by T. K. Leigh
“A deer.”
“Great.” I roll my eyes. “You want me to come back as roadkill.”
“You don’t scream horse to me,” he argues as a large truck rumbles past us, the scent of wildflowers and exhaust filling the Jeep through the open top and windows. “I see you as someone who cares so much about the people you let into your life that you’ll do anything for them. But you don’t let in just anyone. You’re selective, hiding in the bushes until you’re sure you can trust someone. So in my mind, you’re more like a deer. You’ll protect those you let into your circle, but you’re not going to let anyone in. Which makes me wonder why you let me in.”
“Who says I have?”
“You have,” he responds with certainty, but his statement lacks any hint of arrogance. “And I like that you’re giving me a glimpse of the real Nora.” He reaches for a lock of my hair, twirling it around one of his fingers.
On a hard swallow, I shift my gaze to his. I want to tell him he’s the reason I’ve allowed myself to remove the mask I’ve worn since losing Hunter. Tell him I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this carefree, this laid-back, this…happy. But I don’t. Instead, I clear my throat and peer out my window at the dusty terrain, the trucks and cars on the interstate visible in the distance.
“It’s your turn,” I say softly.
The heat of his stare burns my skin as he studies me, the questions he doesn’t ask screaming loudly in the silence. Then he sighs, untangling his finger from my hair.
“If you were to be listed in the Guinness Book of World Records, what would be your claim to fame?”
I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful his question isn’t nearly as deep as my last one, although I didn’t think it would be that way when I first posed it. I thought it was a fun topic where he’d tell me he was most like a wolf because of his ability to mold any woman he looks at into putty, and I’d accuse him of being cocky and arrogant. But as I’ve begun to learn, beneath Anderson’s flirtatious exterior lies layers and layers of who he really is. I have a feeling I’ve barely scratched the surface.
“Longest human gorilla crawl,” I answer confidently.
“Gorilla crawl?” he repeats, a combination of intrigue and confusion in his tone.
“I’m double-jointed in my elbows.” I extend my arms in front of me, then hyper-extend them backward so they bend beyond what most people can do. “Because of that, I can crawl around like a gorilla. That, and certain yoga poses come incredibly easy.”
“Anywhere else you’re extra flexible?” He waggles his brows.
I playfully punch him in the bicep, and he feigns pain. “Too bad you’ll never find out.”
“That is too bad.”
“What would you be known for? What strange skill do you possess?” I ask in an effort to shift our conversation away from anything to do with sex.
“That’s easy.” He smirks. “Best road trip partner.” He puts on his blinker and pulls into a dirt lot.
“That’s debatable.”
“Even you admitted I’m growing on you.”
“As much as a tumor can grow on you.” Flashing him a smile, I open the door and slide out, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“You’re really doing a number on my already fragile male ego.”
I snort out a laugh. “I may not know much about you, but I get the feeling there is absolutely nothing fragile about that supposed ego of yours. It’ll take a lot more than some harsh words to dampen your confidence.”
“Trust me, gorgeous…” He takes my hand in his, leading us away from the Jeep and toward a series of Cadillacs buried nose down in an art exhibit that’s become the Western Wall to all Route 66 travelers — Cadillac Ranch. “You know me better than most people in my life. Traveling across the country together will have that effect, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
The wind whistles along the flat terrain, the sun high in the sky warming us. But it’s not unbearable. It’s comfortable. All week, the weather has been perfect, apart from a few rainy spots. But even the little rain was welcome.
We approach the line of cars, taking in the unique sight. A cacophony of colors adorns each of the ten Cadillacs, their tailfins sticking out of the sand at the same angle. Cans of spray paint are scattered along the dusty ground for those who didn’t bring their own, an invitation to leave your mark. I wonder how many coats of paint these cars have seen over the years. I can’t even fathom a guess.
“This is the place that started our idea for Route 66,” I say in a small voice as I approach one of the cars, running my hand along it. It’s rusted over, the windows and engine long gone, leaving just the shell.
