The Real Thing

by Cassie Mae

  “It’s nothing, really. It happens all the time, I shouldn’t be freaking out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Um … I just got a call from the Alaskan coast guard. They’ve lost contact with my dad’s boat.”

  Her gaze flicks up to mine, and the wetness on her lashes makes me push back the panic rising in my chest. She needs me, the guy who needs therapy for anxiety attacks, to be the calm one. And I want to be that for her.

  “Is that all they said?”

  “Yeah. They just wanted to keep me updated since it’s been over forty-eight hours.” She drops her head to my chest. “Forty-eight hours, Eric. Life can change in forty-eight seconds. What if the boat sprung a leak? Or they ran into pirates? Or they were attacked by sharks?”

  “Em … stop.”

  “I can’t.” She bumps her head against my chest, and without even thinking about it, I wrap my arms around her.

  “I hate the ocean. I hate that my dad’s on the ocean. I hate that I can’t talk to him. And I hate just sitting here with nothing to do but wait and worry.”

  “Then we’ll do something else.”

  “Like what?”

  I’m not sure. There’s only one thing I know Em loves just as much as her dad.

  “Read.”

  She snuggles into my hold, and I get a twinge of panic from that small amount of movement. But it ebbs and I find myself tightening my grip on her.

  “Will you pick something happy?” she asks, tilting her face up. “I need something funny, or with a good ending. Not like that one you read the other day.”

  “The Butter Battle Book?”

  “Yeah. That ending was totally cryptic.”

  “I think you missed the point of that story.”

  “Well, I need a noncryptic ending.”

  I half smile over her head. “How about you read to me this time? Pick one of your books.”

  She takes a step back, and I drop my arms. Her mouth is starting to turn up in a smile, but her eyes still say she’s worried as hell.

  “You’ll make fun of them.”

  “I promise to be open-minded.”

  A loose strand of her brown hair falls in front of her eyes as she studies me. And when she tucks it back behind her ear, I see she’s not shaking as much anymore.

  “Okay. But no heckling.” She grabs my hand and tugs me toward her room. The familiar glow of her computer lights it up, and when she unplugs her phone from the charger, an involuntary grumble comes out of my mouth. I’m starting to hate that thing.

  “I need you to take this,” she says, grabbing my hand and slapping the cell in my palm. “Keep it away from me. Be in charge of waiting for that call. Please?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ll constantly be looking at it—Googling boating statistics and accidents and going absolutely insane.”

  I give her a salute and stuff it in my pocket. Em grabs her Kindle as I sit on the bed, waiting for her to curl into my side. But she lies flat on her back, patting the small spot next to her. There’s no way I’ll fit on this twin without touching her, nearly everywhere.

  Counting breaths, I ease down on the mattress, watching her face in case I touch her somewhere or somehow I’m not supposed to, but she doesn’t give any indication that it’s bothering her. In fact, she yanks on my arm and pulls me down so fast I’m pretty sure that if I hadn’t taken any medication, I’d be hyperventilating.

  I hold still, and Em pulls her Kindle up between us.

  “All right,” she says, sounding as breathless as I feel, “Chapter one …”

  * * *

  My ass has been nonstop vibrating all day and still no word about Em’s dad. I keep teasing her and joking around to keep her mind off it, but the second she goes off alone, I’m yanking her cell out and cursing every time I see it blank.

  Well, not blank. Just no calls. She has four IM chats open, and that Facebook and Twitter thing goes off at least every ten minutes. It’s not only the stress of Em’s dad that has me anxious, but there’s this one chat bubble of this guy who looks like a tool, and it’s currently got a red 21 next to it. I want to open it up and see who he is and what the hell he’s saying to Em, but there’s the whole privacy thing … and Facebook tells you when someone sees your message. So I leave it closed and let it eat at me.

  I glance back at the restrooms as I stuff the phone into my pocket. This rest stop isn’t exactly five stars, but Em had to pee so bad she was doing that bouncing thing in the passenger seat, so I stopped at the first place I saw.

