In the Wake of Wanting

  
         

   by Lori L. Otto

Copyright 2016 © Lori L. Otto

All rights reserved.  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

In the Wake of Wanting

Lori L. Otto Publications

Cover doodles created by TWG Designs - Miami, FL

Official Proofreader: Author Services by Julie Deaton

Visit our website at:
www.loriotto.com

First Edition: October 2016

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Printed in the United States of America

dedication

In the midst of writing this love story, a rapist was convicted, jailed
and released
for a heinous and violent crime.

I was so angered by the events that it changed the entire plot of this book.

I was so inspired by his victim’s strength that I dedicate this book to her.

prologue

A good man treads away

But his thoughts stay

Behind with the woman he loves

But can't hold. Not today.

In the wake of wanting

He abandons parts of himself:

His heart. His desire. His future.

His future.

His future, he casts aside in his past

And for that, what has he to live for? To work toward? 

In the wake of wanting

He leaves everything and retains nothing,

And that has to be good enough for him.

For her.

For now.

Another man runs.

Can he even be called a man?

It never looks back; never gives thought

To the women it's taken

But not once loved.

In the wake of wanting

It leaves no discernible trace.

It's cold. Methodic. Ruthless.

It lives in the present. It.
Lives
.

While the victims in its past slowly shy away

Lie awake

Cry, ashamed; pray to die.

In the wake of wanting

Through taking everything, it has even less, yet presses on.

Taking, taking. Taking more. 

chapter one

Ask me to write an article on how beef consumption in the United States affects global warming, and I’ll have something ready to publish with research, interviews, and sources in two days.

Ask me to step in for the pitcher at a pickup baseball game in Central Park, and I’m likely to throw a shut-out.

But ask me to cook pasta primavera, and I’ll be here, standing in my underwear in the middle of my kitchen with a stove covered in foam and three New York firefighters lecturing me about how I shouldn’t try to shower and prepare my meals at the same time.
They’d be more helpful if they’d go fetch me a pizza and a salad from Sal’s downstairs
.

I’m not an idiot. I just have too much going on today.

“You got some towels to clean up this mess?” one of them asks.

“I have towels, yes,” I respond, looking at the puddle of water on the floor caused by the sprinkler overhead that was set off by the smoke detector. The flames were small, and I put out the fire myself with the extinguisher I keep under the sink.

The only reason the authorities are here is that the building alarms went off, too, forcing the evacuation of the majority of my neighbors in this 28-story building. The firefighters have to make sure the apartments are safe before anyone can come back inside, but all this attention is unnecessary.

“It’s not enough water to cause a leak below, I don’t think,” another one says. “But we should make sure.”

“Shit,” I mutter, but realize I’m lucky only one of the sprinklers went off. I’m grateful the ones in the living room and office area weren’t activated, or my TV, computer, stereo system, and home detection system would have been ruined. “You’re done here, though, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Great. I’m late for something.”

“You’re lucky you’re alive, Mr. Holland.”

“It was a tiny fire–never mind. Thank you,” I say, not wanting to argue anymore as I show them to the door. My phone rings just after I let them out.
My mother
.

“Your building’s on the news! They said there was a fire!” she tells me. “Are you at home?”

“I started the fire,” I tell her bluntly.

“What?”

“It was just a stovetop fire, Mom. It’s not a big deal.”

“Jacks, Trey started the fire,” she says to my father as an aside before coming back to me. “Are you okay, honey?”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“The stove?”

“It’s a little damaged. Management’s going to come take a better look tomorrow once it’s all cleaned up. Look, Mom, I’m late for this stupid dinner thing with Zai, though, and now I have nothing to eat.”

“Oh, I forgot about that!” she says. “Is that what you were cooking?”

“Yeah. Liv gave me the recipe, but I got home late, and I was in a hurry and trying to do too much at once, and I shouldn’t have left the stuff on the stove unattended. I was just trying to get everything done so I wouldn’t be late.” Someone else calls on the other line. “I’m sure that’s Zaina. I need to go.”

“Do you need us to help clean up?”

“I’ll deal with it later. I’ve got everything under control for now.”

“Can we order you a pizza or something?”

I can’t say no to that offer. “If you don’t mind, that’d be great. You can just call Sal’s. Tell them it’s for me. They know my regular order.”

“Okay. Will you call me when you’re done?”

“It’ll be awhile. She wants to do this whole dinner-date-thing, you know? But sure.”

“Okay, Trey. I’m glad you’re okay, honey. Open your terrace door and windows to air out the place.”

“They’re already open, Mom. Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up quickly to answer the other call. “Zai?”

“Where are you? Why aren’t you online?”

“I’m hurrying. Can I call you in five–no, ten–minutes?”

“
Tria
, really?” She calls me by the term of endearment she gave me in high school, but the way she says it is far from endearing.

“Yes, Zaina, really. I’m not even dressed.”

I can tell she’s not happy with me. “Go get dressed. I’ll just start with my salad.”

“Okay. I’ll hurry.”

“Call from your computer.”

“I will.”

When I hang up the phone, I’m faced with the mess in my kitchen. Hurriedly, I grab all the towels from the guest bathroom and throw them on top of the standing water. Immediately, they’re saturated, and the floor is still wet.
There’s no time to deal with this now.
Reaching up into the cabinet, I find the bottle of bourbon. I can’t continue this afternoon without it. I walk over the towels to fix the glass of ice and grab a Coke from the refrigerator, making the drink that’ll get me through the next couple of hours.

Well, the first of a
few
drinks that’ll get me through.

After consuming the whole glass, I fix myself another and head to my bedroom to get dressed, wiping my feet on a dishtowel before I reach one of the only two carpeted rooms in my apartment. Maybe I can get away with not wearing the suit. This is ridiculous. Zaina and I celebrated our four-year anniversary when she was still in the States last weekend. Why is it so important to go through this routine, too?

Because you love her, Trey, and this is what she wanted
.

Not wanting to upset her by not being appropriately dressed, I put on the full suit–all three pieces–and the tie Zaina bought me for Christmas. My hair’s still wet, but I don’t care to fix it now. I kick my socks and shoes to the side, then bypass the kitchen as I head to my desk, log into the computer and pull up the Facetime app. After one last gulp of my drink, I call her.

“Sorry,” I say to her before she has time to speak. “I didn’t forget. I just had too much going on at once here.”

“It’s okay,” she says.

“You look nice. Beautiful, actually.” She has her hair pulled into a long braid over her shoulder and wears more makeup than usual. Her dress is one I haven’t seen on her before, either. It’s white with thin straps that contrast with her dark skin.

“Thanks. Is your hair wet?”

“I just got out of the shower… with an added bonus of an overhead sprinkler.”

“Hmmm,” she says, seeming to miss that last part. “So I made beef bourguignon for dinner with pasta and a Caesar salad, and I have a nice red wine that goes with it. The grocer recommended it for me since I wouldn’t know what to buy.”

“That’s great. Sounds amazing,” I tell her. “Now, how was your day?”

“Well, wait! What are you eating?”

I shake my head at her. “Nothing yet, Zai.”

“Trey! You were supposed to have dinner prepared and everything! This is our date!”

“I know, but shit, it’s only two o’clock here, and I had a game until one, and I tried to make
dinner
happen, but I started a fire in the kitchen, and it looks like a war zone in there now and the fire department is probably still in the building–”

The look of anger quickly changes to worry as she sets down her fork. “A fire? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m just late and not ready for this. And I’m sorry, Zaina.”