They weren’t really camps, they were houses. Most of them were once owned by locals, but they’d been bought up by Flatlanders; people From Away. The ones with names like Talbot and Caldwell and Pratt. These families generally fell into two categories: Couples in their late thirties or early forties who had teenaged children and the May-December couples.

   The husbands, December and otherwise, spent most of their time on their computers or cell phones, keeping themselves connected to the Real World. Business. Money. Important matters. The May wives planned parties and swam in the lake and tanned their skinny little bodies in the sun; drove their cute little cars into the salon, the one where Laura worked, to have their hair and nails done. And they got together and gossiped. The forty year old wives did all of the things the May wives did, but they also set aside precious time from their busy schedules for Business. It wasn’t the same kind of business that their husbands conducted, but it was just as important. It was the business of Staying Young.

   They worked hard at it. Exercise and trips into Portland for botox injections. Facials. Plastic surgery. Because they knew all about the May-December couples, and they wanted to make sure that their own husbands didn’t turn their own May secretaries or massage therapists--or a stray waitress--into the second Mrs. Talbot or Caldwell or Pratt. They even eyed their cleaning lady with suspicion, which is why I always made a point to wear my oldest, baggiest jeans and an oversized t-shirt when I worked on the lake. Even though my May days had long since passed me by.

   And then there were the teenagers, who were bored out of our fucking minds because they were stuck in the boonies all summer long. They spent their days swimming and sunbathing; driving their parents cars and polluting the air and water with their jet skis and boats. But it was better than how they spent their nights. I knew all about that, more than their parents did, because the teenagers gossiped about each other, too. They talked about sex and money and drinking, even when I was within earshot. Because the lesson they’d already learned is that you can say anything you want to in front of your cleaning lady or your cook or the guy who’s fixing your roof. Because, of course, they’re not people. Not real people. Not the kind who have eyes and ears and brains.

   I always ended Friday’s work day with George and Tiffany Kendall. They were the couple from Connecticut who’d bought the Yankee fan’s camp, one of the May-December couples. Sixty-four and twenty-two. He’d left his second wife, a former May who was now an aging June, the previous summer so he could marry Tiffany. And, if he lived long enough, he’d probably replace Tiffany before she turned thirty. If he didn’t live that long then Tiffany, who’d been a waitress until a year ago, would inherit millions of dollars, several cars, a big house in Connecticut and a nice lakeside camp in a lovely Maine community. But they paid well and on time, so what business was it of mine? And not just me. Brian had been doing work at their place since even before they moved in. They paid him well and on time, too.

   I strolled in the side door, the kitchen door, like I did every Friday. Bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand, canister vacuum in the other, the hose coiled loosely around my shoulder. Three-thirty. On the dot. The cook, Mrs. Pelletier, watched me walk through the room. She was a very old lady; silent, protective. The kitchen was her space and I knew it. I nodded and she nodded right back. Then I pushed gently on the door that led into the dining room. And when I was finished in there I opened a different door, walked through a hallway and stumbled into the living room. Tiffany was sitting on the sofa reading a book.

   “Oh, excuse me Mrs. Kendall.” It really did irritate me that I had to refer to her that way, but I was very careful not to let it show. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

   She looked up and smiled. Like she was actually happy to see me. “Hello Tess.”

   Tess. There were kids Jason had taught who were her age now, and some who were older, who would still call me Mrs. Dyer if they saw me.

   “I didn’t realize what time it was.”

   She bookmarked her page then looked up at me again, almost expectantly. I recognized the look and the need behind it. She was lonely. Stuck here in the boonies with nothing to do. Stuck with a husband who was old enough to be her grandfather and no women to talk to except for a flock of Mays, who were shallow and brainless and gold digging, and the older wives, who feared and despised her.

   And she wanted a friend.

   I knew I shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She’d dug her own grave and now she had to lie in it. But I felt sorry for her anyway. Because she wasn’t shallow or brainless, even though she was a gold digger. She wasn’t outside sunbathing or spending her husband’s money on a manicure or gossiping idly with another May about the older wives. She was inside on a sunny day, alone, reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. So desperate for company that she was trying to strike up a conversation with the cleaning lady. But there wasn’t much I could do for her. I wasn’t really Tess Dyer while I was here. I was just the cleaning lady, The Help, so I had to wait for her to get the conversation rolling. Even though I wanted to ask her what she thought of the book. Even though I really was curious to know if she loved it, like Jason did, or if, like me, she though it was a repetitive pile of condescending crap.

