by Casey Winter
“I can make this all better,” she whispered. “You don’t have to suffer alone anymore—”
And then I woke up.
Now, I lean back in my chair, rubbing at my face. Three days since the kiss. I haven’t slept a wink. I’ve been running on three to four hours of sleep a night for years now, but this is even worse than that. I was lucky to get two last night, one and a half the night before.
I kissed Hannah Coleman-Ortiz.
Worse, I want to do it again.
That’s another reason sleep has been so difficult.
In those hazy moments when I’m about to fall unconscious, I imagine that I didn’t let her go on Sunday. Instead, I grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her up, carried her to the desk and cleared it with one sweep of my arm. Laying her down, I collapsed atop her, grinding my rock-hard manhood against her crotch, both of us humid and starving for each other.
I stand up, wandering to the window that overlooks the rink. It’s just gone ten in the morning and Hannah is still down there. She has bought new slalom cones, it looks like, because these ones light up neon: orange and red and green, like a twisted collection of fire. Her wheels are neon, too, magical as they dance around the cones in skillful, controlled movements.
Ponytail flailing like a weapon behind her, she looks dangerous and gorgeous. Dangerous most of all. This is bad. This is really bad. I didn’t plan on showing her Noah’s letter. I didn’t plan on being vulnerable with her in any way, no matter how minimal. And I definitely didn’t plan on kissing her. But when she sasses me, all vivacious and alluring, it’s like something else takes ahold of me.
Below, she’s helping out with some of the customers. She’s slowly becoming the unofficial mascot of Family Roller, drawing in customers from all over Little Fall, even a couple from Lorham, the closest town, sixty miles up the road. With her reputation for being helpful, and with the videos online of her doing some pretty superhuman stuff on her skates, she’s a smash hit.
I return to the desk, drop into the chair, staring at the calendar again. This has become a ritual with me, every morning, just waiting for Hannah to slide away from my mind so that I can continue with my life.
I’m actually looking forward to the phone call I have to make at a ten fifteen. Dad, always argumentative, managed to piss off his main supplier in a price dispute. Since he’s a stubborn bastard, I need to call the man up and smooth things over. I tried to make him see sense, but he just won’t. He’s been even more cantankerous since the argument, our disagreement about me chopping firewood for Hannah.
What if he found out we’d kissed? His head would probably blow off. Maybe it’s worth telling him, just to see that. But no. Telling him would make it real. Right now, I can pretend it never happened. I need to keep it that way.
I drum my fingers on the desk, yawning, thinking back to yesterday afternoon when a couple of parents approached me at the main desk. They were flushed with their skating session, their children beaming with excitement, made even more endearing by how nervous they also were, hugging their parents’ knees.
“How did you get her?” the mother gasped, eyes bright in her heart-framed glasses.
“Get who?” I muttered.
“Hannah,” she beamed.
“You must be paying her a pretty penny, eh?” the father agreed. “We’ve been back three times just on the off chance that it will be her shift. The kids love her.”
“She doesn’t work here,” I muttered, feeling awkward. “She just comes here to practice.”
“Oh, well …” The mother looked closely at me, maybe wanting to know what my problem was. “Let’s hope she keeps coming.”
Finally, the phone rings, jolting me from my reverie. I answer, losing myself in the back-and-forth with the supplier. After thirty minutes of listening to him complain about my dad’s attitude, I manage to talk him around to not pulling his business. Hanging up, I wander over to the window, telling myself I’m not just trying to get another look at Hannah in her signature yoga pants and hoodie.
But she’s gone. Customers are skating around the rink, far more than there were last week. I know that Hannah’s the cause, that people have been coming here to get a glimpse of her crazy moves.
The kids love her. Everybody loves her. Except me, I remind myself.
—
I spend the rest of the day cleaning up after Dad, which has basically become my second job since I realized how messed up his business is. But when I get a chance, I check on the rink, making sure everything is running smoothly. Using the mentality I learned as a SEAL, the problems are mostly easy to solve. Break them down into small pieces, attack each piece, keep attacking until it’s done.
