Grasping Air (Flipped Book 2)

by Carrie Aarons

  “Stop being such a fucking chick!” I yell at myself and slap my own cheek. “You don’t get worked up like this over men. You know how to play it cooler than this!”

  And I did. I was the player, I wrote the fucking handbook. If he didn’t want to invite me to family dinner for Thanksgiving, than so be it. It’s not like his parents even knew me, or about us.

  Which was why I gobbled down my food when it came up, and didn’t bother curling my hair or applying a little extra mascara and lip gloss. It’s why I turned out the light when the clock struck eleven, and why I turned my phone on silent.

  I wasn’t going to wait around. I’d extended an olive branch to Jared, one I’d never thought I’d hold out to him, in the hotel bar. If he didn’t want to put himself out there, to make himself just as vulnerable as I had the other night, then I wasn’t putting any effort in either.

  And I didn’t give any time to thinking about how hurt I was as I drifted off to sleep. Not even one second.

  17

  Jared

  11:45 p.m.

  The watch on my wrist reflected the light of the overheads in the hallway as I walked quietly to our block of rooms. With each step, something in me cracked or popped. I was a twenty-six-year-old with arthritis … had been diagnosed just shortly before Rio.

  And with my third Summer Games under my belt and a month gone on the tour, my body hurt. I felt like I had the bones and joints of a sixty-year-old. It was no wonder all of the problems gymnasts, or any professional athletes, had with their bodies after they retired. We put our muscles under such incredible strain; it was inevitable that one day they would begin to deteriorate.

  But I was used to it, the constant aches and pains. I’d developed a routine of sorts, something that my fellow gymnasts had taken from me and used because it worked so well. I hadn’t told anyone yet, but I was thinking about getting a physical therapy degree after I retired. It might take a while, but hey, I was a twenty-six-year-old retired athlete … what else was I going to do?

  My feet act of their own accord and stop in front of Peyton’s door. A pang of guilt rolls through my stomach at not inviting her to dinner. It was cruel, making her stay in and eat Chinese in a random hotel room on a holiday where everyone was supposed to gather around a table with family and friends to celebrate how thankful they were to be living the life they had.

  But at the same time, I wasn’t sure about bringing her. What message would that send, to her and to my parents. My parents, who had never formally met Peyton or even knew about what had happened in London. There would have been too much pressure on the entire situation, and right now … we didn’t even know what we were doing. Taking it slow? Yeah, but who knew what that looked like. To me, it surely didn’t look like bringing girls home to Mom, yet.

  I still feel guilty, which is why I have a takeout container of mashed potatoes and gravy in a doggie bag waiting for her.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  My fist raps on the door, quietly but firmly. I wait, no noise coming from inside. She might be sleeping … I didn’t make any promises that I’d definitely come by. And it would be so like Peyton not to waste time waiting up for me. Maybe she’s not even inside … maybe she went out.

  This last thought sends a white-hot jolt of jealousy through me, and I pound on the door, a little harder this time. It’s only after my control fit that I realize it’s nearly midnight and I’m banging on a woman’s hotel door while other people, including probably her, sleep soundly around me.

  I turn to go, until I’m about halfway to my room and I hear a door unlatch.

  “Jared?”

  A sleepy-eyed, bed-headed Peyton stands in the doorway, nothing but tiny sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt blocking me from seeing her naked body. I know she’s not wearing a bra at least, as her full breasts strain against the worn-out material of the T-shirt.

  Walking back towards her, I put my hands up. “I’m sorry, I thought you might be awake, just … go back to sleep.”

  My cock starts to harden in my pants the closer I get, and when I’m finally standing in front of her, I can feel the warmth radiating off of her body. How easy it would be to push inside her room and slip under those covers with her. To slide my hands beneath that T-shirt, graze my fingers over her velvet skin …

  “Hello?” Peyton snaps her fingers lazily in front of my face, and I realize I’ve been fantasizing about her a minute too long. “Like what you see or something, Hargrove?”

