“Sydney,” James whispers into the side of his neck. Says it again nestled into his cheek, breathing warmth across his shivering skin.
Sydney turns his head to capture James’ lips once more, and they both groan as their tongues brush, quiet trembling gasps mixed with the steady crash of the waves. Sydney lets his mind go blissfully still, utterly lost in the feeling of James’ skin against his, the gentle caress of his lips, the careful, reverent traces of his warm fingertips. The visceral, exploding relief.
James Campbell is kissing him. Him!
Then he remembers why James stormed away the night before. The anger in his spine, the hurt trembling in his face.
Sydney needs to know—can’t stand there on the beach with his palm across James’ jaw for another second without knowing. He lets his fingers trace back through the strands of James’ hair below his ear, imagining what it would feel like if he gave him one more soft kiss in the corner of his mouth. If he just pressed his lips to James’ skin and breathed him in, quiet and still.
He pulls back, though, the air cooling the edges of his kiss-sensitive lips. For some reason, the fact that he almost did kiss James in such a way sends a shiver of fear down his arms. And James’ eyes as they look back at him hold the depth of the sea. They bore into him the way a wave envelops his skin. Unrelenting and powerful, terrifying and known.
“Surf today, James,” Sydney says in a weak voice. “Go out there and . . . just do it for you. Please.”
James Campbell is a marvel. He’s standing on a beach willingly holding Sydney’s body in his arms, letting him touch and mark and feel his skin with his hands, letting him ask him, beg him to hold his ground against his fear. James’ eyes don’t leave his, as if he’s trying to read the results of the competition in Sydney’s own pupils. The creamy, warm water continues to lick at their ankles, leaving their toes in cool and damp pockets of sand.
“You’ll be there?” James eventually asks.
Sydney nods. He can’t help himself. He brushes his fingers once more through James’ hair and refuses to blink as he watches James lean into the touch. His touch. Refuses to wonder if James thinks it’s childish how much his palm is shaking.
“I’ll be there,” he responds.
Then James smiles. It washes over his face in a bright wave, and Sydney can feel his own cheeks responding in kind. His chest swells, as if he’s going to rise up into the air, bolstered by the power of the look on James’ face and the wind blowing steadily off the surface of the ocean.
He wants to run down to the competition and laugh in everyone’s faces that the bravest man on earth just said that he wanted him, right there for the entire sunrise-covered ocean to see.
Sydney dips his head and tentatively brushes his nose against James’ to strengthen his answer, breathing in the scent of James’ sleepy skin. James hums, then shakes his head and lets out a husky laugh, placing his hands on Sydney’s chest and leaning slightly away.
“This is insane.”
Sydney’s smile freezes on his face and turns stale. The breath in his lungs sinks like lead.
He knows this. Doesn’t James realize that he knows this? He’s the most irritating, risky, un-liked man in all of surfing and James Campbell just willingly kissed him. Of course it’s insane. Why else would he have had to wait to find the bravest man on earth for someone to finally say they wanted him? Yes—he knows all of this like he knows every part that makes up a television, a radio, a toaster oven, a car.
And yet, he’d thought it would last a bit longer before James went and pointed it all out. At least just long enough to kiss him one more time (lie on top of him, peel his clothes from his body, hold him down into the sand, hear him gasp, feel his back arch). At least until James wins the competition and walks away with a garland of flowers. At least until he has to leave and go back to Los Angeles . . .
Sydney’s so lost in his head he realizes a few seconds too late that he’s gone entirely stiff. James frowns, taking in the new tension in Sydney’s body, then sucks in a quick breath with wide eyes.
“No no no,” he says. “I didn’t mean this.”
James hesitates, eyes narrowed as if he’s gauging Sydney’s reaction, then he leans forward and kisses Sydney softly on the mouth, exactly in the spot where Sydney had longed to do the same to James just minutes ago. The soft pucker of his lips sounds louder than all their previous kisses combined.
Sharp relief immediately courses through Sydney’s body in pounding waves. He moans on a soft sigh as he relaxes under James’ brief touch, still shocked at the taste of James’ lips—James Campbell’s lips—against his own.
