Rhea felt the shades of drowsiness being drawn over her eyes. She moved to leave the bed, but his embrace tightened.
She was afraid if she stayed in his arms overnight, she would stay in them forever. That wasn’t problematic, per se, except for destroying her previously laid plans.
“Excuse me,” she insisted, wrenching herself from his grip.
“You’re leaving?”
Rhea smiled at him. “Just for the top bunk. If I’m gonna use one of these beds over a coach seat, I wanna take full advantage of it and do an ugly sprawl.”
He slipped on his shorts and she put on her jeans and T-shirt without bothering to put on her undergarments first. He slid the door open when she was dressed and remarked as she climbed into the bunk above him, “Nothing you could do is ugly.”
“Sweet dreams, Surfer Boy,” she chuckled.
He slid the door closed again and locked it. “You, too.”
She stripped and snuggled beneath the covers, praying they were sanitary as they were touching her privates.
They turned out the lights and Rhea took a deep breath, enjoying the noise of the train as it cruised along its track somewhere in Kansas, enjoying the uneven sway she hoped would lull her to sleep, enjoying the relative darkness the roomette afforded that coach could not.
Before her eyes adjusted to that darkness, the telltale glow of a smartphone illuminated the cabin from below her bunk. Rhea bristled. Mark used to like fiddling with his phone in bed at night as a way of avoiding intimacy with her. That wasn’t the case here, but it served as an unwelcome reminder.
The quiet strains of Mozart’s String Quartet in D Major filled the air. A rush of warmth flooded Rhea’s body; she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh or cry. So instead, she thanked Surfer Boy and rolled onto her side for much needed sleep.
From LA to Chicago: Day Three.
Rhea roused periodically throughout the night. Several times she awakened with a start following more earthquake nightmares; she thought she should purchase some melatonin prior to her trip home. That is, if she didn’t decide to take a plane instead.
The last time she closed her eyes—at five in the morning—yielded her longest stretch of uninterrupted sleep and an erotic dream starring Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock. A fiction idea?
She woke a little after eight, hearing Surfer Boy rummaging below. She stretched with a quiet moan.
“‘Morning, Sunshine,” he said. “How’d you sleep?”
“It’s no Serta, but so much better than coach,” she replied. “Where are we?”
“We just left Kansas City, Missouri. We should be in La Plata in about two hours.”
Rhea ran a quick calculation in her head; she had seven hours to decide what she was doing with the note she’d written to him. Seven hours to use the remaining condom, which was a less significant issue in comparison to the note conundrum.
“If you want to get breakfast in the dining car, we’d better get going.”
She kind of hated herself that his use of ‘we’ made her smile. “I think I’ll get some pastries or whatever from the snack car. If you’d like to go to the dining car, please, feel free.”
“I’d rather have a small bowl of cereal from the snack car, myself. So that works out.”
Rhea narrowed her eyes. “You’re not saying that to make me feel less guilty because you changed your plans for me?”
“I was hoping you’d pass on the dining car. Scout’s honor.”
“I trust you’re holding up a hand in pledge down there.”
“No,” Surfer Boy laughed. “It’s down my pants.”
Rhea tried to peer over the edge of the bunk, knocking the top of her head against the door instead. “Ow!”
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she grumbled, rubbing her crown. “It’s just my pride.” Rhea cleared her throat. “You mind too terribly passing me my bra?” She wasn’t sure where it wound up but guessed it was somewhere on his bed. He’d probably snuggled with it last night. She smirked.
“You seem like a practical girl,” Surfer Boy observed, passing her not only her white cotton bra, but the matching pair of panties as well.
“Huh?” She wiggled into her underwear, but not without kicking the roof of the cabin by accident.
“That—The white cotton bra?”
Despite herself, Rhea laughed. “I’m on a fucking train, dear! I wasn’t exactly expecting to have sex this trip. The Cosabellas are at home.” Upon further thought, she augmented, “In storage. I didn’t want to ruin my nice lingerie. But . . .”
“But?”
“But the kinds of sexy underthings I have would blow your mind.”
Rhea had to become nothing short of a contortionist to put on her outerwear while still in the bunk.
“Ahh, you’re killin’ me,” replied Surfer Boy.
She giggled.
“I’d prefer you with no underthings. If I took you out for a night on the town and you whispered to me that you were going commando . . . I’d probably need a change of pants right on the spot.”
“I find it hard to believe you could come so quickly. And after what you did to me last night? It’d serve you right.”
“You dressed?” Surfer Boy asked.
“Yep.”
“So I can open the door?”
“Uh huh.”
The door slid open and Rhea climbed down, plopping beside him on the bed. “So. Did you finish the sketch?”
“It needs some fine-tuning before I’ll even pretend to be satisfied with it. I’ll finish it after breakfast if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course it is.”
“Hey . . . Thanks again for last night. You have no idea how bad I needed that.”
