I take a breath, release it slowly. I close my eyes and force my wall of protection to weaken slightly. One of us has to give in, and the faster that happens, the faster we can figure out what's going on and where to go from here.
"Okay," I say, forcing my eyes to look into his. It's not as hard as I'm making it out to be, but the fact that I'm the one giving in is what causes such difficulty. "My name is Isla Barnes. I'm from Southern California, which is a place in the Americas. My birthday is April fourteenth, and I'm twenty-four years old. I'm from the twenty-first century. I graduated from UCLA, which is a university, with a communications degree. Which definitely won't help me if I really have traveled back in time to 1713."
Even saying it out loud doesn't help me wrap my head around it. I sound like a deranged lunatic. I run my fingers through my hair, trying to stop my hand from shaking. I need to keep my cool, keep my focus.
I try to figure out how he's taking my admission, if he believes what I said. If he, too, thinks I'm insane. His face, however, is like a mask, indecipherable but pretty to look at, and I can't tell what he's thinking. His eyes continue to penetrate my very being, and he looks at me blatantly, without shame, as though he either doesn't realize how rude it is to stare the way he's staring or he doesn't care.
"My name is Matt Scott," he says finally, and I release a breath I don't realize I'm holding deep inside me. I thank my lucky stars he has yet to go off about what a loon I really am. "Captain Matt Scott of the ship you're currently standing aboard, the Crimson Wave."
I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning that the name of his ship sounded like a pun for a woman on her period. I don't think he'd appreciate it, and I need him to want to help me get home in whatever way he can. "I'm two and thirty, sailing to Port Royal in order to prevent my sister from getting lynched."
My eyes widen voluntarily and I feel my interest nerves have been stirred. "Your sister?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes immediately snap to my emphasized cleavage and I scowl at him. "A gentleman would offer a lady something to cover herself with."
"Aye," he agrees with a nod, "a gentleman would."
I give him what I hope is a death glare, but he doesn't even flinch. Instead, he smirks and shrugs, almost as though he's trying to say he can't help it.
I open my mouth, ready to go off on him, when I stop. Maybe if I'm nice to him, it may help in getting what I want. I hate that I have to play dumb games and act like a damsel in distress, but if it helps me get covered and get home, I'll do it, regardless of the blow to my pride.
"Please," I add and give him my best attempt at puppy eyes. "I'm a little bit cold."
He looks as though he's buying it and my insides start doing a victory dance like I'm a running back and I just scored an epic touchdown. However, his eyes narrow and he clenches his jaw, and as I watch it pop, I'm transfixed by the decidedly masculine gesture.
"I know you're playing with me," he says as he turns to his coat rack, "but I can't have you catching a cold and dying on my account."
He grabs a long blue coat and tosses it to me, and I bite my bottom lip to keep the smirk from breaking out onto my face. It worked. I slide my arms through the sleeves and am surprised when I find that it does not smell bad at all, like I expected it to. In fact, it smells of the ocean—the crisp salt that touches the air when the wind picks it up—and a soft hint of smoke, implying that he, or someone close to him, smokes. Smoking doesn’t bother me, especially if the smoker is good-looking, but I start to understand that having the smoke linger would get annoying. Luckily, the ocean scent calms it down so it’s not overwhelming and makes what would be a strong odor into a pleasant one.
I button up the jacket as best as I can so my goods are not on display the way they once were, and I’m pleased when I see Matt Scott stare at my face and not my chest. However, even when he’s staring at my face, there’s something deeper there, something more. Which I don’t want, because I’d rather be rough and together than emotional and broken.
I’m not sure why I feel this way, to be honest. My parents have been married for fifty-two years and counting, and they are the definition of a perfect couple. They still hold hands, my mom still rolls her eyes at my dad’s antics, and my dad still smiles to himself when he watches my mom leave like he can’t believe she’s with him, like he just won the lottery. They’ve had their tiffs, but they always worked through it. It was clear these two were meant for each other, and I’m sure that if they had a child other than me, that child would come away with a healthy viewpoint on monogamy, commitment, and relationships in general.
