by E L Irwin
Unable to contain my grin, I said, “Yeah, that’d be great. You all right with Mexican? I can make dinner.”
Ryler agreed. “That’s fine. See you about six?”
“Six,” I agreed then quickly turned to go.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Taste of You
The Coronado Police Department was treating this as an aggravated breaking and entering. When I’d called Detective Whitaker back, he’d said that they’d fingerprinted the house and interviewed everyone who lived there. They’d all checked out. The police were in the process of interviewing neighbors and checking for any security videos in the area. He asked if I’d had any issues with any fans lately. My first reaction was to say no — I have amazing fans — but then that word selfish began to clang in my head. The same word that had been spray painted on my door and wall. The same word that Amber had used in her angry tirade against me on my blog page a couple weeks ago when I’d said I was going to be staying here longer than first anticipated.
Once Detective Whitaker heard about Amber, he indicated that she was now a person-of-interest in this case. He’d requested access to my blog page, which I gave him, and I promised that if Amber contacted me again, that I’d let him know. When I asked him if I should block her, he said no, and to just continue as I normally do, blogging and responding to my fans, and hopefully she’d respond and they could get more information on her.
So promptly after hanging up with the detective, I wrote a quick blog post, letting my fans know how I was doing, and what I’d been up to, and offering a giveaway of three of my books. As I hit post, I hoped that Amber would read it and respond. And that the police would be able to gain information from her response. It’d be so easy and convenient if she not only was my token crazy fan — Every celebrity, regardless of popularity, has at least one, right? — but also was the one who’d broken into my house as well. This could all just be a bad memory real soon if they could catch her.
Once done with my blog, I got busy making dinner for Ryler and me. Sour cream chicken enchiladas were a specialty of mine. It was one dish that I could cook with confidence. I’d found the recipe many years ago in an issue of Taste of Home. I’d tweaked it some to make it my own and tried to fix it at least once a year for Harley and me, each time we stayed in and watched the entire series of the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice and lamented over our meal that we’d yet to find our own Mr. Darcy.
The enchiladas were about ten minutes from done when there was a knock at the front door. Checking the time, I saw that it was 6:01. Ryler was right on time. I glanced at my reflection in the window over the sink. Decent, I mentally shrugged. Then went to answer the door.
Ryler had changed clothes. He still wore his typical cargo pants and plain t-shirt, but he’d showered and changed into a clean set before coming over. He held a paper bag in his arms. I opened the door for him, offering a smile as I swung it wide to let him enter. Ryler grinned at me, his eyes flashing as he came across the threshold. He knew his way around. Of course he did; he’d been here many times before. So, he headed toward the kitchen without needing direction.
Ryler set the bag on the counter and, with his back to me, began removing items from it. “Smells good,” he said, his back still to me.
“Thanks,” I replied, trying desperately not to notice the fit of his shirt across those shoulders, or the way the fabric moved with him — stretching and flexing, pulling tight over the hills and valleys his muscles made.
Jerking my gaze from Ryler’s back, I stepped to the sink in need of a drink. My throat was dry, parched even, which was odd, because my mouth was sure watering. I wanted a taste of him. The kitchen counters were formed in the shape of a wide U with a large island in the center. The sink sat at the apex of that U, with the cooktop and oven off to the left. Ryler was finished with whatever he’d brought and was now resting a hip against that island. Turning in his direction, I choked, spitting the water I’d tried to swallow all over the floor as I spied what it was that he’d brought.
Bananas. He’d brought bananas. And a six pack of Guinness. Oh, ha ha, very funny. Anna Joanna, like banana. Ryler was laughing his butt off as I tried to get my breath back. He was still laughing as I cleaned up the spill and then threw the paper towels in the trash. And without really thinking about what I was doing, I stepped up to him and playfully swatted at his chest. He laughed harder at that, like tears in his eyes, wheezing, laughed. So, I put both hands against his chest and tried to shove. It was like pushing against a boulder. No give. At all. And to make matters worse, or maybe better, depending on how you looked at it, he placed his hands atop mine, holding me in place.
