by Sarina Bowen
And there it was again, that amazing feeling. Holy hell. She was like a path of honey; he could dip himself in and out forever and want nothing more. “Sweet, sweet thing,” he choked out, his hips moving on their own volition.
His heart hammering, Dane reached a hand over Willow’s hip and between her legs, flicking her clit with his thumb. She arched her back, leaning that sweet ass of hers into him with a gasp.
“Sweet, sweet,” he whispered, his voice shaking.
Willow’s body strained against him. “Oh, God,” she said. “Dane.”
He bucked into her, flying high. He buried his face in her hair and thrust harder.
Willow grabbed his hand, pressing it down on her sex. As he rolled the heel of his hand onto her, she came hard, moaning and straining, her body squeezing his cock in an embrace. And then he couldn’t hold on a moment longer. He burst into her, pouring himself into a woman’s body for the first time. With his hand that was still clamped over her, he slammed her against his hips once, twice, three times, until finally he could rest.
Dane’s heart thundered in his chest, and he sucked in air. Between his legs, he could feel Willow tight on him, her body still milking tiny contractions around his cock. He had never felt anything so beautiful. He panted into the nape of her neck, her hair sticking to his face, which was still wet from his tears.
Willow turned her chin toward him, tilting her shoulder as if to face him.
Dane clamped both of his arms around her. He curled one of his long legs over hers, holding her tight, but keeping her facing away. Calm down, he told himself. He stroked her breast and tried to measure out his breaths to slow himself.
Willow curled a hand around his and squeezed. The tears leaking from his eyes still came. He lay quietly, trying not to sniff.
It was just that he’d been up all night. It must be exhaustion breaking him down. Turning him into a total pussy.
He closed his eyes. With his hand on Willow’s chest, he could feel her own breathing lengthen and slow. His body listening to hers, he finally began to relax.
* * *
Willow lay locked into his embrace wondering what had just happened.
She’d felt it again, an odd intensity between them, unfurling when they touched. And now he clung to her, like a drowning man to a life preserver. She closed her eyes, memorizing the feel of his powerful chest against her shoulders.
They fit together perfectly.
Chapter Seven
Dane woke up slowly, sunlight against his eyelids. As he came to, he realized that one of his arms was still curled around Willow’s waist. The shock of waking up next to her sent his pulse racing.
Jesus, dude! What are you still doing here?
Blinking at the curve of her neck, it was cruelly apparent just how far he’d strayed from the plan. And he couldn’t even count how many of his own rules he’d broken.
Go, asshole. Now.
Carefully, he eased his arm off of her body. Willow sighed in her sleep, rolling onto her stomach, her face still turned away from him.
His heart pounding, Dane counted to sixty. Then, he slid carefully off the bed. As noiselessly as possible, he gathered up his clothes, carrying them into the kitchen. There he speedily got dressed, put on his coat and boots and stepped outside.
The cold air greeted him, snow crunching under his feet. He sucked the chill into his lungs, and Vermont’s piney scent began to do its work on him. Outdoors, under an open sky stretched between two mountain ranges, his life slid back into control.
He walked into Willow’s garage. He found her snow shovel leaning against the door. That’s right, Dane. Time to dig your way out of this one.
Carrying the shovel, he began to walk down her driveway. As he descended, he saw a tow truck lumbering along the road, slowing down as it approached.
Dane picked up his pace and ran to meet it.
* * *
Willow woke up alone.
Sitting up in her empty bed, she listened. The stillness of her house was so complete that she knew at once he was gone.
Easy, she cautioned herself. Don’t you dare be surprised.
Still, there was no denying that she hoped he wasn’t really gone. She dressed quickly. In the kitchen, he was nowhere to be found. There was no evidence he’d ever been there at all, save a single juice glass on the table and the raw feeling of her bitten lips.
Willow shrugged on her coat and began to look around for the keys to her truck, which she’d left on the table. But they were nowhere to be found. Just as she began to worry, she heard an engine. Out the kitchen window, she saw her truck pull up the drive and into the garage. A few seconds later, Dane emerged with her snow shovel, which he leaned against the side.
She stuffed her feet into her boots and clomped outside. “It started!” she said. “Oh, my God, thank-you so much.”
He smiled, but his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “The tow truck pulled her out of the ditch,” he said. “When I cleaned out the tail pipe, she started right up.”
“And your Jeep?”
“I’m back in business.” He gave her another smile, but accompanied by the same shifty gaze.
Oh no, her heart said.
“I’m so embarrassed that I slept through that,” she said.
He shook his head. “It took no time at all,” he said. “The guy was in and out.”
Just like you’re about to be, Willow thought. She felt her face get hot. “Did he leave me a bill?” she asked.
He waved off the question. “I took care of it.” Then Dane stuck a hand in his pocket, jingling his keys. “I’ve got to get on the road now,” he said. He took one step closer.
“Right,” Willow whispered, crossing her arms on her chest, steeling herself for his rejection. He still would not look her in the eye. Instead, he took one more step, putting an arm around her shoulder. Then he kissed her.
