by Lyla Dune
When he reached the gathering of onlookers, Sam was lecturing them on the importance of protecting the nests and what to do and what not to do when the turtles hatched. She retrieved the broken shells from the hole by her knees and counted. The crowd chimed in with her. “97, 98, 99.” One hundred thirty seven turtles had hatched, all had made it safely to the water. The crowd cheered and Sam rose to her feet with her fists in the air like a champion.
“We did it,” Sam said, victory written all over her face. Brock loved that she included everyone in her triumph.
As the people sauntered back to their individual pallets of beach towels and blankets dotted along the shore, Brock approached Sam.
She tore her gloves off and hopped into his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist. “That was amazing.”
His hands immediately cupped her bum. “You’re amazing.” He kissed her repeatedly. The passion of each kiss intensified as he carried her into the water, past the breakers. The calm waves that rose to his shoulders caused him to slowly bounce as his feet buoyed off the ocean floor then returned to the soft surface. She was light as air in his arms, just like the reflection of his smile that floated in her ocean-blue eyes.
“You’re beautiful, Sam.”
These were the last moments he’d spend with her before she boarded the tour bus in the morning. He wanted to savor each second, memorize every sight, sound, scent, and touch. He wanted to fill the day with love and joy. So much love he had in his heart for her. Did she know? Had he shown her? Would he ever be able to convey the enormity of his devotion to her without saying the words “I love you” aloud? He wanted to tell her, but feared those three small words would become an anchor that would keep her rooted to him instead of following her dream.
Her sweet words echoed in his mind, “To keep them would be cruel. You must allow them to be free to become what they were intended to be.” All the tiny turtles had found the water and were swept away in the current, moving toward their destiny. The strong ones would travel the world in migratory patterns. Some of the female turtles would return to the island and lay eggs here. And Sam would be swept away in her own musical current as she traveled the world many times over. One day she’d return to the island, perhaps raise a family here, but her destiny didn’t include him.
“What are you thinking?” Sam cut into his thoughts. “You look as if you’re a million miles away.”
“Nothing. I’m right here. Exactly where I want to be. Enjoying every second with you,” he said. He wouldn’t spoil the moment with his doubts and uncertainties.
He couldn’t sit by and stew about what she was or wasn’t doing with Tox on tour, and he certainly couldn’t stand on the sidelines and quietly witness the way the paparazzi would trample all over her life, deny her any privacy, and give her little respect. He knew himself all too well. He’d rage and whine, turn into a bully, say hurtful things to anyone he viewed as a threat. Worst of all, he’d resent her for leaving him, and he couldn’t bear the thought of her ever resenting him for overreacting or behaving inappropriately and embarrassing her like he had done on the day of her interview.
He had a handful of moments left to turn into gold. For the rest of her life, when she thought of him—and he knew she would think of him—he hoped she’d remember his kindness, generosity, affection, passion, and love. This was the man worth remembering, worth loving. When she left in the morning, this man would no longer exist. A sad, lonely, grumpy sod would replace him. He never wanted her to see that man. God, he would miss her. He’d even miss the cat.
SAM HELD ONTO Brock’s neck and buried her face in his massive chest. The smell of saltwater and sunscreen mixed with his own unique scent, a scent she found both soothing and arousing simultaneously. She’d packed the pillowcase he’d slept on the past two nights and the shirt he’d worn the day before. She’d spritzed some of his cologne on the letter he’d written her after their first night of making love and sealed it in a ziplock bag, tucking it safely away in a zippered pocket inside her carryon luggage.
Her phone was loaded with candid photos of him in various stages of undress with an array of expressions on his face. Her favorite was the picture of him sleeping in the hammock with Princess curled up on his chest, his hand on her furry gray back. He’d befriended Princess by feeding her from his hand until he was brave enough to pet her. It had gotten to the point now that anytime Brock sat for more than two minutes anywhere in the house, Princess would jump up in his lap to be petted. Sam understood her cat’s obsession with the man. She felt the same way about him.
