Kiss Me Again

by Wood, Vivian

  “Let’s go check. Wanna help me with carrying some wood since you’re already here?”

  I blow out a breath. “Sure.”

  We both load our arms up with big chunks of wood. Carrying them into camp, I follow Grayson’s lead in dumping them beside the fire pit. When I am tossing my chunks of wood on the ground though, I feel a sting lace my palm.

  “Ow,” I mutter, scrunching up my face. It really hurts.

  Dropping the last piece of firewood, I look at my palm. Embedded there is a small cluster of splinters, dug into my flesh nice and deep. My first reaction is to put my mouth over the cuts, wincing as my saliva is added to the mix.

  “Did you cut yourself?” Grayson asks.

  My response is automatic. “It’s nothing.”

  He raises a brow, but I rush to cut him off.

  “Is there someplace around here that I can bathe? Not tonight, but in the next few days.”

  He nods. “There is a stream pretty close by. Just north of here.”

  He points away from the cabins.

  “Can I find it on my own?”

  His lips quirk. “If you have ears, you can find it. You can always find water.”

  Before I can ask anything else I hear tires on gravel and a high-pitched engine sound. A four-wheeler races into the clearing, its tires squealing to a stop.

  The camofluage-wearing young man doffs his hat and swings a huge ice chest off the back of his vehicle. “Grayson Sellwood?”

  Grayson bobs his head. “Right here.”

  He jogs over to the four-wheeler and takes the package, then signs the form that the younger guy whips out. The younger guy isn’t done, though. He hops up and lifts the seat of his four-wheeler up. Digging out a large black-lidded box, he turns to me.

  “Rachel Black? I think this is for you.”

  I frown, wondering what it could be.

  I pad over to accept the box and sign for it. It’s pretty hefty, whatever it is. As soon as I step back, the young man pops his seat back down and climbs on. Without so much as a wave, he makes himself scarce.

  And they say people in Manhattan are rude.

  Setting my box down, I pry off the lid. A puff of freezing air comes out along with the smoke that I associate with dry ice. Waving it off, I see a note at the top.

  My Most Darling —

  A week into your little excursion, you must miss the finer things. Don mentioned that he was sending you some things for work so I thought I would also send you some of your favorite things. Just remember, you can come home at any time for another taste.

  Say the word and you will have it.

  Clay

  Ugh.

  UGH.

  Balling up the note, I toss it aside. Under the note I find a dozen Russ & Daughters everything bagels, a container of smoked fish and a container of cream cheese, a little box of Carrie cupcakes from Magnolia bakery, and the biggest box of French macarons from Lauduree that I’ve ever seen. Also, nestled at the bottom of all the food is a teal ring box from Tiffany’s.

  For the love of all that’s holy. If that’s a real ring, I will kill that man.

  I am still so angry with him. My father too, since the other half of this box is taken up by a few equipment cases. He knew what Clay did and he still let Clay send me this stuff.

  This is what I mean when I say that I can’t stand how the men in my life to control me. Like I’m just a pawn and my emotions don't even matter.

  “What’s in your box?” Grayson asks, cutting down a little of the red haze that threatens to overtake my vision.

  Clearing my throat, I stuff the food on top of the ring box.

  “It’s just a few things to remind me of home. You know, macarons and bagels. All that jazz. Plus some more hydrogeology equipment.”

  Grayson looks impressed. “I don't even know what that is, honestly.”

  I give him a brief smile. “It’s one of the things I concentrated on when I was getting my master’s degree in environmental engineering.”

  He nods but it’s obvious that doesn’t really mean anything to him. His brain just skips right over that information.

  “How do you feel about tacos for dinner?”

  I don't wrinkle my nose but it is an effort.

  “Fine,” I say. I’m not in any place to be uppity about what I eat.

  “Great. I’ll thaw out some chicken breasts.”

