Reckless Surrender

by R. C. Martin

  “Sure,” he murmurs, shaking his head at me in disbelief. I smirk in response.

  Now this is one of those moments where, if we were in a movie or a romance novel, he’d crawl across the bench and kiss me. But this isn’t a fairy tale and he won’t kiss me because I won’t let him. We can’t go there. What he and I share, it works because we don’t go there. As crazy as it might sound, our restraint excites me. Simply knowing that he feels it, too, makes this moment more intimate than not.

  He brings his beer up to his lips and tilts his head back as he empties the remaining contents into his mouth. As he sucks out every last drop, he watches me watch him and I get lost in his oval eyes. His irises are in a glorious state of confusion, unsure of whether or not they are blue or green. His hair struggles with the same color dilemma, his dark blonde locks sometimes appearing light brown, depending on how the light hits them.

  For just a second, I imagine running my fingers through his soft, loose, curls. Or, at least, I consider them curls; or they would be—big, beautiful, silky curls—if he grew his hair out longer. I know he won’t. He likes to keep his slightly shaggy, fuck-me-now mane just long enough to entice you to do just that. Except, we won’t be doing that, either.

  His gaze is still locked with mine. He’s teasing me. I know it. He knows it—but this is our game. I can’t look away first. If I do, he’s won. So instead, I bring my beer to my lips, tilt my head back, and drink, all the while watching him watch me.

  When we’re both finished, he stands and takes my empty bottle before leaning down to kiss my neck, just below my ear. “You win, Wings,” he murmurs. I grin, feeling victorious. “But you left the bottle opener in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” He kisses me once more as a reward and then turns to leave.

  “Take your time. I’m going to change.”

  As soon as he’s out the door, I make quick work of my dress. I reach up to pull down the zipper and, as it loosens from around my chest, it slips right off of my body, leaving me in only my panties. I dig through my dresser and pull out a pair of little cotton shorts and a spaghetti-strap-tank top. I pull the top on first, just in case Trevor decides not to take his time, and then wiggle my way into the shorts. I catch the reflection of my back in the mirror and see my first tattoo peeking out from beneath my tank. I push up the fabric to reveal my phoenix—its orange and red tipped wings spread wide across my lower back, the swirling embers scattered toward my right hip as if the breeze from the flapping wings blew it there.

  Looking at it reminds me of my first trip into Generation Ink. And my second. I wanted to see Trevor again and I thought I needed an excuse to do so. It took me a couple weeks to work up the nerve and conjure the courage to go back. I wasn’t afraid of seeing him so much as I was terrified of the needle I was going to ask him to stick through my nose. I hadn’t had anything pierced since I was a toddler and my mom took me to get my ears pierced. When I walked in, he remembered my tattoo before my name. It was the first time he called me Wings.

  I don’t hear it when Trevor comes back into my room and I jump when his hand glides across his artwork. He chuckles as he presses a kiss to my temple in passing. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, opening our beers.

  “Just remembering.”

  He hands me my drink and when his fingers brush against mine, every nerve ending in my body tingles with nostalgia. The man before me knows me more intimately than anyone ever has, despite the fact that he’s never even seen me naked, and I love that.

  I wake up slowly, wishing the clutches of deep sleep would hold onto me for just a little while longer. Then I hear him and I open my eyes, my mind suddenly ready to be awake. I know it’s Trevor in the bathroom because girls don’t make that much noise when they pee. I also knew he was here almost as soon as I walked in the door last night—or this morning—whatever. It was his suit jacket draped over one of the dining room chairs that gave him away. I don’t know how I missed his big, black truck parked in the lot. Usually that’s a dead giveaway. I must have been pretty tired.

  It’s been a few weeks since I’ve gotten together with the girls from Smitten Kitten, the clothing boutique where I worked through college. I can hardly believe it’s almost August and that it’s been three months since I graduated and landed my first interior design job. Ever since I started working at Eddalyn’s Interior, it’s as if time has suddenly become incredibly illusive. Sometimes I feel like I have just enough of it; other times it’s as if it never existed and I wonder where my days have gone. Although, that can’t be blamed entirely on my time with Edda. Besides my day job, I’ve been working on projects around here, too. It really has been a blissfuly busy summer.

