eyond Desire Collection

by JS Scott, M Malone, Marie Hall, et al

  All I can think of is finding a way to make sure she’s never hurt like that again. I’ll give up the drinking, the parties—whatever it takes. I need to be able to protect her. The thought makes me want to laugh—I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so capable of taking care of themselves as Zoe. The idea that some asshole like me could do anywhere near as good a job as she could herself is ridiculous. But I can’t shake the thought.

  So I proposed the idea of us cutting out the booze for a while. I was sure she’d refuse. I’ve watched her go under enough times to recognize a kindred spirit—just like me, she drinks to escape. How can I get her to give that up?

  The fact that she agreed so easily surprised me. Her question about what we’d do instead almost broke my heart. There was a time when the entire world seemed open to me. Jim and I would sit out on the deck, sneaking beers when our parents were out, and talk about where we’d go, what we’d see when we were finally free of high school. The world was huge, and we wanted to experience as much of it as possible.

  Then Jim died, and it was like the world died with him. It no longer seems like a place of wonder and excitement waiting for me to stake my claim. It has grown cruel and dark and lonely. Jim won’t be living those dreams. How can I live with myself if I get to go forward when he will be forever eighteen, forever buried in the cemetery a mile from our house?

  In the diner with her I’d hesitated, just for a minute, not wanting to think about the world beyond what had become my shallow existence of parties and screwing around. But when she looked at me with all that fear and shame and pain in her eyes, I couldn’t stand it. I might not deserve a better life, but Zoe sure as hell does. And I’ll figure out a way to give it to her.

  By the time we reach the lake, she seems to be back to normal. She lets me hold her hand the entire way there, and after a few minutes she lifts her head to stare out the window. When I tentatively turn the radio on she doesn’t object and goes so far as to bob her head along a little when a Beatles tune comes on.

  I park the car and turn to her with a smile. “I hope you’re wearing your suit under there.”

  She smiles back, somewhat weakly. “Yup.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  I packed a cooler for our trip, darting around the grocery store like an excited little kid picking out all the things I thought she might like. I pull it from the back seat, along with a large blanket, and take her hand again.

  “Let me take that,” she says, reaching for the blanket. “A blanket, huh? Are you expecting to get lucky here, mister?”

  I waggle my eyebrows at her. “A man can hope.”

  We walk hand-in-hand down to the beach. It’s crowded with families and couples, so we keep walking until we find a more secluded spot right near the tree line.

  “This good?” I ask.

  “Perfect.”

  She spreads out the blanket, and I open the cooler to grab a few sodas before sinking down to the ground. I grab her around the waist and pull her onto my lap.

  “Hey!” She laughs and hits my shoulder.

  “Sorry.” I kiss her forehead. “Just thought you needed some help getting comfortable.”

  Never breaking eye contact with me, she reaches down and pulls up the hem of her shirt. I groan softly. “You’re way too sexy for your own good,” I say.

  She giggles and throws the tank top on the blanket. Her bikini is red and just skimpy enough to make me insane. I look down the beach at the kids playing in the water, wondering if any of their parents could blame me if I made love to her right here and now.

  When I turn my attention back to her, she’s lost her cut-off shorts and is settling down onto the blanket. I take off my shirt, and my heart races at the way her eyes rake up and down my chest. There is literally no better feeling than knowing I affect her the same way she affects me.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” she says as I stretch out next to her. She reaches out a hand and trails her fingers across my belly, making my muscles clench uncontrollably. I want her so bad. The shower feels like ages ago.

  She closes her eyes and tilts her head up toward the sun. “I gotta tell you,” she murmurs. “If all boring normal shit is like this, I might just be a fan.”

  I lean down and brush my lips across her neck, unable to resist the exposed delicate skin. “I’m with ya, babe.”

  We drink our soda and munch on chips, not talking much. It’s enough just to be close to her, just to look at her and be able to touch her whenever I want. Her skin dews with sweat in the hot sun, and I make a game out of capturing the beads on her shoulders with my tongue before they run down her arms.