James pulls back and gives a small grin. “No, this is not what’s insane,” he says. He bites the inside of his lip in a way that he must have been doing since he was six-years-old, and something about the innocence of it makes Sydney want to somehow strip away the bullet scar and hurl it into the sea.
The moment turns heavy. James clears his throat and quietly goes on.
“Actually, this feels like the least insane thing I’ve ever done.” He pauses, tongue jutting out quickly to lick his bottom lip. “You know I wasn’t actually drafted? That I enlisted?”
The whispered words vibrate in the air between them. They drown out the sound of the breeze rustling through the seashells hanging off Sydney’s porch, the murmur of the waves forever rushing over the sand onto the shore. Sydney dips his head, then takes James’ hands from his chest and holds them in his own, running his thumbs along the length of James’ sturdy, calloused fingers.
He suddenly feels incredibly young.
“I’d guessed as much. If you’d been drafted they would’ve just sent you straight to the Army, based on your age at the time. You probably figured you’d be safer in the Navy. It’s why you haven’t asked for any help from anyone since you got back back—you feel like you only have yourself to blame for being over there in the first place.”
Sydney realizes he’s nervous saying all this out loud. He doesn’t know what’s changed now—what should be different. If he shouldn’t just say whatever the hell’s running through his mind now that he’s tasted James’ lips. He wonders if James realizes the hours Sydney spent lying awake at night thinking them all through—the intoxicating puzzle pieces of James Campbell—knowing with absolute certainty that he’d never get to speak to James ever again to figure out if any of his guesses were right.
James looks up at him, scrunches his lips together, then laughs. Sydney’s heart pounds in shock at the bright sound.
“You’re a genius,” James says. He pushes playfully against Sydney’s arm. “Wacked as hell, but still. That head of yours is something else.”
Sydney can’t react in time to stop the humiliating blush that’s spreading across his cheeks. James sees it and smirks, crossing his arms over his chest and planting his feet. “So, genius, is there anything you can’t take one look at and know fucking everything about?”
Sydney knows he’s joking, but the answer that falls immediately from his lips comes from the truest pit of his chest.
“You.”
The air crackles. James looks at him with an unreadable expression, holding his gaze. Neither one of them breathes. Then James squeezes his hands one last time before letting go, turning back to face the sea and standing close enough for their arms to touch. James takes a deep, slow breath in, and Sydney’s eyes track the rise and fall of James’ chest below the thin fabric of his own t-shirt.
“What I meant to say, before,” James finally says. “The thing that’s insane. . . I mean, I’m standing here in Hawaii—in paradise—and apparently I’m about to surf the fucking Banzai Pipeline, and I’ve got the Danny Moore saying he doesn’t think I’ll make a complete ass of myself. Eighteen-year-old me is pinching the shit out of his arm right about now. It’s unreal.”
Sydney hums. “Eighteen-year-old you definitely wouldn’t have been pinching himself about an eight-year-old know-it-all kid with greased, parted
hair in a Midwest Sunday school,” he says, smirking.
James laughs and leans against him. Sydney feels the touch shiver straight through to his bones.
James runs a hand through his hair and speaks while gazing out at the water. “But honestly, that’s not even the insane thing. The insane thing is that I so badly just wanna say ‘fuck the Billabong,’ and fuck all those things that I wanted, because what I want more than anything right now is to stay here and kiss every inch of you.” James turns and pins him with a wild blue gaze. “Of Sydney Moore.”
Sydney almost moans. James’ words rumble through his skin, settle deep in the pit of his gut, between his legs. He feels a ghostly press of James’ warm lips at the dip in the small of his back. In the crease between his hip and thigh. His skin breaks out in rolling shivers.
It takes him three tries to fully clear his throat. He absolutely forbids himself to look sideways at James, now. If he does, he won’t be able to stop himself from wrapping his arms around his strong waist, and pressing him down into the earth, and covering him with his body. He won’t be able to stop himself from blurting out that even in his midnight fantasies, the other man didn’t want to actually spend time with him before and after.
