Sustained

  my way, suddenly interested. Chelsea covers her mouth and I just know she’s giggling under that hand. But Rosaleen . . . her baby-blue gaze warms me down to the marrow of my bones. Because it’s thankful and adoring and brimming with hero worship.

  And for the first time in twenty-four hours, she’s smiling.

  So I continue. “Everyone else but you . . .”

  I finish the goddamn chorus. Rosaleen applauds softly and Riley sighs dreamily. “Best song ever.”

  Chelsea gives up trying to hold it in and giggles out loud.

  I glance over my shoulder at her. “I hate myself right now.”

  • • •

  Early Thursday morning, a little over two days after the plague began, Chelsea is back on her feet. She’s just out of the shower—her hair is still wet and smells fucking incredible. That clean shampoo scent with a touch of vanilla body wash makes me want to lick her from head to toe and every inch in between. And that’s not even a little exaggeration.

  She’s wrapped in an adorably big pink fluffy robe, cinched at the waist.

  We walk down the stairs and stand in front of the door.

  “You sure you’re feeling better?” I ask.

  “Yes. I can take it from here.” She nods, her eyes soft with gratitude.

  I’m heading out early—I have to stop at home and shower, then be in court in three hours. The kids are better. Still not out of bed or back to school, but they’re not puking their body weight into a wastebasket every two hours, either. So . . . progress.

  Chelsea rests her hand on my arm, and maybe I’m just really fucking tired, but my skin seems to tingle beneath her touch. I can’t imagine how good it will feel on bare skin . . . wrapped around my cock. I’m absolutely going to have to jerk off before I see her again.

  “Thank you, Jake. Again.” She shakes her head, looking frustrated. “I’ll never be able to repay you.”

  I can think of a few ways.

  I wink. “Actions do speak louder than words. And are so much more fun.”

  “You’re right.” She squeezes my arm softly. “Which is why I’m going to make you the best dinner you’ve ever eaten—to show you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for us. Friday night. Will you come?”

  Oh boy, will I come. She has no idea.

  But I pretend to think it over. “No tofu, right?”

  Chelsea grins. “No tofu.”

  I lean in, closer to her ear, making gooseflesh rise on the exposed skin along her collarbone. “What were you thinking for dessert?”

  Her voice turns sultry as she plays along—and plays well. “What do you like, Jake?”

  “I’ll eat anything with whipped cream on top.”

  She blushes, and a laugh bubbles from her lips. “I’ll be sure to stock up.”

  I push her damp hair back behind her ear. “Good. And I’ll bring a movie to keep the kids occupied. Riley mentioned they never saw Goonies, which is just straight-up criminal.”

  “That’ll be perfect.”

  I gaze into Chelsea’s ice-blue eyes. “I really think it will be.”

  11

  I get out of my car in front of Chelsea’s house on Friday night. And not to sound like a total douche, but there’s a spring in my step. A lightness in my mood. I’m excited. Looking forward to this evening with Chelsea—and, yes, with the kids too. Sure, they’re half a dozen little cockblockers, but they’re funny. Smart. In general, pretty awesome.

  The fact that there’s a really good chance I’m going to finally get laid doesn’t hurt, either.

  I knock on the door, holding a bouquet of white roses and the movie in one hand.

  The door opens, and in front of me stands a tall, tan, lanky guy with strategically tousled dirty-blond hair, a white T-shirt, saggy jeans, and a shark-tooth necklace.

  He lifts his chin in greeting. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Who the fuck is he, and why is he answering the door? “Where’s Chelsea?”

  He steps back, opening the door wider, turning his head. “Babe! There’s a guy here.” His brown eyes turn my way. “A big fuckin’ guy. What do you bench, two fifty?”

  “Something like that.”

  I step past him, lowering the flowers to my side, feeling like an asshole for having them.

  Chelsea comes out from the kitchen, wearing a little black dress with thin straps—sexy in its simplicity—and open-toed black heels. Her hair falls soft and shiny around her shoulders. “Jake!” Her smile is off—kind of forced.