Repeat.
It’s almost nine o’clock, an hour before closing, when Hannah finally walks back through the door. The rink is entirely deserted, so empty that I’ve let the staff go early. I’m manning the desk when she approaches, her expression deeply sad. She’s so lost in thought—about her mom, I’m guessing—she doesn’t even realize it’s me until she’s right at the desk.
“Oh,” she mutters, her oak-brown eyes going wide with shock. I’ve never realized just how interesting her eyes are before. I catch myself. Interesting eyes? What am I even saying? “Um, one, please.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say on impulse.
“No, come on. Let me pay.”
“Really,” I press. “You’re here all the damn time. You must’ve spent at least a hundred dollars this past week. Maybe we can work out a monthly rate or something, if you’re gonna keep coming back.”
I can’t stop myself from making this offer. She just looks so down, so unlike her usual self. I try and picture Noah’s face instead, to remind myself of what she did, that I have to stay strong. But it just seems so hazy compared with Hannah’s achingly real sadness.
“Yeah, I guess so,” she mutters. “Thanks, Luke.”
“No problem, twinkle toes,” I tease.
She tries for a laugh, but it sounds hollow. I don’t care. Let her be sad. It means nothing to me. “Rough evening?” I ask.
Stop. Right now. What are you doing?
She’s halfway to the entrance to the rink. Without turning, she nods, her ponytail bobbing. “Sort of,” she mutters. “Just seeing how sick the chemo makes Mom, you know? It’s crazy. And she’s there trying to be all brave. But I can tell it’s killing her.” She laughs drily. “Really fricking killing her. She’s with her friend now, Alejandra.”
She says the last part like she feels guilty for leaving her.
“You’re allowed to have a life,” I say, wanting to reassure her, knowing I shouldn’t want it.
“Hmm,” she mutters, unconvinced.
She walks into the rink. I watch her go, disappearing into the neon darkness, and then swivel on the stool. I swivel once, twice, going around and around. I feel agitated, full of energy and ideas: ideas of how to make her feel better. Even if that belongs right at the bottom of my list of priorities.
I need to get a photo of Noah in here, a tribute to him over the door, a big-ass photo of him in his Marine uniform, reminding me that I’m supposed to be the loyal big brother. Yet, even thinking this, I walk over to the seating area, leaning over the railing that separates it from the rink. I watch Hannah. She’s putting her skates on, sitting down, her movements more sluggish than usual.
“What happened to my skating lesson?” I call over.
My voice carries in the empty rink, especially since I turned the music off when the place emptied. It’s dark except for the neon lights. I think I see her smile, but then it’s gone.
“I don’t know if I’d be much of a teacher right now, frogman,” she says weakly. “But—thanks, though.”
“Thanks?”
She shrugs. “For asking. For trying to cheer me up.”
“Who said I was trying to cheer you up?” I chuckle.
“Oh, come on,” she says, a little livelier now. “Seeing you fall on yo
ur ass would just make my day.”
“Fall on my ass?” On a whim, I grab the railing and vault over it, landing in a balanced crouch. Springing back up, I swagger over to her. It’s just too easy to banter with her. It just feels too good to be the one to lift her spirits. “You must not be much of a teacher, then, if you think you can knock me off my feet.”
She glares up at me, but she’s smiling. Her cheeks are luminescent in the neon light. Strands of hair have come loose, spiraling around her forehead. She’s not wearing any makeup, making her look more vulnerable, especially her eyes which are usually ringed in black. She’s so. Damn. Beautiful.
Stop. Now..
“Skates, frogman. Skates. It’s very different.”
“Show me, then,” I say.
“You don’t quit, do you?”
“Occupational hazard,” I tell her, getting pulled deeper into the back-and-forth despite myself.
“I guess quitting’s not really an option, when you’re … over there.”
I swallow, thinking about bullets pounding against sunbaked bricks. About screaming people and smoke making the horizon hazy. “No,” I growl. “It’s not.”
