by E. K. Blair
I park the jeep and grab one of my raincoats from the back seat for her to put on.
“Here, wear this,” I tell her as she takes it from me, and starts slipping it on.
We get out, and I hold her hand again as I walk her down the old wooden stairs that lead down to Indian Beach. The wind is hitting hard as it mixes with the rain. It’s cold, but I love this type of weather. Walking along the packed, wet sand of the beach, I hold on to her as we step over the piles of smooth, black rocks to some logs of driftwood that sit back from the water. We sit down on one of the logs, and I watch Candace as she takes in the view. She has the hood popped up over her head. I like seeing her in my clothes, even if it’s an oversized raincoat.
I wrap my arm around her, and when I do, she speaks.
“This is amazing.”
“Yeah, I love it out here. I used to surf here a lot growing up.”
She looks out at the hard-hitting waves, her cheeks already pink from the chill. My heart is racing, and I know it won’t stop until I talk to her.
“Candace,” I say as I turn, kicking my leg over the log to face her straight on. “What’s bothering you? And don’t say ‘nothing’ because I know something is.”
She looks away, back out at the water. Her hands fidget, and I know she’s deep in her head, but I need her here with me.
“Candace,” I urge, bringing her focus back.
She faces me, brows pinched together, worried. “I just don’t really know what we’re doing.”
“Tell me what you want.” Tell me that’s it me. That you want me. So I don’t have to keep pretending.
“I’m not good at this stuff, Ryan.”
Neither am I.
“Come here,” I say as I grab her leg and move her to face me.
Time to get honest.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night of the concert,” I confess. “I don’t know where your head is at, but whenever I’m not with you, I want to be.”
I watch as she drops her eyes. Shy.
“Talk to me, babe.” Tell me you feel it too.
“I just . . .” she starts, trying to find her words and settling back on, “I don’t do this well.”
“Do what?”
“This . . .”
I can’t take her shyness, so I hold her head in my hands, angling her to look at me when I finally admit, “Whatever this is, I want it. I just need to know if you do.”
My tone is intent because I know what I want here. Her eyes don’t move from mine, and I wait for her response. For anything. I put it out there, and now my heart is racing with nerves, uncertain of her response. Then finally, she gives it to me, and I wanna fuckin’ cling to her when she nods her head yes.
Keeping my hands on her, I guide her to me and kiss her. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want her, and when she slides her arms under my coat and around my waist, my heart finally starts to settle. I have her.
Her lips are cold and wet with rain, and I squeeze her to me. I move slowly because the thought of rushing anything with her, to quicken the pace of her touch, would be stupid. So I take my time as I graze my tongue along her soft lips, and when she relaxes, allowing me to take more, I pass her lips and taste the warmth of her mouth.
I’m relieved that she’s giving me this, that she wants what I want, but I’m anxious because I’ve never done this before. Never have I had feelings like this for anyone. Not even close to thinking that I could.
She presses her fingers into me, tightening her hold, and I keep my hands on her jaw, marking her as mine like some pathetic puppy, but I do it anyway.
She moves with me, sliding her tongue along mine—gently—without any sign of urgency, and I love that about her. That she would want the time the same way I do.
When I feel her move her hands out from under my coat and wrap around my wrists, I pull back and ask, “Should we get out of here?”
“Let’s stay.”
“Come here,” I say as I slide her on top of my lap, and she slips her arm around my neck, steadying herself on me.
“Can I ask you something?” she says quietly.
“Anything.”
“I never asked before because I didn’t want to intrude, but . . . where’s your father?” she asks with a hint of trepidation.
I don’t talk to anyone about my dad. Never have. I hide it, bury it, and mask it with vices that make it easier to deal with. But I know she’s hiding something too. I wish I knew what it was, so I go ahead and break off a piece of me and give it to her. “He died about ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she says and drops her head away from me—abashed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Candace, you can ask me anything,” I tell her as I lift her chin up. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t, okay?” I don’t know what else to say, but I do know I want her to start opening up to me.
“Yeah,” she breathes softly.
“My dad was an asshole,” I tell her, wanting to be honest with her. “He drank way too much and was never around, but when he was, he was a total dick. So, don’t feel bad for asking, because I don’t feel bad that he’s dead.” I know my words come out hard, but they come out in truth.
She scans my face for a moment. She knows there’s more behind my words, but I don’t elaborate because what I just gave her is more than I’ve given anyone. So I leave it.
I clutch her waist and hold on to her when she looks over my shoulder and asks, “Is there a trail up there?”
“Yeah, it’s a pretty decent path if you want to go up there.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” she suggests, and I eye her leopard rain boots, asking, “Those have enough traction?”
Laughing, she says, “We’ll see.”
Stealing another kiss from her, enjoying the freedom of being able to, I stand and smile down at her before scooping her up and over my shoulder. This chick weighs nothing, and she begins to laugh as I haul her up the stairs. The giggles and squeals coming out of her are beautiful, and she never complains. I adore this side of her.
