chest. Christ. Is that another f*cking package from Michael? Why didn’t David tell me about it before we got here? Shit. Maybe he doesn’t know about it. Maybe he’s as surprised as I am. If that’s the case, how did the package get into my bedroom?
But a second later, it is clear that David knows about the box because he lets go of my hand, walks over to the bed and picks it up. As he hands it to me, his eyes finally meet mine.
My heart is a lump in my throat. “Is this another package from that f*cker? I swear I am going to shoot him in the goddamned face.” I am frantic now. My skin is on fire. I throw the package back down on the bed and start walking in circles, like a stressed-out animal. “What the f*ck am I gonna do? Who the f*ck does he think he is? I want to...”
“Stop, Emma,” he says, grabbing me by the arm. “The package isn’t from Michael.” Oh. Then where did it come from? “It’s from me.”
“What?” I scream at him, eyes narrowed and hackles raised. “You scared the shit out of me. You couldn’t tell me that right out the gate? Jesus, David. That was Grade A a*shole right there.”
“I’m sorry. You just flew off so quickly. I didn’t know what to say.” He gathers up the box. “It’s from me,” he says again. Is this why he looks so nervous? Is he nervous about whatever is in this box?
He is staring at me like a deer in the headlights, his bird-cloaked arms holding out the package. He looks both startled and nervous as shit. For some reason, it makes me feel a little lost. I take the box from him and sit down on the edge of the bed.
David sits down next to me and mumbles again that he is sorry. Then his hand is on my back, running up and down my spine, soothing me. The box is light, and I slide my finger under the lip to fold it open. Inside, in a nest of cotton fluff, is a new set of dog tags. I lift them out by the chain and see that they are an exact replica of my father’s, only they aren’t cut into pieces. Both tags are engraved with my dad’s name, social security number, blood type and the word Christian. One of the tags is held on to the chain by a shorter piece of chain. My father once told me they are designed that way on purpose—so that one of the tags can be removed quickly if the need arises. I hold them in my lap, staring at them.
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell David.
“Just say you aren’t mad,” he says quietly.
“I’m not mad.”
“Good,” he says. I put my head on his shoulder. “I was worried how you would feel about me having them remade. The old ones are in a bag in the bottom of the box.”
“I’m not mad,” I say again. We sit like that for a long time. His hand keeps moving up and down my spine. I am thinking about my dad’s funeral. About how my mother wailed with agony. About how much they loved each other. About how much I loved them. Both of them. And my brothers—I used to love them, too. Before Michael swallowed them whole. Part of me wants to cry, but I’m not sad. Not really. I lift the dog tags up and put them over my head, tucking them inside my shirt, against my heart.
“Thank you for these, David. I love them.” I pause for a second. And then I add a single word. “Love,” I say quietly.
I kiss him, wrapping my hands around his head. It feels as if I am dissolving into him. As if he is taking the breath right out of me. As if we are melting together. His tongue slips against mine, softly at first and then with force. I need him to wash everything away.
He gets up off the bed and bends over me, kissing my mouth and sliding his hands up and down my thighs. I swallow back the last possibility of sadness as the unspoken meaning of his gift sinks into me. He cares about me. He wants me to stop hurting. He wants to fuse all my broken pieces back together. With his affection and adoration and kindness. It is sweet. He is sweet.
David stops kissing me long enough to lift my shirt up over my head and take off my bra. He squeezes my breasts, rubbing them coarsely, as his mouth molds back over mine, sucking the breath out of me again. I can feel his fingers begin to move along the section of the chain resting between my breasts, following it down to the V and then back up and around to the back of my neck. It sends a shiver of anticipation through me, and the tags rattle against my skin.
I slide off the edge of the bed and on to my knees in front of him. I open his zipper and look up as he takes off his shirt and looks down at me. The power is still there, but it is tucked behind a cloud of something else. It’s not pity, of that I am sure, because I’ve seen pity before—I know how it burns. It could be compassion, perhaps. Or empathy. Or understanding. Whatever it is, it settles into me and makes everything right. His eyes watch me as I touch him, as I wrap my hand around him and make his body stiffen. I brush him against my cheek, feeling the softness of his skin and inhaling his scent. Then I latch on to him and suck. My mouth is warm and wet, and he softly exhales as I move my hand and mouth together around him. His hands, at first, are limp at his sides, but then he moves them under my chin. He holds me like that, pulling my face to him over and over. Eventually he tells me to stop, and when I do, he raises my chin so that I am looking up at him, wanting him more than I ever have before. Wanting to show him how thankful I am.
“Lie down on the bed,” he says, the cloud dissolving from his eyes. I clamber to my feet and do as I am told, knowing that my compliance can offer a small sliver of gratitude for his amazing gift. David walks around to the other side of the bed and tugs my panties and jeans off before removing his own. He pulls my ankles so that my ass is now just barely on the edge of the bed. Standing next to me, he bends my knees up against my chest and pins them there with one of his arms. The palm of his other hand begins rubbing my ass in slow, wide circles. He is looking at my face, watching me want, and I am begging him with my eyes. Begging him to touch me. Begging to thank him. Then, at last, his fingers find me. They slide over me, press against me, swipe at my core. They move in and out, pushing the blood through my limbs and lighting my body up. I grab at the sheets, gripping them to steady myself.
Jesus, I am close. He spreads my legs open and slides himself into me, crashing against my body, nearly making me come. He pauses for a second, I think to control me. To rein me in.
“Not until I say,” he says. I look up at him and nod my head, trying to keep myself in check.
He starts again, very slowly. Moving his hips back and forth. I want to tell him to go faster, but I keep my mouth shut and wait. His pace stays slow, but it is so deep this way and he is hitting a sweet spot every time he pushes into me. I groan with each shove in hopes of inspiring him to pick up the pace. David watches the spot where our bodies meet. Where we melt together. I think about what it must look like to see him moving in and out of me, and the thought nearly lifts me back to the edge.
“David,” I groan, “I...” He stops again.
“Emma,” he says. “I want to watch you come when I tell you to. And not before.” My lack of self-control is melting the small sliver of gratitude I want to show him. Get your shit in check, Emma.
I don’t say a word, but I nod again. I vow to myself that I will not come until he tells me to. I can do this. I will do this for him. He starts moving again, but this time his hips are grinding in a circle. I keep my eyes closed and breathe deeply, letting my mind wander and stretch away from this moment. Just for an instant, just to keep me sane. Then he tells me to wrap my legs around him, and his hands slip under my backside, lifting me up off the bed. We stand, him inside of me and me wrapped around his body like a naked cloak. He sets me down on my dresser. This time he goes faster, smacking into me. He is hitting that spot again, and I am about to unravel, despite my promise to myself.
“Go,” he says mercifully, and with that word, I fly into him. Grunting and heaving and writhing with my own pleasure. He is watching me, and I try like hell to keep my eyes open so that I can do the same to him, but I can’t. I can only feel him. I feel him come, thrusting deep and fast inside of me, the dog tags bouncing off my chest. His breath snags twice and then his body steadies. He pulls out of me as my legs drop off the edge of the dresser. And my heart lifts into my throat.