  He bends over the crate of food and starts pawing through it. I don’t stay and let my gaze linger on his ass. Instead, I pick up my box and start lugging it toward my cabin, my thoughts an absolute mess.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grayson

  It’s just so damned hot.

  There is something about how the sun reflects off the sand that kills me. Or maybe it has more to do with the heavy camouflage canvas pants and shirt I’m wearing, layered over under clothes and under fifteen pounds of gear. Add the helmet, the gloves, and the ever-present earpiece and microphone pack to that and you wind up with heat stroke breathing down your neck.

  Such is the life of a Navy SEAL in uniform. We are riding in a Humvee with the air conditioning at full fucking blast and I’m still sweating through my boxer briefs. I sigh, laying my head back on the seat for a second. Tillson and Danvers are sitting ahead of me, Tillson grinning like an idiot as he drives the Humvee. It’s his first time driving although he’s been begging us to let him do it for months.

  He’s my best friend in the unit so today I finally gave in. He hasn’t stopped beaming since.

  Danvers, in comparison to Tillson, is the opposite. He surveys everything around him coolly, showing little or no emotion no matter what he sees. He’s a few years older than me, with a wife and two kids. I have no idea how he isn’t losing his shit every second of the day but hey. I don't ask questions.

  Which is how I got to be the leader of this unit. Well, okay. I’m not usually the leader of jack shit but we had two older soldiers leave and now I’m in charge. It’s supposedly temporary but we will just see how it goes.

  “We’re coming up to a roadblock,” Danvers says.

  Sure enough when I raise my head, we are quickly approaching one of the many thrown together collections of items — tires, sign posts, anything that can block the road and stop a vehicle. Whoever is stopping this and whatever their purpose is, it has to be dealt with decisively.

  There are two ways of handling this.

  We can go around, chance the Humvee being bogged down in the shifting sand dunes all around us.

  Or we can go through the actual stop. Flash our military identification and hope like hell that the US hasn’t pissed this particular group off.

  This is the third roadblock we have encountered in as many days, so I lean closer to the dash, scrutinizing the scene. There isn’t anyone to be seen, although that’s not terribly unusual. The thieves — getting money is what these roadblocks are mostly about — secret themselves behind a sand dune and wait.

  Without anyone to look at, I’m judging just their setup. In this case it’s basically two stacks of beat up tires and a long piece of metal pipe.

  “What do you want to do?” Tillson says, looking at me in the rearview. “We’re real close now.”

  Fuck the guys who put the roadblock in our way. Fuck it being hot. Fuck this godawful country.

  I make a snap decision.

  “Go around it,” I say. “We don't have time for this shit.”

  “Heard that,” Tillson says.

  As we come up on the roadblock, Tillson veers the Humvee off the road. All three of our heads bob as we go over the lip that defines the roadway. Tillson lets out a whoop of joy as he pilots the Humvee around the piles of tires.

  I see a glint of metal in the distance. My eye is drawn towards it before I even realize that it’s a man holding an old-fashioned bazooka. He doesn’t fire, but the fact that he’s watching means something seriously bad is about to go down.

  “Shit,” Danvers mutters.

&nb
sp; And then there is an explosion, rocking our whole Humvee to the side. Every piece of equipment in the Humvee is suddenly going crazy, beeping alarmingly. But I don't even notice for more than a second because two more big explosions hit our vehicle, flipping it over. We move in a quick and violent motion.

  When we flip over, it breaks something in the Humvee’s roof. The windshield shatters. I brace myself on the ceiling as the Humvee bounces upside down, scooting a few feet through the sand before coming to a rest. I’m in shock, too much to be able to move for a few good seconds.

  I don't black out exactly. I just stare at the fire engulfing the Humvee’s front end, my brain trying desperately to catch up. When the engine blows up though, I finally start to struggle.

  Danvers isn’t moving. Tillson sluggishly unbuckles his seat belt. When he turns around though, there is clearly something wrong.

  A big piece of metal in lodged right between his eyes.

