Page 5 of Swept Away (Men of War #1)

G EMMA

The Following Day

Gizmo is gone.

Again.

The second Mason ‘The Stranger’–I still can’t call him Mason, because I can’t tell whether he’s been truthful with me or not–left my place, the little orange tabby cat abandoned his chair, stepped on the windowsill, and ran into the night.

I dashed to the window, wrapped in a towel, and watched him jump into the tree, climb down, and dart up the street as if he knew where he was going.

At the same time, the man who fucked me had a car pick him up.It was an unmarked vehicle, so it was hard to tell if it was a cab or a friend.

He didn’t look up.

I wish he did.

But I know men.

All that heat they pour into your veins vanishes after they get their fix.

He was no different, although in some respects he was.

He didn’t completely shut down after he finished, and there was no after care–we didn’t even kiss–yet he was calm and in control the way he was before he fucked me.

But there was something about him.

He looked at me with lust, still hungry, still wanting me. And what could I say?

I felt the same.

But we tried to make something that could’ve easily become awkward less awkward, so I showed him to the bathroom where he disposed of the condom.

He didn’t use the shower, which I was grateful for, frankly. I didn’t want to scrub the bathroom before using the shower myself.

So much for our long-lasting attraction.

But the sex was good.

Amazing, to be honest.

So I watched him leave and pushed back any emotion I might have had for fear of looking silly.

We were two strangers after all.

But we were good.

A great experience, all in all.

What wasn’t that good was finding out that his phone was no longer in service when I tried to call him.

Call it a hunch, but I knew something was wrong with his number.

There was no name attached to it.No information.

I somehow anticipated that I wouldn’t be able to get him on the line.

And I was right.

That’s why I called.

Had he answered his phone, I would’ve come up with some stupid story, like his little lie about the woman across the street who doesn’t exist.

His stepsister.

Yeah, right.

Today is Friday, so after working the entire morning and checking my bank account in the afternoon and smiling at the account balance, I put on some comfortable clothes, grab my backpack, lock the door, and walk to the store to buy groceries.

I spend an hour in the store, mostly browsing the shelves with a blank stare, thinking about what happened last night.

I finally put several items in my shopping cart, stop at the cash register to pay for my things, and head out.

The events of last night were earth-shattering in my little world, so no wonder I’m still reflecting on them.

I wish I had someone to share them with. Although it probably wouldn’t be wise to do that.

The story would make zero sense to an outsider.

As I walk past people, some glance at me, and it may be because I’ve put more effort into my appearance for once.

My hair looks lovely now. I washed it and blow-dried it last night after he left.I also trimmed my pubic hair and shaved my legs. Why?

I have no idea.

He didn’t say he’d return.

We exchanged a few words in the hallway before he thanked me for the lovely evening––he didn’t use those words––and then winked at me and, like the cat, vanished into the night.

Men leaving me used to put a hole into my stomach, even when the sex wasn’t as good as it was with him, but with him, I was ready for anything.

Because I didn’t expect a damn thing from him.

Nothing has changed in my life because we fucked.I’m still the unavailable girl, and he is still a blur in my memory, although his touch is everywhere on my body, and especially where I don’t want it to be.

I had to masturbate after he left because I couldn’t fall asleep, and also wanted to relive those sweet moments when he had fucked me.

“Gemma?”

The woman’s voice catches me off guard.

I struggle to get my focus back as I look around.

I’m just about to walk away from the store, and the voice sounds familiar but not enough to instantly recognize it.

Finally, my eyes move over a woman wearing light gray leggings and a red top.

“Oh… Penny? Hey. Nice to see you,” I say and walk to the woman, holding a couple of brown bags in my arms.

“I thought you moved to New York. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“We did,” she says, smiling and setting her groceries on a wrought iron bench nearby. “We found a really nice place and bought it. Let me show you.”

Penny is in her forties, works as an executive in a big corporation in New York, has a husband and two children, and gets along with my aunt.

She left Boston last year, and I haven’t seen her since, although she and her husband still have a house here.

We live on the same street.

For a while, I was convinced they were renting out their place.

“Here,” she says, swiping her phone with her finger before giving it to me to scroll through her pictures.

