Work Text:
“Where is he?”
The words escape Beth before she can think better of it. A blush erupts across her chest when Mick pops a brow and fixes her with a knowing look.
And, okay—this isn't exactly how she’d planned on broaching the subject. She’d intended on keeping her line of questioning as apathetic as possible, avoid showing her hand too early—which, much to her chagrin, she's managed to do in a matter of seconds—but as soon as she'd caught sight of Mick’s silhouette in the doorway instead of Rio’s, the question had burst forth from her lips before she could stop herself.
This is the third week in a row he's missed the drop.
“Expectin’ someone else?” Mick asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he saunters over to her. The swish of his leather jacket is the only sound in the room besides the constant, dull hum of the heating system in the corner as it fights off the mid-winter chill.
Although her chances are slim to none that Mick will buy into her charade now, Beth feigns nonchalance, shrugging her shoulders and pursing her lips as he comes to stand at the opposite end of the work table.
“I had just been under the impression that he would be at the drops he scheduled, is all. It's a little unprofessional,” she replies as she glides her hand over the immaculate surface of the work table, pretending to brush off debris that isn't there just for something to do with her hands. When she glances up at Mick again, he's got an elbow propped up on the work table as he leans against it, fixing her with the same knowing look, and she feels herself tense as a flicker of irritation ignites in her chest. She clears her throat, throwing back her shoulders and twisting her neck slightly to dispel some of the tension.
Beth still has yet to grow accustomed to Mick's perpetual state of indifference. He's calculated with his reactions, never giving her more than an inch, never revealing more than he needs to, and she despises the way it unnerves her. It's not that Rio is any less onerous, has ever made it easier for her to get information out of him, but unlike Mick, he can't seem to help himself when an opportunity presents itself for him to get a rise out of her, for him to go toe-to-toe with her even when he knows he'll inevitably gets his way. Mick, on the other hand, has an infuriating knack for making her overshare—feeling like she needs to overcompensate for all that he doesn’t contribute to every one of their brief interactions.
“He’s busy,” Mick responds, his voice gruff and tinged with mild amusement. Beth narrows her eyes slightly, tampering down the irritation that flares in her gut at his vague response, knowing that it’ll only give him more satisfaction if she shows it.
The worst part is that she knows he's reading her like an open book right now, can tell how desperately she wants to ask him what he knows, even though the odds of him actually giving anything up are as slim as her finding them out for herself. She also knows that if there’s any trait of his worth noting that Rio lacks, it’s patience. He’ll wait her out until she inevitably breaks—will let her interrogate him about the unanswered calls, the unacknowledged texts, the radio silence that she has zero explanation for—and he’ll undoubtably report back to Rio about it like he did all those months ago when he was posted up at her house, ensuring that she didn’t try to flee before her borrowed time was up.
Point is, she knows that she won’t have to elaborate on what she means when she asks about him, but she's almost certain that Mick will play dumb, drag it out, refuse to give her an inch until she’s laying it all out for him, giving him a transparent abridgment of not what she’s asking, but why.
The true killer is that she’s not even entirely sure what the why is, never mind how she would go about justifying it to herself or Mick—he would know immediately, if he doesn't already, that this has nothing to do with their business relationship.
It’s not that she’s worried, exactly—her patience for being ignored by the men in her life expired long ago—and it’s not like she’s hurt, either. It’s not like she thought that night had changed anything or mended what was broken between them.
(Didn’t it, though?)
The room is dead silent, neither of them exchanging any words as Beth deliberates over whether it's worth it to pry while Mick, she’s sure, waits patiently on her to make the next move.
It must be at least a full minute before she expels a heavy, conceded breath. She rolls her shoulders back, straightens up, and plasters on a cheery smile, slipping into her customer service persona with a practiced ease.
“Alright then,” she chirps as though it’s no issue at all, ignoring Mick’s bemused snort even as she watches him shake his head to himself out of the corner of her eye. He finally shifts his attention from her to the dark blue duffel on the other end of the work table, watching patiently as she grabs one of the thick straps and lugs it across the tattered wooden surface.
“It’s all there. Take as much time as you need,” she says, her voice sugary enough to bore through tooth enamel. Mick grunts, unaffected, his gloved hands tugging the bag closer to him and drawing the zipper without another word.
He makes quick work of counting the stacks of red-banded cash—always does, really, which is one thing she can say she appreciates about doing the drops with him. Despite herself, her mind drifts back to Rio, wondering what could've kept him away for nearly three weeks without so much as a text message when, not too long ago, he obliged to practically every impromptu meeting that she called, no matter the time or reason.
The thought branches off in several directions until her mind is working itself into a frenzy, working through the possible reasons for his sudden withdrawal from her. It feels as though someone is dragging a sharpened blade along the seams of her heart, increasing the pressure with each possibility that presents itself, and it isn't long before one thought solidifies in her mind, leaving all the other to fade into obscurity as her heartbeat stutters and stumbles.
What if he regrets it?
The blade in her chest twitches, pricking at her seams.
Is that why he’s been avoiding their meetings, refusing to so much as hear her voice over the phone? Did the consequences of letting her in again finally rear their ugly heads, infusing him with the very feelings she feared they would? After everything—the sentiments they shared, the walls they bashed down, the desire they surrendered to—has he come to view that night as a mistake?
Her heart throbs like a bruise that's been prodded out, echoing throughout the hollow space that's been carved into her chest.
The metallic bite of a zipper yanks Beth from her thoughts just in time for her to catch Mick heaving the duffel off of the table, his work for the night finished. She watches silently as he backs away from the work table, the straps of the bag clutched in one hand while the other raises to his forehead, offering her a two-fingered salute.
“See you next week,” He informs her, curt as ever, before making for the door.
He doesn't give her a chance to respond, but she hasn't a clue what she would say if he were to, anyway. There’s no way to pry further about Rio’s whereabouts without inadvertently admitting that his absence concerns her—without insinuating that, god forbid, she misses him—unless— —
Unless she figures them out for herself.
Beth's gaze follows Mick’s retreating form to the back of the shop, focusing absently on the taut line of his leather jacket as her thoughts work themselves into a frenzy. She watches him peel through the door (with more stealth than anyone of his build should be capable of, she might add), the blinds clacking softly against it as it closes, and just like that, she’s alone.
The silence lends her some clarity with which to sort through her thoughts until one stands out above all the others, echoing against the walls of her skull as if Mick were still in the room with her.
Art class. You know, pencils and chalk and whatnot?
And yeah, Beth thinks, eyes trained on the door as the clattering blinds begin to settle, the stillness of the night just beyond it encompassing her along with a new sense of determination.
Art class.
···
From the moment she leaves the shop that night, the idea cements itself in Beth’s mind, clinging to her every thought like a leech.
At first, she’s determined to ignore it.
For one, it’s a stupid idea. She knows what good forcing her way into Rio's personal life did her the last time she tried it—there's a very high chance that it'll not only blow up in her face but also sever the tentative truce they've settled into. For another, she knows that if she goes through with it, she'll be sealing her desperation and shipping her vulnerability straight to him to use against her the next time she steps out of line.
She drags herself through the motions for three days, her mounting concern weighing heavily on her as though she's walking around with a sack of stones sewed to her back. She does her carpool runs in the morning, stops by Boland Bubbles to run through the books in the afternoon, and prints well into the night until her arms are aching, grateful for the raucous whir of the blender when it finally assuages her racing thoughts.
That is, until she returns home. That's when everything returns full force—the emotional fatigue that seeps into her limbs, the apprehension seated deep in the cavern of her chest, and the all mounting in intensity as she repeats the cycle.
On Sunday morning, when daylight first yawns through the cracks in her blinds, she breaks.
She's out of bed and bustling around her bedroom shortly after remembering that Annie and Ruby are due over in less than an hour, consumed by restless energy. She pulls a maroon sweater over her head and tugs on a pair of blue jeans before heading to the kitchen, the padding of her bare feet against the cool hardwood echoing through the empty house in a way she still isn’t used to.
(Part of her hopes she’ll never get used to it—the part that aches for her kids whenever they’re out of sight, even if only for a weekend trip to see their grandmother in South Haven—while the other half can’t help but appreciate the absence of Dean’s thundering footsteps and the feeling of apprehension that so often accompanies them.)
The sunlight filters through the window just above the sink, dousing the countertops in bright streams of gold. Beth’s focus immediately narrows in on her laptop as she sidles up to the counter, disconnecting it from its charger before she settles in at the island as she powers it on. Her fingers dance along the countertop impatiently as she waits for the desktop to load, the browser opening on a new tab automatically when it does.
For a moment she simply stares at the empty screen, considering her options, before she lets out a deep sigh and types in art classes in downtown Detroit.
Naturally, the screen floods with far too many results, and she worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she contemplates how to narrow the search. Her fingers hover motionlessly over the keys for a beat before she tacks on Thursday and night hours.
There are fewer results this time, but as she explores the few promising links that the first page lists, she finds that all of them market either the wrong hours, the wrong age group, or the wrong program altogether. She scans over a couple top-ten Yelp lists, a handful of independent studios, and even a few links showcasing museum-sponsored events, but none of them fit what she’s looking for. None of them fit him.
Beth huffs in frustration, pursing her lips as she stares at the blinking cursor. She glances away in an effort to collect her thoughts, mulling over the possible parameters she could add, because even though Rio has an affinity for obscuring the details of his personal life, she wouldn’t suspect an art class to be of high priority in that respect.
Or maybe it is, she considers, scoffing wryly to her empty kitchen. If his taste in art is as pretentious as his apartment décor implied, then he would never settle for a class that someone like her would search for.
Her attention snags on the thought, because maybe— —
Maybe that’s it.
She clicks back onto the search bar and adds on private lesson, a triumphant smile tugging at her lips as a thread of satisfaction curls through her.
She wills herself not to get her hopes up as her computer re-filters the search. When the results flood the screen once more, Beth cranes her head forwards slightly, scanning over the hyperlinks for anything that sounds— —well, anything that sounds like him.
She opens two separate tabs for the websites that seem the most promising. The first class, Acrylic Studios, has the correct time and weekday listed, and everything about it appears minimalistic and discreet. The second class, Recreational Palettes, is a bit farther downtown than she’s ever traveled to meet him, but it meets the criteria all the same. When she clicks onto the information tab for Acrylic Studios and finds that the hours for their weekly private sessions align with their usual drop time, she hums, pleased, scrolling further down the page and pulling her phone from her back pocket when she locates the street address. She opens up the notes app on her phone and copies it down, adding on A.S. in parenthesis before switching to the website for Recreational Palettes and repeating the process.
She’s in the middle of typing out the second address when the click of a key and the turn of a lock echoes through the kitchen.
Beth hurriedly shuts her laptop with one hand as the other fumbles out of the notes app. She angles her body towards the side door just Annie ambles through it with Ruby close on her heels.
“Look, all I’m saying is if someone tried talking like that to my kid, they’d be getting a lot more than a phone call home,” Annie says, responding to something Ruby has said out of Beth’s earshot as she makes room for Ruby to step into the house after her.
“Hey,” Beth calls out, feigning nonchalance as she flicks aimlessly through her messages. She's grateful when their conversation carries on uninterrupted without any acknowledgement of her finicky behavior.
“Like I need another lawyer I can’t afford,” Ruby replies, her tone heavy with sarcasm, to which Annie shrugs in reply before shutting the door behind them.
“You only need a lawyer if you get caught,” Annie supplies with a comical wink and a sly grin.
At this, Ruby shifts her attention to Beth, widening her eyes in exasperation before finally acknowledging her greeting with a "hey." Her gaze skims the kitchen absently for a moment before settling almost immediately on her laptop, her brows furrowing slightly as her eyes return to Beth's. “What’re you up to this early?”