My hands became still under his. My fingers were spread across his chest, feeling the strength there, the heat that I’d remembered from before and the pounding of his heart, the rumble of his laughter. And I just held still, afraid to move. Afraid that if I did, this, whatever this was, would end. That things would return to awkward again. It’d been such a long time since I’d been close to anyone like this. And maybe I just needed that closeness, or maybe I just didn’t want to be his enemy any longer. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t ready for space between us just yet.
I’d been so caught up in analyzing my feelings that it took me a few moments to realize that Ryler was no longer laughing. That he, too, had become still. His hands continued to hold mine in place, flush against him. His thumbs slowly rubbed back and forth across my skin, heating it with each pass. My gaze focused on his throat, watching the way it moved as he swallowed and the flutter of his pulse. His breath brushed my face, smelling of mint and something darker, stronger. Like maybe he’d had a drink of some liquid courage before coming here.
I might have leaned toward him had the oven not beeped, startling me, making us both jump. And just like that, the spell was broken. Taking a ragged breath as he released me, I turned away, and headed toward the oven to shut it off. Picking up the oven mitts, I glanced over my shoulder, “Bananas… of course you brought bananas.”
“I told you I’d be tempted,” he replied as I removed the pan from the oven.
I chuckled at that. “Yeah, you did.”
Dinner was nice. Easy, delicious, and relaxing. We ate slowly, savoring the meal. Ryler seemed to be enjoying it, and that was a good feeling. Occasionally, we asked questions of each other, continuing our conversation from Charlie’s.
“First job?” I asked him between bites.
“Working the ranch at the L&F,” he replied after a moment’s hesitation.
“What was that like?” I wondered out loud, remembering when he’d mentioned having stayed at the boys’ ranch in his youth. “What kind of work did you do?”
Ryler scratched at his jaw for a moment then sucked in a quick breath before letting it out. “Just hard work. The L&F was meant to teach us how to work hard, as well as give us confidence in ourselves. And teach us responsibility and basic life skills. How to build and repair a house or a car. Stuff like that.”
“You liked it there?” I’d have thought he’d have hated it. That he’d have bitter feelings about being forced to go there.
“I did. I guess it was one of the first places I ever felt safe.”
I opened my mouth to ask Ryler another question. My mind always seemed to come up with more and more of them as I tried to delve into who and what this man was, what had shaped him. But before I could, Ryler leaned across the table, and placed his finger on my lip, silencing me. Blinking, I held still, my breath rattling out in a rush.
“My turn,” Ryler said. His gaze flickered to my lips and back. And where his eyes landed, heat blossomed. I wanted to lick my lips, but Ryler’s finger was still against my mouth. And I knew how things would progress if I did.
Ryler seemed to remember his hand, because he quickly withdrew it, and I felt that curious sense of loss once again. Ryler cleared his throat. “Same question.”
It took me a moment or two to settle my brain enough to comprehend what
he’d asked and to remember how to respond. “My first job was at Regina’s in Florida. It was an old-fashioned ice cream parlor in Naples, near where we lived, which was just outside Naples.”
Ryler bobbed his head, his gaze flickering to my mouth and back again.
“Worst job?” I asked him, trying to get my mind to refocus.
Ryler met my gaze in a brief, yet hard look for a moment, before standing to his feet. “Pass.” He carried his plate to the sink then stood there with his back to me. His shoulders were a stiff, hard line. The sudden distance between us, both physical and emotional, was harsh, like a slap to the face. I hadn’t meant to offend him, hadn’t realized my question would offend him.