“We have to commute to Manhattan for work, but living there makes it all worthwhile.”

It’s a nice neighborhood in New Jersey with nice houses, green lawns, and a variety of Halloween decorations if you happen to be into that and snap those pictures at that time of year, which she did.

For her kids, it must feel like heaven, and now I’m thinking I’ll probably never be able to afford a place like that. Not with my salary after I finish school and the extra cash I’m earning from freelancing.

We spend a few minutes chatting before I steer the conversation toward the house across the street.

She’s owned property on my street all her life, so she must know more about that house.

I don’t want to ask my aunt, because she’s nosy and I’d face a battery of questions from her little curious self.

She’d want to know why I’m asking that and how I know about the young woman I’m inquiring about.

The moment I’d say I heard the story from a man, she’d know there was a connection between that man and me.

No, thank you.

I don’t need her cheering me on from the sideline or giving me unsolicited advice.

She’s always told me to stay away from bad men.Like my mother and every other woman in our family.

That’s part of the reason I’m staying away from them.

Most men I got to know weren’t that good, although I’m sure she had something different in mind.

I still don’t know whether the stranger from last night was good or bad.

Hey, I’m alive and feeling good about myself with a stack of memories to pleasure myself to for a while.

“I saw a woman coming regularly to the house across from me. Do you have any idea who that is?” I ask, watching her tuck her phone into her messenger bag.

She cocks an eyebrow.

“A woman?”

“Yeah. She’s short and has an infectious smile.”

She’s thinking about it for a second.

“Oh… That’s Anne-Marie. She takes care of the house.”

“Do you know if she’s related to the owner? And do you know who the owner is?”

“Uh…”

She ponders for a moment.

“I think the woman is related to the owner. The house belongs to her sister. And, um… her sister moved to Arizona a few years back. I didn’t talk much to that woman, but she was nothing like Anne-Marie. She was quite nasty. I don’t remember that woman’s name. Sorry.”

She makes an effort, though, while I mull over the next question.

“Oh. I know. Her name was Alexandra something. Everybody called her… Sandy ?”

Her eyes sharpen on me.

“Why are you asking me about her?”

I shrug before tossing the next question at her.

“Did Sandy have any family left?”

Distracted, Penny thinks about her answer, forgetting about what she just asked me.

“I think she did. Yes, she did. Her daughter was about your mother’s age.

She moved to New York for work right after college, and I think she got married and had kids.

Or maybe she didn’t have kids. I don’t know for sure.

She rarely came here to visit her mother, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest. Sandy had always been difficult, not easy to get along with. ”

A few moments of silence sidle up to us, and I realize she’s waiting for an explanation on why I’m suddenly so curious about the history of that house.

“The only reason I’m asking is because I often wondered why the house is still unoccupied,” I say, proud of my answer.

“Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it?” she agrees before shrugging again. “Who knows? Maybe Sandy’s family plans to return and live here at some point.”

“Would you?” I ask with a smile.

She sighs while mulling over an answer.

“Uh… Probably not. Although I might when I’m close to retirement. But I love New York too much.”

“Maybe Sandy’s niece could move here and enroll in college,” I toss at her, gauging her reaction.

For a moment, she has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Sorry, I digressed,” I say quickly. “I thought her daughter had a daughter.”

Her brow creases with concentration.

“She might. See, I don’t know. I didn’t keep track of all this.

I only exchanged words with Sandy’s daughter a few times.

Um, her name was Lisa. Yes, yes… I remember talking to her just before she left.

She wasn’t happy with her mother and couldn’t wait to get out of here.

I couldn’t blame her. Other than that, I don’t know much about that woman or her family.

I’m sure she has kids, most likely your age. She should, right?”

Disappointed, I contemplate another question, but I swiftly realize I hit a dead end.

Lisa may or may not have a daughter. And she may or may not have had another husband and a son from another marriage. Or perhaps her husband may have fathered a son with someone else.

If I asked Penny whether Lisa had been married twice, she’d probably look at me with crazy eyes.

It’s hard to explain that kind of interest in someone’s life without offering some kind of explanation.

We wrap up our conversation within moments before splitting up.

She heads to a different store while I walk home, still thinking about Lisa’s story, absolutely convinced something’s amiss.