  “You’re going to have to stop that,” she whispers, her voice low and husky. It goes straight to my center. This girl could make me hard with just her voice.

  “Why’s that?”

  Her eyes snap open, dark and bright. “Because you’re driving me crazy.”

  “I like you crazy.”

  She smiles lazily. “Seriously. I’d rather not be arrested for indecent exposure today, and I’m in grave danger of ripping your clothes off right now.”

  “Let’s swim,” I say, tugging at her hand.

  “Yeah, cooling off is probably a good idea.” She stands with me.

  “I have something else in mind,” I whisper. In one fluid movement, I grab her around her waist and pull her up over my shoulder.

  “Hey!” she shouts, smacking my ass. “Put me down!”

  “Touching my ass is really no way to convince me this is a bad position for you.” I flip her around so she’s cradled in my arms and stride into the water, not stopping until I’m waist deep. “Ready to get wet?” I ask, then plop her down into the water without waiting for a reply.

  She gasps at the sudden cold, and grabs my arms to balance herself. “Jerk,” she hisses.

  “You said you wanted to cool off.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me—big mistake. I swoop in and capture it with my mouth, swallowing her moan, the sound sending my heart into overdrive. I wrap my arms around her, walking backwards deeper into the water. When the waves reach her shoulders, I pull her legs up around me, and rest my hands on her ass.

  “God,” she murmurs, pulling back. “Every time. How do you do this to me?”

  I shake my head, knowing exactly what she means. Just one touch, one kiss, and my blood is on fire, my limbs melting into nothing. I want to wrap her more tightly around me, wrap myself around her, find a way to meld us together until I can’t tell where she ends and I start. I let my hands drift from her ass around to her belly, my fingertips ghosting across her skin, dipping under the bright red fabric.

  “Taylor,” she says, her eyes wide as she grasps my arms. “We can’t.”

  “No one’s over here.” I look down the beach. There’s no one for a good fifty yards. Most of the families have already packed up. It’s getting close to dinnertime. “No one can see.” I turn her gently so her back is pressed to my chest. I wrap my arms around her waist, my hands in a better position to slip below her suit. “I just need to feel you. Please.”

  She whimpers, and I dip my fingers farther, brushing against her center. She whispers yes, and I groan, triumphant. She’s so hot against my fingers, her skin wet and blazing, creating a delicious contrast to the cool water. I find the spot that always makes her fall apart and am rewarded with her soft, breathy moan. God. I love that sound, crave it. Imagine it all the time—when I’m at work, when I look at her, even when I dream. She’s gotten so far under my skin now, I’m not really sure there’s a way out.

  “Taylor.” She groans, her hands tightening on my arms. I know that she’s close, and it fills me with a rush of primitive pride. Knowing I do this to her, that I’m the only one—it makes me crazy in the best possible way.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I whisper in her ear. It’s true. Only her head is visible above the water, tilted back and resting against my chest. Her neck is exposed, long and white and so gorgeous.
I wish we were at home in my bed so I could rub my lips along it, across her sweet- smelling skin, all the way to her breasts. I feel this way every time, like it’s not enough, like it will never be enough.

  She whimpers again. “Taylor.” Her cheeks are flushed and pink, her chest rising and falling with her shaky, erratic breaths. She is seriously the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, and it scares me, a little. There’s no way in hell I deserve anything as beautiful, as good, as this.

  But then she opens her eyes, and cranes her head back so she can lock her gaze on mine, and I forget every self-doubt I have. I can read it in her face: she needs me like I need her. She’s looking at me like she can’t bear for me to stop, like she can’t live if I let go. I forget to worry about what I deserve—I want nothing more in that moment than to be what she deserves. What she needs.

  “Let go for me, baby.”

