Flashed

by Zoey Castile

  “But you’ve let me see you,” she says.

  “I trust you, Lena. I was afraid of your reaction to me more than anything.”

  She walks around the punching back and rests her hands on my torso. “I’ve had this reaction even before I saw you, Patrick.”

  I know that she means it. I know that it matters. But a part of me that is still locked away, still lost, doesn’t want to hear it. I kiss her forehead.

  “Come, I’ll bring the groceries in.”

  “Can I try out our new toy later?” she asks. Our toy. I like the sound of that. “I have my own gloves.”

  With that promise, I carry all the bags inside. It is maybe ten minutes before I resume kissing her, her high-pitched moans twisting my feeling into so many knots I will never come undone.

  “Come,” I say. But instead of taking her to the bedroom, I take her to the living room where there’s a box of books stashed in a corner.

  “More presents?” she asks playfully.

  “I said I would show you what my set was.” I pry the box open and hand her the small rectangular book.

  Her eyes dart from the cover to me and then back. A wide, purely sinful smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as she reads the title out loud. “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”

  13

  Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy

  LENA

  Patrick won’t do his dance set for me, but he does finally make me a meal that isn’t burned to a crisp. He grills steaks outside, barefoot, smelling of the sex we had on top of the boxes in the living room. Plus, the house still smells burned. I boil some star anise, and make sure my timer is on while we’re out here.

  I’m already halfway through the book, lounging on an Adirondack chair with a view of the mountains on one side and Patrick’s buns on the other. I lift the edge of his hoodie over my nose. It’s about four sizes too big for me, but it’s soft and comfortable. It smells like a man. Sweat and a fragrance that reminds me of leather and pine. I never thought wearing the clothes of a man you’ve slept with would be so satisfying? It’s like a little part of me is claiming this. It’s a tad possessive and a little sexy. Even enveloped in his clothes, I know that I’ve never wanted this of another man before.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t heard of Scarlett’s books before you met her. They were everywhere last year.”

  I take a long stalk of grass and use it as a bookmark. I pick up my beer and drink. The bitter hops make me grimace at first, but then I actually like it. “Excuse me, I’ve been busy reading books for school.”

  “Still.”

  “I am not caught up on popular things unless it’s something a fifteen-year-old girl likes, and I trust her opinions more than I do other critics.”

  He takes the tongs and flips the steaks. From this angle, he is all scars. When he sees me watching him, he pulls up his hoodie and walks over to me. Pat kneels on the grass, giving me the right side of his face.

  “I agree with you, but, still. That was my act. The cowboy act.”

  “You’ve never been a cowboy a day in your life.”

  He smiles widely and I drink it up because a part of me fears it won’t last. “True, but I’m from Montana and Ricky is nothing if not a showman first.”

  “Was he like your ringleader in a naked circus?”

  He takes my beer, eyes searching the darkening sky. I catch him soaking up the feeling of being outside in small increments all day. I wonder how weird it must be for him to have been locked inside that house one minute and out here the next. Because of me. I wonder if I’ve done him more harm than good.

  We have one more day of being together before I have a week from hell at school. I’ve ignored every phone call, except for Ariana’s today, and I know I’m going to owe Mari an explanation for leaving her at the gallery.

  “Lena,” he says, bringing my attention back to him. “Where did you go?”

  “I have to tell you something,” I say.

  He makes that rumbling sound in the back of his throat that makes me shiver. “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant, I’m not that good.”

  I roll my eyes, but I see the nervousness in his face. He scratches his short beard and places both hands on his knees waiting for me.

  “Do you remember that guy I told you about from the gallery? Keillor.”

  He frowns. “What about him?”

  “He was the one who told me who you were. He said that there were people who would pay money for a picture of you.”

  To my surprise, Patrick skips the part where he’s angry and nods methodically. He breathes evenly, almost resigned. “Yeah, that’s not new. When I first got here, I almost shot a paparazzo who got all the way to my front door.”

