Rescue You

by Elysia Whisler

  “Yeah.” He laughed and nodded toward the dunes. “They came down over the hill. Stopped, right here.” He pointed a few yards away. “I was kicking a soccer ball around over there. I stopped, put my foot on the ball. I was scared if I moved even one muscle, they’d spook.”

  “What did they look like?” The ocean had polished her skin with its salt and made her face glow.

  “They were white with brown spots.” Rhett briefly closed his eyes, to recapture the memory. “Slender and agile, like teenagers. They grunted and snorted while they played. Long, silky manes that blew in the wind. Obviously they had no shoes or saddles or reins or blinders—none of that stuff we’re used to seeing on horses. They were completely free.”

  When Rhett opened his eyes, Stanzi opened hers, too. “I was picturing it,” she said.

  “I can’t believe you remembered that story.”

  “Why not?”

  “I only told you one time. And it was months ago.”

  She shrugged, her cheeks going a little pink. “Nobody forgets a story like that.”

  They held each other’s gazes for a moment before Rhett glanced up at the dunes, at the place the wild horses had both come from and disappeared to. This was the spot he always came to when he needed to be alone. When he needed to think, or make a hard decision. When he felt lost. This was the first place he came to, after every deployment. He didn’t even go to his own house. He came straight here, did not pass go or collect two hundred dollars. Came straight out here with a six-pack of Fat Tire and just basked in the freedom and isolation. Something about staring up at the dunes and picturing those horses made everything a little bit easier. The wild horses were his reset button. His reason to keep going.

  Stanzi turned her body to face him. “You okay?”

  Rhett rubbed his hands together. He was starting to feel cold. “Yeah. You?”

  Stanzi shrugged and took a step closer, as though she sensed his chills and wanted to share her body heat. “Yeah.”

  “How was the run for you?”

  Stanzi’s mouth turned down at the corners. “It was—” a little dent over her eyebrow that she got when she was confused deepened “—like I’d never run before.” Her skin sprung with gooseflesh and she gave a little shiver.

  Rhett smiled. The air smelled just like it had the day he saw the wild horses playing—like salt and sand and crabs hiding in their tunnels. “Good. Let’s get you inside before your lips turn blue.”

  * * *

  They went inside to an empty house. Meara had left a note that she and Domingo had gone shopping. The air-conditioning felt like ice and the house was silent as stone. Constance closed herself in her bedroom and turned on the shower. She slipped Rhett’s shirt off and held it to her nose. He’d sweated all over it during their run. His sweat smelled like lavender and sea salt. She held it there a long time.

  Then she took a long, hot shower, which felt amazing after being in the cold ocean. She’d forgotten her body wash, but there was bar soap in the tray affixed to the wall. As soon as she sudsed it up and smelled the lavender, Constance knew the soap had been here since Rhett’s last visit home.

  Once she’d gotten the chill from her bones and all the sand and salt from her hair, she turned off the water and wrapped herself in a big blue towel that had been folded neatly and set on the closed toilet lid. Meara had probably put it there before she went out, as it hadn’t been there this morning.

  Constance made her way back to the bedroom, where there was a full-length mirror on the closet door. The vertical blinds over the sliding glass door that led to the deck were open, letting in a wash of natural light. The room had sand-colored walls with a seashell border done in a stamping design, which led Constance to believe Meara had redone Rhett’s childhood room into a guest room. Nothing screamed teen angst like dark walls or old band posters. Instead, the decor was Modern Beach Daydream.

  Constance opened her towel and looked at herself—really looked at herself—for the first time in weeks. Yes, she’d noticed changes in her face and body over the passing months but never, even in her running days, had she given herself such a hard appraisal while completely bare.

  She closed the towel up and walked to the bedroom door. “Rhett?” she called, wondering if he would answer. Silence passed, which told her his parents hadn’t yet come home. She was just about to close the door again when soft footsteps came down the hall. Rhett’s dark head appeared around the corner. His pace quickened when he saw her peeking out. Constance opened the door for him.