Beth parts her lips wordlessly for a beat, at a loss for a response that might spare at least a fraction of the truth. Thing is, though, she's already far too aware of the glances Ruby and Annie exchange when Rio is around—has felt their attention pinned solely on her whenever Rio has held Beth’s gaze a moment too long, stepped a little too close, laughed a little too hard at one of her sarcastic retorts—and has yet to provide them with an explanation for any of it. She can't tell them that she’d been trying to track down where he spends his Thursday nights. She can't tell them that on top of not showing up to the drops, he’s been ignoring her calls and messages for almost three weeks and because of it, she can't seem to keep her head straight.
She can't tell them because doing so would involve telling them all of it—that she was shot, that she slept with him again, that she cares about him—so instead, Beth answers, “I was just looking into some after-school classes."
The dubious look Ruby levels her with makes Beth cringe internally as she resists the urge to squirm.
"For the kids," she clarifies as she sets her phone on the counter beside her laptop, suddenly desperate for something to do with her hands. Ruby holds her gaze for a moment too long before moving to take a seat at the island next to her, evidently opting to bite her tongue over prying further. Annie is notably less skeptic, forgoing any acknowledgement of Beth's skittishness in favor of fiddling with the coffee maker on the other side of the counter. Beth takes a moment to center herself before she twists in her seat to face the two of them.
"So, who needs a lawyer?" She asks, attempting to shift the focus as far from herself as possible. She ignores the way Ruby's eyes bore into her while Annie, who has already managed to load up the coffee maker and pluck a mug from Beth's cabinet, takes the bait.
"Some kid in Sara's class ran his mouth about her being a 'thief' to their classmates,“ She explains, bracketing the term with mock air quotes. "Like, how would that little punk even know about the pen? He had to have heard it from his parents or something, which is honestly just pathetic that they'd even be talking about it around— —“
“Drop it,” Ruby cuts in suddenly. A tinge of remorse seeps into her expression when Annie flinches slightly, and she releases a weighted breath before she softens her tone. “Please. I just— —can we talk about something else?”
And even though her words are firm, Beth hears the way her voice falters—a clear tell that she's taking this personally, that Sara’s behavior has already taken a toll on her sanity.
“Of course,” Beth assures her, covering Ruby’s hand with her own and giving her a comforting squeeze. She basks in the relief that washes over her when Ruby offers her a grateful glance for a moment before she glances over at Annie. She’s leaning back against the counter, mug in hand and face pinched with worry as she shoots Beth an insistent glance. Beth shrugs helplessly, expelling a weary sigh of her own as Annie pushes off of the counter.
Before the silence can settle into something heavier, she wipes any trace of unease from her expression and sets her mug on the island across from them, her small hands curling around the ceramic as she tilts her head animatedly at Beth.
“So, have you heard from gang friend yet? Not that I haven’t enjoyed our one-on-one time with ol’ Mick, but I’m starting to get the feeling that homeboy is giving us the cold shoulder.”
And of-fucking-course, Beth thinks.
She sucks in a breath that she knows is too sharp for either of them to miss—knows she should’ve seen it coming, really, but still. It doesn’t make the blow of the words any softer. She shakes her head, certain that her voice will betray her, and although she keeps her eyes on the counter, she can feel both of them staring at her, waiting for an explanation that she doesn’t have.
Yet, she reminds herself, her eyes absently tracing the indents in the countertop as Ruby lets out a snort next to her.
“Maybe he’s busy flipping his game again,” Ruby offers, lowing her voice an octave to imitate him in a way that makes Beth bark out a laugh.
“That, or he’s finally taking some time off from torturing us,” Annie adds brightly, a smirk tugging at her lips as she tilts her mug at them.
And wouldn’t that be nice, Beth thinks—if his absence hadn't proven more torturous than his presence.
“Who cares,” she says suddenly, the words tumbling from her lips with a conviction that surprises even her. “We’re not dead and we’re still making money.”
“L’chaim to that!” Annie cheers, her coffee nearly sloshing over the rim of her mug as she raises it enthusiastically. Beth can’t help the smile that peels over her lips then, despite everything, and when she feels Ruby’s shoulder bump lightly against her own, she feels a warmth unfurl in her chest, easing the persistent tension that seems to have taken up residence there.
She bears the relief of the moment like a double-edged sword, vexed by the knowledge that she’s still lying to the two of the most important people in her lives and is in no rush to change the fact.
It’s not even the fact that they wouldn’t understand, or that they’d ask her to explain the situation when she doesn’t even understand it herself. No, it's the unnecessary worry that she knows they can't afford. She assures herself of it, that this is what's best for them, as the same rational from earlier plays through her head like a broken record. She’d have to tell them about Canada—that she was shot, that she stepped in front of the bullet for him, that the very same night they— —
Unnecessary worry, she tells herself. She’s lying to them because she loves them.
Still, her smile fizzles and burns out long before the conversation switches to a lighter topic.
···
Her hands are shaking.
Beth inhales deeply, her head falling back against the headrest as her hand slips from the gear stick. Through the windshield, she settles her gaze on the two-story brick building, the bold letters above the door spelling out Acrylic Studios. There are several lit windows on either floor, the soft glow of the overhead lights seeping through them and spilling out onto the pavement of the parking lot. On the first floor, she can make out a few rows of wooden shelving with several different types of art supplies scattered across them. Below the shelves, there are multiple stacks of blank canvases, most appearing untouched and wrapped in plastic. There isn’t much to see on the second floor—a row of stools and easels angled towards the center of the room and an intricate piece of ceramic artwork spanning the length of the rightmost wall.
And just outside the building, of course, is a black, boxy G-Wagon.
Briefly, Beth thinks that some higher force has to be playing a trick on her. The odds that she’s found him at the first possible location (Recreational Palettes had been another five minutes away according to Maps and the name of this place seemed more like something he would gravitate towards, anyway) could not be any lower and yet, here she is—banking on the fact that the G-Wagon is the same make and model as Rio's.
Though, does she really lose anything by testing those odds?
Well, her Thursday night, she thinks with a snort. Then, with less amusement—Annie and Ruby’s trust. Dean’s patience.
And hadn’t that been a whole debacle? One that would likely come back to bite her in the ass just like every other time, because Dean has never been as intuitive about anything as he is about Rio. Miraculously, that fact seems to be the one thing she can count on him for nowadays.
Another minute ticks by on the dashboard as she takes a fortifying breath, her mind replaying the night's events just as it's been doing since she left the house.
She’d been finishing up in her bedroom prior to her confrontation with Dean, studying her reflection in the mirror as she tugged on a black wool cap. It was a choice she made for the sake of concealing herself more than anything, but as she’d pulled her hands away from where they’d been fidgeting with the rim of the caps, she found herself smiling softly at her reflection. She looked good.
(Not that it mattered for where she was going, she had reminded herself, but having an extra vote of confidence for it certainly didn't hurt.)
The trill of her cellphone had pulled her attention away from the mirror. She strode over to the bed and plucked up her phone to find a string of messages from Annie lighting up her lock screen. The first had said the bag is secured (Beth couldn't help but roll her eyes), followed by btw if your boy doesn’t show tonight, im gonna have some questions.
She’d slipped her phone into her back pocket with a sigh, leaving her messages unanswered. Even though she knew Annie couldn't possibly know what she had planned, the last thing she needed was her prying into her whereabouts just enough to scrape up whatever details she needed to support her theory of the week.
Beth had pushed the thought from her head and set her focus back on the task at hand, quickly scanning through her mental checklist—purse, phone, wallet—before she realized she was missing her keys. After giving herself a last cursory once-over in the mirror, she headed for the kitchen, the clomp of her black booties echoing against the hardwood.
The moment she'd spotted her keys sprawled out across the countertop, Dean's heavy footsteps abruptly broke through the silence as he ambled down the stairs. Beth’s spine straightened as she swiped her keys off of the kitchen counter and into her coat pocket, spinning around in time to catch his relaxed, dopey look morph into one of confusion, his steps faltering as he neared her.
“Hey, I thought you had the night off? Didn’t you take the morning shift at the shop today?” He’d asked genuinely, his tone giving off no hints of suspicion and for a moment, Beth foolishly thought she’d be able to worm her way out of the conversation, escaping their tired, fruitless routine for one night. So she cocked her head, furrowed her brows, and slipped on her venerable mask of doting cluelessness.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you? Sorry, I’ve been so busy this week,” she’d told him sheepishly, digging her nails into the skin of her palms beneath the cover of her coat pockets. Although the excuse was accurate, the apology certainly wasn't. “I’m meeting Annie and Ruby for drinks.”
And she’d had him, she had—he'd nodded his head absently, absorbing this information (or not—over time, she’s become less and less certain that he’s ever fully absorbed a single word that’s come from her mouth) without a trace of doubt.
“Girls’ night,” she’d added on, her tone guilefully winsome.
Then, briefly, her gaze had flitted to her right, clocking the time displayed on the stove—twenty minutes until Annie and Ruby were due to make the drop—and that, apparently, was reason enough for her fib to make it onto Dean’s radar.
“You’re meeting them for drinks at eleven PM?” He’d asked his voice laced with incredulity as he followed her line of sight, and, okay—admittedly, it wasn’t her best work, but it wasn't that ridiculous.
“Yeah,” She'd insisted, infusing a bit of doltish charm to her smile. “We’ve all been working like crazy and haven’t had the same hours off in a while, so.”
And Dean had crossed his arms in the same way he's always done when he believes he’s got a leg up before reminding her, “They were over on Sunday.”
Beth’s expression had frozen, her smile fading from her face as the resolve in Dean’s hardened.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” He’d concluded, widening his stance, and Beth had just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes, all of her previous energy for pleasantries promptly draining out of her.
“It’s work,” she’d conceded, deadpan, because it was, despite how stubbornly he refused to believe it. He may have folded when it came to his position at Boland Motors or her confrontation of his infidelity, but if there was one thing he refused to back down from, it was his ridiculous presumption that her relationship with Rio was anything but professional.
(Though, was it really that ridiculous anymore? Had it ever been?)
“Work. Right,” Dean’d mocked with a scoff, nodding his head as though he'd finally pieced something together. “You know, you’d think that with all your experience in sneaking around, you’d at least take the time to come up with a better lie for it.”
Beth’s eyes had widened, startled by his bluntness, before the implication of his words dawned on her. She'd tilted her head then as her gaze narrowed.
“For what, Dean?”
His gaze found its way back to her, her previous flicker of shock reflected in his expression as he registered the frigid edge in her voice. It passed just as quickly as it came though, replaced by the self-righteous fury she's often found simmering beneath the surface whenever they discussed this.
“What, are you gonna make me say it now, too? It’s not enough to watch my wife get stolen from me by some, some— —street thug?”
Beth had felt her jaw drop, her eyebrows pinch, her mouth twist in rage—could feel the thick coil of her fury tightening in her ribcage, seeping up through her throat and rearing to snap, only— —
Only it didn’t.
Before she could grasp the thread of her anger, it had receded, slipping through her fingers as a wave of callousness surged through her.
Calmly, she’d removed her hands from the pockets of her coat before lowering them to the counter and leaning forward—not very far, but far enough to make him feel just as condescended as she constantly was.
“Make you say what, Dean? That I slept with someone I work with? Just like you made me ask—not say, ask, because you couldn’t give me the same courtesy of coming clean after I found out the first time—how many of your co-workers you slept with?”
And sure, it might’ve been an overused card, but damn it if it didn’t feel good to see his face fall ashen—his bravado shrinking beneath her words and shriveling up completely beneath her withering glare—even if she had to endure the inevitable sting of picking at the old scab of it.