After hiking in the rain for over an hour, I didn’t let the fact that we were rain-soaked stop me from taking Candace into Seaside to the Broadway Strip. We took our time, walking in and out of the shops and grabbing lunch.
We came home and had an early dinner before everyone said goodbye and headed back home. It’s just the two of us and my mom, so we’ve made no plans for the night. After Candace gets cleaned up, she makes herself comfortable on the couch downstairs, reading a book, while I take a quick shower.
I was surprised with how easygoing she was after our talk on the beach. We fell into the laidback feeling we have built up to in our friendship, but now there’s no more grey.
Toweling off, I throw on a pair of pajama pants and dry my hair. I hear my mom’s voice when I walk out of the room, and I start making my way down the stairs, spotting Candace and my mom sitting on the couch.
“No child should ever have to hear that,” I overhear my mom telling Candace and I ask, “Hear what?” curious as to what they’re chatting about.
As I walk across the room, I notice Candace’s splotchy face, and I know she’s been crying. She keeps from looking at me as she faces my mother, so I take a seat next to her on the couch and slip my arm around her when my mom answers me.
“Candace is telling me about what happened the other night.”
“Mom.” I’ve been avoiding asking Candace how she’s been feeling about the whole situation to keep from upsetting her.
“It’s fine,” Candace assures me, so I stay quiet and listen as they continue to talk.
I watch my mom take ahold of Candace’s hand when she asks, “Do you have any other family at all?”
“No. It’s only ever been the three of us since my father’s parents passed away.”
“What about your mother’s family?”
“I’ve never met them,” Candace tells her. “I have never known them to speak. I’m not even s
ure they know about me.” Her voice trembles as she says this, and I run my hand up her back, wondering why she would have a side of her family that she’s being kept away from. But before I can question it too much, my mother leans in and takes Candace in her arms, hugging her. We both have her in our hold when she begins weeping.
I feel horrible, but glad that she’s here with me and that she would open up to my mother, who’s nearly a stranger to her. I think of how long it took Candace to show me even a hint of this side of herself, but I know my mom has a way about her that can make anyone want to open up. She’s always been that person for me, so seeing her provide Candace a little of that when I know she’s probably never gotten it from her own parents is a good thing.
My mom pulls back, telling Candace exactly what I’m feeling as she wipes the tears from Candace’s cheeks.
“I’m glad you’re here with us.” Candace only nods when my mom says, “I’ll let the two of you be,” before walking out of the room.
I pull Candace to me, resting her back onto my chest as I lean against the armrest. She continues to let out soft whimpers.
“Don’t cry, babe,” I say quietly.
“I’m tired,” she tells me. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
So I don’t say anything else. Taking her hand, I lead her upstairs so that she can lie down. It’s late, and I’m sure she’s exhausted from our busy day.
I let go of her hand when we hit the doorway and watch as she walks into the bathroom. I wait, listening to the faucet run, and when she returns, she doesn’t say anything as she looks at me and gets into my bed.
Her back is facing me, and I’m not sure what she wants me to do. I know what I want to do, so I swallow the questioning thoughts and decide to not leave her in here alone. I walk over to the edge of the bed, pull back the covers, and slide in behind her. She’s curled into a ball, so I wrap myself around her, tucking her into me, when she wedges her hand underneath mine for me to hold. This small move is all I need to assure me that she wants me with her tonight, so I stay.
Waking up with Candace is something that I can get used to, and I want to. So much so, that when I dropped her off at her house after we drove back to Seattle today, I asked her to stay at my loft tonight. She didn’t want to at first, hell, even after trying to talk to her about why she’s so apprehensive about it, I still don’t think she wants to, but she wound up agreeing anyway.
I know that Jase told me that she was inexperienced, but I’m not quite sure how inexperienced he meant. After seeing how shy she was when I told her I wanted her here tonight, I’m pretty sure this girl is more innocent than I thought. But I want her here, and I want her in my bed. I’ve never wanted anyone in my bed. I avoid it. Always have. Always keeping everyone I’ve ever brought here downstairs. But her . . . I want it with her.
Getting a drink of water, I see headlights shine through the windows as her car pulls into my drive. She had to work the closing shift tonight, so it’s a little past midnight as I watch her get out of her car. I head over to the door and wait for her to knock, but when I hear nothing, I wonder if she’s having second thoughts. Hell, I’m surprised she came in the first place with how hesitant she was earlier. I startle her when I open the door.
“What are you doing out here?” I question with a tilt of my head, knowing all too well what she was doing—worrying.
“Umm, nothing. I was just about to knock.” A clear lie, but I find myself liking it.
I take her bag as she walks in, setting it at the foot of the stairs. When I turn, I see her fidgeting her hands as she stands awkwardly in my living room. Needing her to relax and not feel this way when she’s with me, I go over and take her in my arms. She accepts the touch willingly and clasps her hands behind my back, leaning her forehead against my chest. When she lets go of a deep breath, I give her head a kiss, asking, “Better?”
Her hum is soft when she says, “Mmm hmm.”
“Good. I’m wiped. What about you?”
“Yeah,” she breathes.