  “Hey, you in line?” the dude behind the counter asks, and I shake my head, shuffling closer to the bathrooms so I don’t have to talk to anybody or get in anyone’s way. I should’ve grabbed my pills on our way out. It’s not just Em’s dad, or whoever the hell is on her phone. Everything has me on edge.

  I’ve got to get it together before she comes out, because I want be the guy to distract her today, not the guy who has a panic attack in the middle of a gas station.

  As much as I hate it, I think I need food. There’s nothing in this place on my diet, but I need something to keep my mouth busy. I snatch a bag of Chex Mix and turn to the refrigerators for a Gatorade.

  I hear Em’s flip-flops as I’m bent over in the fridge.

  “Will you grab me a yellow one?” she asks, tugging lightly on the bottom of my shirt.

  Snatching a lemon Gatorade, I throw her a half smile. “Didn’t know you were a fan of lemon.”

  “I’m a fan of yellow.” She knocks the fridge door shut with her hip and grabs the drink. “It’s the best flavor ever.”

  “Yellow isn’t a flavor.”

  “Yes it is.”

  We get to the counter and she plucks a pack of gum from the impulse aisle. I point to the red packaging.

  “I suppose red is also a flavor?”

  “No, that’s just silly.” She does that attempted wink of hers with one eye chasing after the other, and I can’t help but laugh. A deep flush fills her cheeks, and she suppresses her smile as I pay for our junk food.

  We get to the Camaro, and Em pops open her drink. She guzzles down a quarter of it before I even get the engine started. My gaze drifts to her chest as it works overtime to get the liquid down her throat. My own throat goes bone dry.

  “Still nothing?” She licks away at the yellow Gatorade dotting her upper lip and gestures to her phone sitting by my hip.

  “Not yet.” I put the car in reverse. “But my ass is getting a good massage today.”

  “Ah, the vibrations … that’s why I always keep it in my front pocket.” Her face turns red when I raise an eyebrow. She tickles my knee and the car jerks as I put a little more pressure on the gas. “You perv, that’s not what I meant.”

  I’m about to respond, but she starts digging in the glove box, and her face is still red. I’ll give her a break today.

  “I swear I put sunblock in here,” she says. “My right arm is going to be burnt to a crisp with all this driving.”

  “Do you want to head ho—”

  “No!” Her already-flushed cheeks go a shade darker. “Sorry, I just … driving around, going to random stops on the road and collecting dumb stuff and taking weird pictures … it’s helping. Really helping. So, can we still … can you just drive?”

  She stares at the open glove box, and I have to move my gaze from her to the road or I’m going to have a problem. And even though it scares me, and I’m not sure if she wants to, I reach across the center console and grab her hand. We interlock fingers. I’m not looking at her, but I feel her looking at me now.

  “You bet.”

  She squeezes for a brief second, then lets go. I was hoping for a bit longer than that, but at least she didn’t look disgusted when I went for it.

  “Ah ha!” Her arm flies up in victory, and I’m glad I’m at a stop sign because I would’ve swerved right into a tree. “Success.” She shakes a blue bottle by my ear. “It’s a good thing we took m
y car. I doubt you have sunblock in your console.”

  She’s right. “Not my fault I’m built for hot weather.”

  “I guess Florida suits you,” she says, and I clear my throat as her eyes travel over my bare arms.

  “I think you mean I’m suited for Florida.”

  “No … I meant exactly what I said.”

  Our eyes lock for a second, and I have to forget the way her freckles speckle over the bridge of her nose, the way her mouth never quite fully closes, and how her hair always has one piece that refuses to stay in place … because I’m driving. The road needs to be more interesting than my best friend. When I get my focus back on the street, I secretly tell it that it has no chance in hell.

  The sunscreen bottle makes a squirting noise, and Em goes, “Agh, crap!” I look over at her again, to her palm, covered in about a pint of Coppertone.

  “I’ve heard that stuff comes out fast.” I laugh.

  “Thanks for the warning.” She dips a finger into the sunscreen and wipes a long white line across my forearm. “And I guess I’m getting a sunblock shower today.”