   I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. My load was heavy and a little awkward, but I didn’t feel right setting it down until I knew which direction things were heading. She finally noticed and said:

   “I’m keeping you from your work. I’m sorry.”

   “That’s quite alright, Mrs. Kendall.”

   She stood up. Smiled again. Hesitated once more, but finally left the room, clutching her book. I heard the back door open and shut and knew she was heading for the back deck. The thing was huge with a gorgeous view of the lake. Brian had built it for them.

   I got to work. Living room, master bedroom, master bathroom, guest bedroom. Then my favorite room. I knocked. There was a long pause before I heard come in.

   The den. It reminded me of the room where my dad spent most of his time. Manly. Outdoorsy. Dark wood and leather furniture. Mr. Kendall was standing behind his desk. When he saw who it was coming in he smiled and said, “Why hello, Mrs. Dyer.”

   Fortunately, I’d always been a huge fan of irony.

   “I thought you were my wife.”

   God forbid. I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine the horrors that possessing that title must entail. But she’d volunteered for the job, so it was hard to feel too much sympathy for her in that regard. And he was a pleasant enough man. So I smiled back.

   He lowered his voice and continued. “Her birthday is next week and I’ve got her present hidden in here.”

   I tried to make my ah sound interested. I must have succeeded because he asked:

   “Would you like to see it?”

   The answer was No. I didn’t give a shit about the latest diamond covered monstrosity he’d spent too much money on in order to compensate her for services rendered. I wanted to hurry up and finish so I’d have time for a shower before I met Brian at Zeke’s. I couldn’t actually say that, of course, or anything like it. Even if I was stupid enough to put my own job in jeopardy by telling off a client--and I wasn’t that stupid--there was no way I’d risk Brian’s job that way.

   Most of the lake husbands, especially the Decembers, had been a little hesitant about hiring Brian. Letting him into their homes, getting all hot and sweaty around their wives. Of course, even if there wasn’t a Tess in his life he wasn’t stupid enough to put his business in jeopardy just for the thrill of banging a bored, lonely May or even a scared, lonely Botox Beauty. But the husbands didn’t know that. All they knew was that he was a young, good looking guy and that there were whispers of how his father had behaved in similar circumstances. It’s why Brian always wore his oldest, baggiest jeans and an oversized t-shirt whenever he worked on the lake. Even though it meant he risked getting a farmer’s tan.

   George Kendall was the first of the Decembers to give Brian’s work--and his character--a thumbs up and it had opened a lot of doors for him. By now they all knew we were an item, which was actually a point our favor. But it also meant that any mistake I made with my big, fat mouth could risk both of us losing our best paying clients. Consequently I responded with:

   “I’d love to see your wife’s gift.” I even managed a smile.

   There was a small bookshelf on the floor behind his desk. He pulled it out a few inches, reached behind it and pulled something out that was covered by a white sheet. Even before he unwrapped it I could tell what it was. A framed canvas. He looked at it and grinned proudly; just like it was something he’d given birth to. Then he turned it around so I could see. And all I could say was:

   “Oh…my God.”

   Because he had it. He had my painting. Hope. The room spun for a few seconds and I had to force myself not to speak. Because what I would have said was:

   Give it back, give it back now. It’s mine. I’ll work for it, work for free for the rest of the summer. Next summer, too. You can even keep the frame, find another painting for it. Just give me back my fucking orchard.

   My orchard. Mine.

   I couldn’t say that, of course, because it wasn’t mine. Not anymore. I’d sold it, traded it for one month’s rent and a light bill, because I was too proud and stupid to borrow the money. Now it was George Kendall’s painting. He’d paid for it. Then he’d paid someone to put it inside a God-awful, butt ugly frame, so he could give it to a bimbo named Tiffany. And I couldn’t even tell him that the signature at the bottom was mine. Because nobody wants to hear that their artwork was painted by the cleaning lady.