  With one last soft moan, she does, and it’s amazing. So intense and beautiful and ridiculously perfect that it makes my chest ache. And all I can do is bury my lips against hers to try and stop the pain.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Zoe

  We fall into a nice pattern over the next few weeks. Most days Taylor picks me up from class, and we get lunch. Sometimes, on the days I’m done with class before he finishes work, I go to his shop and hang out in the break room, where I can sit and do homework in relative peace all while having the chance to look up at him out on the floor every so often. I don’t get a ton of work done.

  I’m spending more and more time in his apartment over the garage. We’re together most of the time, either alone or with Fred and Ellie, just hanging out, playing cards and listening to music or drinking a few beers. Sometimes, when the silence and the heaviness of my house gets too much to bear, I sneak out after everyone is in bed and make my way across town to knock on his door. It should have scared me, how much refuge I was taking in him. No longer getting wasted every night means that falling asleep on my own is getting harder and harder. My psych professor would have said we were becoming codependent, replacing our reliance on alcohol with a reliance on each other.

  A big part of me feels guilty for how little time I’m spending at home. Jerry did not suddenly have a change of heart—Mom still needs someone to look after her. I try to be there every afternoon and early evening to make sure she’s eating and taking her meds. Her days are hit or miss—some days she seems almost back to normal, content even. Other days she retreats to her bedroom for hours at a time. I wish, for the millionth time, that I could find some way to stabilize it, to give her enough consistency that she could have some kind of a life. But I’ve never been able to find the magic formula before, and I certainly can’t now. It’s depressing, though, the constant back and forth. I see her awake and moving around the house and my hopes lift only to come crashing down the next time breakfast and lunch pass without her. I hate those days, feel like I’m watching her disappear before my eyes. I start every day terrified that she might decide not to get up at all. But I know the real danger is not in her sleeping. The biggest fear is that she’ll get up, and that she’ll swing in the other direction. That’s always when the real fun starts. I know full well that some of her behaviors can make me yearn for the days when too much sleep was our only problem.

  I escape in Taylor.

  Once or twice a week we go on what we have taken to calling a boring-ass, normal-shit date. In fact, Taylor had proclaimed it the summer of the Boring-Ass-Normal-Shit-Project, or B.A.N.S.P. for short. Sometimes it’s basic—dinner and a movie—while other days we get more creative. We do end up going to the art museum downtown, and Taylor’s insistence that he is a museum person turns out to be true. He blows me away with his knowledge of art. I know he’s incredibly talented at painting and drawing but had no idea he was so interested in art history as well. When we discover a small exhibit on graphic art on the lower level, I melt at the adorable, excited look on of his face. He’s in his element, explaining to me all about the different methods and points of view in each piece. It’s the kind of stuff I’d never have thought could be interesting, but Taylor’s enthusiasm is catching, and I really get into it.

  “I’m feeling kind of inadequate,” I say jokingly on the way home. “You just gave me a pretty thorough art history lesson, and I have no way to repay you.”

  “Hmm,” he says, his eyes on my bare legs in my sundress. “I can think of a few ways.”

  “I’m serious! You’re, like, an art expert. I’m not an expert in anything.” I pout at him. “I have no expertise.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. There are probably a million things you can do that I can’t.” He pauses. “Did I ever tell you about the time Jim and I tried to bake a cake?”

  I try not to react to his mention of his brother; it happens so rarely. Instead I keep my voice casual. “No, what happened?”

  He chuckles a little. “It was my mom’s birthday, and Dad had been giving us a hard time about being more involved. He said we were past the age where a homemade card and a gift certificate to her salon were acceptable. We were, like, I don’t know, fifteen and sixteen at the time? So Jim gets this idea that we should bake her a cake.”

  “I’m assuming it didn’t go so well.”

  He’s grinning now, his eyes happy and bright. “We lit the kitchen on fire.”

  “You did not!”

  “Oh, we so did. Luckily Jim managed to stop panicking and get the fire extinguisher out, so it didn’t spread, but we did have to buy a new stove.”