  Be that as it may, I inadvertently let weeks go by without heading out with the girls as often as I intended. Last night was necessary. Yet, in spite of the late hour of my return that might say otherwise, our outing was actually pretty chill. My lack of hangover this morning is wonderful proof.

  It’s also strangely familiar…

  In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not entirely sure of the last time I partied so hard I was paying for it for the entire next day.

  Have I suddenly become an adult?

  Damn. When did that happen?

  I climb out of bed as I hear Trevor flush, the sound reminding me that I have my own bladder that I should relieve. I smile as I enter my bathroom. I’m still getting used to the new color. I love pink. I don’t care what it says about me, I love it. I try and stay away from it in my designs. At least, a great quantity of it. That said, when I let my mind imagine this room painted a rich, warm, pink I decided: What the hell? It is my bathroom after all.

  I free a yawn as I wash my hands and catch my reflection as I pat them dry. I’m not sure what time it is, but my face seems to think I got an adequate amount of rest last night. There are no bags under my eyes and my slightly tanned complexion is smooth and bright. I run my fingers through my hair, combing my blonde mane to the side so that it rests over my shoulder and down my chest. I’m not the slightest bit hesitant to admit that I look pretty hot for having just woken up.

  I think adulthood looks good on me. Maybe I’ll keep it.

  I go looking for the time as I reenter my bedroom. 10:34. Perfect. I’ve got plenty of morning left. I had planned on spending part of today shopping for wall pieces to hang in our newly remodeled living room. I ordered a rug—which reminds me, I’ll have to check the status of that shipment to make sure Daph or I am home when it arrives—and the only thing I’ve got left are the little finishing touches. The room should be habitable in just a couple days and finished in a couple weeks. I can’t wait.

  Before I shop, I must caffeinate.

  I grab my short, silky robe from where it lays, discarded but not forgotten on the armchair in the corner by my window. I slip it on over my tank top and sleeping shorts, tying it shut in a lose knot. Trevor isn’t mine so I like to keep myself covered when he’s around. On my way to the kitchen, I notice that he’s now back in Daphne’s room. If there is a God, they would have consummated their love last night. I’m not holding my breath or anything, but maybe—just maybe—watching another couple publicly proclaim their commitment to each other ignited the urge for those two love birds to finally give in to their hearts deepest desires.

  Again—not holding my breath, but one can hope.

  Thinking about their whereabouts last night makes me think of him…I know he was there, too. The boy I fell for last summer. Not that my feelings meant much to him—he never reciprocated them. Okay. That’s not fair. He never liked me as more than a friend, but he cared—cares. We still keep in touch. Sort of. However, I can’t deny that he was the first guy I wished for in a really long time. Just admitting that is like pinching my heart.

  After Mack, I decided to put dating on the back burner. That was almost four years ago. I certainly haven’t missed it, so I definitely haven’t craved it. The way I see it, if guys don’t have to settle down, why sho
uld I? I can play the field just as well as they can. Better, even. Or so I thought…until I met Beckham.

  I didn’t fall for him on purpose. I wanted to play with him, like I do with every other attractive male who shows an interest; but I let my guard down along the way. My heart latched onto him. It was harmless, at first. It was nice to have a new friend—a guy friend who I could rely on. Unfortunately, the more I got to know him, the more invested I became. He saw through me—not in a bad way. He called me out on my bullshit and stood up for me. How could I not fall for a guy like that?

  I wish I hadn’t. His rejection hurt. He didn’t so much break my heart as he beat it up a little. It wasn’t exactly like he led me on, but he definitely withheld some valuable information that would have kept me farther away. Perhaps my lack of partying is a casualty of my bruised heart. Though, that all went down months ago. Maybe this lingering feeling is more serious than that. Perhaps I don’t want to play anymore.

  Adulthood seems to be redefining me.

