Nikki's Story: Crave Series, #1

  Crave: Nikki's Story

  (Crave Series, Book 1)

  by Heidi Lowe

  Published by Heidi Lowe Books, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  CRAVE: NIKKI'S STORY

  Second edition. November 12, 2016

  Copyright © 2016 Heidi Lowe

  _________________________

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  CONTENTS

  TITLE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  CRAVE: FAYE'S STORY – FIRST CHAPTER

  OTHER BOOKS BY HEIDI LOWE

  BLURB

  ________________

  ONE

  I'm always the first to wake up in the morning. There's an internal alarm that seems to go off every morning at seven, telling me to get my butt out of bed and get ready for the daily grind.

  I glance at the screen of my phone – just two minutes past the hour. I hear her gentle breathing beside me and roll over to look at her. Her eyelashes are fluttering slightly, like she's pretending to be asleep, but I know different.

  I stroke her face with the back of my hand, and her breathing changes pace for a second. She can feel me in her sleep. A tiny smile, so faint it would go unnoticed if I didn't expect it, appears on her lips. She's in that limbo between sleeping and waking. She might be the most beautiful she's ever been right now. But I think that every morning.

  “That time already?” she asks without opening her eyes. The lazy smile is still present.

  “'Fraid so.”

  She groans. “Have I told you how much I hate weekdays?”

  She has, a thousand times. I hate them too, at least at times like this, when I'm forced to get out of bed.

  “Gotta make the money that keeps you in those expensive heels you like so much.”

  She finally opens her eyes, and we laugh lazily together. It's complete nonsense; she doesn't do expensive, and only dons heels on special occasions.

  We kiss for the first time of the morning, and it's the sweetest kiss ever. It always is, marking the end of an 8-hour-long hiatus since our goodnight kiss. We don't even care that neither of us has brushed our teeth yet.

  “Pinch me,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes jokingly. She does it anyway.

  “Yep, you're definitely awake, baby,” she says with a laugh. It's kind of our thing. Confirmation that I'm in fact wide awake and not dreaming. Because this set up I've got here, this life, it's too good to be real.

  “I'm going to call in sick. The boss won't mind. And if she does have a problem, I'll tell her to go to hell.” I comb my fingers through her thick brunette locks, which she insists need trimming.

  “Bad idea. Your boss can be a real hard-ass. I mean, she's the hottest woman I've ever met, drives me wild, but she's a tyrant when it comes to her business.”

  “Hey!” She's laughing hysterically as I straddle her. She has the most infectious laugh; it's adorable. “I'm a hard-ass, huh? And a tyrant? You take that back, lady.”

  She's already apologizing profusely because she knows what's coming next. Too late, though, I start tickling her. Her laugh is equal parts scream. I go easy on her this time, end her suffering with a kiss that she doesn't see coming.

  “You could never take a day off,” she says once the kiss ends. “You love your job too much for that. And I love that about you.”

  “I love you too much,” I say in response. She's right, though, I hate taking time off work. What's the saying? When you find a job you love, you'll never work a day in your life.

  “Besides, it wouldn't be fair on Sandra if you played hooky just because you wanted to get a little nooky.”

  “Sandra's a big girl, she can run the show for a day without me. That's why we're partners, so that if one of us wants to get laid, the other can hold the fort.”

  She giggles. “Oh, so that's the reason? It's all about getting lucky.”

  I kiss her again, pinning her arms to the bed in the process. “You know how hot it makes me when you think about other people's well-being?” I thread my fingers through hers, and I see her ring and mine. Five years and we've never taken them off, not for any reason. I'm never taking it off. It's going to the grave with me.

  “That's what turns you on?”

  “That and everything else about you.”

  I could tell her I love her again, but she's heard it a million times, and I'll say it several times before I leave the house for work. Does it get to a point when the words simply aren't enough to convey the true sentiment? It's as if they lose all meaning when you meet that one person who, you realize, you don't just love, you adore with every ounce of your being. That's how it is with Faye. They don't make women like her anymore. That sweet, loving, would give a complete stranger her kidney even if it was her last good one type of saint. Perfect and pure. You know there are just some people who deserve to be happy? Well, Faye's one of them. I like to think I'm her happy ending.

  Our bedroom door creaks open and a little head pops in. It's full of messy, mousy brown hair. Big brown eyes and a pout greet us. I quickly climb down off my wife, get in a more appropriate position.

  “Good morning, sleepy head,” I say. The three-year-old doesn't wait for an invitation, and comes trotting over to our bed. Faye pulls her in between us. “Did you sleep well, honey?”

  She nods, and Faye and I take it in turns kissing her on the forehead. It's all part of our little family routine that sets my day up and reminds me how perfect my life is. How many people get to say that and actually mean it?

  “Do you want some breakfast, Emily, sweetie?” Faye asks her.

  She nods again. This early in the morning we can't get much out of her. But give her enough time to wake up fully and she'll talk your ear off.

  “You heard the girl, Mama, she wants her breakfast,” Faye says to me.

