Crave: Faye's Story: Crave Series, #2

By Heidi Lowe

When Faye Cox-Everett discovers that her wife of five years has been having an affair, her world slowly begins to crumble. She knows it will be a while before she can forgive her, but she's willing to try – for the sake of their marriage and their daughter.

However, it soon becomes clear that her wife, Nikki, isn't ready to give up her mistress just yet. What Faye initially thought was a fling, turns out to be more serious; more permanent.

Now she has to do the hardest thing she's ever had to do: Rebuild her life without the woman she loves.

Crave: Faye's Story is the second book in the Crave series, a 2-part lesbian drama.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heidi Lowe Books
• Release date: Dec 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536556674

Heidi Lowe

Heidi Lowe writes steamy lesbian fiction.

Book preview

CONTENTS

TITLE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

BOOKS BY HEIDI LOWE

BLURB

_________________

ONE

Thunderous banging at the front door yanks me from my slumber. The afternoon sun's blinding rays blast through my bedroom window.

I sit up, my head feeling heavier than usual. The hangover is still in full effect. If I'd stopped at three glasses of the cheap wine I picked up last night, perhaps today I would feel like facing the day. Or not. No, probably not. The over-consumption of alcohol, truth be told, is the least of my worries.

The pounding on my door matches the one in my head. I only get up to tear open the drawers and search for some aspirin, not to answer the door. Whoever is out there will leave eventually; they'll get the message.

Faye, open the door. I know you're in there. It's Sandra's voice.

I continue searching for the pills that will make the day bearable for me, ignoring the persistent banging. I don't want to see her. I don't want to see anyone.

Thump, thump, thump. I'm not going to stop until you open the door.

I sigh, finally managing to find a packet of aspirin. I know she means it. She gave up all those other days, but I guess now the lack of response from me is worrying her. If I ever plan on getting back to sleep, I'll have to open the door.

I risk a glance at myself in the mirror. My thick, wavy brown hair is a mess and hasn't seen a brush in days. The pink shadows around my eyes make me look like someone with an incurable disease. When she looks at me, she'll know I've spent the last week bawling my eyes out. I'm not ashamed to show it. What else is a woman to do when her wife leaves her so unexpectedly?

I plod down the stairs with no energy at all, in no hurry to face my wife's best friend and have her inquire as to how I'm doing. It's what everyone's been asking me. They ask when it's written all over my face. How am I doing? How would you be doing?

I take a deep breath and pull the door open. The heat blasts me immediately. Sandra's look of melancholy when she stares at me is like nothing I've ever seen before.

What is it? My intention wasn't to be discourteous, but I can't help it.

I thought you would never open the door. I've tried to reach you every day, every way–

I know that.

I hold the door open just a crack, so there's no invitation for her to enter. Not that that would deter her. She's basically family, and this house is like her second home.

She hasn't thought about what she'll say next, I can see it in her face. The other thing that is so blatant in her expression is the look of pity. Overnight I became something to be pitied, and I hate that.

Look, Faye, I'm sorry...

What do you have to be sorry about? You didn't run off and leave me for your father's fiancee. I'm trying to be nonchalant, even attempt to shrug, but I have no energy to pretend. What would be the point now, putting on a show?

It's shitty what Nikki did, and I've told her that–

Did you know?

Her eyes fall to the floor. That's answer enough. I should slam the door in her face for keeping this from me, for making me look a fool, but I don't have the energy for that either.

As soon as I found out, I urged her to break it off. I swear.

I really don't want to talk about this now, I say, and start closing the door. But Sandra is too quick; she slips her foot in, stops me. I walk away as she lets herself into my home – well, this building where I currently reside, which once was a home but now just feels cold and empty.

Please don't shut me out. What she did doesn't change anything between you and me, she says, following me into the living room. I kick a couple of Emily's toys out of the way. They're scattered all over the floor and have been like that for days. I decide this is the right moment to clear up, now that I have company. I don't want Sandra thinking I can't cope, even though it sure feels that way.

I'm not shutting anyone out, I just... I don't finish.