   I took a deep breath. Two jobs at stake. I had to smile. And it wasn’t too difficult, because, after all, he’d bought my painting. He’d walked into the gallery. Saw it. Liked it. Paid money for it. That was a good thing. And so I smiled.

   My reaction seemed to please him. “You like it, don’t you?”

   I shivered, tried to ignore the hair that was standing up on the back of my neck. Then I said the only thing I could say:

   “It’s lovely.” But still, I had to know. Because I’d never sold a painting before. “Why this particular painting? What was it that drew you to it?”

   He smiled again, like he’d been hoping I’d ask. “My wife has been busy decorating the camp, as you know. And the leaves in this painting are almost an exact match to the wallpaper in the living room.”

   Wallpaper. Exact match. And that’s when the room started spinning again.

   “Um…excuse me, sir?”

   “Uh...you...it...”

   “You look surprised.”

   And he looked proud. So proud. I wasn’t sure if it was because he thought he’d surprised me or because he’d managed to find a pretty little painting that exactly matched the goddamn living room wallpaper. Or both. But I managed a nod.

   “I know it’s true that men don’t typically pay attention to decorating and colors, but I know how important it is to you ladies.”

   You ladies.

   “So I brought a sample of the wallpaper with me to the gallery and searched until I found the perfect match.”

   Green wallpaper. Perfect match. It really was the reason he’d chosen it. Perfect. Match.

   I cleared my throat. “Ah.”

   It seemed to satisfy him. He covered the painting with its sheet and hid it once more behind the shelf. Then he looked at his watch. I looked at mine.

   4:45. Shit.

   “I’m sorry I’ve kept you so long Mrs. Dyer. Why don’t you let this room be until next week. It will keep.”

   I looked around. Dust. I hated that. But.

   “Okay.”

   I turned to leave. Bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand, canister vacuum in the other, the hose coiled loosely around my shoulder. He courteously closed the door behind me.

   I walked down the hallway, set the vacuum down and knocked on the bathroom door. It was empty. Sink, shower, tub, toilet. Mirror. Floor. Cleaned ‘em all.

   Because that’s what I did. What I was good at.

   I drove home quickly, but I lingered in the shower. Washed the stench of the day off of my body, watched it swirl down the drain. Then I did my make up and hair. Just so. Put on my lucky Red Sox t-shirt, just like I did every Friday. There’d be no Pinstripes for us to boo at tonight, but Zeke’s would still be busy. That meant fun. And I needed that.

   I hopped into my car and drove into town. Sure enough, the place was packed. I walked in through Fran’s instead of going in the back way, so I could say a quick hello to Rachel. She was standing in her usual place behind the counter. And standing in front of it, slimy as ever, was Tim.

   This time they noticed me right away. Rachel rolled her eyes and said, “Hey Tess.”

   “Is Brian here yet?”

   “Nope. He’s not here. Yet.”

   But Tim didn’t move, apparently too stupid to get the hint. I looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He grinned back.

   I could play that game, too. I stretched, loudly and leisurely, then leaned against the counter. “So, Tim. How’s business?”

   “Business is booming.”

   “Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

   A month earlier a sixteen year old boy and his mother had been arrested. Cultivation and distribution of marijuana. Someone had called in an anonymous tip to the State Police. And when they were released on bail the boy was sent to a foster home, away from the Bad Influence of his mother. Even though she didn’t have anything to do with the pot. Even though she’d been the only person in New Mills who hadn’t known that her son was growing and selling it in order to save money for college. Because she was too busy working two jobs. Now, of course, she was working no jobs and the kid wasn’t saving anything towards college. Even though she really was a good mother and the boy really was a good kid. They were both just doing what they thought they had to do in order to get by. Maybe even get ahead.

   So now there was only one person in town to see if you wanted to float away on a cloud. If you wanted to escape into a haze. Or if you wanted something a little stronger. A bigger cloud. A hazier haze. Just one place, one stop shopping, just like a convenience store. All because someone had called in an anonymous tip to the State Police.

   Tim leaned in close and whispered, “You interested in--”

   “Nope.” Even though, of course, I was. Just not from him.

   He stepped back and shrugged. Then he looked at his watch, turned to Rachel and said, “Well I gotta go.”

   “See ya.”

   I waited until Fuckwad was safely out the door, then said, “You need to stay away from that asshole.”