  Damn. When did this happen? How am I just now noticing?

  I guess I’ve been so lost in finishing school and jump-starting my career that I haven’t paid much attention to playing or dating. Then again—the bitch otherwise known as complicated seems to walk hand-in-hand with romantic entanglements—even in relationships far more indulgent and satisfying than the one between Trevor and Daphne. Do I really want to start dating and get all mixed up in the drama that comes with it?

  Ugh.

  On second thought, maybe my lack of partying has more to do with my desire to avoid this inner dialogue about what my heart wants and how the hell I’m supposed to find it. Picking out light fixtures is way more fun.

  In hindsight, I have no idea why it took me two years to finally decide on an interior design major, regardless of my indecisive nature. I hopped from communication to business to fashion back to communication before it dawned on me that what I really wanted was a degree in interior design with a communications minor. When I finally made my choice, Daphne baked me a cake and frosted it with “I Told You So”—which she did, right after she moved in. In any case, it was definitely the second best decision I’ve ever made in my life. The first of which was befriending the skank who turned out to be my best friend.

  What I really want right now is a latte, but I bypass our expresso machine and go for the coffee pot. It’s the quieter option. On any other day, I wouldn’t let Daphne’s sleeping status stop me from satisfying my morning thirst—but Trevor’s here. I might not be holding my breath as I wait for something to give in their relationship, but I definitely don’t want to ruin any potential moments with the sound of me steaming milk. It’s a small sacrifice which I am willing to make in order to help them move past this cuddle-buddy shit.

  I make enough for all of us and leave the pot on as I take my mug to the office, my new favorite room. I love the dark, chocolate brown finish of the matching furniture in contrast to the cream colored walls. Our desks both face the center of the room, mine being the one closest to the door. On the wall, between our twin shelving units, tactfully filled with books, baskets, and knickknacks, I’ve hung four framed pieces of art. They all depict a different kind of flower, which ties in the floral upholstered cushioned armchairs that I chose for our seating. Hanging in the center of the wall, between the floral prints, is a huge bulletin board for us to leave each other notes or post reminders for ourselves. I’m happy to say that, even though neither of us are in school anymore, we use this office almost as often as if we were. I find myself bringing my work home with me every so often and I like to do my journaling here. On most days, Daph likes to come in here to write, too.

  I open the blinds and welcome in the sunshine before I make myself comfortable behind my desk. I power up my laptop as I inhale the aroma of my steaming cup of Joe. Today, I have one mission—search and find the perfect wall decor. The possibilities are endless, but after a couple sips of coffee, I’m more than ready to accept the challenge.

  I’ve lost my fucking mind. I don’t like needles. No—I HATE needles. Yet, here I am, straddling this chair, about ready to get stabbed repeatedly with one.

  Is it just one? Shit—it might even be more than one. I don’t know. I’ve never gotten a tattoo before!

  I’m sure Trevor—that is his name, right?—thinks I’m some sort of emotional basket case. I mean, I guess he probably sees all kinds of people come through here—but I can’t believe I just told him all that stuff about me. I couldn’t help it. One second, I’m looking for an image of a phoenix; the next thing I know, he’s asking me why I decided on that specific bird. He told me if I told him a little bit about the story that went with my choice, he might be able to freehand something for me. Then out it came! I’ve vomited out WAY too much information. So now this really cute tattoo guy knows that I’ve given birth. Birth. Is there anything less attractive?

  How. Embarrassing.

  On the flip side, he drew me a kick-ass phoenix, which is now stenciled across the small of my back. A smirk tugs at my lips as I imagine my mother’s horror stricken face if she knew what I was about to do…

  That is, if I can go through with it.

  Trevor snaps on his gloves and suddenly I feel like I might throw up.

  Four months ago, I pushed a human out of me. I’ve never experienced more pain. Even then, I wouldn’t accept an epidural. Fucking needles…Christ! I must really be insane.