She nods shortly. “Look, Luke. Thank you for … you know, thanks for talking to me or whatever.” She winces, and I know that’s not what she really wanted to say. She glares, as though to overcorrect. “But I just want to be alone, okay?”
I shrug, deciding I’ve gone far enough. “It makes no difference to me,” I grunt.
“Ah, there you are,” she snaps, cheeks reddening. “For a split-second there, I thought that Jerk-Off Luke had disappeared. I’m glad he’s back.”
“You didn’t park that bubblegum eyesore out front, did you?” I growl back. We’re both half-smiling, even as we insult each other. It’s like a game. One I enjoy playing even if I know I shouldn’t. “I don’t want you scaring off my customers.”
“I’m pretty sure your Wannabe Badass Mobile has more of a chance of doing that, actually.” She clearly wants the last word. She’s breathy, amped-up, sexy and sassy and—
Shut. The. Hell. Up.
“Imagine coming to what’s supposed to be a family-friendly roller rink and seeing that parked out front. You’d think you’d come to a fricking, um …” Her cheeks get even redder. She bites her lip, glaring at me cutely now, clearly annoyed at not being able to think of anything.
“Don’t worry, twinkle toes,” I grin. “Sometimes I start sentences without being able to finish them, too.”
“How’s this for a finish?” She flips me the bird which, strangely, makes me laugh. It sort of turns me on, too, how she doesn’t seem to be drawn to me for my career or my money like other women sometimes are.
“Very mature,” I smile, loving every second of it. “I did want to ask you something, though.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Do you own anything except for hoodies and yoga pants? Because you know that drives me goddamn insane, right?”
I bite down, but it’s too late. The words are already out there: an admission of how sexy I find her. She flushes. Damn, she looks so good when she flushes.
“Is that so?” she whispers. “You like seeing how the sweat makes the hoodie stick to me. Is that it, frogman? You like how tight the yoga pants are?”
She stands up on one skate, balancing easily on her other foot. Looking around to make sure nobody’s watching—the place is deserted—she bends forward slightly. Highlighting her fine legs, her more-than-fine ass, she winks cruelly. I’m captivated. I can’t look away.
But then she seems to snap to her senses. She stands upright, making up for the display by taking on a soldier’s posture, stiff-backed. “If you care that much, I won my first competition wearing a hoodie and yoga pants, so now, I just sort of wear it every time I skate. It’s comfortable. It gives me full range of motion. Believe it or not, I’m not purposefully doing it to satisfy you in any way.”
“So you’re superstitious,” I mutter.
She shrugs. “Maybe. Is this the part where you make fun of me for it?”
I wish the desk was still between us.
Because, right now, it’d be too easy to just grab her and kiss her again. Trying not to want her just makes me want her more. Her messy ponytail makes me want to fist her hair, free the rest of it, let it fall wavy around her shoulders. Everything about her is so vivacious. She looks hot. Not just sexy. She looks physically, literally hot. Like if I touched her, I’d be able to feel the fire through the fabric of her hoodie.
“No,” I say after a pause. I’m white-knuckling, fingers crushed into my palms with the effort of self-restraint. “I never judge folk for being superstitious. In the teams—”
“What are the teams?” she asks.
“The SEALs. It’s what we call them.”
“Oh, okay. SEALs are superstitious, are they?”
I nod. “Men had all sorts of rituals. There was this one fella, Baldy, he’d always have to be wearing this shark-tooth pendant he came through BUDs with—BUDs is basic training, the stuff you’ve probably seen on TV, lifting the logs and lying in the ocean, stuff like that. He had that with him as long as I knew him, slept with it.
“One time, as a joke, some of the fellas managed to get their hands on it when he was asleep. This wasn’t easy, because Baldy, damn, he was just as sharp with the lights out as when he was awake. But we’d just gotten back from a fifty-hour op, and we were dog-tired. Anyway, when he woke up, the men who stole it soon gave it back.
