Chapter 79 Luke

Chapter 79 Luke
Luke 

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The wine was a deep red, and it felt sophisticated swirling in the glass, a stark contrast to the cheap beer I usually chugged with Mitch. 

The hot tub jets churned the water around us, the heat seeping into my muscles as we leaned back, watching the game on the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall of her house. 

It was a nice setup. More than nice. It was the kind of life you saw in movies, and I was sitting right in the middle of it.

Day two with Bev was nothing like I expected. It was just... chill. Normal, almost, if your normal involved a gourmet breakfast and a backyard that looked like it was maintained by a team of professionals. 

We'd eaten while watching the news, her pointing out things I should be paying attention to, explaining the world in a way that made it seem less confusing. 

We kicked a soccer ball around, her laughter echoing when I tripped over my own feet. We'd raced each other in the pool, her hand "accidentally" grabbing my ass as she tried to pull me back, which ended with her laughing and me pulling her in for a kiss.

Now, with the steam rising around us and the sounds of the hockey game filling the air, I felt a sense of peace I hadn't realized I was missing. I turned to look at her, the water making her skin glow in the fading light.

"How'd you get into coaching, anyway?" I asked, taking another sip of the wine. It was dry and complex, and I pretended I knew what I was talking about.

She shifted in the water, turning to face me more fully. "My dad, mostly," she said, her voice a little softer than usual. "He was a huge hockey fan. Taught me everything. I was the only girl on my peewee team for years." She smiled, a distant look in her eyes. "I played in high school, even got a spot in the PWHL for a little while."

"Whoa, seriously?" I said, genuinely impressed. "That's badass."

Her smile tightened slightly. "For a little while. I had a pretty bad knee injury. My career was basically over before it started." She paused, her gaze drifting towards the darkening sky. "And then my dad died. Car accident. After that... I just didn't have the heart to play anymore. But I still loved the game. So I decided to coach. Pass on what he taught me."

The story settled between us, heavy and real. I reached out under the water and found her hand, lacing our fingers together. "I'm sorry about your dad," I said quietly.

She squeezed my hand, her eyes coming back to meet mine. "Thanks, Luke. It was a long time ago." She gave me a small, grateful smile. "What about you? What's your story? How does a kid from a 'richy family' end up being the first one to lace up skates instead of golf shoes?"

I laughed, the sound echoing off the water. "Honestly? I hated every other sport. My parents tried to get me into tennis, golf, even that stupid lacrosse thing. I was terrible at all of it. But then they took me to an ice rink for some birthday party when I was three, and I just... took off. They said I was skating better than the adults by the end of the day." I shrugged, taking another sip of wine. "They called me a prodigy. Started me in lessons, then travel teams, and here I am. First Holman to ever pick up a hockey stick."

We both laughed at that, the image of my parents in their pristine golf clothes trying to figure out hockey gear a funny one. It felt good to laugh with her about my family, like we were sharing a private joke.

"See?" she said, her thumb stroking the back of my hand. "You were always different. You were always meant for more than their country clubs and tennis lessons. You were meant for this."

She gestured towards the TV, where a player had just been checked hard into the boards. But I knew she wasn't just talking about hockey. 

She was talking about us. About this life. And as I looked at her, her dark eyes full of a belief in me that was so absolute it was terrifying, I knew she was right. I was meant for this.

She swam the short distance across the hot tub, the water parting around her effortlessly. She moved with that same confidence she did everything else, stopping directly in front of me. 

Without a word, she swung a leg over my lap, straddling me. The water sloshed around us, warm and electric. Her hands came up to cup my face, and she kissed me. It wasn't soft or sweet; it was a demand. One I was more than willing to meet.

My hands found her hips under the water, pulling her flush against me. The kiss deepened, growing frantic, needy. 

Before I could even process it, she was shifting, lifting herself slightly, and then forcing me into her with a sharp, deliberate movement that stole the air from my lungs. 