“Our idea?” Anderson asks softly.
“Yeah.” I glance over my shoulder, smiling, but don’t embellish. Based on the look of understanding crossing his face, he knows I’m referring to whomever is now reduced to the ashes I’ve been carrying.
“Did you ever drive Route 66 together?”
I slowly shake my head, returning my attention to the cars. “No. But he would have loved this. He loved kitschy Americana. When we drove down to Florida once, he made us stop at South of the Border. Do you know what that is?”
He chuckles, nodding. “The tourist trap between the Carolina borders.”
“It’s so cheesy and dirty, but he loved stuff like that. That’s why I know he would have loved every second of this trip.”
“What you’re doing is a good thing,” Anderson says after a protracted pause. “Giving him one last adventure.” A shadow creeps over his face. “It’s a beautiful gesture.”
I smile through the lump in my throat. This was the spot I’d dreaded visiting the most. After all, it was Cadillac Ranch that sparked Hunter’s idea we drive Route 66, one last adventure before we started an even crazier adventure as parents.
An adventure we never got to realize.
But as I stare at the Cadillacs, each representing a different year, it’s not nearly as overwhelming as I thought it would be. I imagined myself breaking down, yelling furiously at Hunter for leaving me. But somewhere between that Chicago diner and the dusty Texas plains, I’ve let go of my anger and resentment. I’m no longer wishing things were different. That Hunter were still here and we were living the life we’d planned for us and our daughter. I’m not sure I’ve reached that pinnacle of acceptance. But now I understand. And maybe that’s all we can hope for — understanding.
Digging into my bag, I grab the canister that’s decreased in weight with every mile. A lightness in my heart, I sprinkle some of the ashes on the ground in front of the Cadillac, then return the container to my purse.
A breeze picks up, and I close my eyes. I know it’s simply nature, that environmental forces caused the pressure in the air that resulted in the wind, but I’d like to think it’s Hunter’s soul wrapping around me, telling me he’s okay. That it’s time for me to move on.
I open my eyes and look toward Anderson standing several feet away, allowing me this moment for myself. He arches a brow, silently asking if I’m okay. When I nod, he approaches.
“Shall we leave our mark?” Bending down, he grabs a can of spray paint, shakes it, then hands it to me.
“I’m not even sure what to leave as a mark.”
He surveys the cars. “It seems names and initials seem popular. Better than ‘For a good time, call Debbie’.”
“Why is it always Debbie?” I joke, grateful for the break in tension. “I’ve known a few Debbies, and they’ve all been good people.”
“Shall we put ‘For a good time, call Frank’? Give Debbie a break?”
I laugh. “Perhaps we leave Debbie out of this altogether and put our names and the date.”
“I like that.” He steps behind me, taking me by surprise when he places his hand over mine, holding the paint can. “Is this okay?” he asks in a throaty voice.
A shiver rolls down my spine, his breath warm on my neck as he leans close. D
ays ago, I never would have done something like this, not wanting to dishonor Hunter’s memory. But that’s not what I’m doing. I’m starting to understand my old way of thinking has been anything but healthy. I’ve allowed a ghost to dictate my life, to prevent me from chasing what truly made me happy. From now on, that’s what I need to do. Chase my own happiness. Even if that happiness is with a man I may not have any future with.
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Good.”
I hold my breath as Anderson raises our joined hands and presses against my finger. My chest rises and falls in a quicker pattern, electricity coursing through my veins. On its face, there’s nothing erotic about what we’re doing — two adults on a road trip spray-painting our names on one of the cars at Cadillac Ranch. It’s something thousands of travelers before us have done. Something thousands of road warriors after us will do for years to come.
But I can’t ignore the crackling spark igniting between us, Anderson’s body flush with mine, his large hand covering mine. It has all the tiny hairs on my body standing on end, making me want to spin around and have a taste of what I’ve been fantasizing about since the first time I heard him speak, met his eyes, felt his soul.
