“Nope. Cass is the—oh, what’s the word?” Rhea tapped her pen to her lips in thought. She was well aware Surfer Boy was staring at them. She drew her bottom lip behind her upper teeth and bit down gently. He exhaled. “Is that galeophobe?”
He shrugged. “I’unno.”
“Anyway, she’s afraid of sharks, not me.”
“Go see Shedd Aquarium, then.”
Rhea wrote it down. “Anything else?”
“Navy Pier, but go at night. Have a Chicago Dog at Wrigley Field.”
Their meals arrived.
“If you have any time,” he added, squeezing preserves onto his toast from a small rectangular plastic tub, “go see Millennium Park and the Art Institute.”
Rhea made notes of those and lifted her mug, the pen clinking against its side. “You just added those to sound artsy.” She sipped her coffee, struggling not to make a face; it wasn’t Starbucks.
“If I was going to sound artsy, I’d have offered to accompany you to the art exhibits as an unofficial docent or something.”
The coffee mug came down a bit harder than Rhea intended. It was silent for far too long under the weight of stares that challenged each other. “. . . are you offering?”
He jammed the toast into his mouth, pointing to it in indication he couldn’t answer.
Rhea tended her food with far more decorum, yet she couldn’t resist the gentle tease: “I’ll bet that toast tastes better than a foot does.”
He swallowed and cleared his throat before replying, “I bet you’d be surprised. You can make most things edible with a liberal application of jelly.”
She cut her sausage link into quarters, sparing a passing thought to Mark. “Not everything.”
“That sounds like a story if ever I heard one.”
Tell hot train stranger about my aversion to orally servicing my ex-husband, no matter how he coated his genitalia in sweets to entice me? No, thanks. “It is. And that’s all you’re getting of it!”
“So . . . Are you enjoying your first train trip so far?” Surfer Boy asked.
“It’s been . . . Different. The guy behind me has one hell of a snore.”
“And now you see why I get my own room on years my art has sold well. That, and the coach seats are impossible to sleep in.” He added casually, “Although . . . it might not be so objectionable if I had a personal masseuse to help me rub out the kinks.”
It wouldn’t be so objectionable to help him rub one out. Rhea fought with her blush and lost. Dammit. At least she was successfully holding a guilty smile at bay.
“I didn’t mean it like that . . .”
But Rhea did mean it; that was terrifying. Her mind wandered to how she might trick him into letting her give him a hand job. She’d never given a happy ending with her massages but there was a first time for everything. “We masseuses prefer to be called massage therapists.”
Surfer Boy groaned, his head dropping back. “Is there any other way I may inadvertently offend you before you’re done with breakfast?”
Her plate was somehow half-empty. “It may offend me if you didn’t share your portfolio with me.”
“I’m not comfortable taking it out in coach.” He winked at her.
Rhea smirked. “You’re not an exhibitionist. Too bad.” She certainly could have been under the right conditions. Any. Any conditions, if I’m being honest.
He made another groan, his head falling forward this time. He covered his face. “Oh my God.”
“Hey.” Her voice was soft. “All joking aside, I don’t blame you for being protective of your art. There are some skeevy people out there and probably all of them concentrated in coach. Nobody seems to want to chat with me. I mean . . . Except you. And . . . You’re not exactly riding coach, big spender.”
He dropped his hands, flashing Rhea a charming smile. “Their loss. Don’t let that deter you from taking other train trips. I ordinarily find some interesting folks on my travels. This particular trip? I met a sexy . . .” His next words were deliberate. “. . . massage therapist.”
Rhea was smiling so hard she feared she might split her lip. “What are the odds two massage therapists would be on the same train?”
“Oh just take the compliment already.”
“That’s easier said than done.” She forced herself to add: “But thanks.”
“You’re welcome to come to my roomette to look through my portfolio once we’re done eating.”
“I’d like that.”
After breakfast, Rhea followed Surfer Boy down to his small cabin. It was significantly less peculiar to do that now than it was last night—which was, in itself, peculiar.