  He eyed the towel.

  Constance waited.

  He came inside and pushed the door closed behind him. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood there in silence, wearing a fresh pair of shorts and a T-shirt. His hair was wet, a glossy black color like raven’s feathers, and he smelled like the same soap Constance had used. “Are you sure?” He eyed the towel again.

  “Yes.” Constance was highly aware of the single piece of fabric that separated her naked body from Rhett’s searching gaze. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Why’d you invite me down here?”

  Rhett hesitated, but finally spoke. “I told you. Wanted to get you running in a new environment. Reintroduce it, so it wasn’t attached to negative stuff in the past.”

  “So you were being a good coach,” Constance offered. “And a good friend.”

  At first, Rhett’s face was tight, like he was waiting for the hidden trap. Then it relaxed. “Okay,” he said, then shrugged. “I wanted you to see the spot.” His voice was low. “The place where I saw the horses.” He gestured toward the outdoors.

  “Why’d you want me to see it?”

  Rhett gave a soft laugh. “Because.” He scratched the back of his head. “Because,” he repeated. “Because it’s my spot.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know how to say it. Sorry if that’s dumb. If dragging you down here just to see some sand and shrubs was...”

  Constance let the towel fall to the floor.

  Rhett eyed her naked body up and down. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Constance could tell he tried not to stare, but failed. Eventually, his gaze settled with her own. The intensity she felt, when he chose to look into her eyes, was so strong the back of her neck started to sweat.

  Constance didn’t move to lift her towel and cover up, or even to find a set of clothes to put on. For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—she was completely comfortable being totally bare. He’d liked her in the My Pretty Pony shirt, and all of Dad’s old tees. He’d liked her in the bulky sweats she wore on their very first run together. He’d liked her in anything. Which meant he didn’t care what she wore. What size she was. How far she ran. He just liked her.

  Rhett’s jaw tightened. He swallowed hard.

  “Well, at least tell me what you think.” Constance didn’t know why he stood there, in silence, looking angry and frustrated and helpless all at the same time. She closed the distance between them and took his hands in hers. “Am I not horrible?”

  His warm fingers traced up her palms, which sent gooseflesh over her skin.

  Constance felt like they were back in the gym, alone in the quiet. He’d just taught her some combat moves and they were staring at each other, unsure how to handle the heat and energy that grew between them. It got hard to breathe. “Why are you mad?”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “What are you, then?”

  Silence.

  “Remember when you kissed me during Combat?”

  “Of course.” She almost smiled, but kept it to herself.

  “Do you think about it?”

  “Yes.” Her pulse was loud in her ears. “Do you?”

  He ran a finger under her chin, tilting her head up. “Every single night.” He leaned in slowly, but sto
pped, just shy of her lips. “Do you feel that?”

  “Yes.” Constance’s voice was a whisper.

  “It’s hard to breathe.”

  She waited, her blood growing warmer with each passing second. He was teasing her on purpose, but still, she waited. She’d kissed him last time. She wanted him to kiss her this time.

  Her eyes closed. After an eternity, his lips touched hers. Contact was like a glowing poker, straight from the fire, right to her core. That moment of intensity when you can’t tell if you’re frozen or burned, but it doesn’t matter because the effect is the same: it’s almost too much.

  Almost.

  Rhett’s kiss deepened slowly. He took only a little at a time, like he absorbed her in pieces. Constance’s fingertips and palms rolled over Rhett’s body, beneath his shirt, touching all the places she’d already touched before, but in a new way. His lips found her neck, the curve of her shoulder, her collarbone, his touch light and coaxing, exploratory, inquisitive.

  “You really want me to tell you what I think?”

  “Yes.” Constance opened herself. Whatever he said, whatever he did, good or bad, she would take it.

