Hawke

Two minutes and thirty-five seconds.

I watched the clock this time. Counted it out in my head. I promised myself I wouldn’t, that I wasn’t the type to care about such trivial things…but is unsatisfying sex really that trivial when you’re considering spending your life with the person delivering?

He loves me.

Patrick made it a point to tell me consistently. He was the first to say it. When I was enjoying the beginning stages of our relationship, he told me he was falling for me already. It flattered me; I felt honored to be loved by someone of his caliber. He was handsome in a subtle sort of way, more of a short and stocky guy. His mom always said he was a meat-and-potatoes kind of boy, whatever that meant. But it was his kind, brown eyes and that loving smile that drew me in.

He was also very successful for our age, having worked within his father’s company. He had the drive to succeed and make something of himself, and I always admired that. That he saw me, the five-foot-nothing, dirty-blond-haired, come-from-nothing book nerd I was, meant the world.

I had my issues growing up. I was never in the popular cliques. Reading and writing were my strengths and school was easy for me. Socializing was a whole other story. I was the girl that liked to stay home on the weekend, curled up with food and a book or new Netflix series, so when Patrick came along, I fell right into that imaginary romance novel. One that seemed too good to be true.

Where Patrick lacked in sex, he made up for it in effort. He cared deeply for me, and made it a point to succeed in life for us and our future, despite his failed attempts at intimacy. But sex was just fluff when considering the overall aspect of a relationship, right? Besides, what did I really know about sex at all? I was no expert.

“Oh, my God…” He groans before lightly chuckling as I smile kindly up at this missionary-positioned face.

He breathed heavily on top of me until his heart rate decreased.

“Nic. That felt so good,” he says before kissing the tip of my nose sweetly.

Nic.

My lil’ nickname he uses, besides Angel, that always gives me little butterflies in the pit of my stomach when I hear it pass his lips. Butterflies that make me feel special. I love that he calls me Nic and not just Nicole, like my sister always does.

She always uses my entire name to get under my skin, knowing how much I hate it. Nicole has a whole new meaning since my dad started dating again. Apparently, mistresses ruin names along with marriages, so Patrick made it a point to call me Nic instead, and luckily, it caught on.

He kisses my forehead before pulling out of me and heading towards our bathroom, disposing of the used condom into the trash and jumping into the shower.

I shouldn’t feel weird about this. He always showers after we have sex. Doesn’t everyone? I try not to overthink it, yet something about it always makes me feel dirty. It’s not like I have much to compare things to, though. Patrick is my first, my only.

Rolling to my side under the sheets, I hear the water start and wonder about orgasms. I’ve read about them, and heard about them from my oversharing sister, but never have I actually experienced one that I know of. As it stands, the need to orgasm is just another obstacle in my relationship I’m forced to brush aside. I suppose it’s better than the problems my sister faces.

Johanna deals with things like dating women who are already married to men but have yet to come out of the closet, or dating men whose dicks find their way into other women. The problems she deals with always seem worse and entirely more dramatic than mine. I shouldn’t complain. At least Patrick loves me and truly cares about a future with me. We can work out all the rest in time.

“Hey, I need to run to the grocery store to pick up some steaks for dinner tonight,” I hear him call from the bathroom.

“Don’t we have enough meat?”

There’s literally a freezer full in the basement from his hunting excursions with his dad.

“I just need to grab a couple more fresh ones if I’m going to be starting up the grill soon. No time to thaw. I’ve got a little surprise up my sleeve.”

A little surprise? Could it be what I’ve been waiting for? I bite my lip and check myself reluctantly in the long mirror next to the closet. I definitely don’t look engagement-ready. My hair’s in need of a trim, and this casual pajama set isn’t a good look.

“I’ll be back in a bit, babe. Promise it’ll be quick.” He comes over to where I’m standing, kissing the top of my head before heading out of the door in his jeans and sports coat.