“Hey…” I cleared my throat. “…I… I’m sorry.” When Ryler remained silent, when he didn’t acknowledge that I’d even spoken, I rose to my feet and began clearing my own dishes. “All right, I’ll tell you about my worst job. After Regina’s, I worked at a pizza joint. I had to clean the bathrooms. This joint, The Pizza Barn, served alcohol, so we’d get a varied, interesting crowd.” I set my dishes on the counter and turned toward the stove to begin scooping the remaining enchiladas into a Ziploc storage bowl. “At any rate, I’d have to clean the men’s bathroom as well as the women’s. And it seemed to never fail that I’d get hit on while working.” I kept rambling on, just trying to eat up the silence. “In fact, one time, I had a guy come into the bathroom with me as I was trying to clean out the urinal—”
My little story was abruptly cut off as I was suddenly spun around, and Ryler’s mouth was against mine. His hands threaded up the back of my skull, raking through my short hair, pulling me closer to him. The whiskers on his chin scratched against me, and I shivered, straining to be closer. His mouth searched mine, carefully, thoroughly. And as suddenly as it had started, the kiss ended. Ryler wrenched himself from me, stumbling back several steps. He stood there, shaking his head, from disbelief, maybe. I wasn’t sure. What I was sure of was that I wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot. Not with him. I wanted more.
Three steps and I was against him; less than two seconds, and my arms were around his neck, pulling him down to me. Ryler rumbled low in his throat as he lifted me, our mouths dancing together, my legs wrapped around him. For a moment, he seemed indecisive, unsure as to where to go. The counter or the table? The counter was closer.
Not breaking contact, he walked in stumbling, shuffling steps until my backside was against the dark brown granite then on top of it, and he was leaning into me. My fingers snarled themselves in the fabric of his t-shirt, brushing against bare skin underneath. His satisfied growl rumbled from deep in his throat. His hands now gripped my hips, tugging me closer still.
I wanted more of his skin, more of him, so I wrenched his shirt upward. His arms pulled free, and his shirt was off. Letting it drop to the floor uncaringly, I let my eyes take in the view in front of me. Back in Kerry’s parking lot, I hadn’t really had the frame of mind nor the time to truly see and appreciate all that was Ryler. But I was clearly seeing him now.
His skin was deeply tanned — that I remembered. He had tattoos. Many of them. This I remembered as well. Though now, I was afforded the ability to take my time in looking each one over, appreciating the intricate detail — appreciating him. Ryler was like a work of art, with some brushstrokes done in angry, violent colors and motions, and others calmer, done in melancholy hues. He had scars. Many scars. Some barely visible. Some that drew the eye, claiming its attention. They crisscrossed over his chest, his stomach, his side, and his arms.
Each of his biceps were inked, one in the American flag, the other an Army Ranger emblem. The left side of Ryler’s chest bore six tattooed slash marks about two inches in length each. They were lined up in two rows of three, one over the other, reminding me almost of tally marks, though I couldn’t be certain that was what they were. I wondered what they meant, what they stood for.
Ryler had become motionless under my scrutiny, barely breathing, as if he’d locked himself down, away, becoming unreachable. And now as he stepped back, his limp more pronounced, his eyes turned cold like ice-coated steel and shuttered against me. My heart thumped painfully in my chest at the sight. He turned away and bent to retrieve his discarded shirt from the floor. The scarring and ink continued onto his back and, centered between his shoulder blades, was the word, REBEL, in big, bold, black print. Beneath that were the words, Never surrender.
“Ryler,” I said, unsure how to proceed, unsure of what to say. Unsure of what had happened, what had caused his walls to go back up.
“I can’t do this,” he replied, almost cutting me off, as if he hadn’t heard me. He nodded in my direction as he put his shirt back on in jerky movements. “I’m sorry. AJ, dinner was great. I… I just can’t do this.”
“Um, okay.” I held my breath a moment before exhaling in a rush. “Ryler, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… upset you.”
“You didn’t, okay? I just… I gotta get going. Thanks again for dinner. I’ll see you around, huh?”
“Yeah,” I whispered as he walked out. “Yeah, I’ll see you around.”
I slid down from the counter on wobbly legs as I heard the front door close quietly. Reeling from what had just occurred, I made my way to one of the couches in the living room and sank down into its cushioned softness. What happened? Just when I’d thought I was making some headway with Ryler, like maybe he didn’t really hate me. Just when I’d thought that there might be something there between us, he’d pulled away, effectively slamming the door in my face.
