Chapter 25: This Will Be

18 months later

Hayesville, North Carolina

"A Fairytale the Fair Way"

February 10, 2008

Monotony is simply impossible in what appears to be the first of many bestsellers by new comer and aptly matched author, Roxanne Rainey. Hide and Seek Out, a sort of autobiography turned fictional menace, follows the central plot and opposing, feminine view of her recent husband Morton Rainey's more knowingly graphic novel, To Die Nameless. The charming missus and Rolling Stone Hall of Famer, takes an irrevocably dangerous approach to her tale's weaving, allowing its wave of continuing fans to fall as helpless to the somewhat anti-hero, as her proverbial damsel does. In this too, she brings out the innocence, the truest ardor for necessary regret, as perfectly paired criminals Alex and Luke find themselves fighting the past to salvage their future together.

One might surely question the Rainey duo's own conviction in writing simultaneous books, based on the whirlwind of media circling their own run-ins with the American institution of mafia, but it is nothing to concern the books' publications with. It may just intrigue readers further into the plot. This interest will also surely mix with the growing hope in the production of the film adaptation later this year, starring Johnny Depp, Natalie Portman and Robert Deniro.

The Rainey's live and write comfortably from their mountain hideaway in North Carolina, with their 17 month old twins Max and Madeline.

Hide and Seek Out; To Die Nameless, $18.95 ea. Brown Publishers

Rolling Stone Magazine

Article written by: Casey Smith and Eric Lennox

February 26th - 9:45 AM

"Those two always have had a way with words…strange to see them so clean though." I giggle softly to myself and toss the magazine aside to the open end of the rumbled mattress. "The charming missus'…" This repeated phrase lingers on my tongue as I feel Mort's arm weave around my waist from, as my naked back is settled against his chest. He holds me there for what feels like a lifetime or more, kissing the tilted crook of my neck where my hair is shorter now. I relish in this feeling greedily for added time.

"We don't have to get up, right?" My whispered question is hopeful.

His answer is fair. "We don't have to do anything."

"Okay, good." My arm twists around his, stroking at the tired, wispy arm hairs and grinning into the bare curve of his shoulder where it holds my head. We stay that way for another long silence of minutes wasting away, listening to one another's breathing, watching the small snowflakes catch onto the railing of our bedroom's porch, and scatter down over the distant mountains.

In this passing moment, I feel a part of him flinch and grow firmer beneath the sheets as he holds me tighter, his murmuring in my ear. "I am so proud of you, Mrs. Rainey…"

I smile at this, quickly becoming undone in places only he's capable of unwinding, and croon back to him with a slant of my face upward, "You mean, missus Rainey?" I force a southern drawl that makes him laugh and respond.

"Yeah, that's what I said. Missus…" His accent, practiced in ways only I know of, is much better than mine, and he takes the advantage to twist my giggling form around in his arms until my body is spread long and nude beneath his. With a continuing appeal of his Shooter twang, he falls down from above me to meet my lips, "Whad'ya think darlin'…should we rattle an' crack us a few more floorboards this mornin'?"

Before I can answer, his tongue roughly penetrates my lips, forcing its way into the warmth of my mouth. In this, my hands quickly tug at his tousled hair, which has grown messier and slightly darker in the sunless winter months, but still feels the same as the first time. I arch my back into his hold, letting his mouth engulf mine with reverence, wet, passionate strokes of his tongue against mine, one second at a time. From between my legs, is the sensation of warm, long, desperate flesh, settling at the inner bank of my thigh, waiting to do its appropriate damage. I laugh between his lips, for whatever reason, I always have in these circumstances.

"Yes I know…my cock never ceases to be hilarious."

Again, I laugh, but this time nip at his lower lip in tasteless revenge. He grins down at me, that awkwardly perfect, lopsided grin of his, the one that found me a sucker in the rain one cold August night on Tashmore Lake, the one that found me too tempted to work, or think, or move from whatever mattress we were on, the one that found me pregnant and running. That grin.

"I can say this for it…" I stare up at him wildly, releasing one hand from his hair to trail along his shoulder, down his arm, and eventually under the blanket until it grasps securely around the twitching shaft. "…it's a master at stand up." The second I attempt moving my lips away from his, he nearly bites down to take control of my cruel mouth. Quickly, he flips my body again, separating my tingling back from the sheets until my legs are locked around his waist, sitting atop of his lap and looking down on him instead. He's punishing himself for not having the last word this time, giving me full control of the situation, the way he often times likes it. More than he would ever admit.