Maybe you should get someone in to take care of things around here. You know, help out a bit.

I'm kneeling down carelessly tossing colored building blocks back into their box. If only life were as easy as this to clean up – putting things back in their place and moving on.

I don't need any help, all right. I'm doing fine. Just fine.

You're not. She kneels down beside me. I feel her eyes penetrating me. When I try to swallow away the ball that has remained lodged in my throat since that fateful day, it doesn't budge. Then the sense of hopelessness – a feeling that has become so familiar – washes over me, and I lose it. The blocks fall out of my hands, and I break down, bursting into tears, crumpled on the carpet. I can't be strong when I feel so broken. I can't be strong for myself or my daughter.

How could she do this to me?

I feel Sandra's arms around me. She squeezes tightly, as though she's afraid that if she lets go I'll crumble to pieces, literally.

I don't know, honey. I don't know.

I've been crying so much lately that it's become the norm. Wake up and cry when I realize my bed is empty. Cry while I'm getting Emily ready for daycare. Cry while I'm dropping her off there in Nikki's car. Cry while I'm in the shower. Cry when I look at myself in the mirror and see every flaw that Nikki must have seen in me that prompted her to leave. I'm surprised I still have enough moisture in my body to keep this up.

What am I supposed to do now? What do I tell my daughter? She keeps asking me where Nikki is and when she's coming home. I–I can't deal with any of this.

Sandra picks me up off the floor and helps me to the couch. She doesn't let go. She must sense that I need someone to hold me like this. There has been only one other time I've hurt this deep, and it was when I lost my sister and her husband. I'd had Nikki by my side through that, and I'd had to pull myself together fast in order to be a mother to Emily. Now Nikki's gone, and seemingly took all my strength with her.

Yes you can. You're stronger than you think, Faye, Sandra says gently.

No, I'm not. Nikki was always the strong one. I don't know how to be on my own. I don't know how to live without her.

You're not alone. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.

She doesn't understand that it's not the same. By her own admission she's never loved anyone with the kind of intensity that I'm feeling. Even now – deserted, abandoned, made to feel worthless – I'm still holding onto the irrational hope that Nikki will stroll through that door, begging me to take her back. Even now, I still would. Because you have to be prepared to forgive the love of your life, the woman you knew you were going to marry the second you set eyes on her. Even now, I still believe in my happy ending. It's just too early to give up on that.

My tears have tapered off a little now, and Sandra fetches me some tissues. I wipe my face, blow my nose.

I bet I look an absolute mess. I try to laugh, but it sounds as false as it is.

You get to look a mess. No one's going to judge you.

I peer down at my clothes, as though noticing my rags for the first time. I made no effort this morning, simply threw on the first thing I pulled out of the closet. A faded T-shirt and torn denim jeans that are too baggy and too covered in paint to be worn outside the house. Once upon a time Nikki had refused to let me throw the jeans out. Her reasoning: I looked sexy dressed like a homeless woman! Well, clearly not sexy enough...

If she saw me now, she'd know she made the right choice in leaving. I'm trying to joke about it, but it's way too soon. And the tears start falling once more.

Sandra shakes her head, and a look of pure venom settles on her face. She's lost her mind, there's no other explanation. I could strangle her. I've never seen her this angry before. That woman, Angel, is nothing but trouble. Always was. She's Satan's twin sister.

I don't know about their history, and Sandra seems to be the only one who can shed some light on it. Even though talking about it is painful, I need to know what I'm dealing with. And I guess I want to know if our whole marriage was based on a lie, if we ever stood a chance of being happy.

You knew her before? I inquire. When she nods, she does so reluctantly. I hate that this woman was a part of Nikki and Sandra's life before I showed up. She's a part of their history. How do you compete with history?

Believe me, I wish I didn't. She shakes her head again, a tortured look in her eyes, as though she's remembering some harrowing thing from the past. She's not a good person. Dangerous, evil, just not someone you'd ever choose to have in your life. Nikki knows this, yet...

Now I'm even more intrigued. The way Sandra speaks about Angel, you'd think she was a serial killer. I need to know more.

What did she do?