  “What’s going on?” I ask evenly.

  Two more twentysomethings step out behind her: a dark-skinned girl with long dreadlocks and a stunning face, and a guy with long brown hair wearing a trendy, butt-ugly, lime-green paisley shirt.

  “My friends from Berkeley came to visit.” Her face tightens—broadcasting an apology. “I didn’t know they were coming.” She steps back, gesturing to the couple behind her. “This is Nikki and Kevin.”

  Nikki and Kevin both smile at me a little too happily. A little too stoned to play it straight.

  “And this”—Chelsea gestures to the blond shark killer—“is Lucas.”

  Lucas grins dopily. “S’up.”

  I nod at him, then hand Chelsea the flowers. “These are for you.”

  She gazes at them lovingly, running her palm over the soft petals. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

  So much for dinner. And more important, so much for getting laid.

  Fuck.

  Rosaleen comes tearing around the corner, her hair parted into curly pigtails, hugging me around the waist. “Jake, you’re here! Did you bring the movie?”

  I hold it up for her to see and she bounces.

  Riley and Rory join us next. Lucas rubs his hand roughly on top of Rory’s head. “Little dude, how about you grab me a beer? If we’re watching a movie, I’m gonna need a brew.”

  Chelsea’s head tilts. “We don’t have any, Lucas. My brother and Rachel weren’t drinkers.”

  “That sucks.”

  We all walk toward the den, and the muscle in my cheek twitches as I watch Lucas throw his arm around Chelsea’s shoulders casually. Cozily. With intimate familiarity.

  I really don’t like this asswipe. And I’m not the only one.

  Rory comes up to my side and whispers, “He touches my head again, I’m punching him in the nuts.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Can we watch the movie in Mom and Dad’s room?” Riley asks carefully. “We used to have movie night up there every week. But we haven’t since . . .” She ends with a shrug.

  “Sure,” I tell her.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Chelsea agrees softly.

  “Dude! I just got a greater idea!” Lucas says, turning my way. “So . . . you’re like the manny, right?”

  “The what?” I ask, my expression heading for hostile.

  “Like the nanny, but you’re a guy? You can watch the kids, yeah?”

  “Sweet!” Nikki squeaks, picking up his train of thought. “So, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hotty can stay with the babies while the four of us go out!”

  I wait for Chelsea to decline.

  I wait for her to say she’d rather stay in with the kids.

  With me.

  But she doesn’t.

  She just turns to me blankly. “Would that work for you, Jake?”

  A sharp snort rumbles out of me. Frustration and resentment simmer in my stomach, burning like acid. “Whatever you want to do, Chelsea.”

  “Awesome.” Lucas nods. And he still hasn’t moved his fucking arm from her shoulder.

  I want to break it off.

  Lucas’s eyes crawl over her. “You should get changed, babe.”

  I give him a hard stare. “I think she looks perfect.”

  His head toggles. “Well, sure, she’s smokin’.” Then he turns to Chelsea. “But you kinda look like a MILF. Hot and all . . . but still a mom, ya know?”

  And now I want to break his mouth, too.
<
br />   Her face falls, but she agrees. “Okay. I’ll get changed real quick and then we’ll head out.”

  Ten minutes later, she comes down the stairs in tight blue jeans and a white halter top. The shirt pushes together her tits in a fantastic way—she looks gorgeous. But different. There’s less . . . elegance in this outfit. And she seems infinitely more screwable.

  Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, normally. If I had met her in a bar, wearing that—before—I would’ve pulled out all the stops to get her to come home with me. It’s just the fact that she’s going out without me—where other pricks will be looking at her and thinking the same thing—that rubs me the wrong fucking way.

  She leads me into the kitchen, rattling off Ronan’s feeding schedule and bedtime. Things I already know by now. When she stops talking, her eyes rise from the floor to meet mine.