Then again, Rhea was traveling alone, which she’d never previously done. The constant swaying and jostling of the train didn’t faze her so much anymore. And she wanted to grab that man’s ass a little bit. I could pinch it and explain to him afterward it looked tight and in desperate need of some kneading. Because it did look tight in fact, and her desire dictated it did require loads of kneading. That was factual.
Surfer Boy moved a large, flat, black briefcase from where he’d left it halfway buried by the sheets he’d slept in overnight while she suffered in coach, and maneuvered his bed into a pair of seats situated across from each other. He sat and Rhea squeezed in to sit across from him.
“Hey, would it freak you out if I closed the door?” he asked.
Rhea shook her head, though she wondered if she should at least think better of it. Space was so tight in the roomette she imagined there wasn’t enough room for him to murder her anyway. Hell, there wasn’t enough room in there to grab his ass without employing some Kama Sutra style techniques.
He slid the door closed and opened the portfolio, resting the back cover on his lap and the front cover against the roomette door. “How about that, it was facing the right direction! Like USB drives: fifty percent chance of plugging it in right, have it upside-down ninety percent of the time.”
She laughed the laugh of someone who knew that annoyance all too well. “First world problems, am I right?” Rhea leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs.
She was unsurprised to see Surfer Boy created a lot of seascapes; there was even one with landmarks she recognized from her occasional trips from Irvine to Laguna Beach. His oil pastel landscapes had the appearance of brilliantly colored photographs with a soft-blur filter applied to them. They were nothing short of stunning. How he could ever have a bad year selling his art, she didn’t know.
Surfer Boy Who-Actually-Maybe-Was-The-Artist-He-Claimed-To-Be-And-Then-Some—whose nickname would remain Surfer Boy regardless of its inaccuracy because Rhea fancied it that way in addition to its being far shorter—was talented. His artwork demonstrated a keen eye for color and a gentle touch.
He also had a few landscapes in his possession on which he’d used watercolors.
“These are fantastic,” said Rhea. “You’re amazingly talented!”
“Well . . . Don’t be too disappointed by my portraits. I haven’t been doing portraits for as long as I’ve done landscapes.”
If she were to judge by his expression, it wasn’t false humility; not unless he was—in addition to being a great artist—a great actor as well.
His portraits didn’t have the refined touch of his landscapes but they were still excellent in their own right. Rhea couldn’t even begin to figure out how such things were done.
“This is my mom,” Surfer Boy said of the second to last piece in his portfolio. “I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard on anything in my life.”
“She’s a beautiful lady.” Rhea smiled, glancing at him. “I can see a resemblance.”
“She . . . was.”
“Oh—oh my God, I am so sorry—” She impulsively rested her hand on his knee.
He placed his hand atop hers; it felt so natural.
They were silent for a while, the beautiful eyes of Surfer Boy’s deceased mother gazing up from his painting and looking full of life.
Bec
ause she couldn’t think of anything else to say, Rhea filled the silence with the stupidest words ever: “I’m recently divorced.”
“I’m sorry.” He paused. “Your choice or his? Or . . . hers?”
She snorted. “It was a him. And it was mutual. He showed interest in me when we met in high school. I jumped at the opportunity, although I wasn’t attracted to him. When what little interest he had in me waned, we were left with . . . a condo.” Rhea was blushing. “You totally didn’t need to hear all that.” Or any of it, for that matter.
“So you’re over him?”
“Oh yeah. Though I now have the lingering weirdness where I know the state said we were married. Next time? Next time, I’m marrying in a church.”
Surfer Boy squeezed her hand. “Good for you.”
“Good for me?”
“For not being scared away from the institution by a bad experience.”
“Oh. It’s the fatal flaw of a hopeless romantic I guess.” She pulled her hand back to turn to the last page in his portfolio. Her jaw dropped. “Oh my God!”