  “Oh, that's just grand,” I say, taking mock offense. “It's not enough that I work my butt off to put food on the table, now you ladies expect me to prepare it for you too.”

  I'm not sure whether Emily fully understands, but she laughs anyway, probably because Faye does. It's so uncanny, a little spooky even, how similar they both look. They have the same huge, Bette Davis eyes, the same nose, everything. It's kind of hard to believe that my wife didn't give birth to her, though it's obvious to anyone with eyes that they're related.

  “You wanted this life,” Faye says, chuckling. “Welcome to marriage and parenthood.”

  I wouldn't have it any other way, I think to myself as I lean over and kiss her.

  We're so perfect it's sickening!

  “Bitch!” is the first thing I hear as I step into the office later that morning. It instantly brings a smile to my face. As difficult as it is to separate myself from my family, within minutes of arriving and hearing Sandra's angry cursing, I get over it.

  “What is it this time? The fax machine? Or maybe the copier?”

  She looks up from behind her computer, her beautiful face screwed up in frustration. “The computer.”

  I nod knowingly, the smile never leaving my face. “I knew it had to be an inanimate object of some description.”

  “Why does technology insist on screwing with me?”

  “Here's an idea: How about you learn to use it better, then it won't give you so many problems.” I set my purse down, shrug my jacket off and wan
der into the small kitchen connected to our office. Everything here is small and cheap, and fit for its purpose. We've been in this office block since Sandra and I set up the company, an intermediary bringing product creators and testers together. The rent's cheap, and most of the people in the adjoining offices are pleasant. Currently we're not looking to expand, despite Sandra's complaints about feeling cramped.

  “Are you making coffee, because I could murder one right about now.”

  “I guess I'm making coffee then,” I say. “What's with the mood anyway?”

  “What mood?”

  I stifle a laugh. Typical Sandra, doesn't know when she's in a bad mood. Which means she has boyfriend trouble. That's usually the case.

  “People in good moods don't normally hurl insults at the furniture. What is it this time?”

  She joins me in the kitchen, arms folded. It's her favorite stance. “He stood me up, again.”

  “Again?” I say, feigning shock but not at all surprised. “You had plans last night?”

  “I thought I did. The jerk left me waiting outside the bar, and it was freezing. I looked like a cheap hooker trembling because she needed a hit!”

  “No, you could never look like a cheap hooker... Now an expensive one, that I'd buy.”

  She shoots me one of her looks, and it's all attitude. I love messing with her. Her fuse is so short she makes it so easy for me. “All right, bad joke. So what was Anthony's excuse?”

  “Can you believe he said we didn't have plans? Said he told me he was going out of town on business. Please.”

  “What's that now, the third time? When are you going to cut him loose?”

  “I know I should, but the sex... Man, the sex...” She looks off dreamily.

  I stick my hands over my ears. “Spare me the details please.”

  “Would you cut a guy loose who looked like a young Lenny Kravitz?”

  “Well, I wouldn't be with him to begin with. He doesn't exactly have the right equipment, you know.”

  “Yeah, but still.”

  That's another typical Sandra thing. She seems to think my sexual orientation is fluid, changes with the weather or something. We've been friends since college, so seventeen years, and she still thinks that a good-looking man will magically undo thirty-six years of lesbianism.

  “Okay, if it's that simple why don't you let me hook you up with some of my female friends? I can't promise you Lenny Kravitz, but I do actually have a friend who looks a bit like his ex-wife.”

  “Girl, you know that's not my scene.”

  No, it isn't, but she doesn't see the irony. She'd rather date douchebag men who treat her like crap. We are what we are, I guess.

  Coffees made, we sit down to work, do our Monday briefing, plan what we'll do for the rest of the week. I handle the internet side of things, because technology doesn't have a vendetta against me, while Sandra takes care of bringing in new business. We're the perfect team.

  At lunchtime, while Sandra is out getting us something to eat from the little French cafe at the end of our street, my cell phone buzzes. It's a number I don't recognize, and I'm tempted not to answer it. But it could be someone calling about Faye or Emily. The responsible thing to do is answer.

  “Hello, Nikki speaking,” I say in my business voice, despite this being my private line.

  No response.

  “Hello?” I say again.

  “Hi, love.”

  My stomach does a leap when I hear his voice. It's been six years since I last heard it, but it hasn't changed a bit. It's still gravelly, still sounds like he's smoked a whole tobacco factory. He used to call me love, until he stopped calling me altogether. I don't know how I feel about hearing him again after what happened.

  “Dad,” I say, my emotions all over the place. I don't want to be excited that he's calling, but I think I'll always be a daddy's girl. Still, the excitement is tempered with bitterness. I hope he can hear that in my tone.

  “I'm amazed you still kept the same number after all these years.”

  “I'm amazed you didn't delete it, erase it like you said you would.”

  He clears his throat and highlights just how awkward this conversation is for him as well as for me.

  “I said a lot of things back then, love. Most of which I didn't mean, and I'm not proud of.”