  “Hey.” I’m jerked out of my thoughts at the feel of his hand resting against my side. His touch feels gentle. Affectionate. When I look back over my shoulder at him, his blue-green eyes remind me just how terrified I am. What I see makes me sure he’s definitely not making a move on me. It’s like he’s looking at a skittish cat.

  Ugh. Good thing dating is the furthest thing from my mind these days, or I’d be completely disappointed at how much I’ve ruined my chances with this guy.

  “Are you ready?”

  I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath.

  I want to do this, I remind myself. I need to do this.

  It’s been four months since a part of me I didn’t even know existed died. Just…died. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I can never get that part of me back. There have been so many times in the last year that I wish I had never had sex with Mack. I used to wish I had never gotten pregnant. Every time the baby moved inside of me, all I could do was think of that night and the mistake I made. Then, the moment that little boy came into the world, I no longer regretted what I had done with Mack. We made a human. Together. That little boy is going to grow up and be somebody.

  The same instant that I let go of my regret over my reckless actions, I was filled with a different kind of regret. I regretted that I had to give him up. But I did. I really did have to. I won’t sit here now and pretend that it doesn’t hurt to remember every moment I got to spend with him while he was growing in my womb—because it does hurt. However, I’m learning that I can’t regret letting him go. It’s just the way things turned out. Now, his life will go on. Mine has to go on, too.

  I’ll never be the same. Not ever. Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean that I can’t rise from the ashes and be better than the girl I was before.

  When Trevor starts tracing lazy circles against my bare skin with his thumb, I force myself to take another breath and open my eyes.

  “No rush,” he assures me. “I don’t have any other appointments today so take all the time you need.” It isn’t until he hands me a tissue that I realize I’m crying.

  “Thank you,” I murmur as I dry my cheeks. “I’m ready. Er—as ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

  “You got it.”He turns on his tattoo gun and the sound makes me gasp. “It’s okay. Relax.” When he touches the tip to my skin, I bite down on my bottom lip so hard I taste blood. “Daphne—you have to relax.”

  “Talk to me,” I demand.

  “What?” he asks as he pauses.

  “Talk to me!”

&n
bsp; “About—about what?”

  “I don’t know. Anything. Absolutely anything. Um—your tattoo. Um, tell me about your sleeve. What is it?”

  “It’s a dragon,” he tells me as he resumes working. I wait for him to tell me more, but he doesn’t.

  “Trevor!” He stops again and snaps his eyes up to meet mine. “I. Am. Terrified of needles. There’s no one here to hold my hand—which, I will admit, was an impulsive decision on my end—but I’m here and you’ve started so you have to keep going. Now, if you expect me to relax, even a little bit, you need to keep talking. So tell me about the damn dragon, okay?”

  He stares at me blankly before a small smile curls the corner of his mouth. He nods as he refocuses on my back. “My brother was a marine.”

  “Was?”

  “He died in Iraq, five and half years ago. Anyway—before he left, he told me that he wanted me to design a sleeve for him. He mentioned a dragon, so that’s what I drew. I never got a chance to give it to him.”

  “So, it’s a tribute.”

  “Of sorts, yeah.”

  “Can I see it?” Adrenalin is coursing through my veins so the pain he’s inflicting is now more of a dull ache. His treble tone voice, along with the story behind his tattoo, has somehow gotten me to relax. At least a little. I definitely haven’t completely forgotten about the needle at my back. Currently, though, my curiosity has taken over and his t-shirt hides part of the mural on his arm. Not to mention, even though he’s angled closer to my side than straight in the middle of my back, I can’t turn my head anymore to see him better.

  “I want to see it.” He shakes his head, as if to deny my request, and continues to work. “Please? It’ll help distract me. From the needle.”

  “Okay—just hold on a second,” he mutters. “You know, this goes a lot faster if I don’t have to keep stopping,” he teases.

  “You said no rush,” I retort.

  “You’re right about that,” he says when he reaches a stopping point. He sets his equipment down before reaching up to take off the baseball cap he’s got twisted backwards on his head. As he sets it aside, I admire his perfectly overgrown blonde hair.