Due South (The Compass series Book 5) Read online

  He strokes himself a few times before ripping open a packet and rolling the latex down his length. I’m practically drooling. He leans over, his hands on either side of my head, and kisses me. It’s not so hungry anymore. Instead, it’s almost soft. Reassuring. My body responds, relaxing, and he cups my face in one hand.

  “You really want this, Lucy?”

  “I really do.”

  Then he’s pressing at my entrance and I angle my hips to welcome him. He takes it slow, and I’m glad. I don’t think I’ve ever been with anyone who’s this big. It feels good, though—the possession, the stretch. I reach for him, the bristle of his hair soft under my fingertips. He’s got his eyes closed, and a fine sweat has broken out at his temples. When he’s fully seated, he sighs, opening his eyes when I rock my hips up to meet his.

  “Fuck me, please. I want to be fucked.”

  The darkness flashes in his eyes again, and he starts to move. Slow at first, making sure I’m ready for him, and the slick movement makes me crave friction, pressure.

  “Harder, please.”

  He obliges, thrusting hard into me and the motion drives my lower back into the floor. The impact feels good in a filthy way, and I want more, always more. So I tell him so and he gives it to me. It’s not long before I find my climax. It sneaks up on me, the burst of pleasure startling me into a cry. Now that was an orgasm. Quick but so intense, like a lightning bolt, and then dispersing, like a carrying roll of thunder.

  “Oh, thank fuck,” he grinds out. It’s only a couple of brutal thrusts before he goes rigid above me and I feel the pulse of his orgasm inside me. It prolongs my own contractions in a really delicious way. When they stop, though, they leave too much space. Space that had been taken up by lust and desire before. Now that it’s gone, there’s only those old, familiar feelings. Shame. Embarrassment. Awareness that this is not what good girls want, what good girls do. It’s almost comforting because I know it. But I wish… I wish…

  “Lucy?” It’s practically a whisper, but it’s loud in the empty office. The background buzz of the fluorescents doesn’t mask it, but amplifies the way his mouth shapes my name.

  I blink my eyes to his, and that’s when I realize he’s still inside me. It should make me feel dirty, but it doesn’t. He’s still here.

  “Yeah?”

  His eyebrows are pinched together, holding worry. I reach up and use my thumbs to ease them apart. As long as we both think this is okay, it’s okay. The fine hairs are smooth under my touch, and the heel of my hand brushes his cheek where about twelve hours of growth have made him scruffy. Not like the clean-shaven Evans who passes by my desk half a dozen times a day when he and India are both in the office. Evans who always has a kind smile for me or a roll of his eyes when India’s being a particular horror show.

  “Are you okay?”

  Well, I’m spread out in the middle of the office kitchen, half-dressed, with a man still inside me. Which should make me want to reach for the holy water, but surprisingly, “Better than okay?”

  I wish for his sake it didn’t come out as a question, but he seems to be happy it came out at all.

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  “Me too. What about you? You look…concerned.”

  Maybe he gets that creeping anxiety too. Gets the incredible fire of what we’d had doused by a bucket of mixed-up feelings he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

  But he shakes his head. “Only about you. And if you’re good, then I’m…I’m, uh, great. That was the best sex I’ve ever had. I mean, not that I’ve had a lot of sex—”

  He seems to realize I could take that as an insult.

  “—but even if I had, I’m sure this would be the best. By, like, a lot. Because it was great. Really great. Like, super great.”

  A laugh has been forming inside me and now it busts out of my mouth. His eyes pop wide and then he turns bright red. “I—”

  I want to cut him off, call him by his name, tell him he’s rambling. Because he does. It happens when he’s nervous. It’s kind of sweet, actually. But the only name I have is Evans. Which is weird, come to think of it. That can’t be his only name. He’s not a pop star, like Prince or Madonna or one of those dangerously attractive South American soccer players. He’s down here with the rest of us, so he’s got to have a name.

  “What’s your name, Evans?”

  “My name?”