  I’m laughing. “How on earth did you manage to light the stove on fire?”

  He gives me a sheepish smile. “When we put the pan in, a potholder went in with it. Jim swears he didn’t do it, but I’m pretty sure it was him. It caught on fire. When I smelled the smoke and tried to get the potholder out, I dropped it onto the floor. We were pretty lucky we didn’t burn the entire house down.”

  I slap my hands over my mouth. “Oh, my God. That’s insane!”

  He snickers with me for a minute, but, then, slowly, his face closes up, like he’s remembering all the reasons he doesn’t spend time with the happy memories. “You know,” I say quickly, “you were right. About me being better at some things. Because it just so happens that I am a fabulous baker.”

  He turns his eyes from the road for a minute to look at me. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. My mom and I used to spend hours in the kitchen, making up our own recipes.” I push away the little pain the words cause me, wanting to focus on him. “I got to be pretty good at it. You should try my macaroons. They’re pretty much the best things ever.”

  He grins, and I’m relieved. “I’m going to have to take you up on that.”

  So he makes a stop at the grocery store on the way home, and I pick up all the ingredients I need. I try not to think about the fact that I haven’t actually baked anything in ages, that the mere thought of it usually depresses me. When we get back to his place and I set about working in the kitchen, the strangest thing happens: I stop thinking about my mother entirely.

  I’ve assumed the act of baking would always be associated with her, would always remind me of her. But here at Taylor’s house, showing him the right way to separate egg whites, laughing when he gets flour in his hair, feeling his arms wrap tightly around me when I try to teach him how to whisk the batter, I feel better than I have in ages. I remember all the reasons I always loved to bake and, more than that, realize that I still love it even without my mom.

  We burn the macaroons. That’s what happens when you forget to set the timer and let your boyfriend convince you that you’ll be able to stop kissing in time. Instead, we make love on the couch, laughing when the smoke alarm goes off right as we climax together.

  We make another batch of macaroons later. And they’re pretty damn delicious.

  ***

  Guilt claws at me by the time Taylor eventually drops me off at home. When I left that morning my mom had been in pretty good shape. She was cookin
g breakfast for Jerry and humming to herself as she scrambled eggs. I’d kissed her cheek on the way out, and she reminded me that she wanted to meet Taylor—or my hot man friend, as she had taken to calling him. It had almost felt like a normal person’s life for a minute.

  Because she had seemed so well, Taylor and I headed straight to Fred’s house for a party without stopping home first. When I spend time with Taylor during the day, I usually make it a point to be home in the evening, just to make sure my mom is doing okay. I always feel better when I know she had dinner, when I was actually there in the house when she went to bed for the night. But we’d fallen asleep after we finished the second batch of macaroons and by the time we got up it was nearly nine—well past the time she was usually in for the night.

  “Let’s just go,” I had told him, trying to tamp down the guilt. It was silly to worry—it was a Saturday, and Jerry wasn’t working. Surely they could manage without me for a day.

  A healthy dose of fear joins the guilt over the course of the party. I just can’t make myself relax. What if she needs me for something? What if Jerry went out drinking with his buddies and left her alone all day? Sensing my discomfort, Taylor takes me home around midnight. When he pulls up in front of the house, I can’t help but feel a stab of disappointment. I’d been stressing about getting home all night, but now that I’m here I just wish I could go back to Taylor’s. I would much rather be in his cozy little apartment, sleeping in his arms, than spend the rest of the night here alone.

  As I walk up the front path, I notice a light on in the kitchen and my stomach sinks. Jerry must be up. Dreading the thought of seeing him, I slip into the house as quietly as I can. Maybe I can make it back to my room without drawing his attention.

  “Zoe, babe, is that you?”

  I frown as I shut the front door. That wasn’t Jerry—it was my mom. Wondering why she would still be awake, I walk to the kitchen—and gasp.