by Teagan Kade
He chomps down on his ice-cream, demolishing half of it in one bite. “Why do I feel like I’m doing all the talking here?”
“No,” I tell him. “I enjoy it. I like listening to you, hearing about your life.”
“Yet I barely know anything about yours.”
I hold up my cone. “You know I like vanilla.”
“Do you like everything in your life plain and uncomplicated?”
“Plain, yes,” I reply, “though I’m always up for some complication.”
“Chaos?”
“I didn’t say that now, but fun, excitement? Sure. Who doesn’t want those things in life?”
We finish our ice creams and Archer takes my hand. It’s the first real contact we’ve had, but I’m happy to let him do it, to enjoy the feel of his skin against mine even if it is only a couple of fingers twined together.
Walking the streets of Miami, we could be any couple out for the day, tourists even.
We’re stopped at a pedestrian crossing, side by side when a jaywalker shoves into me on their way through the intersection. The jolt knocks me into Archer’s arms.
For a brief moment he holds me there, my face, my lips, so near to his own, so close I can make out the individual pores on his face, feel the warm brush of his breath against my skin.
I find his eyes and our heads move closer together… until a horn blast from the intersection snaps us apart, the moment lost.
Seems the jaywalker almost wound up splattered across someone’s windshield.
We continue to walk until we come to a large area, a square of sorts in the middle of town.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around in fascination.
Ever the eager tour guide, Archer responds, “Welcome to the Wynwood Walls, the most Instagrammed place in America.”
I’m so spellbound by the giant, colorful street art everywhere I look that it takes me a while to respond. “I don’t have Instagram. I don’t even have a phone.”
That takes him back. He swings around in front of me still holding my hand. “You don’t? But you seem fairly up to date on things. Where do you get your information?”
“I go to the library, use the internet there.”
He looks behind me, between my feet, over my shoulder. “Did I miss the time machine because, girl, you’re living in the past.”
I roll my eyes, tugging him towards a towering mural of a girl with fire for hair. “This is free?”
Archer nods. “One of the world’s great free outdoor art galleries, yes. A complete hipster-fest. But I don’t know. I like it here. There’s a good energy to the place.”
I know what he means. The crowd is young and trendy, the vibe almost overpoweringly cool.
“This area used to be one you’d steer clear of—literally. I’m talking taxi drivers would avoid it. It was all warehouses run by street gangs, full of drugs and crime.”
“Drugs?” I ask, squeezing his hand tight.
“Not anymore. I mean, there’s probably someone running around with a few joints, but it’s been, what do they call it? Revitalized? Gentrified? Look at it now. It’s a tourist hot spot.”
“How long has it been here?”
“Midtown was developed around the early two-thousands, a guy called Tony Goldman—great name—bringing it up to speed, talked about making this American Riviera.”
I’m still taking it all in. The colors are so strong and vibrant. It’s like the murals are leaping off the wall. “It’s extraordinary.”
“The best street artists in the world come here. It’s the place to have your work seen, to be seen.”
“Is that why you like coming here, to show off?”
He lifts up his arm, flexing his bicep. “We’ve got beaches for that.” He stops, pointing through a gap in the wall. “Funnily enough, you move a few blocks south that way and you’re back in the mean streets. There’s a warning sign about it, actually, right there.”
I press down the sudden urge to leave. I don’t want this to end, no matter the danger. Holding Archer’s hand, I feel safe, untouchable.
I think about the almost-kiss. We were so close, his lips almost on mine. A flicker of heat rushes between my thighs, snakes its way up my spine, and explodes in my head like a shower of champagne. That is the effect he is having on me.
We continue to walk, Archer pointing out artworks of interest and proving surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject given his beach bum—albeit a very toned beach bum—demeanor.
We spend almost two hours admiring the art and adjoining galleries and stores. It’s well into the afternoon by the time we finish, the clear sky now blanketed in high cirrus clouds that have swept in from the south.
I never want the day to end. It’s been joyous, nothing short of an affirmation of life, of what could be.
We stand back in the street and I doubt even a sudden rainstorm could wipe the smile from my face.
“Where to now?” I ask.
Archer smiles. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says, holding his belly. “We’re going to eat.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ARCHER
The dream starts off the same way it always does. I’m heading out back, way past the breakers, but the swell’s massive. I see her, struggling to stay above water.
I swim harder, but she only gets further and further away, the shore slipping away behind my shoulder until it’s gone for good and there’s no girl, no land—just the infinite ocean.
There’s a scream, but when I open my eyes I realize it’s not mine.
It takes my sleep-addled brain a moment to work out exactly what’s going on, that my bed’s not empty.
Winter’s tucked up into my back, one hand draped over my side, the other clutching at her pillow. Her face is twisted, eyes moving fast beneath her eyelids, and her mouth caught open.
“Don’t,” she begs, her fingernails digging into my side. “Don’t, please. Don’t hurt him.”
I roll over, also noticing she has a bare leg thrown over my hip. I can feel the warm heat of her against my lower back, nothing but boxers separating skin from skin.