It was fast, almost aggressive, and completely under her control. 

She set a punishing rhythm, her hands gripping my shoulders, her eyes locked on mine, dark and possessive. 

I just held on, my mind going blank, my body responding on pure instinct. 

It was over almost as quickly as it started, a sharp, intense peak that left us both breathing heavily in the steam.

We got out, the cool night air hitting our skin. We dried off in silence, the air thick with what had just happened. Inside, the warmth of the house felt like a different world.

"Feel like going out tonight?" she asked, wrapping herself in a plush white robe. "Instead of cooking?"

"Yeah, I'm down," I said, my voice still a little rough.

I went upstairs and took a long, hot shower, letting the water wash away the chlorine and the lingering daze. I picked out my nicest clothes—a dark flannel, my best-fitting jeans, and clean sneakers. 

When I came back down, she was waiting by the door. She looked incredible. A pleated skirt that hit just above her knees, crisp pantyhose, a clean white collared polo, and stylish white sneakers. She looked professional and sexy all at once, like she'd just stepped out of a catalog.

The drive was quiet in her Escalade, the city lights blurring past the windows. The restaurant she chose was one of those places where the water glasses were fancy and there were three forks next to every plate. We were seated at a small table in the corner, and a moment later, a girl walked up to take our order. She was definitely my age, maybe a year younger, with a bright, friendly smile that was aimed directly at me.

"Oh my god, Luke Holman, right?" she said, her eyes wide with recognition.

"Right, what's up?" I said, offering a polite smile. "Do I know you?"

"We go to school together!" she gushed, twirling a strand of her hair. "I'm in your English class. I just think you're really cute."

"Oh, uh, thanks," I mumbled, feeling a hot flush creep up my neck. I wasn't used to this, not from someone my age.

Suddenly, I felt a presence beside me as Beverly shifted her chair, inserting herself physically between me and the waitress. "We're here to eat, not to flirt," she said, her voice cold and sharp, cutting through the air like glass.

The girl's smile vanished, replaced by a look of confusion and embarrassment. "Oh, uh, yes. Sorry." She fumbled with her notepad, her eyes darting between Bev's icy stare and my face. 

She let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "Does your mom here not permit you to date 'til you're, like, 30?"

The joke landed with a thud. Me and Bev didn't laugh. The silence was suffocating. The waitress's smile faltered completely, her face turning pale.

I could feel Bev's anger radiating off her in waves. I cleared my throat, needing to break the tension. "Uh, we just like to order, please," I said, my voice tight.

The girl just nodded, looking like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. "Right. Of course. What can I get for you?"

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The silence in the Escalade was a physical thing, heavy and suffocating. The moment the doors locked, the click of the mechanism sounded like a gunshot in the enclosed space. 

Bev gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, her jaw set so tight I could see the muscle twitching in her cheek. She didn't look at me. She just stared straight ahead, out the windshield at the well-lit street, but I knew she wasn't seeing any of it.

I sank lower into my seat, the fancy dinner turning into a cold, heavy stone in my stomach. I'd seen her focused before, seen her intense, but I'd never seen this. This was a cold, simmering fury that was somehow more terrifying than any yelling match could ever be.

"Are you mad?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

She didn't answer. She just put the car in drive and pulled out into traffic, her movements sharp and precise. 

We drove for ten minutes, the only sound the hum of the engine and the faint swish of the wipers clearing the light drizzle from the windshield. 

Each passing second ratcheted up the tension inside me. I felt like I was waiting for a bomb to go off.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low and dangerously calm. "Did you enjoy that?"

"What?" I asked, confused.

"The attention. That little girl fawning all over you. Did you like it?"

"No! I mean, I don't know," I stammered. "She just... said hi. I didn't do anything."

"No, you didn't do anything," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. "You just sat there and blushed like a little schoolboy. Letting her talk to you like that. In front of me."

"I didn't know what to say!" I said, my voice rising with frustration. "What was I supposed to do, tell her to fuck off?"

