Bend - Bromberg K. (читать книги онлайн бесплатно серию книг txt) 📗

"What would make it perfect?" Cain whispered, leaning over me so that his lips grazed my jawline with slow, soft kisses.

"Yes," Eli chimed in quietly, his fingertips tracing a trail along my cheek, his warm breath caressing my ear as I felt his tongue lightly trace the outer edge.

I shivered with anticipation because I knew that these men were going to make love to me tonight. And it would be slow, and it would be sensual, and it would be so very sweet. And for whatever reason, I knew that it would be different with them tonight. Because more than anything else going on in my life, there was one thing that I was sure of: I had the love of these men, and it was more precious to me than any other gift I had received…ever!

I reflected on how Darcy had looked tonight. She was glowing and happy and I loved when she let everyone feel her tummy when Carson kicked during dinner. I had been totally mesmerized by it.

"A baby," I finally sighed. "Having our baby would make it perfect. It's what I want."

I sat up for a moment and leaned back on my elbows. "So, it’s official—for my next birthday, my wish is to have a baby in my belly."

I leaned over and blew out the single candle on my cupcake, and as I watched the smoke curl and snake its way up to the ceiling, I smiled.

The End

Still

by

Alessandra Torre

Dedicated to the incredible women of Torreville. You guys make each and every day a joy, bringing me support and laughter. You are the community of women I have never had, and I appreciate you immensely.

Here’s to your wicked and open minds, I love you all.

Chapter 1

I don’t belong here—not in a loud casino, smoke curling up the walls, disappearing into discreet vents. Flip flops sharing space with sequins and diamonds. The crowd a mix of sandy tourists and high rollers, eighteen year old spring breakers polka-dotting the mix with their wide eyes and slurred steps, the available alcohol hitting their virgin systems hard. We’re at a craps table, a game that none of us understand, yet the Asians to our right are grinning and gesturing like we are hitting the mother load, so we blow on dice and move markers and our chip stack continues to grow.

Chelsea. She’s the reason we are all here. Six of us split between three rooms, the four hundred dollar nightly rate generously taken care of by Mr. McCrory, Chelsea’s father and the king of the Atlanta carwash market. Chelsea’s big day is two weeks away, so here we are, in Nassau, bachelorette-partying our country asses off.

I don’t belong here. I belong on my front porch, sunning my toes on the railing of the porch, a sweet tea next to me, a magazine on my lap, Sugarland on the radio. That’s what I’d spend a weekend off doing. Not here, in this loud place, with Tammy’s hand digging into my shoulders, her fresh manicure biting imprints into my sunburned skin. There is a bump of bodies behind me, and the curve of the table cuts into my still-gorged-on-seafood stomach. Ouch. I gaze longingly at the stool holding up the cigarette-smoking female to my right. My feet are on fire, four hours in a-size-too-small-but-they-were-on-sale heels taking their toll in the most painful way possible.

I gather my chips and turn to Megan Gallt, the bit of a girl to my left, her platinum curls bouncing excitedly at some aspect of this gamble that we don’t understand. “I’m gonna head upstairs,” I yell, my mouth as close to her ear as I can manage without swallowing her chandelier earrings.

“What?” She glances down at her wrist, the fake Rolex we all—with the exception of Chelsea—had gobbled up from the first roadside stand the taxi driver had stopped at. It glitters impressively at me, and I fight a glimpse downward to see if my own looks as good. “It’s only ten.”

“My feet are killing me.”

She looks down. “You got a long way to walk to the room.”

She isn’t kidding. My brain groans at the trek before me. Through the casino, through the shops, down a flight of stairs, through a second lobby, up twelve floors via elevator, and then down a thousand feet of hallway. “I know. That’s why I’m leaving while my soles still have a little bit of life left in them.”

She leans in, lowering her voice slightly. “Chelsea will be pissed.”

I shrug, craning my neck ’til I see the future bride’s over-highlighted head. I lean in, give Megan a quick peck on the cheek, then hobble over to Chelsea. “I’m heading up to the room,” I yell.

She waves her hand dismissively, her eyes glued to the table, the movement of our Asian coaching staff leaping in the air dominating her attention, her own voice whooping at an ear-splitting crescendo.

Great. I move before my words register and her attention moves to me, weaving through crowds of people as fast as my raw feet will take me, opening my purse and dumping my handful of chips into it.

Past blackjack. I can do this. It’s not really that bad if I don’t pause long enough for my feet to bitch.

Past poker. Damn, there are a lot of tables. I keep my eyes focused forward, like I do when I feel like I will faint. Step, hobble. Step, hobble. I can do this. Damn, I hope I’m going the right way.

Past blackjack. Shit. Are these the same tables I passed before? Or different ones? Maybe the others were in a high-roller portion of the casino. These must be different. They have to be different. I look for a sign, an arrow, a member of the casino staff. The blister on the back of my right heel is now competing with my left pinky toe, which I’d be willing to bet is bleeding.

Past slots. Okay, I think this is right. I am jostled out of place by an overweight white woman who shoots me a dirty look. Almost turn my ankle and bust my ass. Great. Just what I need. An injury to accompany my pansy-ass feet.

There is an exit before me, and I crane to see over the heads blocking my view. Please lead out of the casino. Please lead into the lobby by the shops, please … Oh, thank God. I almost cry with relief when the crowd parts, and I enter the smoke-free arena that is the rest of the hotel. Bathrooms to my left, a seating area on my right. I walk like my ninety year old grandma and collapse into the closest chair, working off my heels with trembling fingers, and moan when the heavy stilettos drop to the tiled floor. Sweet Jesus. I flex my feet and lean back in the chair. Close my eyes and cover my face for a moment, rubbing gentle patterns into my hairline as I try to massage the headache that has spent the last two hours building. Aspirin. I’ll get to the room, take aspirin, and draw a bath. Soak my feet and create enough bubbles to make Mr. Clean jealous. The prospect brings a smile to my face, and I let my hands drop. Take a moment to breathe, to relax.

It’s quieter out here. Away from the madness of the casino.

I can’t believe it’s only Friday. I got off early, our bank manager unhappy with the request, yet unable to bitch too loud, seeing as I’m the only FA our small town chain has. FA. That’s fancy country talk for Financial Advisor. In a big city I’d manage large portfolios, dispense stock advice, buy and sell quotients like Ben Affleck in Boiler Room. But in our small town? An hour from Atlanta, where Sunday sermons focus on rain prayers, and where the average household income lies right on the forty-five thousand dollar mark? My days are spent selling mutual funds, life insurance, and doing the I’m-not-qualified-for-this job of will creation and estate planning. Nothing that can’t wait ’til Monday morning, when my raw feet and hung over self will crack open the doors of Smith Bank & Trust at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM.

I pick up my right foot and examine the damage done by my stilettos. Stilettos that are uglier by the minute, trotting their pretty selves straight into my trash can at their current rate of travel. Too bad I didn’t pack many other options. Fancy shoes take up a very small corner of my closet. Sensible black grandma heels dominate the rest of that said closet floor. Paired with my tan nylons, they help to complete the too-sexy-for-a-date vibe that I rock ninety percent of the year. Maybe I can’t pull off the cute strappy heels, sexpot in a minidress look. Maybe that ability set sail at age thirty. Maybe, at thirty-two, I should invest in some ballet flats and sundresses. I see a lot of the minivan moms with that look. And they look comfortable. They certainly don’t have the engine red feet that are currently screaming a slow death beneath my fingertips. I gingerly push on the bubble on my back heel. Uck. I can almost hear liquid squishing in it.