I snap out of it, turning and gently trying to shake her awake. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”
“Don’t!” she suddenly screams. “I’ll do it, I promise. I’ll do it.”
I shake a little harder as she starts to fling about, halfway to a full-on convulsion. “Winter, wake up.”
Slowly, her eyes begin to flicker open, darting around the room until they find mine and settle in the dim light.
I can see the way the shirt she’s wearing billows in and out between her breasts, the way she tries to regulate her breathing.
Her mouth remains open. “I, I—”
“Hey, you’re good,” I tell her, trying to keep myself an appropriate distance, my hands up in a non-threatening manner. “I’m here—Archer. Remember?”
She must have sleep-walked right in here again, I realize, somehow lifted the blankets and simply slipped in. God knows how I didn’t notice a beautiful woman basically dry-humping me from behind.
Too lost in your own nightmares, my head interjects.
She’s starting to realize where she is, confused. She pulls the blanket tighter around herself, lifting from the bed and bringing her free hand to her head. “Not again. Did we? This time?”
I sit up on an elbow and shake my head. “Not by my recollection.”
I’m desperately resisting the urge to reach for her. “You okay? Looked like you were having a nightmare. You were telling someone you didn’t want to do it? Whatever ‘it’ is. We can talk about it, if you want.”
And for the first time I can actually see her considering it, but in the end she tucks her head into her shoulder, shaking her head. “It was nothing. No biggie.”
“You sure? I thought you were going to convulse your way right out of the bed for a moment there.”
She bobs up and down, the mattress springing away below. “It is a nice bed.”
You can stay if you like, I almost say, thinking better than to take advantage of a sleep-walking live wire of anxiety. “We can swap if you want.”
She slowly backs away under the covers, swinging her legs over the bed and standing.
Running on autopilot, my eyes drop downwards. She follows them and sees, like me, the t-shirt I gave her barely reaches her belly. She tugs it down, which only makes her breasts stand out more, nipples pressed against the fabric like small acorns. “I should, ah…”
“Yeah,” I kind of wave, “get back to bed, grab some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
“Is it?” she asks.
“It’s always big with me,” I reply, mentally slapping myself for how overtly sexual it sounds.
“O-kay,” she says, backing up to the door. “Goodnight then?”
And fuck knows why, but I salute. I actually salute her goodnight. “Goodnight, Winter.”
“Goodnight, Archer,” comes the equally awkward reply.
She turns, the top of the t-shirt caught in the waistband of her boxers, two perfect, peachy orbs of ass staring right back at me. They’re basically begging me to get up and go get her, but I keep myself on leash knowing this is not the time, and definitely not the moment.
*
The awkwardness runs right through the following morning. Winter gets up—dressed this time—making her way into the kitchen with the stealth of an alley cat.
“Morning,” she says behind me, taking me by such surprise I almost flip the pancake I’m tossing right to the roof.
I turn, bringing my attention away from the pan. “Good morning. I hope you like pancakes.”
“So that’s what the whipped cream is for?”
Among other things, I think.
“I went out earlier and got some fresh strawberries, bananas… It’s basically a fruit salad in the fridge.”
She looks at me incredulously. “Earlier,” eyes wandering up to the clock on the wall. “It’s seven AM.”
“And my shift starts at eight, but I didn’t want you to go hungry, considering your kick-ass cooking skills.”
She tilts her head to the side, lips tightly together. “That’s not going to win you any brownie points, you know.”
“I did save your life,” I tell her, waving the spatula around like it’s a magic wand.
She takes a step closer. “You did, and I’m in your debt, but insult a woman’s cooking and…”
I laugh, crossing my arms. “Whatever that was the other night, it wasn’t cooking. I mean, we could have scraped it out, sold it off as charcoal perhaps…”
She slaps me on the arm, the first real sign of physical contact between us that hasn’t been life-or-death, or via sleepwalking. I don’t think it goes unnoticed.
Winter clears her throat and takes a step back. “So, you’ve got a shift today.”
“All day, sorry. Do you want some money for the shops? Or you could stroll the beach—lots to see.”
“I think I’ll stay put,” she says.
“Your call.”
She looks past me. “By the way, Gordon Ramsey, looks like your pancakes are burning.”
“Shit!” I stammer, spinning around and flipping the pancake in the pan only to be met with a lovely shade of emo black. “Fuck.”
Winter’s loving it, of course, bent over herself in hysterics. “What’s that saying about throwing rocks from glass houses? Is that how it goes?”
The pancake in question goes straight into the trash. I point the spatula at her. “You better watch that tone, young lady”
“Why? What are you going to do? Spank me?”
If blood wasn’t rushing to my cock before, it basically floods there now at the thought of her bare ass in front of me, bent over my knee.
She realizes what she’s said, her cheeks turning a wonderful shade of I-fucked-up red.
I let her simmer in it for a bit, pouring the next pancake. “Ask and maybe, just maybe,” I speak down to the pan, “you shall receive.”
*
It’s flat as a tack out there today, which naturally means all the trouble migrates to the beach. By the end of the shift I’m completely exhausted, my throat dry from shouting at idiot after idiot.