"Yes," she snapped, finally turning her head to glare at me. Her eyes were like chips of ice. "That is exactly what you were supposed to do. You were supposed to shut it down. Immediately. You were supposed to show her that you are taken. That you belong to someone."

Her words hit me with the force of a physical blow. You belong to someone. The thought should have scared me, but instead, a strange sense of relief washed over me. It was a rule. A clear, simple rule in a situation that had felt confusing and out of my control.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words coming out in a rush. "I wasn't thinking. I'll know next time."

She turned her attention back to the road, her grip on the wheel loosening just a fraction. "There won't be a next time," she said, her voice dropping back to that chillingly calm tone. "We're not going back there. We're not putting ourselves in a position where little girls who don't know their place can get their hands on what's mine."

The possessiveness in her voice was absolute. It should have felt controlling, maybe even scary. But as I sat there in the passenger seat of her expensive car, driving through the rain to her perfect, organized house, it just felt right. I didn't have to worry about making the right choice anymore. She would make it for me. And all I had to do was obey.

We pulled into her garage, the door rumbling down behind us, sealing us in our private world. She cut the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening.

"Get inside," she said, her voice flat. "Go upstairs. Wait for me."

I didn't hesitate. I got out of the car and headed for the door, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I knew this wasn't over. I knew I was about to learn exactly what it meant to belong to her.

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Upstairs, the atmosphere had shifted completely. The anger from the car was gone, replaced by a heavy, remorseful quiet. 

We were in her bed, naked under the soft gray sheets, her body curled around mine. Her head was on my chest, and I could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing.

"I'm sorry," she whispered for what felt like the tenth time, her fingers tracing abstract patterns on my stomach. "For how I acted in the car. It was... possessive. It won't happen again."

"It's whatever," I said, my voice low. "Not a big deal." I ran my hand through her hair, the soft strands slipping through my fingers. "I get it."

She tilted her head up to look at me, her eyes searching mine. "You do?"

"Yeah," I said, feeling a sudden need to share something, to show her I understood. "It's actually kind of funny you bringing that up. A while back, I was at a gas station, and this older woman, like, way older, started hitting on me." I shuddered at the memory. "It made me super uncomfortable. I just paid and got out of there as fast as I could."

Bev pushed herself up on an elbow, her expression serious. "Now, that shouldn't have made you uncomfortable," she said, her tone firm, like she was correcting a mistake in my form. "Not at all."

I frowned, confused. "It was creepy. She was old enough to be my grandma."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "The young bitch at the restaurant? She should have made you uncomfortable. Because she doesn't see you, Luke. Not really. She sees a boy from her English class. Someone her age, young and immature. She was reducing you to that."

Her words were clicking into place in my brain, rearranging the memory. "But the older woman..."

"The older woman saw a man," Bev insisted, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that pinned me in place. "She saw your strength, your presence. She saw a mature, capable man and she was attracted to that. That's not creepy, Luke. That's proof."

Proof. The word hung in the air between us.

"Proof of what?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Proof that you are exactly who I say you are," she said, her voice dropping to a husky murmur. "Manly. Strong. Mature. You're not some kid playing at being an adult. You are an adult. That woman at the gas station, she knew it. She could see it. I see it. It's why I want you."

A wave of understanding washed over me, so powerful it almost made me dizzy. She was right. Of course, she was right. I'd been looking at it all wrong. The waitress had been an insult, a reminder of a world I was trying to leave behind. The woman at the gas station... she was a compliment. A validation. It wasn't about her being creepy; it was about me being a man.

"Wow," I breathed, the tension in my shoulders releasing. "I never thought of it like that."

"I know," she said softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against my lips. "That's why you have me. To help you see things clearly."

She was right. She was always right. In her arms, with her logic guiding me, the world didn't seem so confusing anymore. It was simple. I was a man, and she was the woman who had recognized it first.