And damn it if it weren’t still true—if she wasn't tired of pretending like her actions cancelled out his, like it didn't hurt that he still viewed her as a sure thing, something he was entitled to, when he sure as hell wasn't.
When it became clear that he wasn’t going to try and scrape up any kind of rebuttal from the wreckage of their conversation, Beth had stepped out from behind the counter and sauntered easily past him, throwing open the front door without so much as a parting glance.
Now, centering herself in the present moment, Beth wraps her fingers around the handle of the car door as she eyes the studio warily. Her courage has waned considerably in the wake of her confrontation with Dean, and she’s finding it hard to pick up the scraps of what’s left as she braces herself for what's to come.
Really, she should back out while she’s ahead. She knows how well this will go over if she does find Rio in there: slightly better than when she’d broken into his apartment but undoubtably worse than it would’ve back then, before she’d— —
Then again, she wants him to be in there, right? She decided a long time ago, back when she first put her soul up for bid, that she was done giving up what she wanted before she could even figure out what it was, and what she wants—no, deserves—is answers.
It’s this thought that drives her out of the car, across the parking lot, and through the entrance of the building, the wooden door groaning on its hinges as it falls shut behind her.
The heady scent of Earth and paint greet her as she takes in the open layout of the space, her gaze roaming over the throwing wheels on her left before drifting over to the collection of high-rise wooden tables on her right. Each tabletop is covered in thick canvas mats and at the far end of the cluster, closest to the entrance, is a small, circular table with a candle atop it, the three wicks burning low as its rich lavender aroma mingles with the overbearing smell of wet clay. The industrial design of the space is simplistic yet coordinated with red brick walls and concrete flooring throughout. A spiral metal staircase is located across from the entrance at the end of a narrow hallway, that of which contains multiple doors leading to what she can only assume are storage closets.
Though there doesn’t appear to be any activity on the ground floor, Beth registers the faint hum of muffled voices as they drift from the upper level. Tentatively, she steps deeper into the building, peeking through a small open archway connected to the main area. There's a kiln tucked into the corner along with several shelving units cluttering the walls around it, but no sign of anyone who might be occupying the space.
The metallic patter of footsteps pulls her attention back to the stairwell just in time to see a woman with tanned skin and ample curves descending the staircase. When she spots Beth, she tilts her head curiously, her black curls swaying with the motion.
“Hey there,” she greets her in a thick, unmistakable New York accent. “You here for the paintin’ class?”
Beth’s lips part silently for a moment before she remembers herself, shaking her head and painting on a polite smile.
“Yes, I hope I’m not too late?”
“Not at all,” she assures, her lips curling up into a warm smile that makes Beth feel inexplicably at ease. “Started ‘bout twenty minutes ago, but there’s plenty of time left. Just head on up—it’s the first room on your right. Lena will get you set up from there.”
The woman tips her head back towards the staircase, her gold septum piercing glinting beneath the studio lights as she does so. Beth nods, her smile morphing into something genuine as she thanks the woman before stepping around her and heading for the staircase.
The layout of the second floor is nearly identical to the first save for the flooring, which transitions into worn hardwood at the landing of the staircase. The room the woman had directed her to is separated from the main room by an open archway. She tunes into the chorus of hushed voices and soft, instrumental melody as she steals a glance down the hall, finding that the dividing wall on the right gives way to another open space halfway across the loft. There's another archway to her left that presumably houses a similar space to the one on her right, but other than that, the layout is entirely open.
Beth fists her hands in her coat pockets as she wanders closer to the archway, tensing with anticipation when the contents of the room slide into view. She reminds herself that she's overreacting as she sweeps her gaze over the room, surveying its occupants. Three people are gathered in the rightmost corner, their easels and stools clustered together as though they’d dragged them closer together; to the left of them, there’s someone seated at a lone easel while a woman—the instructor, presumably—hovers next to it, pointing to the paint-smeared canvas in front of them as she says something too softly for Beth to hear.
Then, just as the disappointment begins to trickle in, the leftmost corner of the room slides into view. He’s turned away from her, his back facing the archway as he leans towards the person next to him, but there isn't a doubt in her mind. She knows it’s him.
He has on the maroon button-down that she always wishes he’d wear more, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to expose his toned forearms and black leather bracelets. The person next to him—a beautiful brunette with golden bands on her wrists that jingle as she points at something on his canvas—draws a laugh out of him, leaning in as she observes his reaction. His shoulders shake slightly as his laughter fills the air, rich and harmonious, and god, Beth thinks—when is the last time she’s heard him laugh like that in front of her? In the next moment his wrist is flicking across the canvas, wielding a paintbrush she hadn’t even noticed he was holding, as he adds something to his painting—to her dismay, the easel is angled too far to the left for her to discern what it is—with a dramatic flourish that’s so him, it hurts.
Her heartbeat climbs its way up her throat as she studies him and she can't help but feel like she’s witnessing something she shouldn’t be seeing. She knows it's because this side of him isn’t hers, will never be hers, no matter how many bridges they mend. This fragment of a moment is the only way she’s meant to know him like this—too inconsequential to hold any meaning or be truly appreciated, but one she knows she'll cling to despite herself.
“Hey there! You here for the intermediate painting class?” A voice chirps, tearing through the haze of her thoughts, and Beth freezes at the sound of it, rooted to the spot, but she doesn’t look away.
She doesn’t acknowledge the instructor’s words, either, or the curious gazes that flit to her as Rio pivots slightly on his stool, his eyes finding Beth the moment he glances over his shoulder. It’s as though she’s watching his reaction unfold in slow motion as his lips part and his jaw goes slack, rendering the most genuine look of surprise she thinks she’s ever seen on him.
It lasts for only an instant—a split-second glimpse that she struggles to convince herself she actually saw by the time he draws his mask back over it. Any and all traces of ingenuity immediately slip from view, leaving an expertly tempered look of fury in their place.
It’s immediate and agonizing, the way it transports her back to that awful, wonderful night he came back to her, the chilling memory of his sharp-tongued bantering and insincere laughter wrapping around her like a serpent. The way it had crackled like a live wire, dangerous and unpredictable, with an undercurrent of rage that only she could see simmering beneath the surface.
She doesn’t know how many seconds pass in silence as the whole room waits for a response, but by the time she snaps out of it, he’s up from his stool and striding towards her. Her lips part uselessly as she clambers for some semblance of an explanation, but he’s in front of her before she can find the words, his hand settling at her lower back with a fondness that belies his hostility.
“Class goes for an hour, honey, remember?” Rio drawls, his tone perfectly controlled even as it drips with condescension. He nods politely at the instructor then, his fingers digging into Beth's back through the thick material of her coat as he presses his chest to her shoulder, subtly urging her through the archway. “’Scuse us for a minute.”
With that, he steers her out of the room, his hand insistent at her back as he drops the pretense of cordiality, and she can’t help the way it reminds her of hijacked bar meetings and orange couches in waiting rooms—of don’t do that and it almost doesn’t feel real, and she knows that they’re miles from that place now, but she can’t help the way a seed of panic sprouts in her throat at the reminder of how expertly he’s always masked his true intentions.
As soon as they’re out of sight, his hand immediately slips from her back to clutch at her forearm, his grip firm but not tight enough to hurt. She sucks in a breath as he leads them a little ways down the hall, away from the prying eyes of wandering passerby, and when it breaks left, he tugs her around the corner.
As soon as he releases her arm, he’s on her. He crowds her against the wall, pressing closer until their chests are nearly touching, and she swallows as he peers down at her, rage spitting in the depths of his dark eyes. His clenches his jaw so hard she’s sure it must be painful, the muscles of it working furiously for a few stifling beats of silence as he attempts to reign in his temper.
“The fuck you doin’ here?” He bites out. Each syllable is sharp enough to draw blood, his eyes flashing dangerously as he waits for an explanation, and she wills herself not to flinch, to keep her composure, because this is what she wanted, isn’t it? For him to talk to her.
“Where were you?” She demands, ignoring his question, hoping the fierce edge to her tone will make the ground beneath them feel a little more even.
It’s the wrong move, apparently, because Rio’s expression only darkens, his eyebrows furrowing as though he genuinely can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“Nah,” he rasps with a jerk of his chin, “I’m askin’ the questions here, sweetheart. You always marchin’ up where you ain’t welcome, thinkin’ you got any right to be demandin’ shit. How many times I gotta remind you that I don’t owe you nothin’?”
Beth squares her shoulders, refusing to falter beneath his harsh words. Still, she can feel them tear at the flimsy stitching in her heart, threatening to unravel her.
“How’d you find me, huh?” Rio barrels on, tilting his chin down at her as he examines her face for any nonverbal cues. “You tail me in that mama van of yours again? Hire a P.I. this time?”
She bites her tongue, swallowing the urge to tell him that she Googled it, because as much as she’d love to rub it in his face, it won’t get her any answers.
“Two weeks. You couldn’t return one text for two weeks?” She bites back, crossing her arms over her chest in hopes of forcing some distance between them only to curse herself when it causes her chest to brush against his. His gaze flickers down but she doesn’t acknowledge it, can’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction beyond the heat she can feel flooding her cheeks.
“Didn’t stop you from makin’ my money, now did it?” He drawls, practically sneering at her now. The words are an echo of their past grievances, of all the times he’d insisted that he didn’t care about her. That he simply cared about what she could do for him, and the implication is just as clear now as it’s always been.
It’s just business.
And really, she should’ve known better than to expect anything other than this reaction, should’ve known that he’d stick to his narrative after getting the rug pulled out from under him, but— —
No, she thinks.
It doesn’t matter that they didn’t say it outright, that they didn’t sign a written peace treaty after she’d saved his life. She knows that things are different now—felt it in the way he held her, the way he healed her—no matter how much she’s tried to deny it to herself.
“What was I supposed to think?” Beth spits out, her voice hardly above a whisper, fearful that if she raises it, it will reveal all the cracks he’s left in her.
For a moment, her question seems to trip him up. She sees it in the way his hostility falters, his lips parting slowly as the implication of her words sink in. She buries the humiliation that rises in her when she realizes how clearly she’s shown her hand as she holds her breath. Then, as though he’s caught himself slipping, he’s drawing the shutters on his expression just as swiftly as they’d fallen open, closing himself off, and she once again finds herself questioning if she’d actually seen beneath them after all.
“It ain’t none of your concern what I do with my time,” he tells her, his tone leaving no room for discussion, and she hears the dismissal in it like a gavel striking wood. She feels herself sink back into the wall slightly, the fire in her chest abruptly distinguished, because he’s looking at her like he did when they first started working together—like she’s nothing to him, like she’s more effort than she’s worth—and the seams of her heart split wide open at the sight of it.
She doesn’t dignify him with a response. What more is there to say, anyway? He’s stacked his walls high and left her nothing to scale them with. It’s as though the night in Canada never even happened.
She never would’ve fathomed that the pain of his rejection could rival that of a bullet.
“Go home, Elizabeth,” He murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath tickles her cheek. If he’s satisfied with her concession, there’s no trace of it anywhere in his expression. He looks tired, she thinks.
She shakes her head, more to herself than him, as she slips out from between him and the wall, refusing to meet his eyes as she turns the corner and starts back down the hallway. A deep sigh sounds behind her when she’s halfway to the staircase, the sound hoarse and dejected, but she doesn’t look back.
She rushes out of the building faster than she did his apartment all those months ago, counting her lucky stars that the woman who had greeted her isn’t around to ask her any questions. When she pushes through the front entrance and out into the freezing night air, she inhales greedily, hoping she’ll finally be able to breathe properly. Somehow, though, she feels even more smothered than she did when Rio had crowded into her space, like all of the oxygen is back in that room with him.