  “Patrick!”

  “It was a blank and he was trespassing,” he says, by way of excuse.

  I shake my head. “And people tell me that New York is dangerous.”

  “I wasn’t aiming at him, just trying to scare him. It was the only way to get them off me, fucking leeches.”

  “It’s been months since the accident. Why the interest again?”

  He shrugs, but I can tell it’s going to bother him. “After the crash, papers were pouring offers our way. I’ve never turned down so much money in my life, but I couldn’t bear the thought of more cameras. Pictures comparing me to the way I looked before, the man I’ll never be again. I’ll give my agent a call, not that she’ll return it. But I’ll leave her a message.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Lena?”

  “If you burn those steaks, I swear—”

  “Oh shit,” he darts to the grill, and I go inside to shut off the boiling star anise. The smell has cleared up enough, but we build a fire and eat outside on tin plates. The sky is bright with so many stars, I want to cry just looking at them.

  “Why the long sigh?” he asks. His plate is nothing but bloody runoff from his steak, and potato skins. He chucks the scraps into the fire and sets the plate in the grass.

  “It’s going to be a long week.”

  He traces a finger over the top of my hand. “We still have tomorrow, Lena.”

  I take the kiss he offers. I let my plate fall as he tugs me onto his lap. I sit against him, the warmth of him and the fire leave me nice and toasty. His nose is against my neck, soft lips cupping the ticklish parts of me.

  “We have tonight, too,” I say, and press my ass against his erect dick. I giggle, and twist my torso to kiss him. Thank goodness for these wide chairs that fit the both of us. “Are you tired?”

  “Not even a little bit,” he says, kissing my neck. I can see his breath in little puffs and the contrasts of hot and cold make me shiver. “It’s been . . . difficult the last few months. I couldn’t—you know.”

  “Get it up?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s the technical term.” He growls against my skin, and I feel the flutter of his lashes on my face as he moves toward my lips. He pulls at the waistband of the too-big sweat pants I’m wearing, snaking his fingers toward my waiting, wet pussy. Now, he knows just how to press me to get me wriggling.

  “When did it change?”

  “It didn’t happen right away,” he confesses, brushing my hair to the other side to get the part of my neck he hasn’t kissed yet. “There was something about you that lit me up from the second you got here. You started turning things upside down. You’ve turned me upside down. And then I saw you by the pool.”

  “That day we—” I gasp as a shock of pleasure rips through me, his expert fingers filling me.

  “That day I heard you and you heard me. You make me so fucking hard. Your body, your mouth.” With his free hand, he traces the outline of my lips. “Your angry, filthy fucking little mouth.”

  I suddenly feel so hot, I take the hoodie off and glance back at him.

  “Fuck, you’re so beautiful. You are impossibly stunning, Lena.”

  I want to tell him that I feel the same way about him, but I wonder if he’ll reject it the way he
did in the car. I only shut my eyes and breathe short breaths as he drags his fingers around my clit.

  “Patrick,” I whimper. “I want to ask you to do something.”

  He kisses my shoulder. “Tell me.”

  “I want to feel you come inside me.”

  I feel him groan, breath hot on my skin. “I want to, baby. God, Lena. I fucking hate the idea of someone else touching you this way.”

  I twist in place to face him. Under the firelight, his scars have a pearly sheen. They look like a shower of sparks. They are beautiful in a way I wish he would understand. I kiss his scarred cheekbone and feel his dick harden beneath me. I bite my lip and smile. I love the way he looks at me. It sets something loose inside of my chest.

  “Are you telling me you want to claim my pussy?” I ask.

  He grunts against my neck, biting a little harder than he has before. “When you talk like that, it kills me.”

  I jump with the slap of his palm on the side of my ass. He’s yanking his pants down, freeing his erection, lining up the head against my wetness. I arch my head back, resting it against his shoulder. He grips my hips hard, and I sink down his length, slow and steady, feeling every inch of him.