  Her flippant teasing irks me, as she intended it to. I scowl, “My night was great actually, it was awesome to spend time with my parents and have a little piece of home.”

  Like usual, we’re bickering. I know it the minute her face falls. We do something to piss each other off, and then we’re turning around to apologize.

  I instantly feel guilty. “Here,” I hold out the takeout bag, “I brought you something. A little Thanksgiving … because I can’t stand that you ate Chinese.”

  She takes the bag from me, walking back inside the room. I’m not sure if that’s an invite or a shun, but I walk in after her, not wanting to jinx my chance.

  “Mashed potatoes! Oh my God … you do know me!” She laughs as she pulls out the plastic spoon I brought her, and brings the plastic carton to the bed. “You can sit on the chair, taking it slow, remember?”

  I smirk, because she’s being so cute right now. There are not many moments I get Cute Peyton, so I don’t take it for granted, and sit my ass in the chair. She folds her long legs Indian style before popping the lid off and sniffing the steam that comes wafting out.

  “Mmmmm …” The sound doesn’t do anything to calm my semi-hard boner.

  “So … am I just going to sit here watching you eat?” I joke as I toe out of my loafers.

  She licks a puff of mashed potatoes off the spoon and lifts an eyebrow. “Oh I’m sorry, princess. We can watch TV. Since you know … you’re not allowed on this bed.”

  Oh how I want to get on that bed. But we’re going slow. “Sounds good to me. What do we got? Maybe some football, maybe some It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown?”

  A devilish grin settles over her full, cherry lips. “Not even close.”

  She points the remote at the TV, which takes a minute or two to warm up. But when it does, I see nothing but white. And lace.

  “What the hell is this?”

  Peyton hoots. “Oh! Did you just curse?! And it’s Say Yes to the Dress, duh!”

  A mother and her daughter cry over a piece of cloth on the TV. “Are you kidding me? You?! Peyton Adams watches wedding dress shows! I never thought I’d see the day.”

  Her face deepens a shade. “I just like the fashion …”

  Oh no, I’m not letting her off that easy. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say okay. But … I do. And I think you’ve been thinking about, no dreaming about, what you’re going to wear when you walk down that aisle. You can’t fool me, Peyton!”

  Her face is the color of a raspberry now, and I know I’ve caught her.

  “So what kind do you like? Mermaid, A-line?” I embarrass myself to get her to smile.

  She chokes on a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “How the fuck do you know that?!”

  “I do have two sisters. You have no idea the nuptial knowledge I have stored in here.” I tap my temple.

  We sit in silence, watching as she eats. This is nice, the simple camaraderie. We’ve never really just … hung out. It’s nice to laugh, to have no physical pressure. Although, if she’d give me the green light, I’d be on her in two seconds. There isn’t really a way to say no to a woman who looks like Peyton.

  The girl on the TV comes out in a half see-through dress studded with thousands of sparkly feathers. “EW! What?!”

  Peyton chuckles at my outburst. “It’s a one of a kind, girls pay big money for those dresses. But that’s too showy for me.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Too showy?”

  “Oh, I get it, nothing is too showy for
Peyton. Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, Hargrove. For your information, I’d like to wear a lace gown with a long, long, like epic long train. And a cathedral veil that blows in the wind.”

  Her eyes are dreamy, staring at something far-off in the distance that I can’t imagine. But … I can imagine it. Peyton in white, walking down the aisle.

  We watch two more half-hour episodes, chatting and laughing throughout. Peyton finishes her mashed potatoes and lies down, curling her body around a pillow. She’s sexy and adorable, and I wish I could wrap my body around hers. I’d run my fingers through her hair until her breathing evened out, just like I used to in London.

  Eventually, the late hour gets the best of her and she nods off, her thick eyelashes fanning across her cheeks. She’s peaceful, a state Peyton doesn’t normally operate in. But like this, I can see her at rest, not trying to impress anyone. She’s stripped down to her most basic state, and she’s heart-stoppingly beautiful.