“You see, Hannah. The teams are pretty goddamn cruel. We’re always playing tricks on each other. It’s a way of making sure you’ve got what it takes, that you won’t crumble under pressure. But Baldy didn’t get angry, or upset. He just coldly walked up to the man who he thought had taken it—Kiwi was the prankster in our unit, so it was a safe bet—and told him to give the pendant back. It was something in how he said it. Ice-cold. Kiwi went and got it. And that was that.”
I realize she’s staring at me, enthralled. I let out a breath. That’s easily the most I’ve ever talked about my old unit, to anybody. Even to Morgan. “So I don’t judge people who are superstitious,” I mutter, feeling awkward.
I have no idea where that came from, no clue why I felt comfortable sharing that with her. I keep that part of myself locked down. If I pry too deeply, I might have to confront other things, less funny things. Hellish things.
“Do you miss it?” Hannah asks.
I snort, playing it off. “What is this, a therapy session?”
She huffs, “Just when I think you’re not a complete asshole—You know what, Luke? I don’t even care.”
She leans down and reaches into her bag. She takes out her purse, retrieves a few bills, scrunches them up, and tosses them at me. They land like crumpled green petals between us.
“Keep the change,” she hisses, dropping down to put on her second skate.
I turn away, ignoring the cash, and return to the desk. I made so many mistakes just now, too many to count. It’s gravitational, this pull she has on me. When I’m not with her, I can pretend I don’t care, pretend it’s stupid. But the second I lay eyes on her, I want to banter with her, want to get to know her, want to … I just want. I want like I have never wanted another woman. It makes no sense. It’s so, so wrong.
She broke Noah’s heart.
Maybe I should get that tattooed on the inside of my goddamn eyelids. That way, every time I close my eyes, I’ll be reminded. Because, right now, closing my eyes means one of two things: PTSD crap about my time overseas, or Hannah. And I can’t decide which is worse, more dangerous.
I sit at the desk, agitated. I can’t stay still. My foot taps. I drum my fingers. My eyes stray to the security monitor.
I’m far more bothered than I should be at how Hannah is skating. Usually, she’s like a woman possessed. She barely finishes her first run through the cones before she has launches into another, spinning and tip-toeing and heel-wheeling and crazy-legging like a po
ssessed steamy demon. But now, she skates from one side to the other sluggishly, shoulders heaving as she sighs.
She checks her phone, replaces it, checks it again. Makes another circuit.
I want to make her feel better. I want to distract her, amuse her.
Am I really doing this?
I ask myself about a hundred times as I find some skates in my size, sit on the stool, and start taking off my boots. This is the first time I’ve even thought about putting the skates on. They feel weird, even when I tie the laces tight. I have trouble walking on the carpet over to the rink, which is why most people carry the skates through before they put them on, I guess.
I almost fall flat on my ass when I go from the carpet of the seating area to the slick floor of the rink. I grunt as I walk doggedly over to where Hannah is skating. She looks up when I’m about halfway there.
And she laughs, she laughs like crazy.
Right then, it’s worth it. Just to see her smile, just to hear the sweet music of her laughter. Even if it’s wrong—so wrong, probably the worst way I could spit on the memory of my little brother—it feels so damn right.
“Oh my God,” she giggles.
With the skates on my feet, I have fresh respect for how easy she makes it look as she one-legs over to me. She stops in a graceful pirouette.
“You weren’t lying, were you?” she giggles. “You’re stiff as a board. What is it, Luke, is the big bad soldier man scared of falling?”
“I’ve taken bullets, knives, fire. I’ve faced down Cartel monsters and I’ve wrestled with men the size of bears, twinkle toes.”
She spins around me. I want to turn to look at her, but I can’t. “You didn’t answer my question,” she laughs, appearing in front of me again.
“I’m not scared,” I growl. “I’m just wondering how you make this look so easy.”
She can’t stop smiling. I love it. I want to kiss her. I want to make her smile more. I want, I want, I need her. What’s happening to me? I’ve never felt this visceral desire for a woman before. Wrong-right-wrong-right.