   “Yes, Mommy.”

   “Rach, I’m not kidding.” Because even though her eyes were clear and bright--right now--I knew that usually they weren’t.

   The door gave a loud ding as it opened up behind me. I turned to look but it wasn’t Brian, just a group of teenagers--locals, of course, not Lake Kids--with hearty hellos for Rachel. She returned their greeting with great gusto. And that was a hint for me.

   And so I left her. I entered Zeke’s to the usual chorus that greeted me. Several voices, none of them in sync or in harmony, called out:

   “Hey Tess! I’m not a Yankees fan!”

   “I know, but you’re all assholes.”

   Having taken care of the formalities, I strolled over to the bar. Zeke and my first beer were waiting for me. He looked at my face carefully. “You okay, Tess?”

   The answer was No. There was something dancing in the back of my mind, something about fear and love and insecurity and loneliness. For a moment a vague image of Tiffany Kendall floated before me. Sad. Desperate. Something in her face, especially in her eyes, that spoke of misery and regret. And I wanted to talk to him about it, to see if he could help me figure it out. But the place was just too busy to get into anything real. So I gave him a smile and brought up a different subject; the one I’d wanted to talk to him about for weeks.

   “Zeke, we need to do something about your house.”

   That surprised him. “What’s the matter with my house?”

   I sighed dramatically. “I don’t have enough time to go into the subject in any great detail, so I’ll just highlight the obvious. It’s an old lady’s house. And the last time I checked--well, not that I’ve ever actually checked--you’re not an old lady.”

   “Tess…it was my mother’s house.”

   “I hate to break it to you, but she doesn’t live there anymore. And I never met the woman, but from what I’ve heard she wasn’t the kind of person who’d insist on making you keep that place a shrine. I mean, do you actually like plastic slip covers and lilac wallpaper?”

   I finally got a laugh out of him. “No, but I don’t have the time to do any remodeling.”

   “Gimme a break. It’ll take you less than an hour to walk to the hardware store and pick out a couple colors. Less than that if you’re lazy and drive. Then I’ll do the rest.”

   “You’re just gonna paint every room in my house.”

   “Sure.”

   “And how much is that gonna cost me?”

   “I’m not gonna charge you. Damn it, Zeke, I’m a cleaning lady, not an interior decorator. You just have to pay for the paint and brushes and the thousands of gallons of wallpaper adhesive remover it’s gonna take to clean up those walls.”

   “I’m not letting you do it for free.”

   “Oh come on, Zeke. If you pay me it won’t be fun, it will be work. And I need something fun to do.”

   I needed something. Not fun, really. I needed some color, needed to be surrounded by it, by paint and brushes, to be creating something, even if the canvas was a just a wall. Because I hadn’t painted anything all summer; nothing since the orchard. The lake was still dancing in the back of my mind, but there was still something not quite right about it. Something that went beyond the motorized intrusion. It wasn’t complete somehow, wasn’t ready. And nothing else was speaking to me.

   “But I’ll tell you this. I won’t do white or off-white or beige or anything boring like that. Pick some real colors. Something hot.”

   I winked at him and he turned red with embarrassment, then gave me a scowl. But he’d give in. I was right and he knew it. He needed change, needed lots of it; the kind that didn’t come from a paint can. There wasn’t anything I could do about most of that, but maybe if he wasn’t living in Grannyland he’d be more inspired to go out and find it. Because it would be a nice change for me to have more than seven coffee mugs to wash every week.

   I turned my attention to my beer, nursed it slowly, waiting for Brian. And, finally, a body sat down beside me. I turned, prepared with a smile, but it faded quickly enough. Because it was Ashley. Green eyed and blonde and young. And for a moment I wondered how many extra toilets I’d need to scrub before I could afford one or two of those botox treatments.

   “Hi Tess.”

   “Hey.”

   She had a drink already in hand, some sort of sweet smelling shit in a tall glass. “Are you waiting for Brian?”

   “Yep.”

   “That’s what I thought.”

   We each guzzled our drinks. She finished before me, but Zeke refilled mine first. Then it was her turn, but with a that’s your last one warning. I looked at her more closely. Her eyes were fuzzy and she was swaying slightly on her stool. And it was only six-fifteen. She tapped my arm and gazed at me a bit unsteadily.