Sunday dinners were our thing. After about a year of dating in different cities, and bouncing between my dorm room and his, we’d made the move and shacked up together.

Patrick had luckily found this cute little house for sale in his hometown, close to his college in Michigan and his father’s company. I made the seven-hour move once I finished school, leaving the past in the dust. We started our journey towards truly being together, despite my dad’s reluctance.

My father wasn’t entirely excited about the idea, nor was I, about moving back home with him and his new mistress-turned-name-ruiner. Seriously, hearing your dad call out your name during sex does horrible things to your mental health.

Patrick’s parents certainly weren’t for us living together either, with their deep Catholic values and all, but the timing just worked for us. We saved money when he bought our first home instead of renting and it was one of the happiest moments for me. Were we playing “pretend” as his mother often called it? Maybe, but it was my first serious relationship, and I felt like it was a crucial step toward us really being together.

Sunday evenings were for us. After Patrick and his family attended their church service and extended family brunch at his grandmother’s, we’d always prepare dinner together, just the two of us. We grilled, or made a special meal and shared it together at the table, sans phones, sans television, sans anything that would distract us from our conversation. It was our time to connect, and I looked forward to it every week, including today, even after our lackluster lovemaking session.

I comb my hair and throw it into a messy bun, deciding to take a quick nap since I have a little time before dinner. Laying back and daydreaming of all the ways we could amp up our seemingly bland sex life, I drift off into a peaceful sleep.

“Do it! Do it harder!” I hear a woman’s voice moaning in my head as I come to, out of my hazy slumber. “Yes! Just like that!”

The moans continue getting louder as I rub my eyes with my knuckles before focusing on the shaking pictures of Patrick and I smiling in frames, bouncing off the wall.

Am I dreaming?

I sit upright, listening for a moment to make sure I’m not just hearing my own voice, just awakened from that needed dream.

“Fuck! C’mon! Make me come!” I hear a strange man’s voice, with a deep, throaty rasp to it.

Oh my God. This isn’t a dream.

Grabbing my phone on the nightstand, I get up, wrap a robe around myself and run out of our bedroom towards the guest room next door where the sexual noises are coming from.

I burst through the door, still hoping this isn’t reality, when I see a man planted behind a woman, slamming into her from behind as she grips onto the headboard before her.

My headboard.

From my childhood bed.

From back home.

That we placed in the spare room for when friends and family come to visit.

If I wasn’t so mortified by the sight in front of me, maybe I would have responded differently. But I’m not going to lie, my initial reaction is to stand and stare with my mouth agape. I want to scream in horror, but I can’t help being slightly in awe of the ridiculous exhibition in front of me.

In what world do random couples just start having sex in people’s homes?

Here is this muscular, tattooed man with jet black hair, wet with sweat hanging in his eyes, settling himself behind a petite brunette. On my childhood bed. Holy. Hell.

“Oh, shit!” he curses, noticing me before pulling out of the woman and throwing a blanket on her while wrapping himself in the bed sheet beneath them.

After picking my jaw up off the ground, I fumble for my phone, dial a number, and shakily put it up to my ear.

“Hello, Dune County Police Department. How can I help you?”

“Uh, yes, there’s a burglary, or intruders, or something…” I relay the situation, watching the man’s panicked eyes as he walks towards me, shaking his hands in front of him while shaking his head from side to side. “And they’re having sex on my bed!”

“I’m sorry, did you say sex?” the woman responds.

“I don’t—I don’t know. Yes?”

The man approaches, his tall frame growing on me, making me feel smaller with each step he takes. Too stunned to say or do anything, I drop the phone, put my hands up in the air and back into the wall behind me, terrified of his superior demeanor, even while he’s only dressed in a white sheet clutched by an angry fist.

I hear the woman’s voice on the phone from the ground beneath me, “Excuse me, miss? Are you there? Shall I send someone out to this location?”