  He pulses into me, drawing waves of pleasure from me as he kisses my spine and fucks me at the same time. He moves faster. I feel his teeth. His nails. His tongue down my back. I squeeze my thighs together.

  “Come inside me, Patrick,” I turn back and whisper in his ear.

  He comes with a shudder, a wet warmth spreads through me. When he stops moving, I turn around, his essence dripping between us. I sink back on his dick and he takes my breasts into his hands as I writhe myself into an orgasm that, I swear, makes a dog bark from miles away.

  “That’s a wolf, Lena,” he says, chuckling and kissing my clavicles.

  “What?” I gasp.

  “God, you’re so fun to tease.”

  I pout and he sucks my bottom lip. “I’m cold now.”

  “Let’s go to bed.” I like the sound of that.

  He smothers the fire in the pit, and we dart back inside as the sun sets and temperature drops. We shower, and fall asleep so tangled that I’m not sure where my limbs start and his end.

  I wonder if maybe, I’ve claimed him tonight, too.

  14

  La Cura

  PAT

  I hate it when Lena isn’t here. For two weeks, I only see her for dinner, which I make. Now, I’m not complaining. She did the cooking all summer. It’s just that when I get in the kitchen, it doesn’t taste the same. Thankfully, no more pans have been sacrificed since the last one that ended up in the trash.

  After she leaves in the morning, I busy myself in the garage giving the punching bag a few rounds. It’s a nice change of pace sweating out in the garage when it’s cold. When she isn’t too tired from school, Lena joins me. Though, that first attempt, she walked out in a red sports bra and shorts and we ended up fucking on a mat instead.

  It gets easier to take walks around my property. To walk by myself. When I close my eyes, I can still see the crash. I see it and hear the screams. It isn’t going away. Chris says that it won’t and that I should be prepared for that.

  “Does Lena know you’re speaking to me?” he asks.

  “No one does. I don’t want them to get their hopes up in case I can’t get better.”

  “But you are getting better. You’re opening up to her. You’re processing your grief.”

  “No one died in the accident,” I say, staring at the woods. Clouds gather in preparation of a storm. I hope Lena gets home before then.

  “But you lost part of your life. You lost your brother, your parents—did you ever seek help for that?”

  I think about it. “What if I deserve everything that’s happened to me?”

  Chris is quiet for a bit. It’s weird talking to a guy I’ve never seen before, but isn’t that how it was with me and Lena for a while? Not that I’m going to start calling him at midnight to have phone sex, but still. He knows so much about me and I know little of him. “I want you to start doing something once a day.”

  “Please don’t say vitamins. Or praying. Or meditating.”

  He laughs. “I want you to ask yourself the same ‘what-if’ questions but flip them around. See the other side of things. What if you deserve a girl like Lena? What if you keep making progress? Even if it’s just once a day and one question. The more you spiral into the darkest, grimmest possibilities, the worse your anxiety can become. It isn’t a remedy, but it’s a way to cope.”

  After we’re done talking, I start with one. The biggest what-if I could possibly ask myself.

  What if I’m in love with Lena?

  I can’t sit on that one for too long because at that moment I get a call back from my agent. Miriam is the kind of New Yorker who moved to Los Angeles with the expectation of hating it, and then stayed for fifteen years.

  “Hey, baby, how you doing?” she asks when I pick up.

  Talking to other people, to people who aren’t Scarlett and Kayli is weird. I’ve known Miriam since she “discovered me” after the book cover went viral, but I’ve known Ricky far longer, and it’s been just as hard trying to reach out to my former mentor. What if I try one more time?

  “Better,” I say, thinking on the right word. “Better” isn’t it. I still haven’t seen enough doctors to pronounce me better. My body is healed, my heart is healing, but my mind? I don’t know. I can leave the house, but I haven’t tried leaving the property since that day we drove to the supermarket. “I think.”