   “Are you really in love with him?”

   “Yep.”

   “Me too.”

   I sighed. I’d known this day was coming. But of all the places in the world, this bar--filled to capacity with sweaty men and their dates--was the last place I would have chosen for the encounter. And this was not the day I would have chosen, either. At the same time I had to feel bad for the girl. I’d been her. Spread ‘em for a guy, thinking it was The Real Thing. Turns out you’re nothing more than A Sure Thing. It sucks, but it’s the lesson all women have to learn. So there was nothing I could do for her except try to be nice.

   “Ashley, I--”

   “You sorta have a fat ass, don’t you?”

   “Uh...excuse me?”

   “But some guys like that. And you’ve got big tits, too, so that evens it all out.”

   I looked around the room. Sure enough, her voice had carried above the din of sweaty guys and their dates; even above the ex-ballplayers and pompous sportswriters who were yapping away on the pre-game show, giving their opinions about a game that hadn’t even been played yet.

   I turned away from the chuckles and snickers, leaned in closer to her and whispered, “Ashley, why don’t you let me give you a ride home and we can talk about this later. Or maybe Zeke can call someone for you and--”

   She shook her head and shoved me. Hard. I hadn’t been expecting it, naturally, and fell right off the stool; barely managed to keep myself from landing flat on my big, fat ass. Even worse, I’d been holding onto my beer and it spilled all down the front of me.

   I set the mug down on the bar and hopped back onto my stool, because there was more to come. I knew that much. And since we’d already caused a scene I figured I might as well get it out of the way. It would be better than having to endure another one later on. I took a deep breath, turned to face her and waited for the rest.

   And she brought it. She rambled on and on about her magical night with Brian. Zeke tried to shush her, as though I didn’t already know, as though everyone in the bar didn’t already know; but she wouldn’t stop. She told us all about it, painted it in beautiful, rosy colors. And when she was done I felt more sorry for her than ever. Because even though she hadn’t said it, I knew. Just by the way she talked about It. About Him.

   Brian had been her first. Because she’d had a crush on him--and in her mind it was love--since she was just a girl. She had loved him forever. She was thin and blonde and pretty, and she could have had any number of guys if she’d wanted them. But she’d waited; saved herself. For Brian. And to him it had been nothing special. Neither was she. It was close to being the saddest thing I’d ever heard and, for a fleeting moment, I wanted to track the bastard down and smack the shit out of him. But then she said:

   “You know, one of these days he’s gonna wake up and realize that he needs something more than just big tits, you fat old bitch!”

   I swallowed and took a very deep breath. “Okay, Ashley. I think--”

   “He’s gonna get tired of you and when he does he’ll know where to go. I know what he really wants. And--”

   “Oh, please, little girl. You don’t know shit. I was playing with dicks when you were still playing with dolls.”

   She muttered something in response, but I wasn’t listening. I leaned over the bar, grabbed a handful of napkins and tried to wipe the beer bubbles off my big, fat tits. It didn’t help. My lucky shirt was still soaked. And I knew what it meant, even though I’d never admit it to another living soul. The Sox were jinxed for the rest of the season.

   So I reached for my purse, rifled around inside, and pulled out a big bill. My emergency fund. Then I finally looked up at Zeke. He looked amused and worried. Funny how guys could be both at the same time, even the nice ones. He saw the money in my hand and waved me off.

   “No, you’re all set, Tess.”

   “Fuck you. I’m paying for my beer. And...whatever her bill is, too.” I dropped the money onto the bar walked away before he could say anything else. I kept my head held high, like Wronged Heroines are supposed to do.

   And I ran right into Brian.

   He was leaning against the counter talking to Rachel. He looked tired and sweaty, brown with dirt and sun, his hair pulled back into the ridiculous ponytail he wore whenever he worked outside in the heat. But whatever the conversation was about I could see that it was, at worst, a neutral subject, because they were both smiling, even before they caught sight of me. And when they did it gave them both a big laugh.

   “What happened to you, babe?”

   I resisted the urge to start the story this way:

   “Oh...I just had a little accident.”

   He laughed again, but I still didn’t smack him. Even though, really, he deserved it. “I guess this means we should get supper to go?”