“Mmm,” she could not help but sigh. Even if his eyes said no, his mouth was warm and loving. He tasted her slowly. For a heart-stopping minute Willow wondered if he would come back inside.
But then he pulled back, whispering in her ear. “Goodbye, Willow.”
She didn’t trust herself to say anything. She could only hug herself with her arms as he finally met her eyes. They were as blue as the sky, and held hers for a long moment. Then, with what looked like reluctance, he turned his back and walked away.
Willow watched him start down the driveway at a walk, wondering if he’d turn around and wave. Instead, he accelerated into a run, long strides carrying him toward the road.
She went back into her kitchen, weighed down by her own disappointment.
Chapter Eight
Dane steered the Jeep through the newly white world, across the Connecticut River and into New Hampshire. He took the curvy back roads after he left the highway. A sign on the shoulder read Moose Crossing, Next 3 Miles.
Liars. Dane made this fifty-mile trip once a week, and he had yet to spot a moose. He hadn’t seen one since he was a kid, growing up in the Green Mountains. Back when his mother was alive, they used to go camping every summer, pitching a tent in the state park and violating the rules against campfires. His brother, Finn, would whistle as he built the fire, showing Dane how to use pine needles for tinder and demonstrating the importance of sufficient kindling.
Now Finn couldn’t even get out of bed.
Dane tapped his fingers in time to the sounds of The Clash coming from his speakers and stretched back against the headrest. Alone, the Jeep humming along the road, he felt in control again. His body felt loose, with the telltale languor that was the result of intense sexual gratification. He could still feel the damp of Willow’s body on him and a mild chafing where she’d stroked him.
His mind lingered on the feel of her hands on his stiff shoulder, the way she’d massaged him into complete arousal.
Christ. He was horny again.
He turned up the stereo volume and steered his thoughts to the busy days ahead.
* * *
When he pulled into the nursing home parking lot, it was one o’clock.
He stepped out of the Jeep, stretching his frame in the sunlight. The day after a blizzard nearly always featured this kind of perfect cloudless blue sky. Even with his shades on, it was hard to take. Nowhere on earth was Dane more aware of his own fragile mortality than on this particular property, where inside the building people lay bent and broken in a hundred different ways.
He’d learned on past trips that the fickle Gods of rural cell phone coverage smiled on this parking lot, and so Dane delayed the inevitable by calling Coach.
“Where are you?” Coach said quickly, always wary of Dane’s disinclination to show up for flights on time.
“I’m going to be a day late,” Dane said quickly. No point in beating around the bush. “Sorry, Coach. I’ll catch a night flight, and be there in time for course inspection.”
“Aw, kid. They’re going to shoot me on sight,” Coach complained, “when I turn up with more excuses for you.”
“So take a later flight yourself. Or tell Coach Harvey to go fuck himself. Seriously.”
“Where are you?”
“I just pulled into the nursing home. I’ll be a couple of hours here, then I’ll shoot down to Boston. I got the Jeep stuck last night and couldn’t get dug out until midmorning. Honestly. Show Harvey a fucking newspaper. We got two feet, and Logan was shut down for a few hours. I heard it on the radio. I’ll be there on time, and I’ll ski fast. And then he can kiss both of our asses.”
Coach sighed into the phone, and it sounded like a hurricane gale. “See that you do.”
“Have a beer on me, Coach. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I have too many beers because of you, kid. If you would just explain to Harvey that you’re having a family emergency….”
“No can do,” he said. “But how about I just win the race, instead?”
“See you over there,” Coach sighed. And then he hung up.
* * *
Dane tucked his phone away and walked into the home. He was greeted by the nauseating smell of floor polish mixed with antiseptic, and the glare of fluorescent lighting.
“Hello, Mr. Hollister,” the receptionist called. “I have a letter for you from Dr. Brown.” She held out an envelope.
That was not a good sign.
“Thank-you,” he said, taking it. He gave her a salute and strode past, down the hall and to his brother’s door. Pausing outside, he slid his finger under the flap and opened the envelope. The letter was just as discouraging as he assumed it would be. Dear Mr. Hollister…still trying to get his infection under control. New antibiotics…haven’t given up hope…
Dane shoved the letter into his pocket and steeled himself before pressing the door open. His first view of Finn was always a shock, and he’d learned to smile as a cover.
When he walked in, his brother’s eyes flicked up to his from an unbelievably emaciated face. “Hey!” Dane said, taking three long steps toward the wheelchair, keeping eye contact like a champ. Even though Finn’s chin sagged toward his chest, his brother’s face contracted with a tic of recognition.
Or, maybe it was just a tic.
Dane couldn’t be sure. The wall that the disease had built between them had started out low enough that it could be stepped across, if not ignored completely. But layer upon layer had grown these past fifteen years. Now it was so high as to be impenetrable.
“Hi, Finn.” He took his brother’s fragile hand into his and straightened it out as best he could. This hand, once incredibly strong and lithe, had helped Dane into his first ski boots, snapping the buckles into place. Now it was bent like a discarded piece of cardboard, cupped onto itself, useless.
And feverish.