The trek across the parking lot feels like the most insufferable walk of shame she’s ever taken. She takes it with her head held high, belying the way her heart cracks and splinters inside the cavern of her chest, the fragments breaking off and piercing into spaces where they don’t belong. It’s when she’s reaching out for her door handle—more than ready to take herself home, drown her sorrows in a glass or three of bourbon, and pretend this night never happened—that she stops.
She just— —stops.
Before she even realizes she’s doing it, she seeks out his car—tucked into the corner of the lot beneath the dim lighting that spills from the studio—as her fingers slip from the door handle, the question finding her all too quickly.
How many times, she wonders, will she choose to keep her mouth shut before it’s no longer worth it to speak? How many times will she choose to stay in her lane before the road thins out and the lane ends? How many times will he turn her away before she can no longer find it in her to make her way back to him?
It can’t be many more, Beth thinks, taking an unconscious step back from her car. More than they can afford after all that’s happened, certainly. But maybe— —
Maybe there doesn’t have to be another time.
She takes another step back, her feet guiding her of their own volition, because she thinks— —she thinks— —
She doesn’t want there to be another time.
···
He spots her the moment he steps out of the building.
His pace falters for a moment, his hand lingering on the door a moment as he takes her in. He purses his lips together, his expression teeming with an emotion she can’t place. It hardens before she can make anything else of it, the irritation from earlier returning in full force.
He scans the parking lot with one sweeping glance before he makes his way over to her, his strides slow and measured like a predator closing in on its prey. She straightens up and pushes off of the hood of his car when he reaches her, refusing to play into his attempt at intimidating her. Immediately, he pushes into her space, his chest brushing against hers when she holds her ground.
“I told you to go home. Which part are you havin’ trouble understandin’?” Rio sneers, his irritation hardening each syllable.
“The part where you disappeared for almost three weeks without bothering to tell me why,” Beth snaps back, allowing her frustration to consume her words so as to not expose the undercurrent of hurt in them.
“I don’t owe you shit, remember? I don’t owe a response, I don’t owe you my time, and I ‘specially don’t owe you a damn explanation,” he bites out, his tenor dipping with each word until it sounds like the words are being dragged through gravel.
Beth steels herself, refusing to wither beneath his harsh words again.
Maybe there doesn’t have to be another time.
“You’re right: you don’t owe me an explanation, but you’re going to give me one anyway.”
The corner of Rio’s lips tug up into a malicious grin, like he wants to hear her answer just so he can shoot it down. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because of the bullet that’s lodged in my hip instead of in your chest. I’m the reason you’re still alive and you know it.”
The grin drops from his face.
His features darken in that way that has always scared her shitless in the past but now, she faces it head-on, quelling the uncertainty that stirs in her gut at his unreadable expression. She braces herself for his reaction—for his biting response and the ensuing venom. She waits for him to take back what he said that night, for him to give the dreaded confession that what she did for him doesn’t make up for what she did to him.
But it never comes.
Beth furrows her brows, studying his features as though they might reveal to her some sort of explanation, but she has no idea what she’s supposed to make of what she finds in his expression. It holds the same exhaustion she’d seen back in the studio, the rage from before receding until all that’s left in its path is a withered look of defeat.
As she waits for him to say something, she finds herself at a loss for what to do. Of all the reactions she’d prepared herself for, forfeit certainly wasn’t one of them.
Rio’s lips purse into a grim line as he considers her, searching her face as though it holds an answer he knows he can’t retrieve from her verbally. She holds her breath and it’s like she’s drowning the longer she holds his gaze, his brown eyes like midnight with only the pale glow of the moon to illuminate them. The light from the studio casts dramatic shadows across the sharp lines of his face, and sometimes she thinks he’s too beautiful to bear, too breathtaking to be real. His features too elegant to belong to someone so sinister.
She doesn’t think she’s ever felt the truth in it as fiercely as she does in this moment.
Then, his voice a low rasp, he says, “Get in the car, Elizabeth.”
A fresh wave of confusion washes over her, breaking her out of her reverie. Then he’s backing off, stepping away from her before she can fully process his words, breaking their eye contact as he steps around her. She whips around, unable to do more than gape at his retreating form as he rounds the hood of his car. When he reaches the driver side door, he jerks his head towards the car in silent instruction, but there’s nothing threatening about it. Every part of his demeanor seems to have lost its previous edge, leaving behind a quiet yet firm disposition in its place.
She feels a bit dazed as she slowly steps towards the passenger side door, her lips still parted in confusion, her eyes still locked on Rio, waiting for an explanation that she knows she isn’t going to get. He seems to sense her hesitation, though—must know what she’s come to expect from car rides with him—because he pauses a moment, sighing deeply as his eyes take her in again.
Then, with the smallest trace of affection tinting his expression, he tells her, “Let’s grab a drink, yeah?”
And, well— —
Beth wraps her fingers around the door handle.
···
He takes them to his bar.
The silence that engulfs them for the entirety of the ride over isn’t comfortable, exactly, but it’s not as stifling as she would’ve predicted, either. Beth thinks it might relate to the fact that she’s finally able to catch her breath now that she’s in the same space as Rio again, but she tries not to read into it too much.
Just as they don’t exchange any words, they don’t share a single glance, either. She keeps her gaze trained on the scenery outside her window as they drive through the outskirts of downtown, her attention snagging on a few establishments that she’s visited with the girls or on a date night with Dean. It’s a good method of distraction, however temporary, that helps her avoid replaying the events of the past hour over in her mind, allows her to clear her mind a bit in preparation for whatever grueling conversation is sure to ensue once they reach their destination. In a marked deviation from routine, she doesn’t feel Rio’s eyes on her, either, and she thinks that maybe he’s just as conflicted about this whole night as she is. The thought, however unlikely, is one that she takes comfort in.
Beth’s spine straightens when they turn down their street. She knows the surrounding area far too well now for her liking, and it’s as though Rio senses her alertness, shifting slightly in his seat as he finally steals a glance at her. She ignores it, her gaze pinned to the front of the bar as they pull into the parking lot, and maybe they can stay like this, she thinks wistfully. Maybe they can just share a drink, debrief side-by-side, ignoring all of the ugliness between them like they’d been accustomed to doing before that night in Canada.
She allows herself to look over at him only after he puts the car into park, the engine idling as he stares absently through the windshield. And he lets her, not bothering to meet her gaze as she takes in his profile beneath the radiant lighting that bleeds from the bar windows. The slope of his sharp cheekbones and nose, the outline of his full lips that are curved like a hand-crafted bow. His hooded eyes, black as the night sky above them beneath the dim lighting, though still twinkling, somehow, when he shifts, the light hitting them just right.
Then, when she’s had her fill, he murmurs, “C’mon,” his dulcet voice dragging through her like a candle wick, the friction sparking a flame and dripping wax as it goes.
He leads the way in, nodding at the lone bartender when he greets them. He beelines straight for the office that she knows is tucked down the hallway behind the bar without looking back, resolute in his assumption that she’s following close behind. When they reach the office door, he fishes a small keyring from his pocket and thumbs through it, finding the one that matches the door in no time at all, and then he’s pushing the door open, jerking his head once towards the office when he meets her gaze. She heeds the instruction, brushing past him without hesitation, her eyes roaming over the room as the door clicks into place behind her.
She’s only been in the office once before, when he told her to meet him at the bar but was caught up in a meeting that ran late when she arrived. In terms of decoration, it leaves a lot to be desired. A polished oak desk sits in the middle of the space with a leather rolling chair tucked into it. Two leather chairs sit opposite the desk, angled towards one another slightly, and a black leather couch sits against the left wall. Above it, there’s a dated black-and-white photograph of what she assumes to be downtown Detroit, bordered by a copper frame. Other than that, though, the black drapes framing the far windows are the only furnishings in the room, the lack of personalization conveying how little time Rio actually spends here.
“So much for a drink,” she jokes to the empty room, not yet turning to face him as she finishes studying the room. At his lack of a response, though, she gives in and turns to face him, her feet stalling midway to the desk as her attention centers on him. He’s leaning back against the door, his hands clasped behind his back, and she’s surprised to find his gaze trained on the floor as he studiously avoids her own. His brows are drawn up and his jaw ticks over as though he’s at odds with himself, and when he finally glances up a moment later, there’s a shadow blanketing his expression that she has no clue what to make of. She sucks in a breath and holds onto it.
His lips twist and purse as he considers her, the silence between them stretching like a chasm before he glances away again, his gaze falling on the photograph above the couch.
“You never make things easy, do you?”
Beth blinks, reeling back slightly as her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, and although a bubble of indignation rises in her throat, it doesn’t find its way to her words. Instead, they come out hesitant and dejected in a way that reveals far too much.
“It means you can’t leave well enough alone,” he tells her, his tone a fraction sharper than it was before, though all she hears beneath the words is exhaustion. “Why’d you come to the studio?”
The emphasis on the why rather than the how isn’t lost on her, yet she doesn’t know what to make of it.
She fumbles for an answer, her mouth opening and closing a few times, because they’ve done this already, haven’t they? What does he want her to say that she hasn’t already told him?
Still, she replies weakly, “I couldn’t reach you.”
“So?” He presses, his face impassive.
“You—” She waves a hand out in front of her, gesturing aimlessly as though a better explanation will find its way to her lips. “You were gone.”
Rio pushes off the door suddenly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he takes a slow, measured step towards her. Her fingers flex against her biceps, her arms tightening at her chest.
“You sayin’ you missed me, mama?” He croons, an infuriating smirk spreading across his lips, and Beth rolls her eyes, refusing to let him fluster her.
“I’m saying you could’ve given me a heads-up before you decided to pull your little disappearing act.”
He drops his chin to his chest as a low chuckle spills from his lips. He takes another step.
“Yeah, I’m not big on social calls,” he says, voice soft. He regards her playfully, a small smile dancing across his lips, and normally, she thinks, it would disarm her. Normally, it would get her to release the thread of her frustration and fall back into the same dance they’ve been doing for months, cowering at the first shred of honesty in exchange for his amiable pleasantries, because at least that was better than believing he hated her.
Now, though, she holds fast to the thread, wrapping it around her finger until it threatens to cut off her circulation.
“What if something had happened? What was so important you couldn’t pick up the phone for three weeks? And don’t tell me it’s because we’re just business,” Beth demands, lowering her voice in a mock imitation of his own, “because that’s bullshit and you know it.”
Rio’s smile slips from his face before he breaks their eye contact, his demeanor shifting as he glances away with a sniff. “Mick had it handled, no?”
And sure he did, Beth thinks, but that’s not her point.
Then it hits her: what is her point?
She opts for silence over a response as she watches his gaze float absently across the room. Her entire body is taut with tension, her fingers pressing almost painfully into her arm through the thick fabric of her coat as she waits for his gaze to find its way back to hers. When it does, she studies his expression, noting the lack of confusion or curiosity in it, like he already knows the answer to his question. Like he knows that’s not her point, either.
Another step. He’s approaching her as though she’s a caged animal, wary that she’ll make a run for it if he makes any sudden movements. At one point, she might’ve.
Not now, though. She’s learned the hard way that running from him never works out in her favor.
“Just—” she starts, shutting her eyes as though it might make the words easier to get out, “Just tell me one thing.”
She can feel his gaze on her, waiting for her to open her eyes again before he nods once—a firm, curt jerk of his chin.
“Do you regret it?”
She hates the way the words sound once they’re out of her mouth, her voice cracking beneath the pressure of her nerves as they mount in her throat, nearly suffocating her. She feels as though she’s been stripped to the bone as the question rests in the space between them, and she realizes that she’s given him exactly what she swore she wouldn’t—the ability to break her.
Still. She has to know.
Has to hear him say it if he does.