   “Yeah. Why don’t you head on home and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

   “Are you sure? I don’t mind--”

   “Nope. Go on. You look exhausted.”

   Rachel called back the order without having to ask what we wanted. We always got the same thing; veggie Italian and a steak sandwich. Every Friday. Brian paid and said, “See ya, Rach.” Then he gave me a quick kiss and headed out.

   As soon as the door shut behind him I turned to Rachel. “I meant what I said about Tim. Stay away from him.”

   She wiggled her eyebrows. “Too late.”

   I had figured. Still, I’d been hoping I had figured wrong.

   “Tess, I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not into the shit he’s selling. I swear. I’m just having a little fun with him.”

   “That’s not the kinda guy you have a little fun with. Damn it, you’re young and pretty and funny and smart. You deserve so much better than...that.”

   “Look around. There’s not a whole hell of a lot to choose from.”

   She was right. Then I peeked over her shoulder. Fry cook. Blonde. Tall. Cute. “There you go.”

   She looked behind her and smirked. “That’s Donny. Been there. Done that.”

   “Jesus Christ. Well do it again. Anything’s better than that other fuckwad. Besides, why do you have to do anyone? Just...go out into the world and do some living. There’s so much more out there for you than just…this. You could go to school or--”

   But I didn’t get any farther. The double doors swung open and Rachel and I both looked over. Ashley, barely vertical, was being helped out by one of the guys who was an asshole but not a Yankee fan. He was wearing a big smile. And a wedding ring.

   “Hey!” Stern voice. Mean Tess. I was on a roll. “Don’t even think about it.”

   “But--”

   “Nope. You put her in my car.”

   Ashley opened her eyes. It took her a few moments to focus, but when she finally did she sputtered, “You’re not bringing me home, bitch.”

   I ignored her, glared up at the married asshole, and repeated, “Put her. In my car.”

   He glared right back.

   “If you wanna screw around on your wife, be my guest. But you’re not doin’ it with a girl who’s too drunk to walk. So put her skinny little ass in my car. Right now.”

   I said it with conviction. As though I was six feet tall, instead of just a beer-soaked shrimp, and could actually back up what I was saying with some muscle. But he must have seen something in my face. Maybe it was the eyes. Maybe they were cold and hard like my mother’s were. Or maybe he just had an attack of conscience. Whatever it was he wavered, then gave in.

   “Fine.”

   He dragged Ashley out the door. I watched out the window and nodded when I saw him heading for my car, then turned my attention back to Rachel. “Is my supper ready?”

   She headed for the kitchen, laughing to herself, and when she came back she was laughing even harder. She set the bag down on the counter and said, “Donny wants me to tell you that Ashley’s full of shit.”

   “Excuse me?”

   “He said you got curves, not a fat ass, and that guys really do like that.”

   I looked past Rachel, into the kitchen. “Hey Donny!”

   He looked up from his fry vat. “Yeah?”

   “Fuck you.”

   He nodded. “You’re welcome, Tess.”

   By the time I got to the car, Horny Disappointed Man was buckling Ashley’s seatbelt. I hoped that’s all he’d been doing, but it was too late to do anything about it now. When he saw me coming he slammed the door. He was horny and pissed now. And I didn’t care.

   “Go home and fuck your wife instead.”

   He gave me the finger and walked back inside.

   I got into my car and let my head fall back against the headrest. Ashley glared at me and repeated her objection. “I don’t want you to bring me home. I want Andy.”

   I started the car. “No, Ashley. You don’t.”

   I drove to her apartment and plopped her down on the couch. Partly because it was the nearest soft surface, but mostly because I didn’t want go into her bedroom. Didn’t want to see the bed where Brian had fucked her. I tiptoed into the bathroom, rummaged through her linen closet, grabbed a couple towels and a bucket, and placed them within puking distance of the couch. I locked the door on my way out and wondered if she’d remember who her rescuer was when she woke up in the morning. If it would make her hate me even more than she already she did. And I wondered how much longer it would take her to get over Brian. Pretty soon she’d hate him, even more than she hated me. It was the natural progression. Love, hate, sadness. Learn the lesson. Move on.