Dane felt the pressure settling into his chest—the inescapable pain that always hung on him in this place. He looked around and found Finn’s copy of the Boston Globe, unruffled, on the bedside table. “Let’s find the sports section,” he said, opening up the pages. “Who’s on top of the basketball standings?” he asked. Then he began to read.
He read every article in the section out loud. Before Finn had deteriorated so far, Dane used to tell him things about his own life. His brother had given him drool-y smiles after hearing all of Dane’s antics on the ski hill. But things were looking so desperate now, the feeding tube snaking out of Finn’s blankets, the IV that delivered the newest antibiotic. It seemed unfair to talk about all the good things Dane enjoyed that Finn did not.
Or maybe he’d stopped telling Finn good news because talking to his brother felt too much like looking in the mirror. Now that Dane was knocking on thirty, his own unfortunate future loomed large. How long would it be before he was in Finn’s shoes, perhaps in this very room? Dane had chosen this nursing home because it was the nicest he could find. At fifteen grand a month, it was expensive. But when Dane visited, his brother was always well cared for. He was clean and well tended, and the nurses who came through were cheerful and quite obviously well paid.
The best nursing home in New England. Now there was a dubious honor.
The sports section completed, Dane was fast running out of things to talk about. He watched Finn’s eyes flicker across his face. There was still a person in there, paying attention. The disease had a marked effect on the sufferer’s personality, but dementia didn’t hit every victim the same way. He had no way of knowing how much his brother still understood, because the muscular deterioration had taken away his ability to speak more than a year ago.
Dane hesitated, wondering what to tell Finn next. So, I met a girl. Some part of Finn might still like to hear what his little brother was capable of pulling off in the back of a Jeep. But Dane wouldn’t tell the story. Because if Finn were still able to understand it, then both of them would be depressed by the inevitable conclusion. Dane couldn’t see the girl again because fate had determined that he would likely also be a loser in the same harsh game of genetic roulette.
Fate was a tricky bitch, anyway. Because if it weren’t for Finn, Dane would have never met Willow. He would never be training in New England, and he wouldn’t have crossed her path. Heads you win; tails I lose.
This kind of math—disease math—was always on his mind. How many years until his brain faltered, and he began to forget things? How many people would assume he was a drunk when his gait went goofy?
Lost in thought, he hadn’t spoken in a couple of minutes. “Sorry,” Dane said, his own voice echoing into the silence. “I’m shitty company today.” He ruffled the newspaper again. “Let’s see what’s happening in the TV section. Maybe there’s something good coming on for you this week.”
Chapter Nine
“I really appreciate this favor, Willow.” Her friend Travis swept his hand across his head again, trying to keep his wavy blond hair under control. “I really don’t want to miss the big game.” When he smiled, Travis’s eyes crinkled at the edges. He had the open face and friendly gaze that a good bartender required.
“It’s no problem, Trav,” she said, tying the half apron around her waist. “I think it will be fun.”
“Hope so,” he said, looking up and down the bar, which was nearly empty, except for three ski-lift operators at the far end, and Willow’s friend Callie at the other. “Wednesdays aren’t too bad,” he said. “And I’ll be back before the bowling league guys come in. If there’s something you can’t find, ask Annie.” He dropped his voice, even though the waitress was out of earshot in the adjacent dining room. “She’s kind of a bitch, but she’s worked here a long time.”
“Gotcha,” Willow said, smoothing the apron down. “Have fun and don’t worry about a thing.”
“If she gets slammed, I’ll help out,” Callie volunteered from her bar stool.
“If she gets slammed, I wanna watch,” one of the lifties muttered, and his friends guffawed into their beers.
Travis leaned close to Willow’s ear again. “They’re disgusting, but probabl
y harmless,” he said.
“I’ve heard worse.” She flashed him a smile.
When Travis went out, Willow did a little twirl in front of Callie. “This is kind of fun. Like playing lemonade stand, but with alcohol.”
The waitress, Annie, came in from the dining room, slapping an order slip down on the bar.
Willow picked it up to read it. “Annie, I think this says: one book, one corn and a bird.”
Annie snorted. “A Beck’s, a Corona and a Budweiser.”
“Huh, okay. Coming right up.”
When Annie huffed out of the bar, Willow grinned at Callie. “See that? I get to say things like ‘coming right up!’”
“I guess Travis asked the right girl for this favor.” Callie sipped her beer. “Is he paying you for this gig?”
“I won’t let him,” Willow said. “He’s helped me out a lot since John left. He recommended me for my temp job, he found someone to patch my roof for cheap. He’s been a good friend.”
“You know he wants you, right?”
Willow uncapped the Beck’s and the Corona and looked up. “What?”
“Travis,” Callie said. “He likes you. A lot.”
Willow frowned, adding a wedge of lime to the Corona’s bottleneck. The Bud was on tap, so she grabbed a pint glass off the rack and dispensed it with a flourish. “I don’t see that.”
“Then you’re blind.”
Willow set all the drinks on a tray and then leaned on the bar in front of Callie. “In other news, I had a small bit of luck last week.”
“You mean, other than getting lucky?”
Willow put a finger to her lips. “Don’t make me regret telling you about that, Callie. It’s not a story I’d share with anyone else.”