  I can’t help but panic.

  “Fuck!” I scream. “Tillson… Tillson, don't move…”

  Heart pounding, I struggle with my seatbelt.

  “Grayson?”

  I blink a few times. Somewhere between one blink and the next, the scene shifts. It goes from bright and loud to dark and quiet. The stars shine brightly down on me as I lay in my hammock, the treetops above swaying.

  I’m soaked. Absolutely drenched in my own sweat.

  Fuck, I dreamt about them again.

  “Grayson, are you okay?”

  I look over to find Rachel peering down at me. She is wearing nothing but a long t-shirt, a pair of super short boxers, and a worried expression.

  Shit. She definitely wasn’t supposed to see me when I’m sleeping. If I made enough noise to bring her over here, it was a full-blown PTSD dream. I do not want her seeing any more of those and asking questions.

  Sitting up and shaking my head, I shove a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, trying to get it out of my face.

  “I’m fine,” I mumble. “I just had a bad dream.”

  She screws up her face. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” I stand up and grab my hiking boots. “Just go back to sleep. I’m going to go for a walk.”

  She casts a look around. “It’s dark out.”

  Fuuuuuuuck. I’m still a little disoriented and the last thing on earth I need right now is a bunch of questions.

  But I don't say anything in response to her observation. Cramming my feet into my boots, I realize I am bare-chested. I grab a long-sleeved plaid shirt out of my backpack and pull it on. “Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  I stalk off into the trees, acutely embarrassed and extremely agitated. I’m not sure where I will even go but anywhere is better than standing there looking frazzled. Dragging a hand over my face, I sigh.

  Rachel being here is tempting. Too tempting.

  Her soft lips, her sweet breath. Those little sighs she makes, furrowing her brows…

  I’m always worried about her when I’m not fantasizing about what kissing her would be like. How do I know that I won’t sleepwalk into her bunk at night and try to pick up where I left off with her?

  God, I wish I was a different person. A stronger one. A person who didn’t have these years of guilt and PTSD stacked on top of him. They threaten to smother me if I even think about slowing down for a fucking second.

  I start to repeat my mantra to myself without even realizing that I needed to hear it.

  “It is the fifth month, the month of May. It is the tenth day of the month, a Thursday. I’m currently in the Olympic National Park. My name is Grayson James Sellwood and I am okay.” I suck in a deep breath. “I am going to be okay.”

  Above me, the stars watch and wait, silently judging me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Grayson

  In the pre-dawn hours, I end up hiking a lot further than I meant to. By the time I make it back to camp the sun is fully out, coating the camp site in warmth. The fire pit is suspiciously cool; then again, I’m not even sure that Rachel knows how to start a fire, so I’m not entirely surprised.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Rachel?”

  I stalk over to her cabin and knock on the door. There is no response.

  Where would she go? Glancing around, I have literally no idea.

  My stomach rumbles faintly. It’s definitely time I ate something, whether or not Rachel is around. The cabin beside Rachel’s is empty except for our stock of food. I snag a bag of trail mix out of there and practically inhale it.

  Although I’ve been back at camp for almost twenty minutes, there is still no sign of Rachel. Where could she be? What if something happened to her?

  I imagine her lost in the woods, running scared. Pushing that down, I have to talk myself out of feeling like I need to hunt her down.

  Shrugging to myself, I decide to change clothes and make myself smell a little better by bathing. Grabbing a bundle of clothes and the eco-friendly soap I use, I set out for the stream. I know it’s just a few minutes away from the camp site.

  As I walk, I try to picture what the next few days will look like. Ideally, we will paddle kayaks out across Lake Sutherland and Lake Crescent today or tomorrow. If we do that, we could stay overnight somewhere west of Lake Crescent and get all the way to the coast of the Pacific Ocean the next day. Then we should come back to base camp and…

  I glance up from my thoughts.