  He sank down, to his knees, and drew her against him. Constance’s hands went into his hair, thick and damp. His scents filled her nose and his warm, wet lips trailed over her abdomen. She tilted her head back and gasped softly. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. Her legs shook, making it hard to stand. “I’ve always thought you were beautiful. From the second you stared up at me, from the floor of my gym, drenched in sweat, I was lost.” His hands lit on her wrists and pulled her down against him, into his lap.

  He kissed her again, firmer this time, his lips urgent but sweet, his energy roaring over her like a wave at high tide or winds out of control. Constance was caught up in the storm, her only choice to ride it out. She stripped his clothing, one piece at a time, parting from him only long enough to rid them of the irritating material that kept her from being completely bare against him. He felt hard and smooth, tasted like warm skin, lavender and beach air.

  A perfectly good bed remained untouched, the sheets still made from this morning, as Rhett flipped her beneath him on the floor, cradling her neck in his arm.

  Constance whispered his name and begged him to make her forget hers. She traced the lines of his muscles, drank the sweat of his skin, touched as many places on his body as she could with hers, drinking, swallowing, becoming. He pressed inside her, just as slowly as he’d kissed her, as though gaining permission for every inch. She lost herself in the rising and falling of thousands of tiny explosions inside her body, outside her body, inside his, in a place where they both existed and ceased to exist at the same time. Her mind and body shattered, over and over.

  Rhett drew back and looked down at her, his grip on her waist like he clung to something keeping his head above water. His body went hard and tight and slow. He gasped aloud, pressing deep inside her, before he arched and groaned, then slowed, his breath coming shallow as he collapsed against her chest.

  They lay there awhile, Constance’s arms around his back, his chest slick on hers, neither willing or able to move, bound in the heat and the energy that pulled and clung. Her lips pressed against his throat, the thrum of his blood strong in his neck as his heart pounded in his chest. Her hands continued to explore his body, instinctual, habitual, the touch changing from greedy, back to inquisitive, discovering how he felt after he’d emptied into her, sharing his hurt, grief, anger and ecstasy. Everything was fizzy and hot and wild.

  When the world had settled, Rhett rose and extended his hand. She smiled as she imagined him, the first time they met at the gym. He’d stuck out his hand and helped her to her feet then, too.

  Rhett smiled back, as though he’d read her mind.

  He scooped his arms under her legs and tossed her on the bed, then climbed in next to her. She nestled into the crook of his arm, her head against the wild horse tattoo, and listened to the sounds of his body: his heart, his lungs, the whispers of his skin.

  Within a couple of minutes, Rhett’s chest rose and fell in a slow, deep pattern. He hadn’t slept well last night. She’d learned to read him and she knew.

  She closed her eyes.

  Constance floated in a world where she truly had forgotten her name. She didn’t know who she was then, whether Constance or Stanzi or Cici or Red—or just a woman who continued to escape death by being reborn.

  It didn’t matter.

  Just this.

  thirty-one

  Sunny woke to a text from Cici, saying she was going to stay at the Outer Banks another day. Was that okay? How was Fezzi? Did he miss her?

  Forget about Fez, Sunny texted back. Tell me instead what “staying another day” means. Does it mean things are going well? Then she tossed in a grin and the eggplant emojis.

  Not telling, Cici said, and that was the last she heard from her for the rest of the day. Normally, Sunny would’ve pushed and pressed until she finally got Cici to talk. She knew just how to do it, had learned when they were young where that line was, that she could come at Cici “like a pit bull” just far enough to get her to spill if she was careful not to go just one push too far, in which case Cici would clamp her jaw and after that... Alcatraz.