Finally he speaks, his voice low and gravely from savoring the taste of James’ mouth left on his lips.
“You’re not allowed to kiss me again until you’re a Billabong finalist,” he says, raising his chin.
James huffs. “Yeah right. You’re fucking mad.”
Sydney turns to him and smirks. There’s a fire in James’ eyes—the same look Jimmy Campbell had given him just before he chased after what he thought would be a closed-out wave off the hot and muggy coast of Hermosa.
“Oh, trust me,” Sydney says, tilting his head. “I know.”
~
“I spent all night going through the latest Surfer’s Journal news and—”
“You what? I told you last night I wasn’t doing this. How did you possibly know—”
“—I’ve come up with who I think they’ll pit you against in the Wild Card round today based on recent rankings. Pay attention, James, those flowers will still be there in two days and you can come back and look at them then.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t you ever—”
“Shane Hamilton, Australian, won the East Coast championships at Virginia Beach in ’66 but he had a nasty wipeout the next year that threw him out of the circuit for a few seasons. Back problems, apparently. He’s even older than you, probably this is his last ditch attempt at getting through to a quarter or semifinal so he can go out on a high note, or at least—“
“—fuck! Sydney, watch where you’re fucking driving!”
“That goat had at least a foot of room, chill out. Anyway. Hamilton. He’s gun-shy now. He’ll be cautious with his back. Drops in super late on swells only once he sees they’re gonna be an open barrel that won’t close in on him and trap him inside. Use this—look for one’s he’s hovering on and sneak in before him to take it before the barrel fully presents. You can handle a few wipeouts if they topple—it’ll be worth it to rattle him. Following?”
Sydney turns his gaze from the winding, dirt road to look at James for the first time since they pulled away from the house. His own heart is racing, as if he’s the one who’s going to have to surf his ass off all day against the top surfers in the world, not James. In fact, ever since they both jogged back up to the house from the shoreline, stealing sheepish glances at each other as they stumbled in the loose sand, his brain has been an absolute whirlwind—no off button in sight.
He’d been running potential strategies for James through his mind, trying to predict the way the waves would be that day, making a list of everything they’d need to do and bring, when suddenly James had grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed him up against the back of the doorway and kissed him. Hard. Licked into his mouth and rolled him back into the rough wood and groaned, pulling on a quick fistful of his curls. And then James had pulled back before Sydney could even begin to respond and murmured, “Fuck, Moore, you got me,” with his eyes pointed straight at the hollow of Sydney’s throat.
Sydney had thought he would melt into a puddle and never walk again. Fuck the Billabong Masters. Fuck Waimea.
But they’d yanked themselves apart, eyes on the clock, pacing around the hut trying to throw things together for the competition, tossing items back and forth in a way Sydney passingly imagined an old married couple might pack for an overdue vacation.
Coffee was started, and while it was brewing, Sydney had taken a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and quietly taken a step towards James in the moment of waiting silence. When James didn’t move away, he’d wrapped his arms around James’ tense waist from behind and whispered into the back of James’ neck, “You’re gonna surf like hell today.” And James had gently leaned back against him and placed his hand right on Sydney’s forearm and squeezed, letting Sydney hold him in the quiet stillness of the room. And somehow that little squeeze had meant more to Sydney than anything they’d said standing on the shore that morning.
And now they’re here—speeding along in the Jeep through clouds of dust while Sydney dumps out absolutely everything he’s packed into his brain over the last twelve hours, hoping James is catching at least some of it even though he knows he couldn’t slow down the stream of his thoughts if he wanted to.
He’s nervous. He’s nervous for James. And isn’t that an absolutely remarkable thing?
An absolutely terrifying thing.
James looks over at him and gives a tight smile. He’s nervous, too; Sydney can trace the lines of it through his tense shoulders.