  Her feet kick up onto the dash and she swipes three fingers through the pool in her palm. She strokes over her leg, starting at her thigh, then traveling down to her ankle and back up. My throat feels like a frickin’ desert, and I force my eyes from her legs to my drink and chug half of it in one go.

  The road bends and I may be looking out the window, but my damn head is on her legs and that Coppertone running over her knees and soaking into her skin, making it shiny and smooth and slippery and—

  “Ugh, seriously. I still have, like, half the bottle left in my hand.” She laughs and it takes every ounce of self-restraint I have not to look at her.

  Her elbow bumps into mine as she wipes sunscreen down her arm. I jerk back and breathe, but it’s hard to push air past my heart where it has lodged in my throat.

  The trees thicken around us. I have no idea where the hell we’re headed. Probably right into a swamp. Is the AC working? Why does it feel like a sauna? I blow out a breath and scratch my elbow where we made contact, and rub in the rest of the sunblock she wiped on my arm. I catch her moving her hand over her neck in my peripheral vision, and I have to blow out another breath.

  “Ooh, I’m a bit tight here,” she says, and I can’t stop my eyes from following her thumb as she rubs it into the dip by her collarbone. “Maybe I should get a massage.” She giggles and I make some noise that’s similar to a cat choking on its fur. Her neck is moist with sunscreen, a piece of her brown hair is stuck to her nape, and a drop of sweat runs down into her cleavage.

  I’m done. Absolutely gone. My brain has shot straight to my dick, and I forget the fact that I’m driving. I reach over to rub in the rest of that sunblock on her neck, already feeling the heat beating off her skin—

  And something slams into the front bumper.

  My hand leaps to the wheel and my brain jumps back to where it belongs. “What the hell?” I spin the car to the side of the road and press the brake to the floor. Em swivels around to look out her window. She still has a blob of Coppertone in her left palm so I wipe the rest of it from her hand and rub it over my arms, even though I haven’t used this crap all summer. I can’t take any more of her rubbing herself.

  “Oh, I think you hit an armadillo or something.” Her bottom lip pokes out when she turns around. “I’m gonna see if it’s still alive.”

  “Em—”

  But she’s already out of the car. I fumble over the buckle and join her on the road. I’m two steps from the driver’s side when the smell hits. Burnt rubber and ass acid—and it annihilates my nostrils.

  “Ah, shit.” I lift the collar of my shirt to cover my nose and mouth, blinking my watering eyes at Em, who’s done the same thing. She peers over the back of the Camaro and coughs.

  “Poor thing.”

  “You might want to get away from it,” I say, muffled, and she lifts her gaze to me, brow furrowing.

  “Huh?”

  “You’ll want to get away from it,” I repeat, moving to her side of the car. I tug on her back belt loop so she steps away from the charged skunk asshole.

  “You think it’s really dead, then?”

  “I didn’t see it, but it sure smells dead.”

  She coughs again and wipes at her eyes. “We should at least get it out of the road so no one runs over it.”

  Hell no. “I’m not touching that thing.”

  Her eyes widen, and the look is ten times harder to resist with the skunk stench filling them with tears. “Please? Poor guy shouldn’t have his body mutilated all over a Florida back road.”

  My gag reflex is working overtime, but that damn look! I suck in a quick breath and hold it, shifting Em out of the way, but she grabs onto my back pocket and examines the skunk with me.

  I didn’t hit it hard enough that there’s blood, and that’s good since I’m sure killing innocent animals isn’t the best way to impress a girl. Prodding it with the toe of my sneaker, I cough and sputter, tempted to spit out the acid building up on the back of my tongue. Em’s digging her nose into my armpit.

  Wait … the thing looks like it’s still breathing. I bend down a bit and squint. It’s stone still. Huh. Must’ve been a trick of the light. Or I’m slowly dying from the smell and I’m hallucinating.

  “Are you sure I can’t just leave it?” I choke out, attempting to tease her. “I’m sure the roadside-service guys will pick it up bef—”

  The skunk’s eyes shoot open and I leap back with a girly yelp.