I relax my muscles and fuse into him, a puppet who is more than happy to allow him to pull every single one of my strings. A stream of blue sprays onto the car, Anderson’s motions slow and deliberate. After he adds the month and year, he lowers my arm to my side, then gradually removes his hand. But he doesn’t increase the distance, both of us standing flush with each other, his front to my back as the paint can falls to the ground with a clatter.
“They look good together, don’t they?” he comments in a low voice as we stare at our names — Anderson + Nora.
“They do,” I murmur, my body humming from his proximity.
When he runs his hands down my arms, I quiver, anticipation coiling through me, making me devoid of reason. Nothing matters. Not the fact that I barely know this man. Or that we only have a few more days together. Or the secrets we’re both keeping in order to protect our hearts. I don’t care about any of that. When I’m with Anderson, I’m able to forget about my past. And the future doesn’t matter. All that does is right now. And right now, I just want to be near him. To drown in his waters. To burn in his flames.
His breath scorches my nape as he pushes my hair over my shoulder, exposing my skin. When his strong hands land on my hips, every inch of my body comes to life and my pulse skyrockets. In one quick move, he spins me around, our gazes locking as if it’s the first time. In them is my redemption. My atonement. My salvation.
His lips part, his gaze raking over my face, settling on my mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, breaths increasing. He wants to kiss me. I can see it in the way he looks at me, the way his eyes never stray from me, the way he holds me so possessively, as if worried I’ll disappear if he lets go. But something holds him back, causing him to retreat instead of advance. I don’t want him to hold back anymore. Don’t want him to think he has to keep his distance out of respect. He deserves to know what I want. And I want him.
With all the confidence I can muster, I clutch his face in my hands, not allowing him to escape. Then my lips are on his, stealing what I’ve deprived myself of since our first meeting. He stiffens, but doesn’t push me away. Not yet. He stays in this place, unsure if he should cross the invisible line we’ve drawn between us.
“Please,” I beg, sliding my tongue along the seam of his lips. “I need to feel. I need to feel you.”
My pleading tone is all it takes for him to snake an arm around my back, yanking me against him. The sudden movement catches me off guard and I gasp, not expecting him to be so dominant, so powerful, although I should have.
Anderson takes advantage of my open mouth, his tongue plunging inside. Synapses fire. Fingers ache. Legs quiver. All from this man’s kiss.
He guides me against the Cadillac where we just made our mark, pressing his body to mine, thrusting, pulsing, wanting, showing me how much he craves me. A moan falls uninhibited from my throat and I dig my fingers through his hair, clawing, pulling. This isn’t a soft and gentle kiss, not like my first kiss with Hunter was. It’s bruising, an exchange of years of pent-up pain, each of us giving and taking everything we can until all that’s left is a shell of the person we pretended to be. This kiss is a baptism. An awakening. A rebirth.
A sudden jolt startles me. I fling my eyes open, watching Anderson jump from me, wiping the pink stain of my gloss off his swollen lips.
Bewildered, I blink repeatedly, attempting to make sense of this abrupt shift. One second, he kissed me in a way that made me think he had a direct line to my soul, the very essence of who I was. The next, he pushed me away like I held some contagious disease.
“Nora, I’m sorry,” he pants, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. “I…” Running a hand through his thick locks, he lifts his remorse-filled gaze to mine. “I can’t do this with you.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard, embarrassment burning my cheeks. “I see.” I push off the Cadillac, keeping my head lowered as I brush past him, his fresh scent kicking up.
What was I thinking? Why did I think it was a good idea to kiss him? Just because I’m coming to terms with my past doesn’t mean he is. Based on the little I’ve learned about him, he’s just as messed up as I am. Maybe even more.
I thought he’d try to stop me before I reached the Wrangler, but he doesn’t. Instead, he acts as if nothing unusual happened as he helps me into the passenger seat, like he always does.
When he closes the door, leaving me alone for a moment, I blow out a held breath, silently berating myself for making the first move. For taking a risk. I was overcome with the moment. It was a mistake. One I don’t plan on repeating.