I don’t have that. When I see my mom and dad and how perfect they are for each other, I cringe inside. I worry that something like that will never work out for me. They got their storybook ending, but the rarity of actually acquiring that is nearly impossible, so why even try? Why go through the hurt and the pain of fighting and arguing and hurting when it’s easier to just be responsible for yourself? When I date, I do so monogamously. I understand why it’s important to only sleep with one person at a time, and I value my body and my sexual abilities where I make sure any potential partner is clear that we date monogamously or we don’t date at all. I also make sure everyone is clear that monogamy does not mean that we’re serious about each other. I don’t get offended by texts in the middle of the night asking me what I’m doing. I run when someone needs a date to a wedding five months from now.
It’s messed up, yes, but it works for me.
"Let's get back to your sister," I say, shaking my head to rid myself of the thoughts of my parents. I can't think about them now or else I'll start to miss them. If I start to miss them, I'll get sad. If I get sad, I'll have a break down, reality will hit, and the pirate in front of me will dump me off at the nearest port and never look back due to my emotional antics. I have to keep myself together if I'm going to survive this. "She's going to get lynched?"
Matt furrows his brows, pushing them together so a vertical wrinkle pops between them. It's almost as if he knows I was thinking about something serious, and he's confused as to why that would be. Why would I choose to occupy my mind with something that isn't pleasurable? Either that, or he's still trying to get a read on me and won't let any facial inflection, any change in breath, any wrinkle on my face, escape his attention. The thought itself is a little unnerving, truth be told, because I don't know Matt well enough to know what type of person he is. I suppose the fact that he's trying so hard to understand me is why I feel so unnerved. I'm not used to being under so much scrutiny. Truth be told, guys think I'm cute and that's it. They don't pay attention to much else, which is fine by me, because I don't have to reciprocate that attention in any way, shape, or form.
"That's a blunt way to put it," he says, and I feel myself turn red because he's right.
"You're right." My admission makes his brows shoot up now, so high they hide behind his brown bangs. My face turns an even darker shade of red, which I didn't believe was possible, because I don't have a lot of shame and embarrassment issues. I am who I am, and that's that. But somehow, he brings out my vulnerabilities and throws them out in the open so he can see them up close and personal. It unnerves me to no end, and I hate it because I've never had to deal with it before. "I'm sorry."
"What?" he asks, and now he's grinning, and I want to slap that beautiful smile off his smug face. "Did you just apologize to me? I don't know you at all, and my gut feeling tells me you're not the type of girl who apologizes if she can help it."
"First of all," I say, "I'm a woman, not a girl. Secondly, I was rude about it and being rude for no reason deserves an apology. So I'm sorry. Again."
His grin widens, and I can't help but notice the way I react in response to it. The way my heart flutters. The way my breath catches in my throat. I clench my teeth together and force myself to look away because if I don't, I'll stare, and that would be worse than having to apologize. I let him gloat; I was rude about his sister, and I feel bad abou
t it, so if he wants to rub it in, I don't have a problem with it because I deserve it.
"She's going to hang," he finally says in response to my question, "due to her affiliation with me. She's an easy target, really. Owns a brothel. Female businesswomen who don't take the path most traveled are targeted for anything, really. But because of her affiliation with me, her lascivious business, and the fact that she houses people of ill repute, including pirates, she was charged for her numerous crimes and sentenced to hang."
I blink. "Your sister sounds like a badass," I say before I can stop myself.
"A badass," he says, testing the word out in his mouth. He's confused, which makes him look boyish and adorable. "Is that a good thing?"
"It's a great thing," I assure him. “Being a badass means she's fully capable of taking care of herself. She doesn't need a man to take care of her."
"She has a man," he tells me, his eyes darkening ever so slightly. "Billy."
"You don't like him." My eyes widen and I smile because finally—finally—I've read him well enough to be able to make a comment rather then ask a question. Well, it's been a few hours at best, but I feel better only because he's been able to read me since the minute he first laid eyes on me. "Why don't you like him? Because he stole your sister away?" I smile, teasing him.