His long, still hardening cock sits against my soaked opening, begging to be drawn in with every sigh he makes, with every squeeze of his hands on my thighs as he glances upward, the grin wicked now. I say nothing to this, and instead hold the tip of him to the breach of my body, breathing deep with a smile before pressing against it hard, as hard as I realize he wants, he needs. The second my legs tighten at his hips, I feel his body buck roughly into mine, taking the control back. I gasp, only to fall against his chest in unexpected but warranted ecstasy, my peaked nipples quivering on his boiling skin. At this, he takes his turn to laugh now.

A moment later while I catch my breath, his hand is at my cheek, cupping it softly as he draws my lips down to his, easing inside of me deeper with fluttering, shaky kisses on my mouth. "Best feeling in the world…" he sighs against my cheek, holding my waist as I slowly slip back on the thick intrusion, finding the strength to lean down harder and into it, driving my hips along with his. My hands press into his chest, helping to elevate the room, the view, the tension and pleasure while my back curves into an arch designed by his pulsing within me. I can't tell if the bed is moving or not, although there is scraping noise. I can't tell if he's smiling or not, although his breathing is hitched in the tone I prefer, restless, with lack of concern for anything.

There is a second in passing that relieves the oxygen missing from our lungs, and in which I can gain control of my senses again, before being pummeled softly and tortured in the sweetest of movements, the most pleasing of spots. Mort knows this spot better than anyone, and manages to strike it over and over, as I rely on his clenched teeth and twisted, smiling brow below me, to know that the sensation is relevant to his own bliss as well. At this, I move faster atop him, leaning down into his shoulder blades harshly, my hair falling in my eyes, legs growing limp around him, and back shuddering with the muscles being knotted for the satisfaction of the drive.

"Roxanne…" he groans, while holding onto my waist with desperate hands, winding fingers. "God…"

"Don't…" I try, but find myself moaning at the intense wave covering my skin. "…don't bring him into this…" I conclude with a glaring grin down at him as our foreheads mesh with the final lap of the excursion, both knowing each other's breaking points better than our own.

He chuckles against the pleasure, the pain, the need to give in to something, the only thing left that can weaken him, and replies with an aching yelp.

The situation at hand draws on, growing more heated with every slide of our skin together, every inch of penetration he forces. Another minute or so passes before he starts to beg, "Now…babe, now…come for me…" He doesn't shout it, but the rattling of his words inside of my head are killer, and set into motion a final thrust and ache, as I feel the sensation of him all around me, all inside of me, everywhere I can't see, but can sense. I try not to scream, but find this impossible as usual, and call out his name, reminding him of what he's managed to do, again. Relaxing deep within me, I wait for his final move, the one he knows will give me what I want, and as his hips jump into mine, everything goes white with sparks plastering my eyes.

Falling against his chest again, I keep my legs wrapped firmly around his waist, and draw my arms about his neck as he sits up with our bodies still attached to one another, sensitively. His hands are soft, dancing down my spine as he holds my face back and kisses me deep, true. After all this time, the flavor remains, the dusty cinnamon spice from lips to neck, back to stomach, legs to…everywhere else. It soothes me, knowing he hasn't changed, being reminded of who he is, who he'll always be. His tongue slides back and away from my mouth, flicking lightly at my lower lip for a second more, and then he kisses my nose as we both turn our heads to meet the static of a distant cry. The monitor on the bedside table entertains us for a moment, as he holds me tighter, letting the relaxation, the high subside with more kisses, more sighs and touches.

The soft da da's fill the room with the anxious yelping, and I trace along the freckles of his shoulder with a laugh, "I think your children are looking for you, Mr. Rainey…"

"Say that again for me." He grins, brushing the hair out of my eyes.

Quietly, with gentle kisses on his neck, I repeat. "Your kids are looking for you, sweetie."

The look on his face is one of eternal endearment, an expression that I believe he never thought he would have the chance to use in his life, my new favorite. He doesn't have to say anything for me to understand the look in his eyes.