And it wasn’t because he wasn’t interested. He was more than interested. My mouth and the skin around it was still tender from his attentions, which had been anything but uninterested. Why did life have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t people just say, think, and do what they really meant? I just didn’t know anymore. My eyes drifted shut as I considered all these thoughts and more.
“I was married,” Ryler said quietly from behind me. “Before. And things, things didn’t work out.”
At the sound of his voice, I lurched forward, spinning around on the couch to face him. My heart galloped in my chest. I hadn’t heard him return.
“And I know that you aren’t her,” he continued. His eyes sought mine, holding them, seeming to search for understanding. “But you don’t strike me as someone who’d be interested in a one-night stand, and that’s about all I’m capable of right now. And regardless, I can’t do that to Jake’s kid. I just wanted you to know.”
Agreeing, I took a deep breath. “Thanks. I appreciate your honesty, Ryler. And you’re right, I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl. But I also think I’m a big girl and capable of making my own decisions about what I want and don’t want.”
“Fair enough.” He shifted on his feet. I watched as Ryler’s gaze shifted to my mouth, no doubt taking in its swollen state, the evidence of his earlier attentions, and caught the flash of fire, of satisfaction and desire in his eyes, before it retreated once again.
“So, I guess this means we’re at an impasse.”
“Yeah, I guess it does,” he rumbled.
“Are we going back to acting like we’re enemies again? I’d rather not if it’s all the same to you.”
“I’d as soon not head down that road again, either.”
“So, I guess we’ll just… see what happens, then?”
Ryler gave me a long look, as if trying to gauge my sincerity.
“You see, Ryler,” I told him as I stood carefully and walked toward him around the sofa. “I think you like me, and I like you. So, I’ll give you space, because I do have some self-respect, but something tells me that you and I are not finished, not by a long shot.”
I’d shocked him with my statement, that much I could tell. What he’d do about it, that remained to be seen. But seeing as I had the upper hand right then, I decided to keep it. “Goodnight, Ryler. Thanks for having dinner with me.”
Ryler stared at me for a moment or two longer before t
urning toward the door again, and I caught the near-silent squeak of his leg brace.
As I watched him walk out, I decided I wanted to know just what it was that had happened to Ryler, both to his body and to his heart. And maybe this wasn’t the wisest of decisions, but I felt that I needed to know, regardless.
Ryler stood in his living room, his thoughts in turmoil, trying to remember how he’d gotten there. His gaze roamed aimlessly, flicking from one image to the next, seeing nothing. His mind was still back at Jake’s. With AJ.
He wanted her, wanted her badly. He could still taste her, still feel her. And he wanted more. So much more. But between them stood a wall. Solid. Impenetrable. Preventing him from having what he desired. Ryler wanted to rage against the wall, beat it down, breach it, bring it into submission.
But he’d fought that battle already. Fought it and basically lost, barely survived. There was no way he was going through that again, no way he’d survive a second time.
Shiv moved to him, a rumbling whine coming from deep within. Absently, Ryler scratched behinds the hound’s ears. That simple action, that simple touch, began to calm him. His mind settled, not relaxed, just became somewhat focused, a little less chaotic.
Taking a deep breath, Ryler turned toward his bedroom, patting the big dog on the head as he did. Shiv stayed beside him, a constant, supportive presence, to help fight that darkness back, to keep the feelings of aloneness and fear at bay. Ryler flicked the light on in his bedroom as he entered. Moving to the fireplace, he carefully knelt and added a few logs, then started it with efficient movements.
Soon the crackle and hiss of the flames, the smell of smoke and wood filled the room, lending another layer of comfort. Ryler sat down heavily on his bed, as if all the energy had just drained out of him. Forearms resting on his knees, he stared at the wood floor, his head hanging. Shiv sat beside him, leaning against his leg, offering that acceptance and comfort.
After several minutes had passed, and the fire had begun to heat the room, Ryler sat up. He reached for his right pantleg and began tugging it upward, pulling it high over his thigh. Then he reached for the silicone suspension sleeve that held his prosthetic leg in place. He slid this up then carefully removed the leg and laid it beside him on the bed.