He doesn't smile in return. If anything, he looks perplexed. I'm not sure what to make of his reaction.
"No one could steal Sarah away if they tried," he corrects, his voice reminiscing but firm. "I don't like Billy because Billy doesn't like me." He put his hands on his chest, his fingers sprawled out like the legs of a spider. "And before you ask, darling, Billy doesn't like me because I'm a pirate and he's protective of her. I told you, Sarah is set to hang because of her relationship with me. Not because of her business or her brashness. But because of me. And Billy doesn't like me for it."
"How is that your fault?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. I know by doing this, my cleavage is pushed up and exposed, but Matt keeps his eyes on my face. To be honest, I'm impressed.
"Well, I did make the choice to become full pirate," he says, and he smirks to himself, as though he has an inside joke with himself. His eyes are sparkling, and I can tell he doesn't regret his choice, not in the slightest. "In a way, I am responsible for public perception of my family. Luckily for me, I only have my sister."
"Luckily?"
I give him a doubtful look. If he and his sister are the last people in his family, then it's not lucky. It's sad. I'm an only child of two only children. I have no siblings and I have no cousins. I know what it's like to be lonely. Interestingly enough, I'm afraid to have kids almost as much as I want them. I know I don't need a relationship to have a child, but the utter dependence they would have on me scares me. I can't figure out what I want and what I don't, and until I'm sure one way or another, I try not to think about it at all.
Suddenly, I think about Matt having kids, if he wants to, if he doesn't, if it's a smart decision regardless if his desire. He's a pirate after all, and from what I remember from tenth grade history, pirates don't live very long—maybe a year or two at most. Matt seems like he's been around for a while, which is a miracle unto itself. Does that mean he's parent material? I don't know.
Not that it matters, I suppose. It's not my business if he wants to have kids or not.
He looks at me again with narrowed brown eyes, and tilts his head to the side. I don't know why, but my eyes are drawn to his cheekbones and I can't help it notice how defined they are. I've always had a soft spot for sharp cheeks and jawbones, and Matt has both.
"Do you have any siblings?" he asks me.
I shake my head. "It's just me and my parents," I reply quickly. I don't know why I'm uncomfortable with his line of questioning. It's only fair, considering I've been asking him similar questions about his life. But that's only because I find his life so historical and fascinating. There's really nothing special about me. Even my hobbies are boring. Binge-watching Netflix isn't as sexy as it sounds.
"Just you," Matt repeats. "No husbands, fiancés, lovers to speak of back in your home?"
"Well…" I let my voice trail off.
It's not his business who I sleep with and who don't. In fact, I know that in this time, it's not proper for young women to sleep around. Especially with men they don't know and aren't engaged to. Not that I sleep around. I've been with a handful of guys in monogamous, no strings attached arrangements. Okay, the specific number is three and they've all lasted anywhere from six to eighteen months. It's more than just sex, but less than an actual relationship, because I actually care about the guys and they care about me, but not enough to commit. It's worked well for all parties involved and I'm proud to say jealousy and love never factored into any arrangement. The only reason we broke it off was because of switching schools, new priorities, or we grew out of each other. I'm still friendly with them, for the most part. Would I go back with them? No. The sex was good, but not that good.
Anyway, my thoughts are rambling because I hate to admit that I actually care what Matt thinks of me and I think I'm worried that he's going to brand me a slut because I have had sex before with more than one guy who I definitely had no intention of marrying. To be honest, it pisses me off because I used to not care what anyone thought. I was proud I wasn't one of those women who needed a relationship to be happy. I had myself and good sex, and I was happy. Now, I feel my face on fire because I suddenly doubt everything. The past three years have been a lie; I've been living a lie and now that I'm privy to that information, I can honestly say I'm ashamed of myself. My thoughts. The fact that meaningless sex and dates to pass the time, dates so I wouldn't be lonely, were excuses upsets me.