We soon separate from one another to get dressed, but meet in the middle of the bed for as many last minute kisses as possible, still being beckoned by the sobbing . This is our life now, sex followed by infant cries, and all else that it implies. There's nothing to be ashamed of in it, I wouldn't have it any other way. And as we wander through the cold halls of our Appalachian castle in the sky, hand in hand, toes cracking with each step down to the nursery, the one I never imagined having full of life, I realize that no one has it like me, no one has this kind of love.

He said his name was Mort Rainey, and I felt the universe rattle beneath me.

4:45 PM

Speckles of movement fill in the shortage of ice in the corners of the window before me, darting hops and skips a dozen or more yards away and down from this room. Any lower and my gaze is focused on a half filled and typed laptop screen, any further to the left and the Cubs are beating the Mets 3 to 1, and any further to the right and I'm alone in the world. So I keep watching the imagery through the glass, one taller, slender form, and two stumbling smaller ones. Roxanne said she was taking Max and Maddie out to play in the snow, and my eyes haven't left the view since.

Those are my children, tripping over fallen leaves and twigs, rolling in the icy ground like tiny savages, laughing and screaming and playing like the world could never end. Those are my doing, selfishly, gladly, and they've changed every bit of me from day one.

My index fingers glide between the F and J keys, attempting to spill something of worth onto the page, trying to make another large check to live comfortably and privately on. Nothing is coming from my mind, not because I'm uninspired, but because I fear I've been overly inspired and exposed to beauty, intelligence, and great plot. Living in the backwoods of North Carolina, without a care in my system or struggle in my heart, with the most glorious of views year round, day round, has led me into a state of manic happiness rather than depression. I simply can't stop smiling. And considering that two years ago a smile was something that came every few weeks, randomly, and at extreme moments of intense bliss, I dare say I'm doing pretty good for myself now. I've finally grown up.

As my eyes waver back down and through the window, I see the grinning faces of my wife and daughter, both of them waving from the ground three floors below and up towards me, yelling. "See…there's daddy up there! Say hi…"

Madeline Grace waves back at me and I melt into the chair at my desk.

And then there's Maxwell, up to no good as usual, sputtering around in the far corner of the fenced part of our acreage, nearer to the frozen creek. With a stick far to0 large for his size, he's swatting at something close to the ground, more or less killing it in his effort. I laugh, knowing the sight all too well as something of my own childhood, the defiance, the power of being larger than a beetle or ant.

"That a boy, Max. Get him." I chuckle under my breath and slide into the chair for comfort. My hands flutter over the keys again, hoping for a fresher start to the day's need for writing, for Chapter 16 of the latest work. Eventually, when the sun is fading off in a cascade down the white mountains, and when the sound of wet boots on the hardwood floor approaches my senses, I find the stream of participation with both mind and imagination, and I write.

Hours pass, days from the feeling of being so involved in paragraph after paragraph, statement after long, hauled, detailed statement. I'm making the progress and headway I'd been hoping on for weeks at least, the one my publisher had called about just that same morning, the one I knew Roxy was silently cheering for somewhere at a distance always. As my soiled and tortured fingertips met the plastic silver of the keys, one after the other, I heard the faint laughter of entertained children, I could smell the wafting fragrance of homemade pasta and sauce, and I could feel every bit of my house enclosing itself over me, hugging me in a strange way, welcoming me to it officially.

"Fork…Max use the fork. No, Maddie not in your hair!"

A stiff grin implants itself as the splendid chaos below continues the noises and sentiment, the memories being made with me as curator and historian of such. I want so badly to shut the computer and stumble downstairs to where they are, share in the painting of highchairs and wall with spaghetti, kiss the most beautiful pair of lips to have ever walked the surface of the planet. But I know this won't be allowed, this isn't allowed today, I am expected to be working until the chapter is done…

And believe me, I'm pushing it.

Syllables drain themselves from my pores, poetry for someone else to read, while I listen in on the poetry of my surrounding universe. Minutes continue to drift by like dead leaves in fall or fish in the summer streams, and the kitchen empties itself of sound only to send it along in a trample and tumble up the second floor steps to the bathroom. Water runs through the pipes to my right as I strike down in a rush of energy to the space bar, the enter key, over and over with each new summarization of what's in my mind. Splashing and falling soap bars inspires a rampage of words to flow. Her voice, "Where is it? Where's the duck?" and again in giggling harmony, "Oh! There he is…" catches my mind in a finely tapered net and holds it hostage for all its worth, while it treads on spilling what it can, what it will.