In the stifling lapse of silence that ensues, Beth braces herself. Braces for him to confirm the fear that’s been shrouding her mind for the past week, for him to curl a finger in the tattered seams of her heart and pull. She instills in herself the reminder that no matter how he reacts, she will not falter. She will not unravel at his feet.
When she musters up the courage to meet his gaze, though, her heart stutters in her chest before it stirs to life again, the bondage of its stitches renewed because this time, she has no way of denying what’s right in front of her, even as he grips desperately at the edge of his mask, forcibly tugging it back into place.
She sees it, if only for an instant: remorse.
The air rushes from Beth’s lungs in a hoarse, shaky breath, but she can hardly hear it. Can’t focus on anything that isn’t the thud of his shoes against the hardwood flooring as he takes another step towards her.
She scans over the handsome lines of his face, the twist to his full lips as he watches her carefully. He regards her as though she’s been prowling the outskirts of his subconscious and is now bashing against the gate that borders it, like he’s trying to figure out how to best keep her out.
Or— —or maybe not how to keep her out. More like he’s trying to figure out if he can trust her enough to let her in.
It’s then that she realizes he isn’t going to answer her—not directly, at least. The silence stretches like a chasm between them, filled to the brim with unspoken words, sentiments, confessions, and right, Beth thinks, because he never makes it easy, either.
“Last time you disappeared like this, it was after—”
She cuts herself off, refusing to go down that path again. Regardless, she catches the flicker of recognition in his eyes, knows he’s caught onto the allusion, so she clears her throat and pushes on.
“I just— —is that why you’ve been avoiding me? Because if it is, I get that,” she tells him, swallowing thickly against the lump that forms in her throat, forgoing the part of her brain that shouts in protest at the words that spill from her lips, because she has to get them out. She has to. “I just need to know.”
Rio’s face twists as she speaks, a crease forming between his brows, and her fingers twitch with the urge to reach up and smooth it out. He curses softly then, dropping his chin to his chest, looking more conflicted than she thinks she’s ever seen him, and she hates the way it causes a renewed flicker of hope to spark in her chest.
“Shit, Elizabeth,” he rasps. His voice so low, it sounds as though it’s clawed its way out of his throat, and she stifles the shiver that runs through her as the flame in her chest expands, curling upwards until she can feel the heat lick at the back of her throat. Still, she waits him out, shifting her weight as she watches him work through his thoughts.
After a minute or two, he drawls out, “You in my head, you know that?”
Beth inhales, holding the breath in her lungs for a moment longer than normal, willing herself not to react, to give him the space to untangle his thoughts. She doesn’t tell him that she does know that because he’s in hers, too. She doesn’t tell him that it’s the entire reason she’s standing before him now; figures he knows it anyway.
“Needed to step away, get my head straight. I can’t focus ‘round you,” he continues, his gaze studiously avoiding hers, and she wills her mind to be silent, bites down on the part of it that wants to scream why, why, why, because this shard of honesty he’s offered her is a rarity, something precious, and she can’t afford to shatter it with the wrong question.
Rio goes quiet then, and the moment Beth realizes he isn’t going to offer her anything else, his gaze finds her again, gauging her reaction with an expression she finds impossible to read. From beyond this room, the ambience from the front of the bar reaches them, her ears picking up on the clink of glasses, the clatter of dishes, and the sound of an 8-ball ricocheting off of the rim of the pool table, but his eyes hold hers as though there’s an invisible tether between them, a storm brewing behind them that she finds herself far too willing to get swept up in.
She shifts her weight and swallows heavily before she murmurs, “What changed?”
His eyes lower pointedly, then, unlike it had before when he’d been avoiding her gaze, and it feels as though the air has been sucked out of the room when she realizes he’s staring at where she was shot.
Without thinking, she lowers her arms from where they’d been crossed over her chest, her left hand finding her hip as a weighted silence settles over them like a heavy cloud of smoke. Her heart swells until it’s pressing against the confines of her ribcage, the seams of it loosening as his reasoning finally dawns on her.
“When I look at you,” he rasps, his dark gaze pinning her to the spot, “I jus’ see that bullet hittin’ you. You bleedin’ under me.”
Beth’s chest clenches painfully, her muscles twitching with the urge to close the distance between them, but she doesn’t dare move. A beat of silence passes in which all he does is stare at her as she stares back, trying to wrap her brain around what he’s telling her, what he’s confessing to—that he’s being honest with her.
“Fucked up, ain’t it?” He asks suddenly, his voice so low she’d have to strain her ears to hear him were they not alone in the room. “Way back when, I was s’posed to be the one to take care of you. Thought about that moment almost every day that fed had me on his leash.”
Rio chuckles softly then, but it’s a hollow sound, something self-deprecating and void of any humor. Beth resists the urge to shift, to back away, to curl her arms around herself, because they don’t do this. They speak in innuendos, creep by on eggshells; they don’t talk about what happened between them so bluntly. More importantly, they don’t dare talk about the almost.
“Now you still here ‘cause of me,” he concludes as he sighs through his nose, his gaze roaming over her features in a way that’s reminiscent of the night he’d caught her fixing that stupid stop sign, his features tender and open in a way she’d never seen before, his eyes caressing her just as the fingers he trailed down her cheek right before he offered to— —
Well.
And she sees it then—the way Rio shifts slightly, resisting the urge to take another step towards her like he’s unsure of how she’s interpreted his words, and something inside her fractures in the same breath that it glows.
She takes a step towards him without a second thought.
“You’re still here because of me, too.”
Rio tilts his head, his expression carefully blank as he considers her words, but the tension in his jaw gives him away. And although he doesn’t seem particularly happy about it, he hums in the affirmative, the sound more of a purr than anything else.
“Guess that makes us even then, huh?” She asks, voice high and plying, and when a wry laugh rumbles in his chest, she ignores the way her breath snags and her heartbeat stutters, because she has to say it again. Needs him to know.
“I meant what I said that night.”
His eyes burn darker, somehow, when she follows the statement with another step.
And she hears the words echo in the back of her mind, then—hears herself say no kid should be without his dad, knowing there’s an apology somewhere in there, buried beneath the years of contempt and bitterness and remorse, and she can only hope that he heard it then. That he hears it now.
She takes another step.
It brings her close enough to feel his warm breath fan out across her forehead, and it dizzies her briefly.
“That right?” He drawls, raising his right arm as he says it, and she feels it before his skin even makes contact with hers—his fingers skimming her hairline, smoothing over her temple, gliding down her cheekbone. Warmth blooms in her chest like a rose and curls through her like a vine, overwhelming her as a stuttered breath escapes her lips, and when she tilts her chin up just so, presenting her lips to him like an offering, the first touch of his against her own feels like the sweet whisper of a promise—of a forgiveness that could someday be hers.
The thread of Beth’s restraint seems to thin in time with Rio’s, her inhibitions melting away like the last patch of snow on the ground beneath a cloudless, sunny sky the moment she feels his hands drifting over her body. He slips one hand into her hair, cupping her neck and and angling her head as he deepens the kiss, while the other hand roams over the curve of her hip, giving it a firm squeeze before settling at the small of her waist. She slides her palms over his shoulders and entwines her fingers at the nape of his neck, brushing over the soft bristle of hair as she revels in the feel of his heated skin against hers.
He tilts his head slightly and presses in as he licks into her mouth, deepening the kiss, and a soft whimper escapes her when the hand at her waist moves to encircle it, pulling her into him with a strength that commands her compliance. His lips are greedy and demanding as he steals the air from her lungs, leaving her breathless in the best way, feeling all the more dazed when the firm lines of his body slot up against the full curves of her own. She can feel his hard-on through his jeans when he presses his hips against her own and it makes her breath hitch, her lips gliding frantically over his as her head spins.
Beth pulls away with a gasp a moment later, her lips hovering a hair’s breadth from his as she sucks in a desperate breath. Undeterred, Rio dips his head down, brushing his nose along the curve of her jaw in a way that makes her shiver before planting hot kisses across the delicate skin beneath her ear. She pants at his ear, struggling to regain her breath amidst the onslaught of heat rushing through her, and when he curls his fingers into the fabric of her coat at her waist, she decides she has entirely too many clothes on.
As his lips brush over the dip above her collarbone, she fumbles for the top button of his shirt, undoing it with an efficiency she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of in her current state. He catches onto her actions when she moves onto the second button, pulling away from her neck just enough to get his hands on the thick buttons of her coat. Their labored breathing fills the silence between them as they work at ridding each other of their clothing, and when he undoes the last button on her coat (because of course he beats her to it), he bats her hands away to replace them with his own. By the time she shucks her coat off and tosses it in the direction of the leather couch, she finds him waiting for her attention to return to him, his button-down and undershirt discarded somewhere on the floor next to him.
This time, when her gaze settles on his chest, mapping out the three patches of puckered skin, she’s ready for it—braced for the bruising touch of remorse that steals through her. And it still aches—god, how it aches—but she withstands it, remembering his touch, unwavering, on her wounded hip as she'd shed tears unworthy of his consolation against his chest; bears the heat of the flame now that she’s certain it won’t burn her.
And she thinks he sees it, sees her, just as he always has, because when he smiles—something genuine, his perfect teeth on full display—it’s brighter than she’s ever seen it.
It lights her up from the inside out, emboldens her in that way she never knew herself capable of before she met him, and she thinks she might be drunk on him as she closes what little space that’s left between them. She drops a hand to his belt buckle and tugs, pulling him to her, his bare chest brushing against the fabric of her blouse, and a coy smile finds its way to her lips when she hears his breath hitch. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, the action distracting her long enough for him to snake an arm around her waist and wedge a leg between hers, creating a delicious friction through the layers of denim between them.
His hold on her waist is firm and insistent as he rolls his hips slightly, eliciting a whimper from her that has her flushing crimson as he guides her until she’s riding his thigh. He fixes his attention on ridding her of the rest of her clothing, then, his long fingers curling beneath the hem of her sweater and peeling it off of her in one swift motion. A pleased rumble escapes his throat at the sight of her revealed breasts, shrouded by a thin layer of navy blue lace that he thumbs at briefly, the pad of his finger tracing over her nipple in a way that sends a shiver through her. She struggles to maintain her hold on his belt as she arches her back, pushing her chest up into him, and she feels more than hears the hoarse chuckle that pours from his lips and onto her skin when he dips his head to mouth at her breasts. He licks over her nipple through the sheer lace and she grunts, her fingers loosening only slightly on his belt, but it’s enough for him to pry them off fully before gathering both of her wrists in one large hand.
She grunts again in objection as she tries to yank her hands free of his hold, and she feels the distinct curve of a smile against her breast before his other hand slips between them to pop the button on her jeans instead. She doesn’t bother tugging against his hold again when he teases a hand around the edge of her jeans, his calloused fingers dragging lightly over her hip before curling around the waistband and dragging it over the swell of her ass. The warmth of his hand leaves her as he shifts to pull her jeans the rest of the way off, and she wriggles her hips, attempting to help as much as she can while her hands are being held captive until the rough fabric pools at her feet.
She kicks them off to the side haphazardly, toeing off her booties as she goes, and when she straightens up, something in her pulses at the way he seems to loom over her without the added height.
And Rio must sense the shift in her because one moment, he’s smoothing his hand up her thigh, pressing his fingers just hard enough to leave temporary tinted imprints in her pale skin, and the next, he’s slipping two of those fingers beneath the waistband of her black panties and tearing them clean off of her.
“Really?” Beth whines, the brief flutter of irritation breaking through the heady fog of her lust, only for him to flash her a shit-eating grin, and she feels a giddy smile tugging at the edges of her own lips despite herself.