  “Oh, I think you meant every word.” Every word of the insults he hurled at me when I told him I was gay and engaged to the woman of my dreams. Up until Faye, I'd only ever dated women, but had kept it a secret from my father, who'd been making homophobic slurs my whole life. I wasn't going to keep Faye a secret for him, and when I came clean he called me disgusting. Said he didn't have a daughter, didn't want anything to do with me or my sham of a marriage. I would be written out of his will, and his money left to a charity for cats, simply because he knew I was allergic to them. Told me that my mother would turn in her grave if she knew what I was. Those words hurt more than anything else he'd said – bringing my mother into it. They still do now. I wonder what he wants.

  “I'm sorry, love. I was way out of line. I shouldn't have said those things.” It's the first time he's apologized, admitted he was wrong. It takes a lot for someone as pigheaded as him to admit wrongdoing.

  “Yeah,” is all I can say.

  “How have you been? How's the business? Life? I'd really like to see you.”

  “Everything is great.” I don't particularly want to see you, is on the tip of my tongue to say, but I hold back. Taking the moral high ground is what I excel in. Besides, I don't want him to think that I've spent the last six years longing for him to reenter my life. The truth is, apart from brief moments at the holidays, I haven't thought much about him at all.

  “I'd love to see you,” he says again. “I've got some news.”

  Well he sounds too chirpy for the news to be that he's dying, so what else could it be?

  He cuts in before I have time to ask. “I'm getting married.”

  Wow, so I didn't see that one coming, seeing as the first marriage – to my mother – he vowed would be his last.

  Faye has already put Emily to bed by the time I stroll in that evening. I usually get home in time to do bath time and dinner, but this evening I couldn't go straight home. Sandra offered to buy me a couple of beers in the bar attached to our office block.

  It doesn't take long for Faye to notice something's up. She kisses me then makes a face. “You smell like a brewery. Did you drink after work?” I know she's trying not to sound too disapproving, but I know my wife. She rarely drinks, and although she doesn't have a problem with me doing so, she can see that I've had a bit too much.

  I answer her with another slightly drunken kiss, and wrap my arms around her. She smells great – like home, and cooking, and love. I never want to let her go.

  “Baby, come on, what's wrong?” She pushes me away gently, goes to fetch me a glass of water. “What happened?”

  “I got a phone call today...from my father.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “Your father? God, how long has it been?”

  “Forever.”

  “What did he want? To make amends?”

  “That and to inform me that he's engaged.” I laugh drunkenly. “He doesn't speak to me in a million years, then calls out of the blue just to tell me he's getting married. And get this, she's thirty years old. Thirty-five years his junior.”

  “Jesus. Do you think she's after his money?”

  “Of course she's after his money. Why else would she marry him? The old bastard doesn't have a sense of humor, is average-looking, and he's old enough to be her father. After the things he said to me, he deserves to marry a gold-digger.”

  “Honey, you can't hold a grudge forever. Did he at least apologize for what he said?” I don't expect anything less from Faye, who thinks everyone deserves forgiveness, regardless of what they've done.

  “Yeah, he did. But the timing's pretty interesting, don't you think? He decides now that he was in the wrong, just whe
n he's getting hitched. Does he think we'll start playing happy families again, like nothing happened?”

  “Maybe getting married has made him realize just how important it is to have family around.”

  “Well he can take his realization and shove it where the sun don't shine!”

  She hates it when I'm crude. She makes a face.

  “Do you know anything about his fiancee? Where did they meet?”

  “Her name's Angelique,” I say in a mocking tone, putting on an over the top French accent to pronounce the name. “Some beautician he met on a cruise. So basically she's a bimbo. Probably has huge breasts and collagen seeping out of her lips!”

  “All right, I think it's time you went to bed.” Faye takes my hand and leads me to our bedroom. When I start hurling insults like that she knows it's time for me to sleep it off.

  But when we're in the bedroom, something overtakes me, and I don't want to sleep it off. Going to sleep angry means waking up in a similar fashion. I won't give my father the satisfaction.

  “I don't want to sleep,” I say, and pull Faye into me, startling her with how rough I am.

  “Okay, what do you want to do?” she asks with a nervous laugh.

  I brush my lips against hers before kissing her. There's no need for me to elaborate. My eyes become half-lidded, and not because of the alcohol in my system. She knows what this means. It's been weeks since we made love, and suddenly it's all I can think about.

  I pull her T-shirt off, carelessly toss it to the floor, then drive her back against the bed, until she collapses onto it. I waste no time working her pants off. She looks at me like I'm a stranger, though I can see the intrigue in her eyes. We never do it like this, it's always so polite, so humdrum, so...married.

  She watches me strip down at breakneck speed, her stomach tensing. It's a side of me she rarely sees, and I guess it's making her slightly apprehensive. I expect her to stop me any second now, but she doesn't.

  She allows me to kiss her again, forcefully, grope her breasts and remove them from the bra cups. I don't pay much attention to them apart from the briefest stroke of her nipples in order to harden them both. I know how sensitive she is there – only the slightest caress is necessary to force a strangled gasp from her lips.