  I want to stay, to peel off my clothes and scoop her up until we’re wrapped up in each other under the covers. But … I won’t. It’s too soon, and not just because we’re going slow. But for me. I’m not sure that I’m ready to be that exposed with her again. Last time, I was as raw as a nerve; she knew every thing I was thinking and feeling because I told her. We have so many things left to address, and I’m just not ready to get that vulnerable with her yet. I know, super manly confession session inside my head.

  Moving towards the bed, I take Peyton into my arms, and she nuzzles against my chest in her sleepy state. With my free hand, I pull back the comforter and sheets on her hotel bed, and then place her in the cocoon of blankets. Peyton rolls to her side, curling up, and I place her signature “leg pillow” between her thigh and stomach.

  When she’s finally under the covers with the blankets tucked beneath her chin, I stare down at her. My heart is screaming at me to lay a kiss on her forehead before I go, but my head is ringing its alarm bells.

  I decide to quietly let myself out before I do something I’ll regret.

  18

  Peyton

  Someone once asked me if jumping from the low bar to the high bar was the most terrifying skill I’d ever done.

  I’d stared at the guy, unsure of how to tell him he was an idiot. Technically, jumping from the low bar to the high bar wasn’t a skill. And … it was the least scary thing a gymnast did once you got past level five. I really didn’t even jump between them anymore … no, I flipped my body in midair between two solid poles of wood, no pun intended, and then caught one of them while the rest of my limbs went the other way due to gravity.

  And doing my bar routine on the tour is much better than doing it in a competition. I’ve never particularly liked competing. Sure, I love the adoration and the medals you get at the end, but I’ve always been a nervous wreck at meets. Doubting myself and second-guessing what I’m doing, I’ve never been the type like Nat who just turns her brain off and does the skills the way they were ingrained into her body.

  I can’t get by on talent alone, because I don’t have enough of it. Drive and dedication, those have been my biggest helping hands. I had to work hard, so I pushed myself.

  But doing gymnastics on the tour? This is fun. There is no pressure, no end game. These are the last performances of my career and I’m doing them with childlike glee.

  My hands leave the bar and my stomach drops as I twist and flip my body through the air, conscious to keep my abs tight and my toes pointed. And then they catch it, chalk flying around my face and into my mouth. I welcome the taste, relish it. The skin on my hands burns from the contact with my grips, but I love that too.

  And then he’s swinging in tandem with me. His long, lean body cutting through the air like it’s water … so streamlined and beautiful in his bar work.

  The screams from the crowd invade my brain as we begin to swing on the same bar, clockwise and counter-clockwise so that our bodies look like a fan. It’s daring and scary, a new challenge we tried out this week and decided to perform.

  Jared does a release move beside me, and I feel the bar shake as he catches it again, all the while swinging all the way around the bar in a laid-out position, or what’s called a giant.

  You can only perform something with this much danger and precision with someone you trust. I may not have always liked Jared, sometimes I downright despised him, but I always trusted him. Even when we were screaming and fighting, I knew I could count on him to protect me, keep me safe. It’s so cliche for someone like me, a fatherless, poor child, to need to push someone away just to see how many times they would come back.

  It’s cruel to him really, I know that … but I had to. For my own self-preservation, I had to see that he would keep coming back, even when I told him not to. I’ve never had anyone in my life that has stayed through it all, has loved me unconditionally. I have friends, I have Nat … but they don’t know me on the most intimate level. The one where I house my greatest fears. Jared does, he peeled back all of my layers in London.

  The bar gets lighter, meaning Jared has dismounted. I don’t feel the wind or force from his body any longer, and I know he’s landed when I hear the thud of his feet below. Time for the big finish.

  I do a glide-kip, stopping some of my momentum and allowing me to push up on the bar with my hips leaning on it. Jared stands below, his chest gleaming with sweat as drips of it rolls down his washboard stomach. His muscled, bulging arms are extended, waiting for me to come down.