  Oh, that thoughtful, vaguely surprised expression. He’s like an absent-minded professor. His head tips, as though the weight of his thoughts are too heavy to hold it upright anymore.

  “You have one, right?” And that seems like the kind of thing I should know about someone I fucked.

  “Yeah.”

  That’s when the giggles start. Because the man was just extraordinarily bossy in a very hot way and now I have to prod him into saying his name. He doesn’t seem insulted by my outburst, and I don’t want him to be. I couldn’t even help myself anymore.

  “Are you going to tell me what it is? Or is it a state secret?”

  He shakes his head and, if it’s humanly possible, gets even redder.

  “Chanoch. It’s Chanoch.”

  Chanoch. I say it over in my head, but not out loud, afraid I’ll embarrass myself or upset him if I get it wrong. It sounds strange coming out of his mouth, like he doesn’t say it very often. Why? Whyever, it seems as though he doesn’t like it very much, and I feel him pulling away from me. I want him to stay.

  “Should I keep calling you Evans?”

  “Yeah. Definitely. Please do.”

  I smile at him, the shyness coming over me again.

  “I guess we should—”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He reaches between us to hold the condom on as he finally pulls out, and I miss him right away. The feeling of him inside me, the breadth of his hips between my thighs. He was solid and warm, and when he’d been there, we’d been us. Now it feels like him and me.

  He grabs a bunch of napkins from the counter and offers me a few apologetically. We clean up and try to put ourselves to rights. Standing, staring at each other, we talk over one another.

  “We should—”

  “I guess—”

  “You first,” he insists.

  “We should go?”

  He nods and flings a careless hand toward the coffee maker. “I guess you can show me how to work that tomorrow.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  I could tell him not to bother. It’s late and I don’t think he’s going home yet. Ten minutes can make the difference between finishing a project and not. But I let myself nod because I’d like him to.

  A few minutes later, we’re standing by my car and I’m not sure of what to say. What are you supposed to say after something like that?

  So I unlock the door, muttering an awkward goodnight so he doesn’t feel like he’s supposed to kiss me or anything. I slip inside, and he closes the door after me, catching my coat in the door. I have to open it to get it out and almost smack him in the face with the sharp corner. Somehow the fumbling makes my heart flutter. Not in embarrassment. In a recognition kind of way. Evans isn’t too cool for me; he’s not going to treat me badly in the morning. When we finally manage to get the door closed without any fabric or limbs caught in it, I roll down the window and there’s a flurry of goodbyes and see you tomorrows.

  He stands there with his hands in his pockets. I watch him in my rearview mirror as I pull away, almost clipping the One Way sign as I pull out of the garage.

  That suspiciously glowy feeling lasts until I get home and into my bed. I was so tired when I left, and now I can’t seem to sleep. Those voices Evans had chased away with his certainty come creeping into my head.

  Don’t abandon your morals to give into the temptations of the flesh. Your behavior needs to be unimpeachable because people assume things about girls who look like you, Lulu. Sex outside of marriage should be spurned, not
coveted.

  And heaven help anyone who enjoyed it. But I had. And it wasn’t in a godly, sacred way. Nope. Not in a be-fruitful-and-multiply kind of way either. My enjoyment had been in a very earthly, mortal way. Without Evans to keep it at bay, the certainty I’ve done something very, very wrong beats loud in my head, and I can’t make it stop, even with all the pretty sex-positive mantras I throw at it. The rational part of me knows there’s nothing wrong with what we did, but right now Bible-thumping Captain Irrational McRantypants is in charge and in no hurry to give up.

  I throw in the towel around four. If I can’t sleep, I might as well work. I have enough to do. Only nine days; the race is on.

  Chapter Five

  ‡

  December 19th

  Evans

  Wow. Just, like wow. That was the best craziest thing that’s ever happened to me in my whole life.

  For the most part, I go to work, I deal with my family, and I go to sleep. Over and over again. The ratio of how I spend my days might change, but the composition remains the same. Black and white, black and white, until the whole mess of hours and days, weeks and months, blends into a mess of grey.