The kisses and gazes they shared spoke for them as they silently clung to each other in the water.
Storm clouds darkened the sky.
“Did you feel that?” Sam asked.
“Oh, yes, I felt it.” He squeezed her bottom. “It feels damn good.”
She swatted him playfully. “Not that. That. Rain.”
“No.”
Moments later, a sprinkling of rain fell, creating small splashes across the ocean’s calm surface. Inside her heart, Sam rained too, but she tried to hide that from Brock. She didn’t want their last day together to be filled with sorrow.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and they ran back to the house, holding hands. They grabbed a couple of towels that were folded on the wrought iron table and dried off.
Brock pulled her towel around her shoulders and drew her to him. “I love when you’re all wet.”
As he wrapped his warm arms around her waist, she nestled against him and closed her eyes. “And I love y—” She stopped abruptly, realizing what she was about to confess. “I love you making me wet.”
He whispered hoarsely, “I’m going to heat up some of that chicken curry for us.”
He stepped away from her and went inside without looking in her eyes. She could sense he’d become emotional. Sam sat in a rocking chair and watched the storm as the encroaching goodbye between her and Brock caused thunder inside her heart.
She wanted him to ask her to stay. That’s all it would take for her to change her mind about the tour. But he’d encouraged her to go and even commented about how the tour would keep her from having to secure a new place to live. Having her leave would certainly make it easy on him, if he wanted to end things. He had never given her the impression he wanted anything serious. He’d never said I love you. This was probably just a summer fling for him and she couldn’t blame him for treating it that way. She’d never asked for it to be more. In fact, she was the one leaving, not him. But the way she felt toward him was far from “fling” material. Sure they had awesome sex and fun in bed, but she loved him, and had nearly confessed this.
She wanted him to be the one to say it first, to let her know she wasn’t all alone out there being hopelessly in love. Talk about standing on the ledge. If he didn’t love her back and she said those words—man, that’d hurt like hell.
If he loved her, really loved her, he wouldn’t let her go so easily. That was a fact she couldn’t deny, no matter how hard she wanted to convince herself otherwise.
BROCK WATCHED SAM nap in the hammock. He doubted she’d slept the night before, judging by the way she tossed and turned.
She was a beautiful sight, asleep on her tummy with her yellow bikini bottoms barely covering her round bum and her long blonde hair spilling onto the floor.
The rain had driven away all the beach goers. Since his house was closer to the water than either of his neighbor’s, his deck wasn’t visible from their vantage point. The idea of taking Sam right there was too tempting to resist.
He grabbed a couple of cushions from the wrought iron chairs and slid them under the hammock. Slowly, he untied the strings of her bikini, starting with the string in the center of her back, moving to each bow on her hip. Carefully brushing her hair from her neck, he untied the last string. She flinched but didn’t wake up.
From under the hammock with his head on a cushion, he tugged one triangle of her bikini top to the side and exposed
a breast. Her nipple jutted out from between the weave of the hammock ropes. With his tongue, he swirled over her nipple until it hardened then he sucked it into his mouth. She moaned. He looked up and locked eyes with her, keeping his mouth on her nipple. As she arched and pushed her breasts toward him, she used her fingers to slide the other triangle portion of her bikini top to the side. Both breasts protruded through the spaces in the hammock. He moved from one nipple to the other, nibbling and suckling.
“You’re devilish,” she whispered in a sleepy, sensual tone.
He agreed with only a hum.
Letting her go wasn’t something he was ready to face. He didn’t want her to think of that right now either. He wanted to make her feel like she was flying, that his love brought her pleasure not heartache.
He studied her face, the way her mouth opened, the furrow of her brow. Slipping his fingers through a diamond-shaped opening near her hips, he pinched the edge of the scrap shielding her mound and pulled the fabric through the diamond area. There was the treasure he wanted. Right there under his fingers. Stroking her delicate folds while he laved her breasts, he whispered, “Open for me, love.”