  Em screams and smacks my shoulder. “What? What?” Her nails dig into my arm, and I have to repeatedly tap her fingers to get her to loosen up.

  “It moved.”

  “You think it’s alive?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want to be here if it—”

  The skunk’s legs twitch, and both of us jump. It makes this weird wheezing noise, and its stomach collapses and his eyes close. Em deflates into my side.

  “I think he’s dead now.”

  “Well, if we stay here any longer, it’ll get me back for killing it.”

  She smacks my arm. “You’re not going to move him?”

  “If I touch it, that ass is gonna go off.”

  “I think he’s sprayed all he’s capable of spraying.” She gestures around at the humid, skunk-filled air.

  “I’m telling you, the worst is still in there, and it’s like a bomb ready to explode.”

  She rolls her eyes and fixes her shirt over her nose. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Em …”

  She steps on the back of my shoe, then slips her flip-flop off and taps against my shoe again. I laugh as I let her put on my right sneaker.

  Then I back the hell up. She wants to be stubborn, fine by me. We’ll see who’s laughing when she’s stuck in a tomato-juice bath.

  I lean against the Camaro and cross my arms, watching as her foot slides across the asphalt. She gets the skunk turned around so the butt isn’t facing her. She shoves again, and the skunk spins in a circle, but still in the same spot. I cough and laugh and she gives me the sexiest glare I’ve ever seen.

  “You’re the guy here!”

  “Yeah, and the guy would’ve driven off already if it wasn’t for the girl.”

  The top of her nose wrinkles, but I can tell she’s smiling under the pink fabric of her shirt.

  “Help, please?”

  Since she’s been kicking the thing, I guess it isn’t loaded, so I push off the car, and we use our shoe-covered feet to shove the skunk into the dirt on the side of the road.

  She gives me a cute arrogant look. “See, was that so hard?”

  And then it sprays us.

  Chapter 11

  Emilia Johnson

  1 hour ago

  My whole paycheck is going to Campbell’s. Thank you, Pepé Le Pew.

  35 people like this

  * * *

  “How many cans of tomato juice does it take
to fill a bathtub?” Eric laughs as he adjusts his leg in the juice to make room for me across from him. My nose is in the perma-wrinkle position as I settle in.

  “You sure this works?” I ask, saying good-bye to my shorts and pink top as the juice rises to my midriff.

  “According to Google.”

  “I still can’t believe you hit a skunk. It was probably the only one left in Florida.”

  “I can’t believe you made us kick it to the side of the road.” He scoops up some of the tomato juice and rubs it down his arm. How can he make something so gross look so sexy? “And I was distracted,” he kind of mumbles.

  “Obviously.” I laugh and rub my arms with the “bath water.” My nose wrinkles again. I never realized how thick tomato juice is. Not sure if it’s my shorts bunching up by my butt or if stuff is just coagulating there. I lift my eyes to Eric, and he’s got a half-smile on his face as he watches me shift and splash.

  “What?” I ask as I wiggle my butt around.

  “Nothing. Just not how I pictured our first bath together. It’s kinda funny.”

  I freeze, heart suddenly pounding in my throat. “You pictured us in the bath together?”

  He turns almost the color of the juice. “Will you help me with this?” He pats his knee. “I seem to have my foot stuck in my mouth.”

  I flick juice at him, and it splashes up his black shirt. He flicks back, staining my top, and I know we shouldn’t, but we start a splash war anyway. Good thing the curtain is closed; otherwise we’d have stained the toilet.

  “All right, all right,” he says, smiling and holding his palm up to stop me. Tomato juice is dripping from the top of his head down his cheeks, getting caught in the smile lines by his mouth. I can feel it running down my face, too, and I should be gagging, but I’m not.

  I open my mouth to tell him how cute he looks even with juice all over him, but a light ploof! hits the center of the tub between our bodies, and I stare down at my froggy loofah, now covered in red.

  “Oh no!” I frown, plucking the sponge up by the froggy’s arm, then looking up to the shower caddy over Eric’s head. Our splash war must’ve knocked my poor froggy right off his little perch. “My loofah.”