Anderson opens his door, stealing a glance at me as he slides behind the wheel. I hate the apologetic smile on his face. Hate the pity I see. Hate the rejection in his gaze.
I wrap my arms around my stomach, shrinking into myself as I stare out the window, watching the Cadillacs grow smaller as we drive away.
“It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you, Nora.” Anderson’s voice cuts through the strained silence several moments later. “I just—”
“Don’t worry.” I straighten my spine, rebuilding the pieces of the wall Anderson was able to blast through. “It was only a kiss.”
“That’s the thing… It wasn’t only a kiss. Not to me.” The passion in his voice forces my eyes to his, and he burns me with his stare, allowing me to see the truth in his words. Then he looks forward once more, navigating the few miles to our hotel for the evening. “But that still doesn’t change who we are to each other. Who I am.”
“And who are you?” I inquire, even though my gut tells me to drop it.
Turmoil covers his expression, as if he’s weighing which response to give me. Then he blows out a sigh, his face sobering. “I wish I knew.”
Chapter Eighteen
Anderson
To say the tension in the Wrangler has been thick today would be a gross understatement. It’s suffocating, making me hyper-aware of every sound, every movement, every shaky inhale. Being so close to Nora, knowing how her lips feel, how she tastes, has been the cruelest form of torture.
All week, I’ve fought my growing attraction to her. Convinced myself I don’t deserve someone like her. Convinced myself I can’t hurt her any more than she’s already been hurt. And that’s exactly what I would do. Hurt her. Shatter her. Obliterate the life she has left after suffering so much heartache. I’ve lied to her from the beginning when she’s been nothing but honest. Even if she understands why I lied and shows me the compassion she seems to show everyone, I can’t sentence her to a future with me when my own future is uncertain. She’s already lost too much. I can’t add to that.
But that knowledge hasn’t made today any easier. Every inch of me yearns to touch her. A hunger made even more intense thanks to the short, flowing skirt
and cut-off shirt she’s wearing. Every time a wind breezes past, blowing her skirt, revealing even more of her toned legs that I’d give anything to feel wrapped around me, my heart skips a beat. Every time she raises her arms above her head, causing her shirt to lift and reveal a narrow sliver of her torso, making my mouth water with what the skin would taste like, an intense craving threatens to undo me. To destroy the self-control I’ve struggled with all day. Hell, struggled with since I first saw her.
“We should be getting close.” Nora’s sultry voice enters my subconscious. The sound seems foreign against the song filling the void in the Jeep.
There were no games of Would You Rather today. No flirtatious comments that bordered on inappropriate. No secrets shared or truths revealed. We’ve both resorted to the people we were when we first met at that diner in Chicago. Nora even straightened her hair again, slicking it back into a neat ponytail. I hate it. Hate that I’m the reason for it. I wish I weren’t. I wish I could convince her to let her hair loose and enjoy the moment again. But at what cost?
A few more silent minutes pass, then we approach civilization again after miles of nothing. We’ve made it to Tucumcari, New Mexico, our stopping point for the night and another item on Nora’s list.
“Wow,” she breathes, giving voice to my exact thoughts as we drive on a road that looks like it could have been pulled straight from a postcard. Motels with oversized signs that light up with neon once the sun sets. Teepee-shaped buildings advertising curios and other roadside non-essentials. Casual restaurants specializing in local fare to give tourists a taste of the region. “This is what I imagined whenever I pictured driving Route 66.”
“It is a bit like stepping back in time, isn’t it?”
“It is.” She keeps her gaze trained forward. This time, it’s not out of nerves or awkwardness. It’s out of awe. And perhaps excitement.
When our destination comes into view, I turn the Jeep into the parking lot of the roadside motel that’s been in operation since before the interstate made Route 66 practically obsolete. For the most part, Nora hasn’t had much of an opinion regarding where we stay. Except tonight. After all, spending the night here is on her list, a huge star beside it. I can see why. Just like spray-painting your name on one of the cars at Cadillac Ranch is a rite of passage, so is staying at the famous Blue Swallow Motel.