A few more rounds with washcloths and sponges, dirty toes and light scrubbing behind ears, all of it in my mind's direct eye of thought, and a silence eventually casts itself over the entire house. My fingers stop moving with the rhythm of setting and characterization, the kids stop screaming and wining, and the water settles easily into the cool air of house. There is nothing but the howl of a short breeze outside the frosted windows, the squeak of my chairs leg as it strikes a splinter beneath the rug, and a grumble of the pipes as they prepare to take back the now sullied bathwater. No one says a word as this takes place; there is only a house and four inhabitants all at a temporary peace of mind.

And then this is broken beautifully.

"Mine! Momma…mine…" A screech. One so magnanimous it could kill an elephant and settle the score of a war in a second flat. A little girl, anxious to get out of a cold tub and away from a brother who's stolen her pink towel again. It's forever the same as of late, routine argument, and routine result.

"Max, wait a minute. Hold on…" She doesn't call for my help at all, and rather chooses to suffer the demons of bath time tonight alone, independently. She wants me to keep working; she wants to hear keys rattling and thoughts being put into work. Roxanne still knows me better than I know myself most times.

I turn back around to the keyboard the moment I hear laughter again, a rush of sink water and teeth scrubbing, bare and damp feet trotting across creaking wooden planks to a distant room, more laughter, begging, distress over pajamas and stories, all of which is settled with a vocabulary of no more than 30 words. Most of all this fascinates me as I write, with larger, developed, matured language. I listen to my son and daughter battle with screeching and grunting, "Now's", "No's", and stuttering head shakes that I can hear through only thought. Everything begins to relax in tempo now, everything quiets itself into the quilted blankets of two cribs, nestled nearby one another and under the satiny glow of a mother's reciting of a story they already know. Everything is fair this way, and I accept it by finishing off a final sentence, to a lasting paragraph, at the end of my chapter for the day.

The clock beside me reads 7:28 now. Time has leapt into formation without my knowledge, moved on and away from the afternoon and into an early night. I find myself reaching and stretching my arms behind my head and neck, leaning into the antique chair with a tender squeak, and watching the snow fall blankly onto the glass window before me still. The fireplace in the back corner of the loft study crackles a few times, heats the space perfectly and is only now remembered in the scheme of all other energy sources in the house. The house breathes when I do, when my children do nearby, when I hear the solemn, delicate breath of a woman just behind me only minutes later.

"I hope you finished your homework, Mr. Rainey."

A smile covers my face instantly, a sigh and sleepy shut of my eyes as I tilt my head back with my glasses for increased vision. Not that glasses do Roxanne any more justice than what she's already capable of with a blind man, but the thought always occurs to me anyway. She grins down at me with a plate of re-heated spaghetti teetering on her hands near my nose.

"No dinner until you've finished the chapter."

"Good news for me then."

"Yeah? You're done?"

"Done." I whisper and take the plate from her to sit it on the desk, ignoring it completely.

Her eyes become wily in an instant as she steps around closer to the space between me and the computer. "Everyone's asleep."

"Is that right…?"

"Yep. Just us."

"Hmmm…" the hum deepens in my throat until it becomes an anxious growl, and I pull her by the front pockets of her form fitting Levi's until she lands against the desk between my knees, gripping tight to keep her there. "Are you going to give me a bath and read me a bedtime story too…?"

Laughing, she brushes back the fallen strands of golden and brown hair from my eyes, traces along my cheek as if she's remembering it for her dreams, and settles her body further into my lap as her legs come to wrap around my waist in the chair. "I think I could do that…if you're a good boy." Her fingers tap on my lips a few times before she brings her mouth down to cover mine, the blended zest of tomato sauce and peppermint tea, which is surprisingly more tempting. A domesticated aphrodisiac. I love her like this the most, with a few existing soap stains on her forehead, her hair a tumbling mess of curls to her shoulders, jeans and a cashmere sweater, a style only the sexiest of mothers can attempt to bother with, and she dominates like no other. My tongue meets hers before I expect it, and at this my arms grow firmer around her until I am rest assured of what will happen, what has to happen, what has always happened on this desk after bedtime.

I loved her since I knew her. She was mine before I knew it. She's mine still.

With or without putting on the red light for me to come in.

THE END. :)