  “Hey, I’ll take that over the miserable lump who’s hung up on me ten times in six months.” She laughs, a throaty sound consistent with the three cigarettes she smokes a day. One to get her going with her coffee, another before she enters her office, and one just after dinner. She might be the kind of Angelino that drinks green juices and sucks up hydration bags before an award show, but she’s still the same woman who grew up in “the Village” scouting bands and partying until sunrise. “I figured if you were calling me, then it was serious. You didn’t happen to change your mind about the exclusive with People magazine, did you?”

  “No. But I got wind of someone snooping around. Can you figure out where it’s coming from?”

  I hear her exhale. I realize it’s lunchtime in California. “Nothing’s come through me, kid. But I’ll check it out, okay? Anything else?”

  “How are you?”

  “Business’s good. Signed a new kid looking to be the next Chris Evans.”

  “Everyone wants to be a Chris,” I say.

  “You wouldn’t have been. You’re just Patrick Halloran, the one and only.”

  I sigh, combing my fingers through my hair. I should think about a haircut soon. “Miriam, I wanted to say I’m sorry. For not calling you back, for hanging up, for—”

  “You went through hell and back, kid,” she says, taking a drag. “I get it. Hurt my little heart, but I get it. I’m here when you need me.”

  She was never one for small talk, but the minute we hang up, I can breathe a little deeper. That shortness of breath that happens when I talk to someone from my old life alleviates. Just a little, but it’s a start.

  What if I call Ricky and the boys next?

  LENA

  I throw another painting away because it doesn’t feel quite right. Meanwhile Mari is lost in her own head, bopping away to an EDM mix that gives me heart palpitations when she blasts it through the studio speakers. Every now and then, she calls out things that are on her mind—people she thinks are cute, toiletries she needs to buy on Amazon. It’s become her work process and that’s fine with me since my work process has been repainting my canvas white.

  “Do not bail on me for the Halloween party this weekend,” she shouts because she has her headphones on. When I speak and she can’t hear me, she takes them off. “Sorry. What?”

  “I said, I don’t have a costume.”

  “That excuse is weak, Martel, and you
know it. Bring your boy toy.”

  “He’s not my boy toy,” I say, but he’s definitely my something. “Besides. He is a man.”

  “You can’t fool me. You haven’t smiled this much in the year I’ve known you. He built you a boxing gym.”

  “He hung a bag in the garage. He has more time to use it than I do.”

  “Don’t diminish the gesture!”

  I don’t know why I want to hide my happiness. I don’t know why I want to act like it isn’t a big deal when it is. Patrick and I are fucking like rabbits in heat, and the days we don’t get to see each other, we’re practically doing it half asleep. I crave him even when he’s wrapped around me in our bed. I feel like if the world intrudes, it might break our spell.

  “Whatever he is,” Mari continues, “I’m happy for you. If only he could double as your muse, you’d be set for the rest of the semester.”

  “Muses are not real,” I say, but she’s already got her giant headphones back on. We’re always the last ones to leave the studio, and the first ones to arrive. Tonight, I leave first.

  “Halloween!” she shouts as the door swings behind me.

  When I get back home, Patrick is waiting for me with dinner. He’s practically perfected the beef Bolognese. I’ve essentially moved all of my things into the main house, into his bedroom. I don’t want to think of it as our bedroom because that feels like jinxing it. The house isn’t finished, after all. Slowly, but most surely, we’re breaking down the remaining boxes in the living room together. I have an idea for a color-coordinated bookshelf, but despite the boxes of Scarlett’s books, we need many, many more.

  “You’ve been busy,” I say, wrapping my arms around him.

  He kisses me like he hasn’t seen me in days, tugging my hair back to expose my neck. Each and every time, I react the same way, my toes springing up to better reach his mouth. “I guess with everything out in the open, I realize how much stuff I keep that I don’t need. It feels good. But now, I’m left with needing new furniture. There’s a whole empty room that needs something, though.”