  But last night…

  Lucy.

  I never would’ve thought she’d be the type to have sex in the office. But I’m pretty sure no one would expect me to have sex in the office either. Or anywhere for that matter.

  No one has to tell me I’m not crazy handsome or in ridiculously good shape or in any way smooth. Girls like me because I’m not intimidating, but not so many of them like me like me.

  I like like Lucy. Have since my first day at JVA when Jack introduced me to her. She had smiled and blushed and offered a soft hand to shake and she smelled good. And then flinched because someone yelled her name from behind the closed office door.

  Jack had shaken his head. “That’ll be India. Come on, I’ll introduce you. You’ll be working with her on some projects.”

  I’d swallowed hard because, well, yelling. And now it’s been six years of walking past Lucy’s desk several times a day when India’s in the office. Trying to figure out excuses to talk to her the rest of the time because I like her voice and how she’s nice to me.

  But she’s never seemed particularly interested in me. So we’ve been friends. And commiserated over India’s insanity. Because that woman… She’s probably the smartest person I’ve ever known in my life, but she’s kind of a head case. And I have enough crazy to deal with.

  As I step out of the shower, my phone rings. I sling a towel around my waist and dry off my fingers enough so the touchpad actually works.

  Speaking of the crazy. “Mom?”

  “Can you come over? Darren is acting up again, and I need your help.”

  I check my watch and head into the bedroom to start pulling out my clothes for the day, tucking the phone between my ear and my shoulder where it slips and I have to wedge it tight to get it to stay.

  “I can’t. I have to go into the office. We’re trying to get this project finished up by Christmas, and I need all the time I can get. I’m sorry.”

  “Your brother risked his life serving his country. And what do you do? Wear your fancy suits and look at screens all day.”

  Yes, I know. My baby brother, the war hero. Served in Iraq and, in exchange, came back with a case of pretty serious PTSD, but he’s never been officially diagnosed and therefore never treated. Then came the domino of too much drinking to numb the pain and the terror, and he…well, what happens when you drink and drive. Crashed and messed up his leg and can’t get around so well anymore, which hasn’t helped his depression, his anxiety, or any of the other myriad mental health issues he’s got. But, yeah, I’m the real letdown; a good-for-nothing, cowardly paper-pusher.

  “Oh, Chuck. I’m sorry. You know I don’t mean that, I’m just…tired. I’m doing the best I can, and I know it’s not your responsibility to take care of your brother, but sometimes it’s a bit much for just one person to handle. And your father, you know, he can help some, but with his knees and his blood pressure. I worry about him so much it’s just easier to do it myself.”

  I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “I’ll try to come by for dinner, okay? But if I can’t keep my job, how are you going to live? If you want me to keep writing you checks, then I have to keep working. I can’t get fired.”

  “Well, I was just hoping you could stop by. And if you can’t, it’s not a big deal. We’ll make do.”

  I know she’s under a lot of stress. I know she is. Darren isn’t easy to be around on his best days, and on his worst, it’s hard. Really hard. But the guilt—it might kill me.

  I know when she looks at him she still sees her All-American quarterback, the one the girls climbed all over, her very own hometown hero. Even when he’s shit-faced and raving. They still see the possibility, not the reality. My parents have always blatantly favored Darren. Even now, he gets all their time and attention. I know I don’t need it the way he does, but it’d be nice, once in a while, to be the good son.

  Because I’m the one who’s providing for all of us. My dad retired a few years ago, which makes me the reason my mom could quit her job and be with Darren; bring him to appointments, keep him clothed and fed and out of trouble. It would be nice, once in a while, to get a thank you or an invitation to dinner because they want to see me, not because they want help with Darren.

  I’d like for them to take some interest in me and in my job. I know it’s not as exciting as being a soldier like Darren was, so maybe that’s too much to ask for. But maybe they could at least stop calling me Chuck? When’s the last time someone said my real name? I can’t remember. No one even asks any more. I’m Evans. Just Evans.