  But not today. Today, Sunny spent most of her time with two families, one who wanted to adopt Sinbad and the other who wanted Willy. The family who wanted Willy was a retired couple in their sixties. The wife was a mother of four grown children; she took care of the grandkids and quilted in her spare time. She wanted to rescue an older dog who needed a home. Someone quiet who might like lying next to her while she worked at the sewing machine. Her name was Martha and she was absolutely perfect for Willy. Her husband, George, was a mild-mannered ex-accountant who just wanted whatever made Martha happy. The vibe was good. Willy went right to them after they’d spent a quiet hour in the spring sunshine, and Sunny was happy to schedule a home visit for the following weekend. Martha was eager to show them her sewing room. She petted Willy gently on the head—she always held it sort of cocked to the side—and cooed, “You want to quilt with me, don’t you, sweet thing? Don’t you?” Willy beamed beneath her fluffy white bangs.

  Sunny wasn’t as sure about the people who wanted Sinbad. Two men, brothers, in their late twenties, who wanted a dog to hang out in their autobody shop. Sunny had images of chain link around Sinbad’s neck, left to wallow outside, maybe trained to be mean. The brothers insisted he would be inside the shop, like their sidekick. They’d seen a similar dog on a popular television show and thought it’d be cool to rescue a dog for their own.

  It was borderline. They could be telling the truth, and Sinbad would be entirely suitable for such a situation. It could also be a line of bullshit. This is where Cici came in handy. Often, Sunny had her over during visits. She’d sit off to the side, billed as a dog therapist, and people paid little attention to her once they got in with the dogs. Sunny would glance over midway through visits and either exchange a grin of agreement with Cici—these people are perfect—or perhaps uncertainty—let’s get to know them better. Every once in a while, Cici would purse her lips and shake her head. It was a micromovement, barely perceptible, but also absolutely, certainly no.

  This was a situation that required Cici’s intuition. But Cici wasn’t here. Cici was getting laid in the Outer Banks by a hot fitness coach with the body of Adonis, while Sunny was stuck here with two possibly shady men, no night of fun from Sean and a lack of Pete, a decidedly gaping hole in her week that Sunny had only dug herself.

  “Let’s schedule a visit to your shop for next weekend.”

  “We were hoping to take him home today.” The larger of the two brothers was over six feet tall, head shaved bald, muscular beneath a thick layer of body fat.

  “My policy is a visit here, and a visit there.” Sunny spoke in a large voice, calm and steady, and kept eye co
ntact. She’d learned long ago how to speak to convey authority.

  Whatever the bald brother lacked on his head, the other brother had on his chin. Beard Brother shrugged at Bald Brother. “What’s another week?”

  “I’m ready today. There’s no reason I can’t take him today,” Bald Brother said, but he spoke to his brother, not Sunny. Typical male entitlement. But not necessarily a sign of bad people.

  “I have my policies for a reason,” Sunny said. “My reasons are for the dogs’ benefit. I don’t break them. If you’re interested in Sinbad, following my policies should be important to you.” Sinbad, meanwhile, thumped his tail as he sat between them. Technically still a puppy, everything made him happy. He was excited to be at the rescue with the other dogs. He was excited at the brothers’ visit. He was excited just to be alive.

  Bald Brother blinked in silence, meeting her gaze. “All right,” he said finally. He pulled out a business card and handed it over. “This is the shop. This is where we spend most of our time. We live above it. Sinbad would almost never be alone.” He shrugged. “We’d treat him right.”

  Sunny took the card, more confused than ever. She had learned long ago never to judge by stereotypes. The elderly couple looking at Willy weren’t necessarily any safer than the motorhead brothers.

  “Everything okay, ma’am?” Roger poked his head in. He always checked in when Sunny was alone with male customers.

  “Yes, thank you, Roger.”

  By the time the men left, the sun was going down. Sunny took a shower, poured some wine and considered texting Pete. He would’ve been busy with his own dogs all day, but she could get his opinion on the brothers. Maybe ask him to go with her to the shop next weekend. Of course, if she texted, he might bring up the kiss. Or had enough time gone by that Pete would realize the kiss had been mistake and wouldn’t mention it again? After all, he’d made a point of saying he didn’t want to risk their friendship. After a second glass of wine, Sunny realized she wasn’t texting Pete because she didn’t want him to say the kiss had been a mistake.