After our shift, I head with Robbie to Bar None, but a rather full-breasted redhead steals him away to fuck knows where. I’m left alone at the bar with a semi-warm Corona. My thoughts turn to Winter. In-between the idiot convention, she’s all I’ve been thinking about.
It’s then I spot a familiar face sitting on the other side of the bar.
We see each other at the same time.
Liam points to himself, back to me. I indicate the spare stool beside myself. Ten seconds later he’s sitting next to me, sliding his half-empty beer onto the bar.
He shakes his head for a moment. “Archer. Fuck me. It’s been a while.”
I notice he’s still in uniform, the blue and black get-up of the Miami Beach Police. “It has. How’s the Force treating you?”
He shrugs. “Shitty pay, a fuck-load of jerk-offs out there, but hey, at least we’re not buried up to our necks in sand and extremists, right?”
He’s referring to our Afghanistan tour. The sand got everywhere—nostrils, bed, clothes, right up in your asshole where the sun don’t shine. “Feels like forever ago.”
He takes up his beer. “Fucking hey. And you?” he says, glancing at my uniform. “Still pulling idiots out of the water and fighting the hordes?”
“Something like that,” I nod, staring down into the pale yellow of my Corona.
I think of Winter and realize this is my chance. She said she didn’t want to go to the cops, but there’d be no harm asking Liam his professional opinion, get his take on things.
I decide to keep it casual. “Speaking of things being pulled out of the water, I rescued a girl just the other night.”
“Fuck me. They’ve got you doing night shifts now?”
“No, no. I left something at the tower and spotted her out there halfway to death, pulled her in.”
“She’s hot, isn’t she? Did she grow legs and run off, tell you her daddy is Titan, king of the ocean?”
I shove him with my shoulder. “Fuck you, and yeah, she’s attractive.”
“What was she doing out there after dark?”
I wish I knew, I think. “I’m not sure. She was pretty quiet about the whole thing, wouldn’t tell me anything.”
I don’t want to mention the girl in question is staying with me just yet, that I didn’t even log the rescue.
“You think she was in some kind of trouble?” asks Liam, clueing in.
“Trouble? For sure, but what kind I have no fucking idea.”
“You patched her up and sent her on her way, or is she back at your place tied to the bed?”
I know he’s joking, but it still takes me off guard. “I’m a gentleman. You know that.”
He slaps his hand into the bar. “Fuck the fuck off. If you’re a gentleman, I’m the King of England. Seriously, what happened?”
I’m almost tempted to spill everything and bring him in, but I don’t know enough yet, and I don’t want to go against Winter’s wishes to not get the authorities involved. Selfishly perhaps, maybe I want to keep her around a little longer. I shrug. “The usual. Protocol, you know.”
“As long as you’ve got her number. Never know when she might be up for a bit more mouth-to-mouth, right… or is it mouth-to-cock?”
I do my best to smile. “Right.”
But Liam and I have known each other too long. When you serve together you develop a rapport with the people around you that’s unmatched in the civilian world, a bond that’s almost like a sixth sense.
He takes my shoulder. “If you need something, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? I can help.”
“I know,” I reply, doing my best not to reveal my tells.
“If it’s to do with your mermaid, fucking let me know. I’ll put Miami’s finest to work, get you some answers. After all,” he ta
ps his head, “knowledge is power.”
His phone buzzes between us. He reaches down to take it out, cursing when he sees the number. “My ex. She’s bleeding me fucking dry. Between the repayments for the new place, the alimony… I need a major cash injection, my brother, right fucking now.”
I raise my hands. “Don’t go looking at me. They’re paying us the same peanuts as you.”
He stands, drinking what’s left of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Good to see you again, man. You let me know if you need anything, okay?”
I take his hand. “Will do. Stay safe.”
“Likewise,” he replies, smiling before turning to weave his way through the bar crowd.
I continue to stare down into my Corona wondering if I should have said more, wondering if I said too much.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WINTER
I can’t cook, but I can clean. God knows I’ve done my share of that. I start in the kitchen, which still smells like a cigar room, and work my way out into the lounge and bedrooms.
As I do, I take in the small things that make up Archer’s apartment. Yes, it’s clear there’s a single man living here, but there is a running order to the chaos. As far as bachelor pads go, it’s definitely on the neater side. And the board games. They run completely against the bad boy exterior.
I consider what to do next, my hands moving autonomously. I think of dinner, dancing, opening my eyes on the beach to find him staring back at me, my savior.
Careful. It sounds like you’re getting attached, I warn myself.
Immediately, my mind turns to darker things, of how I came to be in this predicament in the first place.
But it could have been far worse, couldn’t it?
I think of the alternative and shudder, bringing myself back to the task at hand.
I’m cleaning down the side of his drawers when I notice something stuck behind them and the wall. I reach in and pull it out, blowing dust off the front of it. It’s a certificate for an ‘Award of Outstanding Service’ dated two years ago.
There’s a newspaper clipping attached to it. The headline reads, ‘Local Lifeguard Saves School Children.’ I skim the article quickly expecting Archer to arrive home at any moment, almost feeling taboo doing so.