As she spread her thighs, he repositioned himself to give his mouth access to her sweetness. He ran his tongue up and down her slit, and she moaned loudly. One of her knees slipped off the edge of the hammock. He grabbed her foot, his palm against her arch. She pushed herself into an upright position and dangled her other foot from the opposite side of the hammock so she was straddling it. He grabbed that foot as well so she could grind against his mouth with ease. She was no longer shy with him, instead she gave herself without the slightest inhibition. It drove him wild. Her unbridled movements made him grow harder, until he was aching with need.
Her juices coated his lips and tongue. He couldn’t get enough. Hovering above his mouth, she writhed. He couldn’t stop. He had to have more, so hungry for her. Gripping her toes, he flicked his tongue quickly and lightly against her swollen and hardened pearl.
She quivered and whispered, “Brock, please. I need you inside me.”
Something in his chest fluttered at the sound of her voice.
He stood and flipped her onto her back so her hips were at the edge of the hammock, her head hanging off the other edge. Securing a condom in place, he said, “What do you want, love?”
She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes glazed with passion, but there was something else within their blue depths, sorrow. He understood. He felt the same way.
Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he stroked his shaft as she watched. “You want this?”
She nodded and hissed, “I want you, you.” Her voice broke on the last syllable, and he stole that word from her mouth with a kiss that left them both trembling in each other’s arms.
Pressing his lips against her forehead, he stepped back and lifted her ankles onto his shoulders. He slowly pushed himself inside her, his eyes never leaving hers. She grasped the ropes and bit her lower lip. He thrust again, this time harder and faster. Her bottom bounced off his thighs, and the hammock began to swing.
Lightning lit up the sky. Thunder rumbled. The rain fell hard onto the sand, drowning out the sound of the nearby waves.
Tears trickled from the outer corners of Sam’s eyes.
He placed a palm over her heart. “I know, baby. I know.”
Her shuddering breath tickled over the back of his hand, and she closed her eyes. Tiny leaps inside her danced over his shaft as she came for him, his beauty, his woman. His for the moment, a moment he’d cherish for eternity. He echoed her release with his own, exploding, buried to the hilt in her warmth, wishing he could bury his heart inside her as well.
Without breaking their intimate connection, she rose. “Brock….” She reached out for him. He pulled her close, lifting her from the hammock. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He never wanted to let her go. Ever.
He carried her inside, upstairs, and to their bed. She lowered her head to his shoulder, and her tears streamed down his chest, but she remained quiet, her body trembling in his arms.
Tears formed in his own eyes, but he didn’t want her to know. He eased her down onto the bed and immediately slipped in behind her, pulling her back to his chest.
He wished he had the perfect thing to say, but the words crowding his throat were, “Don’t go. I love you.” Those were selfish words. He couldn’t use his love for her as a tool to entice her to give up her dream.
SAM STARED AT the digital clock on the nightstand. 5:15 a.m. She hadn’t slept more than fifteen minutes all night.
She’d be boarding the bus at 8:00 a.m. The thought of saying goodbye to Brock was tearing her apart.
He stirred, and nuzzled his face into her neck. “Try to sleep, darling.”
She swallowed down her fear and blurted, “I love you, Brock. I love you so much.”
Silence filled the room. He didn’t move a muscle. She couldn’t even hear him breathe.
She turned over and faced him.
His jaw tensed as he turned his face away and said, “I’ll miss you more than you know.”
He stood, his back to her. “I can’t say goodbye to you. I can’t. Please call one of your friends to take you to the bus. I can’t do it. Forgive me, love.”
With his jeans in his hands, he walked out of the room and left her there, alone in bed, naked, with her “I love you” unreturned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Bus
The tour bus, reminiscent of a metal whale with wheels, sat on the asphalt with its side-mouth opened wide. Diesel fumes clung to the dense fog. The cloying scent prickled Sam’s nose. Glued to the tie-dyed seat covers in Mazy’s hearse, she struggled to breathe.