Her cheeks dimpled as she slipped on her shoes. “You’re a phenomenal lover. Er—that is—you’re a real great lay.” Rhea prayed he would dismiss her first comment if she prattled on a little bit: “Can men be classified as lays? Laids? Is it lains? Or is there a special classification where it’s like men are the layers? I mean, I was on top the first time, so you were the one laying. Well actually, neither of us were laying—”
“Thanks.” Surfer Boy helped her to her feet. Without further comment, he escorted Rhea to the snack car. They bought what loosely qualified as breakfast and took their food to eat in the observation car.
Rhea shook her bottle of orange juice. “Y’know . . . I kinda forgot about the rest of the world last night . . . It was nice.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied, starting on his small bowl of Cheerios.
“I should add, though—and I’m hesitant to do it—this isn’t what I wanted. I got on the train to see the world. Well the US, anyway.”
“I thought,” he replied between bites, “you got on the train to run away.”
“You would throw that back at me.” Rhea polished off her orange juice. “Do you really mean to tell me you actually pay attention to the things I say?”
Surfer Boy said, “It’s not that weird is it?”
“I guess I’m not used to it.” Rhea watched the landscape for a few minutes before she made the off-hand remark: “I’d love to tour haunted places . . . The Myrtles, Winchester Mansion, Gettysburg. And while I’m there, Eastern State Penitentiary. It’s a total guilty pleasure that I’ll park myself in front of the Travel Channel and watch all those Most Terrifying Places shows. I love it when October rolls around.”
Surfer Boy nodded. “Sure, sure, that’d be fun.” He finished off his cereal, setting the empty container and plastic spoon on the small table between their seats. “Y’know what would be an amazing trip?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Driving up PCH with the canvas down and seeing all the haunted places along the way. Whaley to Winchester and everything in between.”
Rhea thought about it; she’d never taken anything amounting to a true road trip. It sounded daunting, exhausting, and fun all at the same time. She glanced at him,
trying to figure out if he was inviting her on such a terrific outing. She wouldn’t have declined.
He gazed out the train windows.
“I bet it’d be a hell of a trip,” she replied.
Surfer Boy watched her with a smile.
“So . . . What else is there to do on a train assuming you’re by yourself?” asked Rhea. “I didn’t know what to expect so when I was packing I went light on the entertainment. I got real lucky to run into someone who wanted my company. Because otherwise I suspect the boredom would have been . . . catastrophic.”
“The magnitude ten-point-oh of boredom?”
“The EF-five of boredom.”
It wasn’t appropriate by any stretch of the imagination to classify boredom with the Enhanced Fujita or Richter Scales, but there they were: both laughing about it harder than they should. It wasn’t even especially funny.
As their laughter died down, Surfer Boy glanced at Rhea with a particularly affectionate smile. “Y’know, I was so afraid of approaching you when I saw you sitting by yourself here,” he confessed. “I thought, there’s no way in hell she’s alone. She can’t be single. She’d never talk to me. We’ll have nothing in common.” He hesitated before whispering, “I’d convinced myself you were a humorless bitch because you’re that damned hot.”
“Wow,” said Rhea. “That was . . . The most ass-backward compliment I’ve ever received.”
He winked. “And I meant every word of it.”
“Still, it’s one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever told me.”
The affectionate smile on Surfer Boy’s face faded. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She cocked her head, gazing at him. “Your kind comment means more to me because, well . . . It’s remarkable in its uniqueness.”
“You were pretty seriously mistreated.”
“Don’t hold my ex accountable. He wasn’t the only one to treat me poorly. With few exceptions, I can’t pick my friends for shit. And my family . . . Well . . . They laid the foundation. I can’t, for the life of me, imagine why anyone would pursue me. Not until I fix myself.”
“Maybe some of us like fixer-uppers. I’ve always thought about flipping houses.”
Rhea squeezed her eyes shut. What the hell were they doing? She tilted her head upward and opened her eyes. “You, uh . . . You never told me how else you stay occupied on a forty-four-hour train ride.”
“Books. Movies on a laptop. I sketch a lot, and when I’m feeling sociable, I try to make friends. And when I’m really lucky, I . . . get lucky.” Surfer Boy winked at her.
“And how often does that happen?”
“This trip. Just this one. But it’s more than made up for all the others.”
“Maybe I’m setting a precedent for your future travels.”
He didn’t reply.
“So we’ve got what, about six hours ‘til Chicago?”
Surfer Boy nodded. “Yep. And I still have to do finishing touches on the portrait you asked for. I’m gonna head back to work on it.” He stood. “You joining me?”
Rhea hesitated. Her laptop was still in his roomette; she kind of had to return, at least for that. It worried her she didn’t think she’d be able to leave him, even if she were following him for the sole purpose of retrieving her belongings. On the other hand, she didn’t want to return to coach.
“It’s a huge decision,” he teased her, “I know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rhea decided, sticking out her tongue at him. “I’m coming.”
Surfer Boy led the way. “Now where have I heard you say that before?”
Rhea lifted a hand to swat at him in playful retaliation but stopped herself in time. There was a flash of horror in realizing the familiarity of such behavior. She didn’t want familiarity; how many times would she have to remind herself before it stuck? “I’m gonna let that slide.”
He snorted; nothing more.