Then he’s touching her again as if the brief reprieve from doing so was already too long for his liking, his fingers gliding over the top of her thigh like the lick of a flame, and she can feel herself lean into his touch, feel her resolve splintering with each passing second, only— —
Only then she’s thinking that she might like to surprise him for once.
So when Rio’s hand first brushes over her inner thigh, Beth takes a step back, out of his reach, teetering on the balls of her feet as she gazes up at him through her eyelashes. He arches an eyebrow as he lets his hands fall back to his sides, his eyes flickering with a renewed spark of hunger as he rakes his gaze over her form, and her cheeks burn, her entire body still alight with the ghost of his touch. Still, she steels herself as she takes another step backwards, then another, until her ass hits the edge of the desk behind her, the cool wood a welcomed shock to her overheated skin.
Rio doesn’t move from where she’d left him, his fingers flexing restlessly for a brief moment before he laces them together behind his back, his dark eyes glinting with curiosity as he watches her. She raises a hand to her shoulder, her pulse skittering in anticipation, and when his gaze tracks the movement like she’d predicted, she hooks a finger in her bra strap and slips it down her arm.
His lips part a fraction as she does the same with her other bra strap, and although his gaze is fixed on the sliver of skin she’s just revealed, she finds herself unable to take her eyes off of his, watching him watch her with rapt attention. It’s intoxicating, to say the least—knowing she still has this effect on him—and as she reaches behind her to undo the clasps, her labored breathing is the only sound that fills the room.
She feels heady with desire as she pulls the fabric away from her chest and watches his mouth fall open. And that isn’t quite fair, she thinks, because it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, yet he still regards her with something close to awe, reverence tinting the shade of lust that colors his features. It fills her with a bemusing mixture of bashfulness and self-satisfaction, her cheeks pinking even as she clasps her hands behind her back to give him a better view.
Her heartbeat is thundering in her ears by the time his eyes climb back up to hers, his pupils blown wide in a way that makes heat dip through her like sinking stone. His tongue pokes at the corner of his mouth, and she finds her gaze caught between it and the movement of his hands as they lower to his belt. He doesn’t break his gaze away as his long fingers working at his buckle in torturously slow motions, and she feels herself sway on the spot a fraction, his presence in front of her practically commanding her submission as he stalks towards her with slow, measured steps.
Rio reaches her in three easy strides, the toe of his sneakers brushing lightly against her bare feet, and Beth widens her stance as if on instinct, giving him space to step between her legs and pins her hips against the desk with his own. He does just that, the bulge in his jeans pressing right up against her bare cunt, and the sensation is excruciating in the best way as she bites down on the moan that threatens to slip out, clenching her jaw and wedging it between her molars. She feels more than hears him slip the leather free from his belt loops, his knuckles brushing against her bare abdomen before it falls to the floor with a clink.
Beth swears she can feel every inch of his skin against her own when he leans in, the tip of his nose brushing along her temple before dipping into her hair. A shiver races down her spine and she curls her fingers around the edge of the desk to steel herself.
“You gonna let me get you on top’a the desk this time, sweetheart?” Rio purrs, his breath ghosting down the side of her neck, and she swallows heavily, fighting to regain control of her breathing as her eyes dart aimlessly around the office.
Then, with a delirious, breathy chuckle, she casts a fleeting glance to her right as she teases, “Actually, the couch looks pretty— —”
The words are stolen from her lips as Rio grips the bottoms of her thighs and hauls her up with a growl. A soft yelp escapes her when he deposits her on top of the desk, the cold wood stark against the feverish skin of her bare ass, but she makes no further objections, dropping her coy demeanor entirely in favor of wrapping her legs around his narrow waist and tugging him into her.
Her mouth finds his as effortlessly as a sunflower finds the sun, his lips warm and bruised and perfect, always perfect for her, and this time, when she drops a hand to the waistband of his jeans, he doesn’t stop her.
Her lungs are straining for air by the time they rid him of his jeans, her fingers popping the button and tearing them down his legs until he’s able to kick them to the side along with his shoes. When they break apart, she sucks in a desperate breath, her chest heaving as her lungs fill up again, which Rio seems to take as an invitation, if the way his head immediately dips to her chest is any indication. His hand comes up to knead one of her breasts as his mouth plants hot kisses along the other, his lips closing around her nipple and sucking noisily, and Beth grits her teeth as soft huffs of air escape her parted lips.
Rio, it seems, is in no particular rush to get either of them off, taking his time swirling his tongue around her nipple until it’s pebbled and red before moving onto the other one. Beth grunts and shifts her hips, her impatience getting the best of her, and when her search for friction comes up empty, she shoves her hand between their bodies instead, her fingers dancing over the waistband of his boxer briefs before swiftly slipping beneath them to cup his hard cock.
It elicits a grunt and a graze of his teeth as he bites down on her nipple in retaliation, but even as she gasps, she firms her grip, heat pooling anew in her lower belly like the drizzle of warm honey as she moves her hand along the smooth skin of his cock. He buries a low, choked noise in her chest, panting hotly against her skin as she works him a bit faster, and she raises her free hand to his shoulder, smoothing her palm up it until she’s cupping his neck, hoping to distract him for a few more moments before his patience inevitably snaps.
It works for maybe ten seconds, give or take, and she revels in it—the feel of his hot skin sliding against her palm, coupled with the sensation of his wet breaths hitting her breasts as he grapples with the fraying thread of his composure. When he finally curls his fingers around her wrist, stalling her movements as he pulls his head away from her chest, he doesn’t give her much of an opportunity to be disappointed, because as soon as he pries her fingers from his cock, he’s slipping his own between her thighs.
The rough pads of his index and middle fingers tease at her entrance, gathering the wetness there and spreading it up to her clit with a firm pressure that makes her choke on her breath.
“So wet. This all for me, baby?”
Her cheeks flush with heat as his words burn her up from the inside out, but she refuses to dignify him with a response—isn’t sure he’s even expecting one, anyway. Even if her stubbornness didn’t automatically have her jaw locking, she’s not sure she could even get her voice to work right now.
Her free hand shoots to his forearm, her fingers digging into his skin, and distantly she realizes that her fingernails are bound to leave welts on his tanned skin. It surprises her a little when the thought it—of marking him up, of leaving him with a subtle, aching reminder of her—goes straight to where his fingers are, striking heat through her like the crack of a whip.
With one hand braced against his neck and the other clutching at his arm, Beth can’t do much more than hold on for dear life when Rio sinks his middle finger into her, his thumb shifting to trace torturously slow circles against her swollen clit. She whines, the sound high-pitched and long-suffering, and when she blinks her eyes open (unable to recall ever having closed them), the noise splinters into something lower, almost guttural, when she finds his dark eyes trained on her, the heat in them reducing her to embers as he studies every minuscule reaction he’s drawing out of her.
He wets his parted lips as he adds another finger, gazing down at her like she’s his favorite constellation—like he hasn’t connected all of her dots yet, but he knows that they form something beautiful. Something worthy of figuring out, no matter how long it takes.
He adds more pressure as his thumb works faster at her clit, his touch dragging across her nerves like hot coals, and she clenches around him when he curls his long, elegant fingers inside of her. It’s a sensation she’s still relatively unfamiliar with—the pressure that builds against her front walls like a valve’s busted in her, and she’s not even sure she’s breathing when Rio’s lips find hers again, swallowing every choked noise that slips out of her as though he wants to capture and keep them for himself.
It doesn’t take much for him to get her there—never has, really. He slips a third finger in with barely an resistance, fucking her in earnest as he rubs her clit in rough circles, and he doesn’t let up. Not when she starts to clench around him, every nerve between her legs tightening like a spring lock while her muscles tense against him, or when she breaks their kiss to moan deliriously against his lips, her eyes screwed shut against the onslaught of pleasure as it crests and breaks over her. The air rushes from her lungs in one ragged breath as she comes, her forehead tipped against Rio’s and her fingers digging into his forearm as she clings to him.
“That’s right, mama. Just like that,” he drawls, his voice hoarse with lust as he watches her ride out her orgasm. He works her through it, his fingers keeping at the same unrelenting pace, and it’s not long before Beth has to drop a hand to his wrist and tug his hand away from her, her body trembling as volts of electricity course through it.
She can feel his eyes on her as she comes back to herself, her breath finally evening out now that she has the chance to catch it. Several beats of silence pass before she raises her gaze to his, the air between them charged and thrumming with tension, and she’s taken aback when she finally does, finding that any traces of teasing or playfulness have been wiped clean from his expression. All that remains is the heat—the depth of his desire more visible than he’s ever allowed it to be—flickering against the rich brown of his irises.
It’s for this reason that Beth knows he isn’t teasing when Rio purrs, “You missed this, huh?”
Knows it for certain when she catches the trace of endearment in his words; the way they whisper so did I like the sweetest secret she’s ever been told.
She thinks the answer is obvious enough that she doesn’t have to dignify it with a response, but on the off chance that it isn’t, she leans in far enough to get her lips on his neck, ghosting the tip of her tongue along the wing of the eagle. Just enough to hear him sigh against her, feel his breath tickle her ear. Her lips drift along the underside of his jaw, finding his pulse point almost immediately. It thrums madly beneath his feverish skin, flickering like a match in open air, and her lips curl into a smile before she can help it.
“You did,” she whispers against his throat, feeling it ripple as he swallows.
“That right?” He rasps, his voice wrecked in a way that shoots heat straight between her legs.
Then, quick as a flash, he’s on her, his hands tightening around the small of her waist only to tug her off of the desk. The action is so sudden, it sends her stumbling into him, her feet scrambling to find purchase in the small space between his legs, only then the hands on her waist are spinning her away from him, shifting her to face the desk instead, and she drops her hands atop it heavily to steady herself as he crowds her against it. A breathless moan rushes past her lips when he rocks his hips against her; even with the thin barrier of his briefs separating their skin, she can feel the hard length of his cock pressing up against the cleft of her ass. The lust burning in her abdomen curls upwards, consuming her until she can’t string together a single coherent thought.
Her breath catches in her throat as he inches somehow closer, his chest brushing against her lower back as he presses his lips against her bare, feverish skin, right between her shoulder blades. He peppers a few kisses there, trailing them a bit further down her spine as his right hand smooths over the back of her thigh, and god, it feels like she’s on fire, the heat in her chest and belly prickling through her like a deck of matches has been set alight beneath her skin. His lips brush over the skin beneath her shoulder blades in the same instance that his fingertips brush over the back of her knee, and before she even has the chance to catch up with the dizzying mixture of sensations, he’s cupping the back of it and tugging her leg up onto the desk.
Beth’s sharp gasp slices through the silence, her cunt clenching around nothing as Rio replaces his mouth with his other hand. He smooths his palm along her spine until she’s bent over the desk, her breasts crushing up against the cool, polished wood, and even with her cheek pressed into it as well, she can feel his gaze searing into her skin, taking in the sight of her spread out beneath him.
A hoarse, rumbling groan spills from somewhere deep in his chest, then, wrapping itself around her like a warm caress. She trembles at the sound of it, canting her hips back as much as she can, desperately seeking friction with what little control she still has in her current position, and the reaction it draws out of him is immediate.
He releases his grip on her leg to wrap his fingers around her waist, tugging her back towards him while his other hand glides from her lower back to her hip before dipping between them. His touch lingers like the scalding tingle of a burn, her skin singed in every place he’s touched, and when she feels him free his cock from his briefs, his caress sparks against her skin like the strike of a lighter. The hard length of him presses against her inner thigh as his palm glides from her hip to the top of her spine, and the heat in her belly ignites, tearing through her chest and licking over her skin. She presses her flushed face further into the cool wooden surface, overwhelmed by her body’s reaction to him and the enormity of her desire.