The spunky redhead yanked the passenger door open with a creaking pop. “Come on, Sam. You gonna help me get this stuff out of the back or not?”
Besides the bus driver, she and Mazy were the only people in the gravel parking lot of Provisions.
Sam ran a finger across the sharp, folded edge of the contract in her pocket and swallowed a painful lump in her throat. “Let me go check everything out on the bus. We can get the guys to help us unload in a little bit. Chill out.”
Mazy stuffed her hands in her pockets and backed up. “You okay?”
Sam couldn’t lie. Mazy knew her too well. “I’m just nervous. That bus is looking more and more like the chamber of death every second.”
Mazy glanced over her shoulder and shuddered. “When you put it like that, it even creeps me out. Hope you took your meds this morning.”
“Nope. Tox promised I’d get a window seat. As long as I can crack a window and catch some air, I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m going to pop pills every day for months. I need to be able to do this without the help of Xanax.”
“I get that, but day one is stressful. It might help to settle your nerves. Take half a pill, at least.” The worry in Mazy’s voice touched Sam. Here was this rough and tough, grease-monkey being all maternal about Sam who was eight years her senior. Mazy wasn’t the mushy kind, but she had a tender side to her. When that tender underbelly exposed itself, the girl could melt an iceberg-heart.
Mazy walked over to the bus driver, a burly man standing off to the side smoking a cigarette.
Sam climbed into the bus. Gray upholstered seats lined the aisle. Matching gray-tweed curtains hid the bunks. She worked her way to the sleeping area and pulled back the heavy drape with her name pinned to it. A single mattress covered in white linen, two down pillows, a wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed, and a reading lamp mounted to the wall by the window—that’s all there was. At least she had the bottom bunk and wouldn’t have to crawl up and down the ladder to go to the potty—a mere five feet away from where she’d lay her head each night. Gross.
She meandered back down the aisle, past the ridiculously small kitchenette, and sat in one of the reclining seats. It was comfortable, had plenty of leg room, and a fold out tray
attached to the back of the seat in front of her. She slid the tinted window open and looked out at Mazy’s hearse. The view from the bus window would never compare to the view from the beach house.
Was this what she wanted? Was this really her dream? What was it about going on tour that appealed to her? A chance to make her father’s dream a reality? A chance to do the very thing he’d wanted to do, thinking it would make him proud to see her achieve that level of success in the very field he pursued? This was her father’s dream. This wasn’t her dream at all.
Being cooped up with a bunch of guys for months did not appeal to her. Being on the road so long the idea of home was a distant memory did not sound fun. Playing the same music every night—rock music, no jazz whatsoever—that wasn’t her idea of fun either.
Money. So what. She’d never fantasized about being wealthy. She fantasized about having a family, a home, being surrounded by people she loved who loved her in return.
She didn’t give a flip about fame. She was already famous in her own little world. If famous meant—known, respected, adored. She had fans. Myrtle, Louise, Carl, and the whole gang from Reel to Real Good, those were her fans. True-blue, die-hard fans. What more could a girl ask for?
She was abandoning her dream of home and a sense of community and family. Instead she was chasing her father’s dream. For what? Was that what her father would have wanted for her? It certainly wasn’t what her mother would have wanted. Her mother always told her to find what made her happy and throw her heart into it. Her mother hadn’t cared if Sam played bass or became a hop-scotch champion. As long as Sam was happy, her mom rejoiced. And wasn’t that how it should be?
A minivan Sam didn’t recognize pulled into the parking lot. Brandon got out on the driver’s side. He walked toward the bus. He was moving pretty darn well, barely limping. His injuries weren’t even visible from where she sat.
She climbed out of the bus and walked over to him. He gave her a weak smile. His wiry frame hunched with his hands tugging a red, lightweight jacket down across his bony shoulders. Dishwater blonde hair fell to his chin, long bangs were swept to the side in a layered, emo-hairdo. He was pushing thirty but looked like he could still be in high school.