“It’s—real sucky, I know—I—I never meant for you to see it—”
The last piece was a distinct departure from the rest of his artwork: a graphic novel style pencil sketch of Rhea as Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
“This—it’s—amazing—” She was otherwise at a loss for words. Rhea glanced at him; he was inches away, his body heat searing into her.
The train slowed into the Albuquerque, New Mexico station.
“I need to kiss you,” she whispered.
Surfer Boy closed his portfolio and set it against the window in wordless concession.
Rhea pressed her lips to his, ignoring the noise of the passengers detraining right outside the cabin door. Surfer Boy’s lips were soft and reverent as he obliged her.
That wouldn’t be nearly enough. However, she leaned back. “Wow.” Never, not in all her years with Mark, had any kiss excited her as did the brief closed-mouth smooch she’d shared with a man whose name she didn’t know.
“I guess it’s safe to tell you now, I think you’re hot as hell,” said Surfer Boy.
“To be perfectly fair, I . . . I dreamt about you and your hard-on last night.” She shook her head. “I lost my shit over it because it was this unexpected but flattering thing, and oh, my God . . .”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about how I freaked you out.”
“Well if it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t your stiffy that scared me. Not exactly. It was . . . It was how badly I wanted to play with it.”
Surfer Boy hesitated. “You over that?”
“The fear? Or the desire?”
He chuckled. “Both, I guess.”
“Totally. And . . . not at all.”
There were shouts from outside the train. It was much too easy to forget they weren’t inhabiting their own planet. Rhea sat back with a shaky breath. “What’s going on out there?”
“It’s what Amtrak calls a layover. The train sits here for an hour or so. They turn off the a/c and the less lazy passengers take the opportunity to get out and look around Albuquerque.”
“Is it worthwhile to get out?”
“Not since the tamale people stopped selling here.”
Rhea frowned; that must have made sense to him at least.
“The view in my roomette is far better, too.”
“You’re biased.” She chuckled. “Y’know, since I complimented your dick.”
“I’m only partially biased.” Surfer Boy opened the blue curtains over the roomette window.
Rhea made a face when she saw what was outside the train: the wrong side of the tracks.
“Folks sell stuff on the platform. Poke your head outside, get some fresh air. You’ll regret not taking advantage of the stop if you don’t do it.”
She considered it. Surfer Boy said they’d be there for an hour and she figured she wouldn’t have another chance to see Albuquerque. On the other hand, Rhea thought they could give a whole new meaning to the term layover. On the other other hand, it was only an hour at the station, versus another twenty-seven hours stuck on the train with nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do but make out.
Make out . . . or whatever.
“Will you still be here if I step off the train for a bit?” asked Rhea. What am I doing? I got on the train for adventure, not to find a man.
He thought briefly. “Y’know what? I’m gonna step out, too. We’ll meet back here around noon?”
“Okay.” Rhea grabbed her purse and led the way off the train.
Surfer Boy winked at her before sprinting away down the platform.
She watched him run, exhaling a breath she was certain she’d been holding from the minute he plopped down in the observation car beside her. That was a hell of a long time to not breathe.
A cluster of passengers on the train platform pored over card tables lined up against a brick wall as well as blankets spread out on the ground. The items being peddled were variations on a theme—primarily Southwestern style turquoise jewelry. Rhea guessed the merchants were Albuquerque locals who took advantage of Amtrak’s restless riders during these layovers.
It was a massive relief when nothing they brought to market appealed to Rhea as she didn’t want to deal with the temptation of wasting her money on frivolous expenditures. A pretty turquoise necklace: frivolous. Admission to an art museum recommended by a hot stranger on the train? That was compulsory.
She walked to the door nearest Surfer Boy’s room and there she paced, considering what she would write the next time she had the opportunity to sit with her laptop. What would she say once she got on Facebook?
Rhea smiled; for the first time since she publicly admitted her marriage was dead, she didn’t care what people would say. Yes, she hoped her friends and acquaintances would be happy to hear from her, and happy she wasn’t miserable following her divorce. But she found it far more important she could post something happy and not be ‘faking it.’