  “I’m sorry about dinner.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Jake, I . . .” She licks her lips, shifts her feet indecisively. “I haven’t seen them in two months. I didn’t know . . .” She pauses again, then seems to find the words she wants to say. “Are you mad at me?”

  And her eyes look so hopeful. So . . . vulnerable. My voice softens. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

  Her douchebag friends, however—that’s another story.

  “And you’re okay with this? Watching the kids for me?”

  In trial law, you learn very quickly that words have meaning. Your questions, your answers, are posed carefully and with forethought, because so much of what is said could be open to interpretation. It’s made me very good at sidestepping—a useful skill at the moment.

  “I planned on being here all night anyway.”

  And then I think about that hamster wheel again. All the giving of herself she’s done, never taking. My hand reaches out, covering hers. “You should go out with your friends, Chelsea. Have fun.” No matter how much I hate the idea. “The kids and I will be fine.”

  She smiles, like a weight has been lifted. And I feel just a little less miserable.

  • • •

  Robert and Rachel McQuaid’s bedroom is on the third floor of the house. The staircase to their room begins at the end of the second-floor hallway. Privacy was obviously important to them. And romance—they did have six fucking kids, after all. The room is huge: a sitting area, a spa-like bath, his-and-hers closets as big as some apartment kitchens. The walls are a tasteful red, the furniture dark wood. There’s a fireplace in the corner with their wedding portrait above it—they look happy and young, and so eager to start their lives together. On the dresser are pictures of their children—tender, candid shots of first baths, Christmas mornings, days at the beach, and sleeping cuddles.

  The kids are quiet when they first walk in, almost like the room is a shrine. But after a few minutes, their natural exuberance and easy comfort with the space take over. They remind me of puppies in a box as they climb on their parents’ California-king bed—bumping into each other, lying over one another, until they’re all finally settled and comfortable. Riley holds Regan on her lap. Judging by the way Regan’s sucking her thumb and her far-off stare, she’ll be lucky if she’s awake past the opening credits. Raymond scoops Cousin It into his arms like a security blanket, and Rosaleen pats the empty space in the center of the bed.

  “Come on, Jake, there’s room for you.”

  I don’t know the rules about a grown man lying in bed with kids he’s not related to, but their collective, comfortably expectant expressions puts my mind at ease. I slip the movie into the DVD player, grab the remote, and pounce on the mattress, making them all bounce and giggle.

  Later, around the time the Goonies tell Troy and his bucket to go screw himself, Rosaleen asks, “Where did Aunt Chelsea go?”

  I tense, thinking about exactly where Chelsea is—and who she’s gone there with.

  “She went out with her friends,” I answer, trying to keep the scowl out of my voice.

  “I didn’t like them,” Riley whispers, so as not to wake the sleeping bundle of two-year-old on her lap. “They were smoking weed in the backyard.”

  “Is that what that smell was?” Rosaleen asks.

  “Yep.”

  My fists clench. Of all the selfish, irresponsible . . . I was young once too, but twenty-six isn’t that goddamn young. It’s too old to be an excuse for sheer fucking stupidity.

  “They were dicks,” Rory offers.

  I don’t even chastise him for the language, ’cause I couldn’t agree more.

  Then we go back to watching the movie.

  • • •

  “That was awesome,” Raymond declares as Cyndi Lauper sings over the rolling credits.

  “Is there a part two?” Riley asks.

  “Nope.” I yawn. “In the eighties they knew not to mess with perfection.”

  Rosaleen jumps on my lap, making me grunt. Then she grabs my face with both little hands, sliding one side down and pushing the other up. “You’re kinda like that Sloth guy, Jake. You’re big and loud.” She gazes down at me thoughtfully. “But you’re not as ugly as him.”

  I’ll take what I can get. “Thanks,” I murmur though squashed lips.

  The kids climb off the bed, stretching and bleary eyed. Rory asks, “Do we have to brush our teeth?”