I take her hand, leading her upstairs. Walking her into my room, I aim her past the large closet, saying, “The bathroom is right over there.”
She looks up at me, smiling, before taking her bag out of my hand and closing the bathroom door behind her.
I change clothes while I hear her taking a shower, and just knowing that she’s naked in there—in my shower—starts a swarm of thoughts I know I need to get under control before I get her in my bed. Heading back downstairs to grab a bottle of water for her, I hang out in my kitchen, giving myself a few minutes before I go back up.
She’s stepping out of the bathroom when I return, wearing a similar tank and pajama pants as she has the past couple of nights. I watch her hop up onto the tall bed, and I have to laugh at her as she slides under the covers. Sitting next to her, back against the cool leather headboard, she settles herself into my hold. When I look down at her, she’s looking at the tattoo that’s inked on the side of my ribs. I know she’s gonna ask me about it when she lays her hand on top of it, so I decide, on the fly, to just tell her. She was so scared to be here with me earlier. I told her she could trust me, but I know my words aren’t enough, so I’ll give her a reason to try.
“What’s this for?”
“A reminder,” I say as I take her hand off the tattoo that covers my scar and hold it to my chest. “Like I said, my dad was an asshole.” Her eyes shift up and meet mine when I continue, “He was a drunk and liked to take his anger out on me and my mom. I took more of it than she did. The drunker he was, the worse it would get. He was like that for as far back as I can remember. It was all I knew. Then one night, I beat the shit out of him when he was wasted, and when he got in his car and left, he never came back. His car was found wrapped around a tree, and that was it. He was dead.”
The look on her face is beyond disbelief, so I pull her in tighter, knowing that was probably the last thing she expected me to say. It was a couple months after the funeral that I didn’t attend when I got the words Pain is a reminder you’re still alive tattooed over the scar that he gave me. But after all the hell he inflicted on me, I’m the one that’s still breathing.
I don’t know how else to show this girl that she can trust me and not be so closed off like she’s always been with me. I need her to know that I trust her, so I let her know, “You’re the only one who knows that, outside of my mom and me.”
“I feel really stupid,” she mumbles as she closes her eyes. “I’m so sorry about complaining about my parents.”
“Candace, you’re far from stupid,” I say when I run my hand along her jaw to urge her to look at me. “Your parents treated you like shit. They filled you full of misconceptions of yourself and fucked with your head. Anyone would be devastated. Don’t dismiss your pain because you don’t think it’s worthy. It is.”
She takes a moment after I tell her this and looks at me. I know she acknowledges my words when she reaches up and threads her hands in my hair, drawing me in to kiss her. I slide down to meet her face to face, and I take her lips with mine. Bracing my body over hers, I soak in the heat of her as I run my mouth down her smooth neck, taking my time, nipping her gently along the way. When I start taking little sucks across her collarbone, she uses her hands to guide my face back up to her lips.
I know she’s scared to move fast, she told me this earlier, so I go at her pace. Taking one of her hands off my cheek, I slide my fingers between hers and hold her hand as I move past her lips and explore her mouth. I grip her hand tightly, pressing it into the mattress, and I’m finding it hard to not want to take her, feel her breasts, run my hands up her thighs. My thoughts intensify, and I slow down, pulling back. Her face is slightly flushed, and I finally notice how strong her hold is on my hand.
“I could do this all night.” I lean my forehead against hers, and she closes her eyes, keeping them shut until I say, “Look at me, Candace.”
It takes her a second before she opens her eyes and peers
up at me.
“Tell me why you’re nervous with me.”
“Ryan,” she whispers and turns her head to the side to break the contact.
“Tell me,” I say, needing her to just give me a small piece of what’s going on inside of her head.
She moves to look at me again and starts, “Because . . .”
“Because why?”
“Because this is new for me,” she finally reveals.
I don’t respond, I simply smile down at her, and I can feel her start to relax.
The smile on her face is perfect, and when I catch her dimple, I finally take what I’ve been wanting and lean down to kiss it before I lie next to her and band my arms around her.
I watch as she begins to wake up. She clutches the blankets around her, eyes still closed and shimmies herself further down into the bed. She did the same thing yesterday morning at my mom’s house. I reach down and pull her back up to me, and she starts blinking her eyes open when I begin to run my hands up and down her back, attempting to warm her up.
“Hey,” she mumbles as she scoots in closer to me.
“Why don’t you wear something warmer if you’re always so cold?”
“I’ve tried, but it’s hard for me to sleep when I wear heavy clothes,” she says.
“I’m not gonna lie,” I tell her. “I think I would prefer you cuddling into me like this every morning.”
Tilting her head away from my chest, she questions, “Every morning?”
“You know I’m gonna want you back here.”
When she leans her forehead against my chin, she begins to nervously mutter, “I’m not . . . I mean, I don’t know if . . .”
“Candace,” I say to get her to stop. “I like having you next to me at night. I won’t push, if that’s worrying you.”
She doesn’t move her head away from me when she says, “I’m not sure what you’re used to, but—”
“Just give me a couple days a week,” I tell her to calm her nerves about moving too fast.