He glides the head of his cock along her slit in agonizingly slow motions, purposely brushing over her clit each time until she’s writhing her hips back against him. She doesn’t have to look back at him to know that he’s grinning, smug in his ability to get her so worked up, and when a retort quickly forms on the tip of her tongue, she parts her lips to let it pass only for him to sink into her in the same moment.
Whatever she’d been about to say, along with every last coherent thought, is promptly stripped from her mind, then, replaced solely by the feeling of his hips meeting her ass as he bottoms out and the rumbling noise that he buries into the space between her shoulder blades. He stills for a moment as he grazes his nose along the skin of her neck, his arm shifting until he’s able to snake a hand between her and the desk and splay his hand over her abdomen. His fingers dig into the skin covering her ribs as he clutches at her, and it’s only when he pulls out of her nearly the whole way just to slam back into her that she realizes why he shifted his grip.
The cry that she lets out is high-pitched and needy, echoing off the walls of the office in time with the slap of his skin against hers. His mouth is hot at her neck, pressing messy half-kisses into her overheated skin in between breathless pants as he settles into a rhythm, and it’s all she can do to curl her fingers around the edge of the desk, his weight against her something extrasensory in the way that it anchors her just as much as it subdues her.
She feels him everywhere. In her cunt, the slow drag of his thick cock against her kindling the patch of nerves she wasn’t even aware existed before him. In her stomach, where the heat from his palm seems to burn straight through her to her core, turning her insides to channels of molten lava. In her chest, where her heart thrums so fiercely against her ribcage she fears it might shatter, reminding her that being alive was a state of existence rather than an experience before she met him.
She feels the reminder of it in his chest, too, where his heart beats against her back, the rhythm of it steady and vital. The reminder that being alive is a temporary experience, but one she’s been granted another chance at sharing with him.
With the hand not gripping the desk, Beth reaches beneath her belly to clutch at him, interlacing her fingers with his as she bites down on her lip to stifle a moan. Rio tightens his hold as he picks up the pace, his left hand roaming over her back until he’s clutching at her shoulder and pulling her back against him with each thrust. Her blood sings in her veins, its pitch heightening as his strokes hit her deeper still, and the pressure in her cunt swells deliciously until she can barely take it.
When she releases his hand to snake her own between her legs, however, his movements abruptly stall, and there isn’t enough time for her to question it before the hand at her stomach darts to the one she’s lowering, his long fingers circling her wrist and tugging it back.
She doesn’t even attempt to stifle the frustrated whine that slips from her parted lips, her clit throbbing almost painfully so at the sudden denial. He pays her weak objection no mind as he tugs her hand out from underneath her, and a renewed flicker of heat spikes through her when he pins it to her back, his grip on her wrist firming as he pointedly presses it into her lower back.
She wriggles her hips slightly against the desk only to find that her position has her very much compromised—he’s too deep inside her, his hips pushing her own into the desk as he drapes himself halfway across her back—so she settles for clenching around him in retaliation. A dim spark of triumph flickers in her chest when it draws a groan out of him, the raspy sound pouring through the room like sheets of gravel, and she feels the air shift in a way she can’t explain until he’s suddenly pulling out of her, applying more weight to his grip only to relinquish it a moment later. He drops both hands to her waist, then, and before she knows it, she’s being tugged up and around, the edge of the desk digging into her lower back as he pins her back against it.
Rio’s fingertips dig into her supple curves as he nudges a bare foot between her own, knocking lightly at one ankle until Beth gets the message and spreads her legs wide enough for him to step between them. She stutters out a breath when she feels his cock, still wet with her, pressing up against her hip, her cunt painfully empty as it clenches around nothing. Fleetingly, she wonders if his intent is to wait her out—get her desperate and begging for him—only then his grip on her waist tightens with a pointed insistence, and oh, she thinks, reaching back until both her palms are pressed flat against the desk.
He hoists her up with as much ease as she’s seen him do his little boy, his hands slipping from her waist to her thighs as she wraps her legs around his hips and links her ankles. He splays his hands over her thighs encouragingly, his palms calloused and heated as they glide across her smooth skin, and it’s stark, then—the reminder of the last time they were in a position akin to this one.
Her memory of that night is just as vivid now as it had been the day after—the sensation of his hands roaming over her for the first time something she’s not sure she could ever forget—and it’s all too familiar for her not to recall it now. The way she’d wrapped herself around him then, too, wanting to press herself as close as possible for as long as she could have him; the way her grip had faltered almost instantly when he fucked up into her, her legs slipping from around his waist until his weight alone had kept her pinned upright as they lost themselves in each other. Now, though, she’s certain she’s never clung to him tighter, not willing to leave even an inch of space between them, and she can sense that he feels the same when he lowers a hand to the curve of her ass, tugging her to the very edge of the desk.
The gasp it steals from her lips has his own quirking in a way that tells her that reaction was exactly what he was aiming for, and she briefly considers jabbing her heel into his spine in retaliation before the sensation of his cock pressing up against her sends a dizzying spike of heat through her. She glances down between them and nearly whimpers at the sight of his hand wrapped around his cock as he works it with slow, measured strokes. Each one has his knuckles brushing up against her when he reaches the head and she bites her lip until it stings, refusing to give him the satisfaction of begging even as her skin begins to prickle with heat and her soft breaths turn to labored pants. -
She drags her gaze back up to his face, swallowing heavily at the sight of his bottom lip nestled between his teeth before wrapping her arms around his neck and digging her nails into his skin, just to feel his hips falter against her. She’s almost as determined to make him break first as she is to give in, her head nearly spinning with the intoxicating warmth of him against her. The scent of his cologne and something distinctly him has clouded her senses to the point where all she can register is the need burning low in her gut and shooting through her veins—the need to have him closer, to have him now, just— —to have him.
She’s almost sure that he can read it in her expression—how close she is to breaking, to pleading—but she thinks that maybe he’s just as far gone as she is, because the next time his knuckles graze her skin, his eyes drop to watch her lips part soundlessly, his features becoming fixed with a heated focus before he sets the head of his cock against her and finally pushes back into her.
She rocks forward, her ass teetering on the edge of the desk before he slides his hands beneath her thighs, steadying her as he begins to move. Her hands grapple along the smooth skin of his shoulders, her fingers digging into the corded muscle, and she tucks her face into his neck, burying a pitiful moan there as his cock drags deliciously along every nerve in her. She feels the puff of his labored breaths along the column of her neck, the husky quality to it at odds with the torturously slow pace he’s set, and fine, she thinks with a huff—if he wants to play that way, so be it.
With one hand still wrapped around the nape of his neck, Beth snakes the other down his arm and over her thigh before slipping it between them to where they’re joined, and she’s barely able to graze her clit before Rio’s fingers are closing around her wrist again, a silent command in the tightening of his grip. A groan spills from deep in her throat as she glances up at him, ready to tear him a new one for being such a tease, but the dark heat in his gaze captures her, suspending her words before they’ve even formed as he fucks into her again.
“You want it?” He drawls, and she can hear how wrecked he is in his voice, how close he has to be to giving up the game himself, and she considers pursing her lips, considers waiting him out for once, but finds that she doesn’t want to.
She nods her head frantically, her fingers flexing uselessly in his grip with the urge to alleviate the pressure building in her lower belly. He pushes into her again, burying himself as deep as possible so that his hips are pinning her in place. He sucks his bottom between his teeth as he considers her, his eyes flickering between her hooded eyes and her parted lips. When he releases it a moment later, the enticing pout of it steals her attention, and she nearly misses the way he murmurs, “Wanna hear you say my name.”
Her cheeks are aglow with heat the moment the words register, her mind instantly piecing together the remnants of the night in the loft despite the thick haze of lust clouding it—the way she’d called him back to her before he could leave the bathroom, his name rolling off of her tongue so elegantly as if it were her favorite phrase. In the aftermath of his reaction, it had her wondering for hours why she’d harbored the sound of it to herself for so long, why she hadn’t thought to let him taste the syllables on her lips sooner.
Maybe it had something to do with the way her name was always perched on his tongue like a prayer, flowing from his lips like sweet wine, intoxicating her with ease. The way he always spoke it with such reverence, with a tenderness she’s only known him to possess in hidden pockets of his life—a tenderness she couldn’t possibly reciprocate without leaving her most vulnerable parts ripe for the picking.
And maybe it’s the desire coursing through her veins like electricity or the way his warm body slots against hers like every inch of him was made to compliment her own, but either way, she finds that being picked apart doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore.
Or maybe he’s already done so, Beth thinks, a weighted breath trickling from her lips as she pulls her hand free from his and wraps it around his neck. Maybe, after everything, he picked out what was real, leaving the most genuine parts of her behind. And even in her mind, it sounds foolish, lovesick in a way she’s always been opposed to, but maybe— —
Maybe he’s been helping her piece herself back together all along.
It’s with this thought that she digs her nails into his skin, pulling herself closer to him until her lips are ghosting over his. The intensity of his dark eyes piercing into her has her lids fluttering shut.
“Please, Rio,” she breathes, the words an instruction disguised as a plea.
His chest rumbles with a pleased hum that drags a trail of heat straight through her, and only when she feels his nose brush gently against her own does she blink her eyes open. She peers up at him through her lashes, takes in the too-handsome lines of his face, her gaze gliding over his blown pupils to the sharp furrow of his brow. His expression holds more affection than she knows what to do with, more than she knows she deserves, and it knocks heavily at her sternum, splintering the walls she’s built around her heart time and time again, burrowing its way into her ribcage in a way that she’s become far too familiar with since he came back to her.
And he really is too beautiful, she thinks, her heart lurching when his full lips split into a lopsided grin—one so fond and full of mirth, she briefly forgets how little she deserves to be on the receiving end of it. She thinks that might be one of the things she values most about him, though—his ability to make her forget what’s been and what is in exchange for what could be.
The hand gripping the back of her thigh shifts suddenly as Rio slides it up to the back of her knee, and before she knows it he’s tugging her leg up and over his shoulder. Beth’s thoughts scatter as the position shifts the angle of him inside her, his cock pressing so deep inside her it has her sucking in a sharp gasp and squeezing her eyes shut.
Her head falls back on a moan when he pulls all the way out only to slam back into her, his hips slapping against hers as he sets an unforgiving pace. She’s so caught up in the feel of him above her and in her—in him, really—she hasn’t even thought to try and touch herself again when she feels his thumb press against her clit. She whimpers as he begins to circle it firmly, desperate for more even as his touch overwhelms her, the low, roiling heat in her belly reaching its zenith.
Applying just the right amount of pressure with his thumb, Rio leans over her, the silver medallion at the end of his necklace dangling between them like a bucket being lowered into a well. The slight shift in position has him sliding deeper into her, and she swears she can feel him in the back of her throat as a groan tears its way out of it, the fingers of her right hand curling around the edge of the desk for purchase while the other darts up to grasp at his necklace. She curls two fingers around the chain, tugging on it lightly enough that it doesn’t give under the pressure, but firmly enough that his head dips closer to her, his ragged breaths spilling out across her forehead. Something predatory sparks in his gaze, his blown pupils shining like a new moon in twilight, and when she tugs once more, he closes the distance with a frantic note of desperation, his tongue darting between her open lips to taste her as his hips stutter.
She cries out into his mouth in the same breath that he does, his broken moan causing the heat simmering at the base of her spine to boil over. His thumb presses harder at her clit as rounds it in tighter circles, his touch walking the path of her nerves with easy, deft confidence, and as the pleasure mounting in her belly coils tighter, she releases the desk to seek out his skin instead, grappling at the sinewy line of his ribs with the hand not clinging to his necklace.
