"It's so true," she whispers. "You can't ever get drunk enough."
I rub my jaw, realizing I fucked up something sacred to her. "Niall, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"
"I couldn't ever bring myself to change it. It's another one of those things I just couldn't bear to part with. Another way to try and hold on to him."
I reach for the knob. "I'll find his station."
She grabs my hand, and somehow neither of us end up letting go. "No, don't. It's done, now." She sighs, a long, shuddery breath that speaks of a vicious battle for composure. "Leave it. Just...drive."
So I drive. Miles and miles. I had a spot in mind, but we passed it. Besides, out here, one spot is as good as another. I don't even know how far we go. But when we stop it's full dark. She's quiet the whole way, staring out the window, wind tousling her hair, blowing more and more strands free. Eventually I spot a little dirt track and pull onto it, trundle and rumble down the rutted path through a stand of trees.
She's still got my hand in hers, and I'm not about to take it away; my heart is in my throat, because this is all so strange and crazy and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing.
The track ends at a gate hinged to a tree on one side and latched to a tree on the other. I park at the gate, kill the lights and the engine.
Niall perks up as if returning to awareness, looks around. It's dark, nothing but the track on the other side of the gate leading off through the fields, the empty highway behind us, fields to either side, and the starry sky above us.
"Where are we?" Niall asks.
I shrug. "No idea."
She laughs, another bitter bark. "Wonderful."
I lever open the door, get out, circle to her side, open the door for her. Extend my hand to her. She sits on the bench, twisting her stethoscope in both hands, staring at me.
"Just come on," I say.
"What is this, Lock?"
I reach into the bed of the truck, haul out the big basket with the food and the blanket, and then take her hand. "It's a picnic. Now come on already, I'm hungry."
She lets me take her hand, lets me lead her out into the middle of the field. I've got an electric camp lantern in one hand, supplementing the light of the full moon. She watches while I spread out the blanket, set the basket in the corner. I sit down and start pulling food out of the basket.
Niall just watches. "Really?"
I shrug. "Yeah, really."
"If you're hoping for a repeat of the other day, you can think again." She sits beside me, but not too close. Opens the basket of grapes and tears off a branch, pops grapes into her mouth. "That was a mistake."
I try to act like that doesn't sting; that's not working, so I play dumb instead. "Repeat of what?"
She eyes me, probably trying to figure out my game. "The--when we--" she groans in frustration. "God, you're impossible. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"Why was it a mistake, Niall?" I want to know, because I figured that'd be her response.
"It just was." She's fumbling with the block of cheese, trying to get it open.
I take it from her, pull my multi-tool out of my pocket, cut it open, cut off a slice of cheese for her. Hand it to her. Or, that was my intention, but instead of just taking it from me with her hand, she leans in and takes it out of my hand with her mouth. Automatically, as if that was her natural reaction. But then, once the cheese is in her mouth, she realizes what she's done and freezes. Glances at me, motionless. And then starts chewing again.
"Shut up." She chews some more, hand covering her mouth. "I don't know why I did that."
Me either.
Nor do I know why it made my heart thump like an out of control drum.
It shouldn't have, but it did.
She leans away from me, goes back to the grapes.
"Why was it a mistake, Niall?" I ask again.
She shrugs. "It just was." A pause, a glance at me. "Why are we talking about this?"
"You brought it up."
"You're the one who brought me out here for a picnic like we're sixteen and on our first date."
"Ouch." I let out a breath. "I was just trying to do something nice."
She lets her head droop, tosses the stripped, empty slice of grape vine into the basket. "It's just--I'm tired. I was looking forward to taking a shower and going to bed. A glass of wine, my Kindle, my cat."
"You mean the way you spend every other night?"
"Yeah, and what's wrong with that?" Her voice is sharp, angry, defensive.
"Nothing, in and of itself. But you can't hide away in there your whole life, just working and going home and reading, getting drunk on cheap wine, hanging out with your cat."
"And you dragging me out on this picnic is supposed to be a remedy or something? Part of your plan to fix poor widow Niall?"
"Yeah, basically."
She lurches to her feet. "Fuck you."
I stand up, realizing belatedly that I shouldn't have said that. "Niall, wait." I grab her by the shoulders, gently, carefully. "I didn't mean it like that."
She whirls in place, fiery. "There's only that one way to take it, Lock! I don't want your help. I don't need your fixing. I was getting along just fine on my own, thank you very much."
"Were you?" I don't know why I'm pushing this, but it feels like I'm right.
"Yes!" She stumbles backward, blinking hard. "Yes..." This time she sounds much less sure.
"I'm not trying to fix you, Niall. I just want to--"
"What?" She stabs her finger into my chest. "You want what? 'Cause I can't seem to figure it out."
I sag backward, turn away. "Me neither." I sit on the blanket; pull the wine bottle out of the basket and the one glass. I twist the cap off, pour the glass full, hand it to her. "Here."