It would be the first time she hadn’t faked something regarding her love life since—
Ever.
Rhea blinked. That she considered a kiss with a stranger anything related to a love life was unnerving, not to mention sad.
She would not allow herself to get attached to this poor guy. She might let him occupy her time while they were trapped in a seventy-mile-per-hour sardine can with nothing better to do than to have idle chat that danced around deeper issues they both battled. But once they got off in Chicago, she would shake his hand, thank him for making her first train ride much more enjoyable than it would have been otherwise, and high-tail it to her hotel without a lingering thought of him.
Rhea debated if she should give him her email address.
Oh, what would that accomplish? This was, if it needed classification—which it didn’t—a one-night-stand. A one-night-stand at most; Rhea was no expert on such things, but she was under the impression one-night-stands involved an actual sex act. A kiss didn’t qualify.
Perhaps Rhea was giving some serious consideration to getting into Surfer Boy’s pants, but she was more likely to leave it at a single enthralling kiss. That was more her speed.
She saw Surfer Boy step onto the platform down by the train’s engine.
Old Rhea would stop at a single kiss.
Train-riding, chopping-off-her-hair, abandoning-her-life-because-why-the-hell-not Rhea was unsure she would stop there. Surfer Boy was so handsome it was unreal. And in a slim-cut T-shirt highlighted by the midday sun, his chest and arms looked as good as they’d felt, maybe even better. She’d made herself pay more attention to giving him an awesome massage than to studying his physique, which may have been a judgment error. It did pose the question: why was an artist so well-built?
“Hey. You like Kit Kats?” Surfer Boy asked Rhea as he approached. “I stopped by 7-11 for a couple things but didn’t want to return without something for you. What kind of asshole does that?”
Mark d
id such things to her all the time but she knew he was an asshole and she’d known it for years.
Rhea herself preferred Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to Kit Kats, but chocolate was chocolate was chocolate; all these quibbles being beside the inarguable fact that the gesture was so considerate it hurt.
In light of new evidence, maybe she’d give him her email address after all. Laguna Beach wasn’t so far from Irvine—if she was going to stay in Southern California.
He’d make a halfway decent guy to hang out with sometimes, she thought.
“Thanks,” said Rhea. “They’re great.”
“I almost got you Reese’s but then I worried you might have a peanut allergy so I figured Kit Kats were safer.”
Rhea swallowed a deep sigh. Of course he did. And of course he did.
He took a long breath. “I overestimated how far away the convenience store is and ran when I didn’t have to. Not to sound out-of-shape for a girl I’m trying to impress, but I didn’t stretch it out and now I’ve got a cramp in my thigh.”
She gave him a sympathetic smile. “All for a Kit Kat bar for me?”
“That . . . and a couple other necessities.” Surfer Boy gestured to the train. “Ladies, first.”
Rhea led him onto the train. “You’re watching my ass, aren’t you?”
“I could say ‘don’t flatter yourself.’” He waited until she sat in his roomette and he closed the door— “But that’d be a lie.”—followed by closing the curtains on the windows.
“Y’know,” said Rhea thoughtfully, “I could help your muscle in spasm with another massage. I feel like I owe it to you for embarrassing you last night. That was uncool of me.”
Surfer Boy’s eyes twinkled delightfully. “Don’t feel obligated to, but I’d be a moron to turn down your offer.”
“Shall I start with your leg or work my way there, top-down?”
“Do whatever works best for you.”
Rhea smiled. “You’d make a kick-ass client.”
With a bit of maneuvering, Surfer Boy turned around and knelt on his seat. There was the glancing of his hand against her knee, and as she repositioned herself, her breast brushed by his shoulder. Neither commented on the contact, but each touch left Rhea tingling. Her mind churned away, searching for more excuses to touch him aside the massage. What would he say if I asked if I could touch it? She shook the thought from her head. He’d call me crazy.
Tales by Rails (Rays of Sunshine Book 1) Page 3