Her peak rushes over her in full force, pleasure coalescing from every nerve ending in her body, her muscles tensing so fiercely that she trembles as she comes undone. Her bare back, now slick with a thin layer of sweat, slides against the desk as he fucks her through her orgasm, his thrusts losing their rhythm as she clenches sporadically around him. Her head pounds in time with the erratic beat of her heart as the blood rushes to her ears, and it’s as though her sense of sight and sound fade into obscurity, magnifying the pleasure that steals through her veins.
The world comes flooding back in just as his release hits him. He buries himself to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against her open thighs as he spills inside her, crushing her chest to his with a broad palm splayed across her lower back. With the hand still clutching his necklace that’s now trapped between them, she reaches up around his neck until she feels the soft bristle of his hair beneath her fingertips, dragging her nails over his scalp soothingly as he stutters out a hitched breath against her lips.
They cling to each other as they gradually come back to themselves. Rio sags against her, sated, his full lips pressing hazy kisses along her jawline as he softens inside her while Beth absently glides her palm over his upper back. She shivers softly when he presses a kiss to the sensitive skin beneath the cliff of her jaw, feels the ghost of his smile against her skin before he pulls back just enough to meet her gaze.
His lips part like he wants to say something before he stops himself, closing them as his gaze roams over her flushed face.
“What?” She can’t help but prompt, her voice hoarse and a little breathless still, and his dark eyes glint with a fondness that she fears she’s already gotten too comfortable seeing on him.
The corner of his lips tug up before he purses them, shaking his head softly. “Nothin’, mama.”
She squints lightly at him, and something about the picture she makes must amuse him, because his lips curl into a full-blown grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth as he leans in, and then his lips are on hers again.
And it’s not fair, she thinks as she sighs into the kiss, propping herself up onto her elbows to chase his lips—after twenty years of marriage, she’s never enjoyed kissing someone as much as she does him. Because she’s watched Ruby with Stan—has seen for herself the way the simplest touch from him lights her up, has seen the way Ruby looks at him time and time again like she’s falling in love with him all over again—but she never thought she could have that for herself, least of all that it would feel like this.
Her lips glide against his as he softens inside her, his cum trickling out of her and down her inner thigh. It makes her shiver, and when he nips at her lower lip, she clenches, eliciting a guttural groan from him before he finally pulls away. She resists the urge to whine as he goes, her swollen lips tingling once the cool air of the office rushes back between them. He pulls out of her and tucks himself back into his briefs, pausing only briefly to flick his gaze back to her when a pitiful moan escapes her at the loss of him.
It’s quiet, then—nothing to fill the space between them but the gentle rhythm of their combined breathing and the muted commotion of the world beyond the office door, continuing on without them. Rio’s gaze is back on her now, regarding her thoughtfully from where he stands less than a foot away, and she’s hit with a sudden wave of self-consciousness when it suddenly lowers, clocking the mess they’ve made between her legs where she’s still exposed to him.
As though he can sense what she’s about to do, he steps between her legs before she can close them, both her knees just barely brushing his narrow hips as he crowds into her space again. She locks eyes with him, refusing to look away as he lowers a hand to her trembling thigh, gliding the rough pads of his fingers along it until he reaches the crease of her hip. She swallows a gasp when those fingers dip lower, gliding between her slick folds where his cum is still steadily trickling out of her, and she wants to ask him what he’s doing and pull him closer in the same breath when he suddenly slides his fingers up and over her pubic bone. The sensation ripples through her, her muscles rippling beneath his touch, and she can’t help but break away from his gaze when he begins tracing light patterns into her lower belly.
Her lips part of their own accord as she watches his fingers glide over her, mesmerized. He spreads their cum over her skin in light streaks and loops, his movements measured and meticulous, but also practiced, in a way, and the residual heat simmering in her belly rekindles and ignites when she realizes he’s painting her with them.
Her breaths escape her in hoarse pants as she lifts her gaze to his, finding him fixated on the action and just as entranced by the sight as she had been moments ago. It’s only when his fingertips brush over a particularly sensitive patch of skin and draw a shiver out of her that his eyes flick back up to meet hers, a heated, knowing look adorning his features as he arches an eyebrow.
It’s then that the hard edge of the desk makes itself known where it digs into her lower back, her spine painfully stiff when she wriggles back slightly and props herself up further on her elbows. The movement is enough to shatter the moment, and Beth watches with bated breath as Rio breaks out of his reverie, schooling his expression into something thoughtful and more than a little immodest. The warmth of his fingertips leave her skin, then, and although he smiles softly down at her—something that’s far too affectionate for a simple quirk of his lips—when he takes a step back, she feels her heart lurch in her chest for reasons she can’t fathom ever having the energy to unpack.
His eyes dip between her thighs once more but don’t linger, the action deliberative rather than lewd this time. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he wordlessly mulls something over, and a few beats pass before he pivots his attention and body towards the door, glancing back at her as he juts his chin out in acknowledgement.
“Sit tight, yeah?”
Too dazed and boneless to offer any inquiries or objections, Beth simply nods, pushing herself into an upright position as she watches him tug on his jeans and undershirt before cracking open the door and slipping silently out into the hallway. Her limbs ache in protest to the sudden movement as she scoots forward and hops down from the desk, but she ignores it in favor of fixing her attention on her stomach, the memory of Rio’s elegant fingers gliding along her skin replaying over and over in her mind. She wonders if his movements are just as delicate when it’s a paintbrush or an ink pen between his fingers, his gentle strokes combining to illustrate the inner-workings of his mind.
Would she have gotten the chance to see for herself if she hadn’t interrupted tonight? Would he ever be willing to show her? To let her see that side of him again?
The door clicks open again and, despite knowing who it’s going to be, it has Beth fumbling to cover herself, banding her arm around her chest as she rocks away from the desk and towards the pile of discarded clothing beside it. She can feel Rio’s gaze roaming over her, knows she’d find a smirk plastered on his face if she were to meet it, but she pointedly ignores it as she searches through their combined garments for her panties. Quiet footsteps approach her as she does so, and it’s only when she feels long fingers wrapping around her forearm that she looks up at him, taking in the towering presence of him at her side before dropping her gaze to the wet paper towel that’s clutched in his other hand.
She huffs out a breath before offering him a meek, grateful smile, the action ruffling her sweaty bangs slightly as she straightens up to face him. When she moves to take the towel from his hand, though, he pulls it back and out of her grasp, the corner of his lips tugging up into an impish smile when she huffs out an exasperated breath. He jerks his chin up towards the desk, a clear instruction in the motion, and she finds herself backing up without question until her legs brush up against it, eyeing him expectantly as he enters her space in two easy strides. She leans back against the corner of the desk as he slips his fingers between her joined knees, his touch featherlight as he drags them slowly up her inner thigh. She sucks in a breath when he pauses at the middle of her thigh, easing her legs apart with two fingers.
And it’s entirely predictable when his gaze drops to her cunt, taking in the wet mess they’ve left between her legs, but what isn’t predictable is him hooking a hand under her right knee, canting her hips towards him, and lowering the wet paper towel between her legs to clean her up himself.
She holds her breath as he drags the paper towel over her inner thighs and lower belly, the damp material like something close to electricity against her overheated skin, and when he glides it gently between her folds, it draws a gasp out of her that has his lips tugging up into a private smile. Despite everything that they’ve done tonight, something about the moment feels the most intimate of all, and her chest pulses with the urge to run from it just as much as it does with the desire to sink into it, to let it fill her lungs and drown her.
He steps back from her when he’s done, side-stepping the desk to dispose of the soiled paper towel in a bin tucked behind it, she assumes. When he’s facing her again, that same silence from before rushes back between them, making every glance and breath seem sharper, somehow—magnified, like the rest of the world is obscured now that there’s nothing to detract from where he stands before her.
And it should be terrifying, she thinks—the way the moment settles over her like a warm blanket, his presence in front of her comforting in a way she’s never been able to reconcile with every other negative emotion she’s known him to stir in her. She should be scrambling to pick up her clothes, to get dressed, to rush home to her babies, to the man she married, twisting the dial on the shower until it’s hot enough to erase the memory of his touch (forgoing the fact that she’s tried that before to no avail—he lingers long after she’s stripped herself of him and scrubbed her skin clean).
Instead, Beth asks, “When did you take up painting?”
And maybe it’s worth it—neglecting what she should do in favor of what she wants to do—to see the flicker of shock that passes over Rio’s ravishing features before they settle into something warm and contented.
He huffs out a laugh as his eyes roam over her form fondly before he takes a step back, giving her enough space to get up off the desk as he responds, “Been takin’ classes for a couple o’ months, but I been into it since I was a kid.”
She resists the urge to preen at the information but allows a small smile to creep across her lips as she eases up off the desk, finding her footing again on wobbly legs. In the flashes of her buried, dust-ridden memories, sees muted shades of brown and black and she sees streaks of lime green on abstract canvases, and in the stark, uninterrupted light of the present, she sees a piece of the puzzle of him slot into place, another part of his obscurity clarified.
“I was really into graphic design when I was little,” she finds herself saying, because it feels like he’s given her too much already, and the thought of him closing off this part of him has her chest clenching in panic. “But when I hit high school, learning how to stitch up old clothes and cook my own meals became more important.”
And god, it’s probably too much, veers towards oversharing by their standards, but then Rio purses his lips as though the idea of Beth giving up one of her hobbies to take on more responsibilities has left a sour taste in his mouth. There’s something else too, though, she thinks, enraptured by the murky waters of his dark gaze—something that tells her he understands the sacrifice, maybe even relates to it, and she feels her inhibitions shrivel up before they have the chance to take root.
“Ain’t ever fair, is it? Havin’ t’ give somethin’ up to please someone else,” he drawls, a morsel of bitterness seeping into his tone, and the familiarity of the sentiment pounds in her chest, rings in her ears.
“You get what you get and you don’t get upset,” she echoes, the phrase escaping her before she fully registers she’d been thinking it, and his gaze sparks with that same something from earlier before she averts her own.
The silence that settles over them after that is unlike any she’s ever endured with him. She feels his gaze on her as she redresses, feigns ignorance to it until she scrapes her panties off of the ground to find them in tatters, the memory of him tearing them off of her body finding her with a wave of heat that flushes her chest and burns her cheeks. She cuts her gaze to him to find his features crinkled with boyish mirth, his grin smug enough it has her hand itching to slap it off of his face.
When she’s relatively put together again, she turns to face him, her mind already working over her chances of getting an Uber this late at night to retrieve her car from the art studio, only then her eyes meet his, and her mind is instantly, blissfully quiet.
He steps towards her—fully dressed now, as well, in his button-down, shoes, and all—until the toes of his sneakers are brushing up against her boots, the scent of him overwhelming her senses all over again when he leans into her, his kiss-bruised lips hovering mere inches above hers.
“Be smart for me, yeah? And for all them babies. They need you,” he murmurs, the pads of his fingers finding her temple as he pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. She hears the insinuation in his words—the reference to the meeting, to her reckless behavior, to that night in the loft, and she gets what he’s saying, but what she hears is— —she thinks he might mean— —
“You need me.”
She’s not sure why she says it. She’s said it before, but not in quite the same way—not in this context, with the weight is carries now. Maybe it’s because she needs to hear it again, or because she needs him to hear it again. Or maybe because she’s read it in between the lines of his own words and needs to confirm that she’s heard him correctly, even if he’ll never admit it outright.
Whatever the reason, the statement settles between them like an olive branch, an invisible tether that tightens with every passing second, waiting for a reprobation or a concession. And when he just hums in response—a low, throaty noise that sounds suspiciously similar to an affirmation— she hears it again.
The chanting of her heart, even louder now than it had been that night. Louder now that she knows she won’t ever have to muffle it again.
Alive, it sings. Alive, alive, alive.