Because I wasn't happy. Not completely. I know that other women live that way and are happy—more power to them. But as I look at Matt, I'm hit with the feeling that there's more out there than that. I'm not sure I want to risk it and find out what that is just yet. But I'm open to the possibility of it being out there. And me maybe wanting to explore it at some point.
The question remains, however: do I tell Matt the truth? Do I lie and pretend to be the perfect virgin girl (which there is nothing wrong with, of course)?
I clear my throat and risk looking up at him.
"I don't have any current lovers, no," I tell him. I look him dead in the eye, but I can feel my heart beat straight out of my chest. This isn't any of his business. It's not. And yet, somehow, for some reason, I feel like I owe him this explanation. Like I want to tell him I'm single. Like I don't want to lie to him about my past.
This is new for me because I never talk about my past. Pasts don't matter, not with the type of relationships I was in and wanted to be in. Now, everything's changed. I can't believe it and it sounds corny but there's something about Matt that's changed the way I look at life, that's changed how I want to do things, and I can't quite put my finger on it nor can I analyze it here and now. The thing about my past is before, I didn't care. My past is my past, there's nothing I can do to change it so there's no point in being ashamed of it, no regrets, and all that. And I still feel that way, to a point.
But now, looking at Matt, telling him about my past, I feel a twinge of embarrassment light my skin up a ghastly shade of red and I realize I am ashamed of my past to some degree. I am.
"Not married, either," I add, though I don't know why (or maybe I do, but it's too early for me to admit it). "Totally and completely single."
"Single?" Matt asks, raising a brow.
"It means I don't have ties to anyone," I explain quickly. "Your turn: are you married? Do you have a girlfriend or a lover or a wife somewhere?"
His lips turn up and his brown eyes twinkled in amusement. "No," he says. I'm not sure what's so funny, why he's looking at me that way, but he is, and it kind of bugs. Even if he looks cute doing so. "I'm single, as you say."
I don't know why, but his admission makes me happy. My whole body warms the way a towel tossed in the dri
er feels after a hot shower on a cold day. The old me would have flirted with him incessantly. I would have made a suggestion about us fooling around and then brushed that into a relationship that doesn't include strings, dates, or calls. I would have told myself I was happy and cool and modern—the very essence of an independent woman who knew what she wanted, went after it, and didn't care what anyone thought.
But something stops me from turning him into another notch, another night, another meaningless encounter that is enjoyable at the time but forgettable overall. Even I know Matt is different. Even I know I want him to be different.
I just don't know why.
For a moment, the two of us stare at each other. Something is happening here. Something is going on between us. I can't put my finger on it, but I can feel a surge of electricity pass between us and I know, I know, he feels it too.
"Right," he says after he clears his throat. He blinks, as if in a daze, and looks around his room. "Well, it seems to me that we need to figure out your current situation. You say you are from the future, and as daft as it makes me, I find I believe you." His eyes narrow slightly but not because he's suspicious of me. If anything, it looks as though he's trying to study me. Then, he shakes his head and his eyes move again. "You can stay here, if you like. I recommend it, actually. People aren't as friendly as I am." He flashes me a quick grin and I can't help but feel myself return it.
Matt has this knack for making me smile despite myself. It's so weird, to smile for no reason. It's like my conscious doesn't realize I'm happy but my soul does, so it shows me what I'm feeling with little gestures like this.
"What do you need from me?" I ask, and I hope I sound sincere in my question. I don't know why I trust Matt—probably because if he wanted to take and kill me, he already would have done so—but I do. And it's important to me to show him that I appreciate what he's doing.
Matt's lips curl into a small grin. "What’re you offering?" he asks, quirking his brow.
I burst out laughing; I can't help myself. Matt's too funny, too adorable, and this warmth is spreading over my cheeks and I realize—am I blushing? I never blush! But the way he looks, the way his eyes make me feel when they look at me the way they do, how can I not? Honestly, it's like I have no control over my body anymore and it both thrills and scares me because I've never felt this way about someone before.
To Ruin a Rogue: Page 3