“I’m listening, genius, keep going,” James says. He reaches over and puts his hand on Sydney’s thigh, keeping it there as they continue to drive. Sydney has to tear his eyes away from the sight of James’ tan fingers resting on the line where his boardshorts meet his skin and force himself to look back at the road.
“Right—” His voice wavers, and he tries again. “Right. So. Other Wild Card they’ll throw in there is Peter Fu. From Maui. Now he’s the exact opposite of Hamilton. Attacks every wave whether it’s a clear open barrel or not. He’s decent at skirting on the foam, so he’ll take a wave he knows is gonna collapse and he’ll ride the barrel as long as he can before just hopping out and coasting along the foam in front. Then he’ll do some fancy show-off leap at the end to finish the ride. He’s nineteen. Paddles like hell the entire set. He’ll take every wave he can get his hands on, which sort of takes care of Hamilton for you, but Fu will rack up enough medium level scores on waves that if you don’t get your three good waves in he’ll end up winning based on sheer quantity alone. Plus he’s got a bit of home turf advantage, if you believe in that sort of shit. Got it?”
James clears his throat and nods, staring out the window with a look on his face like he’s going to be sick.
Sydney can tell he doesn’t want to be left alone to his thoughts, so he keeps talking, hardly even aware of the words coming out. He talks about the weather conditions, and the currents, the topography beneath the water along the Banzai Pipeline shore, and the way the social scene usually works at this competition (not like he’s ever actually been part of it, but he has eyes).
He talks until he feels his voice growing hoarse, and he only shuts his mouth just when the outskirts of the Banzai sand come into view. The beach is spotted with boards stuck in the sand and stretching surfers, the sleepy town already alive and buzzing for competition day. James gives Sydney’s thigh one final squeeze, then runs his hands over his face and gives a long sigh before leaning back to look out at the sky through the open ceiling of the Jeep.
Sydney doesn’t want to leave the car. When he does, he’ll have to be Danny Moore, just like usual. James will separate from him and pretend they didn’t just arrive together. He’ll go off and be surrounded by surfers from all over the world wishing him luck and catching up on the latest news and gossip, warming up togeth
er and strategizing from where they perch side by side in the hot sand.
And meanwhile Sydney will be off to the sidelines with his sunglasses on, dodging all the shocked looks he knows he’ll get when word spreads he isn’t surfing in the competition this year, trying to avoid fangirls and ass-kissers and rivals all at once by looking as unapproachable as possible. Just like it’s always been.
Only, now, after just twenty-four hours of knowing that James Campbell flew to Hawaii for him, he doesn’t want James to see him like that— to see him as Danny Moore on the Oahu shores. He doesn’t want to stride like a freight train through the crowd, or snap back at anyone who even looks his way, or surf the entire day and leave without even having to say as much as a “hello.”
He wants to sit with James. Talk to him about the weather. Ask him if his muscles feel ok.
And at the same time, the thought of the entire beach whispering “what the hell got into Danny Moore this year?” if they see him trying to casually sit and chat with poor, random, longshot Angelino surfer Jimmy Campbell is more terrifying than the tallest Waimea wave.
He wants to turn the ignition back on, turn the Jeep around, and drive like hell back home with James by his side. To feel the weight of him in his arms and memorize every detail of his skin so that he’ll have the memory of it forever—for years beyond the day when James gets on a plane headed to LAX.
Sydney hears James trying to calm his breathing next to him, and he realizes that James will never move from the car unless Sydney forces them to start. As he shifts to open the door, something presses against his thigh, and he suddenly remembers that he has the most precious object on earth hidden in his pocket.
“James.”
James hums and keeps staring out the window. He doesn’t turn his head. When Sydney waits and doesn’t answer, James slowly meets his gaze. His frowning eyes are churning storms.
“Yeah?”
“When I went back up to the rocks last night to get our clothes, there was—your . . . the bullet was still in your pocket. Was gonna give it back last night, but then . . . well, I have it now, if you want it.” His swallow resonates through the Jeep, and he holds his hands awkwardly in his lap. “Just didn’t want it to get lost,” he quietly adds.
The Sea Ain't Mine Alone Page 19