"What didn't she do? She was controlling, manipulative, maniacal. There was a woman that used to frequent this tennis club Nikki and I were members of. She flirted with everyone. I mean, like, everyone. Men, women, young, old. It was her thing. Well, one day Angel comes in, sees her hand on Nikki's thigh, and completely loses her shit. Next thing we know they're arguing in the hall, and the woman ends up at the bottom of the stairs. No one saw what happened, but the woman swears she was pushed. Of course Angel denied it. Oh, she also tried to run Nikki down with her own car."

I give her a wide-eyed stare, mouth agape. She did all of that? I ask incredulously. And Nikki stayed with her?

The car incident was the last straw. At that point no amount of denial could make her ignore all of Angel's craziness. No matter how wonderful the sex wa– She cuts herself off, slaps a hand over her mouth quickly. Oh God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say that.

I look away despondently. So that's what it is? Wonderful sex? Her plain, insipid wife couldn't satisfy her the way her ex could, so she packs up and leaves, destroying five years of marriage? Who the hell did I marry?

Before I know it, I'm bawling again.

It's not like that... She doesn't sound sure herself, so how can she reassure me? And if it isn't the sex, could it be for love? That's far worse.

My eyes are sore, my nose is running, and now all I can think about is my wife having sex with another woman – a woman who looks better than me on her worst days.

At this point, clinging to the hope that I'll come out victorious is a fool's errand.

Emily taps me on the nose, leaving a cloud of foam on the tip, and pulling me from my reverie. She giggles then splashes about in the bath, not a care in the world. Bath time is usually playtime for her, but this evening, as with every evening since that fateful day, I'm lost in my thoughts. It's a good thing, in her own words, she's old enough to bath herself.

Are you ready to come out now? I ask, even though I know what the answer will be. That bathtub is like a swimming pool to a three-year-old, and she's surrounded by floating toys of all descriptions. Coaxing her out will be tough.

She shakes her head. Five more minutes.

Her insistence makes me laugh out loud, and it's the first real laugh I've done in days.

All right, but your fingers and toes will start to shrivel up like raisins if you stay in there too long.

I like raisins.

So sassy! I smile to myself, but the smile doesn't last. It never does these days. Because everything that makes me happy is inextricably tied to Nikki, and thus reminds me of her. Bath time is no different; this used to be her job. One she happily took on, glad for the time she got to spend with Emily when she came home from work. Now I wonder if that was all a lie, too.

It's as if Emily can read my mind, because she says, Where's Mama?

She asks every day, and I lie every day. Telling her the truth, that her mama ditched us, would be too heartbreaking. For both of us.

She had to go away for a little while, sweetie, I told you. She'll be back soon.

Where did she go?

This is a new line of questioning; she must be getting anxious. My daughter, you see, has issues with attachment. We'd only recently gotten her to sleep in her own room. She used to cry her little eyes out every time Nikki left the house for work. God only knows how this will affect her if her mama doesn't come back.

Nowhere far, is all I can say. I hate that I'm the wronged party, yet I have to do the lying. Damn you, Nikki!

Can we visit her?

No, honey.

Why?

I sigh. Because she's busy. She'll be back soon, okay?

She continues playing with her boat and says nothing else. My daughter's very perceptive; she senses that something's amiss. Nikki has never been away from us this long. I can lie all I want, but my daughter knows all is not well in the Cox-Everett household.

TWO

You have fourteen new messages...

I can no longer ignore them. Life goes on, as they say, even though it feels as though it's stopped for me.

As I cycle through the messages one by one, I hear Sandra's worried voice a few times, but the majority are from my agent. None from Nikki. Ten days without a single, goddamn phone call.

Faye, call me back. It's important, my agent insists in one message, then proceeds to tell me in a later one that my book hit number one in the charts.

We did it, Faye! The big one. It doesn't get any better than this. Let me know you're still alive, lady. A couple of the radio and television stations want interviews. Her cheer and joy pours through the phone.

I press the number to delete the message. My heart and soul went into writing that cookbook. Blogging is one thing, but writing a book, packaging something that