   Brian was in the shower when I finally made it home. I opened the bathroom door a crack and peeked inside. His tall silhouette was fuzzy through the frosted glass door. He was washing his hair, singing to himself, happy as he could be. Naturally. What the hell was there for him to worry about?

   I closed the door silently behind me, leaned back against it, inhaled the hazy steam. Fought back a raw, sharp fang of fear. I’d been fighting it for a long time; long before tonight. It had been there, poised and ready to sink in, since our first night together. I watched him still as he poured more shampoo into his hands. It seemed sweet and funny that he really did lather, rinse and then repeat; sweeter still that I was probably the only other person in the world who knew that he did. And I was overcome by a sudden, tired, primitive urge; a cold, desperate need to claim him. To mark him.

   Mine.

   Because I’d had it with all the cute, young chickies hanging around him. Not just Ashley. All of them. The nameless faces that stared at him, at us. They were everywhere. Just like vultures. Waiting for him to get tired of me. To get it out of his system. They’d had their turn. He was mine now, goddamn it.

   Mine.

   I peeled off my clothes, opened the shower door a couple of inches, and watched him scrub his wavy, dark hair. His eyes were closed, his chest and stomach and legs covered in white, foamy suds. He was still singing some song I didn’t recognize. Even his voice was gorgeous. Deep and soft, echoing against the stark, white tile.

   He finally opened his eyes. “Enjoying the show?”

   “Sure am. How was your day, anyway? I never did ask.”

   He grunted and rinsed out the last of the shampoo. “Long day.”

   I stepped inside and he smiled.

   “It’s getting better all the time, though.”

   I didn’t say a word, just put my arms around his neck and pressed my body against his. Let mine get slick with water and soap and leftover shampoo; got an instant reaction from him. And it was my turn to smile.

   I stood on tiptoe, took his face in my hands, pulled his lips onto mine, and kissed him. Slowly. Full of fire and passion and tongue, the way he always kissed me, the way I loved it. He wrapped his arms around me, enveloped me in a warm, wet embrace, and I lingered at his mouth. Kissed him forever. Then I traced the line of his jaw with my tongue, gently nibbled on his neck. He pulled me even closer, pressed me tightly against his chest, and I could feel his heart hammering against me.

   I slid my body down his, slithering slowly out of his grasp in the hot, steady downpour, kissed the muscles of his chest, let the hair tickle my face. Because I still loved that, more than just about anything in the world. Then I continued my journey downward, paused at his stomach, kissed it, too. Lightly, gently. Gave him temporary shelter between my breasts while I glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed, mouth open. Dreamy. Off in another world.

   He really was too beautiful.

   I smiled, dropped to my knees and took him into my mouth. He cried out suddenly, just like it had surprised him, even though he’d been expecting it. Even though he’d known what he was in for the second I’d stepped into the shower. I started slowly, because it’s how he liked it, and his hands found the back of my head, but not to guide me. He didn’t even try, knew he didn’t need to. I could always tell by his breathing and his moans when he wanted me to speed up or to slow down. He just liked to touch me, loved to run his fingers through my hair, caress my neck, my face. To feel my mouth while it was going down on him...

   He let out a quick, sharp breath. The muscles in his legs and abdomen locked, relaxed, and then tensed up again. He was getting close. I knew what he wanted before he said it, knew exactly where he wanted to be, where he wanted to end, because I’d made him want it; was making him want it right now, even more, by rubbing them gently against his thighs. I waited anyway, made him say it, and when he did it was more a command than a request. Desperate, vulgar, hoarse, rough and I let him go. Took him in my hands, shook my head as he reached down, trying to take over. I knew he was looking down, that he was watching, could feel his eyes on me as he gave me exactly what I wanted, even though he didn’t know it.

   My name in his deep, clear, ringing voice.

   I smiled as he repeated it, as it echoed against the shower walls. I knew that he wanted me to look up at him, to look into his eyes while it was happening. But I couldn’t. I looked down at the floor of the shower instead, even after he was finished. Watched the drain as the water collected there, swirled slowly around, then disappeared; watched as the cycle repeated a few more times. I couldn’t let him see my face. Not yet. I had to wait, just a few more seconds.

   I knew my smile would give me away.

   Mine.

Chapter 14

Chapter 16

Table of Contents

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