The tattooed man bends down and picks it up, placing it against his face as he stares at the floor. “I’m sorry for the confusion, ma’am. Everything is fine. Just a minor miscommunication.” His smooth, calming tone pours into the receiver, somehow sounding like melted chocolate to my ears.

I bet he can get Mrs. Dispatch to do whatever he wants with that voice.

“I’ll need to confirm that with the woman I was just talking to,” she says into his ear, loud enough for me to hear.

His gaze shifts directly onto me with the most piercing eyes I hadn’t noticed until now. They’re emerald green, flaunting specks of teal, brown, and cyan mixed with stunning perfection. I suck in a breath at the sudden closeness of this mirage of a punk man before me while the faint smell of sex and cigarettes lingers in the room.

“Tell her everything’s fine,” he mouths to me with his plump lips still wet from who knows what. A lip ring pierced through the middle of his bottom lip, draws my eyes to it. His eyes are still staring directly into mine with a dangerous look of urgency. “Everything’s fine!” he repeats.

“Uh…” I stutter, then blink, shaking my head and clearing my mind of the flurry of sexual confusion I’m processing along with the unsettling aura he’s covering me in. “Send someone here immediately. I need help. There’s someone in my house who isn’t supposed to be!”

“Fuck!” he says under his breath, running a hand through his semi-wet hair to brush the tendrils back off his forehead and out of his eyes. The pose gives me a full image of his toned abdomen and tatted-up chest.

The tiny stick of a woman puts her clothes back on in a hurry. “I’m fucking out of here.”

She opens the window and slides herself out of our tiny bungalow home, falling into the bush beneath the window, then scurries down the street. He rips the phone from my hand as I’m watching the girl make a run for it, and hangs up, tossing it across the floor.

“God dammit!” He screams out to the ceiling, making me jump. “Why the fuck did you do that?!”

“Get out of my house!” I yell back at him.

The audacity of this guy.

He turns to face me, his eyes narrowing, jaw flexing, as he stalks his way towards me again. I back into the wall, uncertain of what he might do to me. He traps me by one of his arms, still holding the sheet below his waist where the material is now dipping below his hips.

I’m terrified. My mouth drops open as I try to breathe, wishing Patrick would hurry back already. Or maybe he’s been back for a while? I have no idea how long I was sleeping. What if this guy killed him in the other room and began screwing this chick while waiting to decide what to do with his body?

Jesus, I’m losing it.

“This is my house.” He growls, lifting his lip while he talks. “And you’re gonna pay for that shit.”

I suck in a breath at his threats and try to calm my racing heart and shaking hands. I hear the front door open and close as I swallow. I wonder if the police are here to check on my well-being, which is currently in question.

“Nic? What’s going on? Why are there police outside the house?”

Immediately relieved to hear the familiar voice, I slide under the strange man’s toned arm and turn out of the spare room, crashing into my boyfriend in the hallway.

“Patrick! Oh, thank God!” I cry out into his chest, clutching his shirt in my fists. “There’s a strange man in the house and he was having sex with someone in the spare room!”

“Shit,” he mumbles, sighing as if finally realizing the situation. “Nic, I’m so sorry.”

He parts from me with a light reassuring nod and walks into the bedroom to talk to the man in a muffled tone. The light conversation was not the yelling I was expecting. I’d expected fists being thrown to protect his woman from this odd intruder who screws random girls on my childhood bed. I hear a light, embarrassed chuckle come from Patrick’s mouth.

Jesus, what is happening?

Coming around the corner together, Patrick is now wearing a light smile while shaking his head, looking at me, then back to the strange, rebel man, who’s still holding the sheet to the bottom of his pelvis, the arrows of his muscles pointing sharply down beneath the sheet. His colorful eyes now hold a look of cocky amusement with a hint of annoyance as he takes me in from head to toe, eyeing my body. I swallow, clutching my robe a little tighter to my chest.

“Nic, meet Hawke.”

My eyes shift from Patrick, back to the glaring thug, then back at Patrick again.

“He’s our new roommate.”