Back in the roomette, Rhea hoisted herself onto the bunk while Surfer Boy folded the bed into two seats and dropped down the small table between them so he could finish his self-portrait.
Above him, Rhea settled in front of her laptop and typed. It was neither journal entry nor fiction, the document treading ground somewhere in between. And she had no clue what she would do with it. Two pages in, she saved the file to her desktop, naming it: From LA to Chicago. She took a deep breath and continued to type.
They were two hours outside Chicago when Surfer Boy’s head popped up beside Rhea in the top bunk. She startled at his unexpected appearance and snapped the laptop shut. Her face flooded pink.
A smiled crept across his face. “Were you writing about me?”
“No!” Rhea yelped. “Of course not!”
“Because I’d be flattered if you were.”
“It’s nothing. I just . . . Thought . . . I might try my hand at some fiction. Because I needed to prove to myself I can’t write for shit.”
Surfer Boy shook his head, having to brace himself against the wall when the train hit a rough stretch of track. “I’m willing to bet you’re better than you give yourself credit for.”
Rhea chewed her lip, staring at the laptop’s lid. “Someone once told me the reason I’m such a good listener is because I’ve got nothing of value to contribute to conversations.”
He gaped at her, the swaying of the train still jerking him around.
Her eyes met his. “What?”
“What kind of absolute douche-canoe would say something like that?”
Her father. “Does it matter?” Besides which, she had kind of lied about the original statement; the time she had the audacity to point out he was talkative, he’d told her he dominated their conversations because she had nothing of significance to discuss. She hadn’t meant for her observation to be hurtful, but never convinced herself he hadn’t intended to cut her to the quick with his rebuttal. That was the day she’d decided to get a certification for massage therapy rather than go to college for a journalism degree.
That was the day she accepted what became her first date with Mark; it was no fluke those events coincided.
“Sunshine?”
“I thought I’d try my hand at some fiction. A random line of narration popped into my head, so I typed it. And then the line that followed it. And another. And the next thing I know, I’m ten pages in, I’ve got a full plot and realizing I’ve got all sorts of parental issues . . . That I’m currently spewing to a stranger who doesn’t deserve me dumping all my emotional baggage on him.”
“You’ve got a whole plot already?” Surfer Boy asked in disbelief. He snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”
“Yeah I can’t believe it either.” It was yet another thing about the trip that was so unlike her.
“So . . . Will this story have a happy ending?”
Rhea studied his face, as if she would find an answer there. “I dunno yet. I guess we’ll have to wait ‘n’ see.”
“Is there any way I could help ensure a happy ending?”
“Well technically,” said Rhea with a smirk, “that’s my responsibility as a masseuse. And I’ve given you one.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You deserve a happy ending, too.” Surfer Boy smiled at her. “And I’d like to help. To . . . Be a part of it, somehow.”
Rhea wondered if they were on the same page anymore. She doubted they were even on the same planet. She had no idea how to respond to his declaration.
In her silence, he said, “We’ve got less than two hours before we reach Chicago, part ways, and never see each other again.”
Rhea swallowed hard; she didn’t know how to respond to that either. Was his saying that an assumption it was what she preferred? “Y-yeah,” she stammered.
“Let’s not spend it being sad. Would you like to join me down here?”
She nodded.
As Rhea dropped down, Surfer Boy told her, “Just so we’re clear, I would like to keep in touch. It’s up to you if
we do. And . . . in what capacity. As friends or fuck buddies or . . . whatever.”
She smiled at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Thanks for clarifying.”
Surfer Boy inhaled. “For a chick who’s spent a couple days on the train, you sure do smell good.”
“I smell even better when I’m fresh from the shower.”
“Goddamn, I’ll bet you do.” His hands slid down her back and he cupped her ass. “I can imagine taking you in a shower.” He pulled her hips toward his. She felt his heat through their clothing.
Rhea kissed him, her lips brushing softly against his. “Oh? What would that be like?”
“I’d lather you up with whatever fragrant soap you use . . . Over your shoulders, down your arms.” He demonstrated with his hands. “Soap-down your back, of course, maybe massage you a little—if you promised not to mock me.”
Her voice husky, Rhea said, “Maybe I’d have given you some pointers on back massage before we hopped in the shower together. Maybe . . . Your touch is already amazing as it is.”
“Maybe . . .” he continued, caressing her breasts through her shirt and bra, “I’d make sure your rack is really clean. Wouldn’t want that glorious piercing to get infected now, would we?”
She sighed. “No . . .”
“Soap down your stomach, your legs.” He kissed her briefly. Kneading her ass, he said, “And I’d clean this thoroughly . . . And everything around the front, too.”
“Uh huh . . .”
“Ever been eaten out in a shower?”
Rhea shook her head, her heart thundering. “I’ve never been orally serviced. Ever.”
Surfer Boy reached between her thighs, massaging her through her jeans. “I’d drop to my knees at your feet, spread your legs with my face. Dip my tongue between your lips and taste your nectar.” He demonstrated with his mouth on hers, moaning.
On the average day, Rhea enjoyed her showers; but she’d never wanted to be in one more than she did now.
Tales by Rails (Rays of Sunshine Book 1) Page 8