  I cast up, using the bar to push off my hips and bring my feet up to my breasts and then press my toes into the bar. I look like a little bird perched up here. Jared winks at me, a dare that I’m more than happy to accept. I let go of the high bar and stand halfway up before pushing off with my toes and whipping my body into a front flip.

  The mat, the crowd, Jared, my feet … all of these things blend together and meld into one. And then I’m in his arms, caught safely as a coil of pleasure begins to tighten inside of me.

  “Nice flying,” Jared whispers in my ear as the audience goes wild around us.

  “Nice catching.” I push off his chest and he sets me down.

  For two people who were so dead set against being together for such a long time, Jared and I go together like peanut butter and jelly. Or like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.

  He grasps my hand in his and holds them over our heads. And I can’t help but smile as we take a bow.

  19

  Jared

  “Bet you can’t do a backflip in the ocean!”

  Duke runs down the sand, grit and water flying up behind him as he launches into a tumbling pass. His big ass lands in the water, flopping and splashing the vacationers around him.

  The girls he splashed, annoyed with him about getting their hair wet, are now checking him out and making their way over to flirt. He’s in his goddamn glory.

  “Beer?” Nat comes up beside me and plunks the cooler down on our huge beach blanket.

  Not that the first part of the tour wasn’t exciting, because the whole thing was new, but this little stop off in Miami has been the best part yet. It seems like we all needed it, a little sun and sand. Plus, it gets us out of the buses, which have been getting a bit too claustrophobic for everyone’s taste.

  “Sure, I’d love one.” She hands me a cold one and I pop the top, the click and fizz sending a warm hum through my body.

  We sit for a while, watching our teammates goof off and letting the breeze waft over us.

  “So, you and Peyton seem to be chummy these days.” She side eyes me and smirks.

  “Mind your own business, Grekov. I’m nice to you because Spence would cut my balls off, but it doesn’t mean we need to talk about this.”

  I’m mostly joking with her, but no way do I want to girl talk with Peyton’s best friend right now. We haven’t even kissed yet, for good grief. Well … not this year we haven’t.

  “I’m not trying to pry, Jared. If you two can get al
ong, it’s better for all of us. But just … be careful. For both of you.”

  I had a feeling she knew something. “How much has she told you?”

  Nat sighs and plunks her beer in the sand. “I know the bare bones of it … that you both hurt each other. But on the other hand, I don’t see how there could be anyone better for her.”

  I laugh. “You’re rushing it just a bit. There is a lot of … baggage with us. It’s complicated.”

  “So uncomplicate it.” Nat shrugs. “When I finally let go and let myself be with Spencer fully, it couldn’t have made more sense in the world. I was building our problems up in my head; we were getting in our own way. Just hash it out, head on, and you won’t be doing any of this teenage shit anymore.”

  She sips on her beer as I mull it over. “Plus, you’ll have way more sex.”

  I choke on the cold suds and my nose burns. “Uh … thanks.”

  “Oh I forgot, you’re a good guy. No cursing, right?” Nat gets to her feet, and I know she’s going to join the rest of our team in the water.

  “Yep.” I nod, unphased by another person asking about why I choose good manners.

  “You should try it sometime … you know, Peyton would really go for the whole Sandy thing. Grease? It’ll surprise the shit out of her.”

  Nat laughs and runs off, and I’m still sitting on the beach blanket sipping my can of Bud Light. Sandy changed for Danny in the end, and yes, I’ve seen Grease. I won’t change for Peyton; a part of me will always need that control that she has yet to give me. But maybe I can adopt a little bit of her wild side. Plus, her jaw will hit the floor if I ever curse in front of her. Seeing that alone makes it worth it.

  I’m still sitting on the blanket when a familiar voice sounds from behind me. “You may be one of the hottest guys on the beach, but you really need to work on your tan.”