  There’s a woman at HUD India’s buddy-buddy with who goes by Cooper. Just Cooper. For her, it comes across as this ultra-badass, singular, monolithic thing. Like a challenge: Yeah, you try to screw with me, you two-named mortal piece of human lint. For me, though, it’s as though I don’t even rate a first name. But Lucy…Lucy had asked. She hadn’t said it back, but she hadn’t made a face. What I wouldn’t give to hear her say it, to make me feel as if I deserved it, earned a privilege other people take for granted.

  That probably won’t happen, though. Not even my mother can be bothered with the name she gave me instead of that sorry excuse of a nickname because idiot kids on the playground, and my teachers, refused to learn to say a single word. Two measly syllables. Chanoch. How hard is that? But it’s been too much to ask for from anyone, never mind a woman I had one wild and completely unplanned night of carnal delights with.

  Can’t start thinking about that again, though, because then I’ll have to shower all over again. And like I told my mother, if I want to keep writing those checks, I need to get to work.

  *

  Evans

  When I walk in the door, the office is relatively quiet. There are a few early birds like me, but it’s nothing compared to the buzz and hum of ten a.m., especially when India’s in the office. I head straight back to my own office. It’s tiny, but it’s all mine and it has a door. An honest-to-god office. When I got here, I’d been excited about having a cube. And now I have an office. All to myself.

  I hang up my coat on the back of the door and flick on my computer. Hopefully I can get some work in before anyone bothers me. Because once it starts, it doesn’t stop. I’ve somehow become a conduit. Or a middle manager, I guess is what I’d be in corporate speak.

  India tells me what needs to get done and I tell everyone else. In a way that doesn’t make them break down in tears or want to gouge India’s eyes out. It works pretty well, but it doesn’t leave a lot of time for my own work, and I’ve been busting my tail trying to get all my billable hours in.

  Fourteen hours later, I’m still not finished with the analysis for the bond project. It makes me feel good India has so much faith in me, but sometimes it wouldn’t hurt for her to have a smidge less. My brain can do the mental gymnastics required for all of thi
s, but it’s slow and klutzy, not Olympic levels like hers. I pack up my stuff in the now-silent office. Everyone’s gone home, even India. Cris must still be in town. It’s not that she’s not working—oh no. It’s that she works from home more when he’s here. I still get emails at all hours.

  I’m about to leave when I notice a light on down at the end of the hall. It’s a light I look for. Lucy’s. I should go home. It’s ten o’clock and I haven’t been outside this concrete-and-glass box since I walked in the door at eight this morning. I barely took a break to call my mom and tell her I couldn’t come for dinner. I’d used up my lunch break eating an extra carton of yogurt I’d found in the fridge and listening to my mom’s latest litany of everything my brother needs and what her days are like.

  I know it’s hard and that she’s overwhelmed and I do my best to be sympathetic. I’ve suggested she look into housing programs, maybe some therapy that’s more comprehensive and offered through the VA so it won’t cost a fortune, but she won’t. I’ve even tried suggesting that her coddling and hovering isn’t doing Darren any good, which sends her into another tizzy about trying to be a good parent. The martyrdom is strong in this one. And never ever does she think about what any of this costs me.

  The other single guys who work here drive nice cars, live in sick apartments, and when they’re not working their asses off, they go out and have a good time. The stories I hear around the water cooler are so scandalous they make me blush. Which is probably why they don’t talk to me about their…dates. Yeah, sometimes they ask me if I’ve gotten laid lately, but it’s more to hear me stammer an awkward answer than that they actually want to know. And I would never, ever tell them about Lucy.

  I know what they say about her. But they don’t know her, not like I do. They see the pretty reddish-brown hair she twists up off her neck most days. They see the old-fashioned clothes she wears a lot. Because those vintage dresses and those pencil skirts, they show off her body in a way things women wear now wouldn’t. And of course, they see her breasts. Because honestly, they’re hard to miss.