  I come up behind a large tree. Just beyond me is the stream, trickling broadly over a bed of gravel. It gathers and pools a little in a copse just on the other side of this tree. Upon looking a second time, the stream is more substantial than I remembered. Where it pools, water is almost knee deep.

  I spy a flash of bare skin moving and my mouth drops open. My lungs seize up.

  Rachel is right there, mostly naked. She has a pair of white lacy panties on but she’s completely topless, splashing around in the depths. Her tits are amazing, high and firm. Her perfectly shaped pale pink nipples are hard as rocks, doubtless from being splashed with what is likely very cold water.

  Fuck. I can feel myself growing hard. I know that I should turn away, but I can’t. I’m trapped, gaping at Rachel’s incredible body.

  I stare at the water as it pebbles and falls away, tracing down her breasts. It keeps rolling down her smooth sides to the flare of her petite hips. The scrap of white lace that is pressed between her thighs there might as well not exist.

  I know from memory that Rachel has a little thatch of amber-colored hair there. I also remember the look on her face the very first time I parted those creamy thighs and tasted her dripping wet pussy. I couldn’t get enough of her earthy-sweet flavor, licking her folds until she buried her hands in my hair and called out my name.

  I’m so hard now that it’s a little uncomfortable. Reaching down to adjust myself is an agony. It’s been so long since I’ve touched a woman, so long since any woman has touched me. I jerk off from time to time as a way to release serotonin but…

  I’d all but forgotten the way that I could feel, looking at Rachel bathing herself. I’d forgotten what it means to be around a woman I’m attracted to.

  That’s the gist of it, I realize. Rachel’s body still calls to me like a siren’s song.

  I want to fucking touch her so badly that I’m trembling just a bit. I want to hold her. I want to fuck her, to hear my name ripped from her lips as I make her come. I want to bury myself inside her so deep that neither of us will ever recover.

  Forget the past. Stop fearing the future. Just be with her, within her, as free as a bird.

  Fuck. Am I really hiding behind a giant tree, spying on Rachel and thinking about how she’s attractive? I’m essentially a bridge troll come to life. Turning, I try to slink away quietly.

  “Hello?” Rachel calls. “If that’s you, Grayson, don’t come over here!”

  I hesitate, then keep going back to camp. The whole walk back, I’m scrambling, trying to plan out how me seeing her nake
d isn’t going to mess anything up in our working relationship. It’s not that I regret having seen her. I couldn’t exactly help that.

  But things are already so fucking strange between us. All this does is add another layer of complexity onto a situation that is already rife with tension.

  I decide to keep it as simple as I can.

  Don’t stare at her tits. Don’t stare at her ass. And for the love of god, don’t stare longingly at her pussy.

  All I need is to last long enough for Rachel to realize of her own accord that being out here in nature is a terrible idea. Then I will be free of this, of obsessively thinking about her.

  Reaching my hammock, I rub my hand over my face. A couple of women back at Whiskey Bend were flirty. Maybe I should’ve flirted back, let them warm my bed for a night or two. Then I wouldn’t be so sexually frustrated right now.

  Then again, those women didn’t look like Rachel.

  “Stop it,” I reprimand myself. “You knew her a long time ago. You don’t know anything about her life now. She could be married for all you know about it.”

  It’s true. I know next to nothing about Rachel’s life now, aside from what little I’ve gleaned. She went to school and got her graduate degree. Other than that, I don’t know anything about her life. Nothing personal, at least.

  Pressing my mouth into a line, I start stripping off my clothing. If I can’t bathe, I can at least change. It’s better to think about my clothes than it is to wonder about Rachel’s life.

  All the things I don’t know about. Like whether she replaced me with another serious boyfriend. I mean, she’s fucking gorgeous. And that’s not even considering how rich her snooty family is. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine her having a boyfriend or fiancé back in Manhattan.

  That fact puts me firmly in a bad mood. Grimacing to myself, I rush to finish changing.