  I walk with them down the stairs to the second floor. “Nah, I think your teeth will survive one night without it. Just go to sleep.”

  The boys head into their room, and Riley emerges from Regan’s after successfully laying her down. She pins me with her judgmental teenage stare, then gives me the smallest of smiles. “This was fun. Thanks.”

  And a weird, warm feeling tingles in my chest. “It was. You’re welcome.”

  Rosaleen takes my hand and tugs me into her room. It’s pink and princessy, with a unicorn border and a rainbow, blue-skyed mural painted on the ceiling. She climbs into her four-poster bed. “Will you lay down with me, Jake?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Her teeth chatter dramatically and she pulls the covers up to her chin. “But what if One-Eyed Willie comes to get me?”

  I scratch the back of my neck, debating. “Well . . . we can leave your door open and the hall light on?”

  Nope—not good enough.

  “And . . . I can sit outside your door until you fall asleep.” I brought my laptop to get some work done, and the floor suits me as well as a desk. I’m not picky.

  “Okay.” She smiles. Then she waves me closer with her hand. I lean down and she raises her head off the pillow, pressing the softest kiss to my cheek.

  And the weird, warm tingles surge with a vengeance.

  “Good night, Jake. Sweet dreams.”

  I watch her for a moment as she nestles under the covers, the very image of all things pure and good and innocent. And everything in me wants her to be able to stay just like that.

  I shake my head at my sentimentality. Because I don’t fucking do sappy. Harsh, cynical, brutally honest, yes—but never sappy.

  I turn off the light. “Good night, Rosaleen.”

  • • •

  Sometime later—thirty minutes or three hours—I wake up on the floor, my computer open on my lap, chin to chest, my neck aching and my ass totally numb. It’s disorienting at first; I’m not sure where I am or why I’m on the goddamn floor. I look around, inhaling deeply, and then I remember. The Goonies, Chelsea going out with her loser friends, the kids.

  I close the laptop and rub my eyes, wondering what woke me up. Rosaleen’s still out cold and all is silent from the other three closed doors in the hall, including the baby’s room. I get to my feet and—

  Thump.

  A sound comes from downstairs, then indecipherable low voices.

  What the hell?

  My muscles tighten, expecting trouble. Maybe someone’s breaking in? I wonder if Chelsea ever moved that key from under the mat.

  “Mmm . . . yeah . . .”

  That was a male moan. A burglar wouldn’t
be fucking moaning.

  I creep down the stairs, ears straining. And the voices get clearer with each step.

  “Lucas!” That was Chelsea.

  “You’re so fucking hot, babe.”

  My stomach twists and my fists clench. It’s not a burglar.

  “I need you so bad,” he says.

  “Lucas—”

  Her voice is low, a harsh whisper because she’s thinking of the kids. She’s always thinking of the kids. But her words are clear.

  “Lucas, get off.”

  And so are his.

  “Don’t be a bitch, Chels. I know you want it.”

  “No. Stop, Lucas—no!”

  “Shh, relax. Just let me—”

  And I fucking lose it.

  I round the corner into the living room. They’re on the couch, still fully clothed. He’s on top, grinding on her, covering her almost completely except for her legs.

  Her twisting, kicking legs.

  In one move, I pull him off Chelsea by the back of his shirt. I hold him suspended with one hand and punch him in the face with other. My fist makes contact with a satisfying crunch and I feel his nose crack under my knuckles. My vision is tinged white with rage, and my pulse pounds a murderous beat in my eardrums as I pull back and nail him again in the mouth. He raises his hands for protection, and I drop him to the floor.

  Just so I can kick him. My boot catches him right under the rib, driving the breath from his lungs.

  And I want more. I’m hungry for it—pain, blood, and fucking suffering.

  He gasps and wheezes, trying to replace the air. But I don’t hear it. I don’t even see him, really. The only image playing behind my eyes is Chelsea—sweet and gentle, unwilling and struggling beneath him. Telling him no. Begging him to stop.