She sits down beside me, takes the glass, drinks. "Thanks." A long, long pull, a sigh. "So, if you don't know what you want from me, and I don't know what you want from me, then what are we doing?"
"I don't know that either." I drink from my bottle of Perrier and try not to think about the wine, and how much I want some. I don't even like wine, but right now it sounds good.
She notices, of course. "No wine for you?"
I shrug, shake my head, and try to sound casual. "Nah. Not a big wine drinker. I just figured you'd need some."
"Sure as hell do."
I lie back on the blanket, stare up at the stars, and try to summon the words I need to tell her...what it is I'm supposed to tell her.
"I used to spend a lot of time looking at the stars," I say, just for somewhere to start. "Long, long nights awake, alone, on the deck, nothing around for thousands of miles."
"What do you mean?"
"I lived on a sailboat for--shit, half my life. I've circumnavigated the globe twice."
"Really?" She sounds intrigued.
"Yeah. Name a place, if it has a coast, I've been there. And a lot of the rest of the world besides. Except Russia, I've never--well, actually, that's not true. I sailed up past Alaska through the Bering Strait, just to say I've done it. I got caught in a gnarly storm and had to take shelter in this little fishing village in Russia. Deserted, frigid, lonely little place."
"Where else have you been?" She's sitting beside me, laying waste to the spread I brought.
I tuck my hands behind my head. "Oh man, literally everywhere. India, most of the islands in the South Pacific, Japan, Vietnam, Thailand, South Africa, a few of the ports on the west coast of Africa too. I sailed up through the Bosporus and knocked around the Mediterranean for a while. The Caribbean, Australia, New Zealand, Tasmania."
"That sounds...amazing. And you sailed to all those places alone?"
I shrug. "Not always. I'd take on a crew here and there, and they'd stick with me until they found somewhere else they wanted to be. There's always someone willing to work in exchange for food and passage to somewhere else. The itinerant community is pretty solid, actually, once you delve into it."
"How'd you end up in Oklahoma
, then?"
Here we go.
"That's kind of a crazy story." I pause, to gather my courage. "I didn't just end up down here by accident, actually--"
"HEY!" A gruff, loud voice shouts from behind us. I pivot, see a flashlight beam aiming at us. "I see ya'll out here. Ya'll in my field. This here is private property."
I stand up. Wave. "Sorry, we were just--"
He's an older fella, standing in the open door of his truck, a shotgun in hand. "I know what ya'll was fixin' to do. And ya'll ain't doing it in my field. No way, no how. Now get on."
"Let's go, Lock."
I pack up quickly, throw the blanket over my shoulder, and we make our way across the field. The owner has one foot up on the running board of his truck, shotgun dangling from one hand, the other gripping the top of the doorframe. A little portly, graying.
"Ya'll git. Can't just go on other folks' property whenever you want."
"We didn't mean any harm. We were just hanging out," I say, stuffing the blanket into the basket and tying the basket down into the bed. "Sorry to have bothered you."
"Hangin' out my fat old white ass. Only one thing young folks do out in a field at night."
"We're leaving," Niall says, hopping into the driver's seat before I can. "Sorry."
I slide into the passenger seat, and once the owner has backed out and turned around, we're out after him and heading back toward town and Niall's place.
I'm stewing, because I was this close to telling her.
I still could.
Still should.
But now the moment has passed, and my heart is pounding.
Why is it so scary to think of telling her?
Because it'll be the end. Once I tell her, that'll be it for whatever we've got going on. And I like what we've got going on.
We talk about my travels on the way back, mostly harmless stories of places I've been, things I've seen, not really delving into any of the crazy stuff, yet.
Before I know it, we're in her driveway. Parked. Engine off, radio on, windows down.
Stars twinkle above us, crickets call. An owl hoots.
Sudden silence between us.
I'm psyching myself up to start over, to get this off my chest.
Niall is picking at her fingernail, staring down. And then her gaze lifts, finding mine. Her eyes search mine, the way she did before. Looking for something. Seeing into me. Maybe if she looks hard enough, she'll see the truth, and I won't have to tell her.
"Fuck it," she whispers. That was to herself, not to me.
And then she kisses me again. Grabs my beard, pulls me close. Buries her fingers in my hair. Reaches down, unbuckles her seatbelt. Fumbles at mine. I hear it click, feel it go slack against my arm. I let it go free, spooling back in against the cab frame. Her lips are warm, wet. She tastes like wine. My head is spinning. I'm telling myself to pull away, tell her I can't, tell her I have something to tell her, but I can't. I can't.
I fucking can't.
I'm not strong enough.
All I'm strong enough to do is slide my palm against her neck, brush her hair away, brush my thumb across the corner of her mouth. Slide my touch down her shoulder, to her side, to her waist. Pull her close. Kiss her until I'm reeling.
There's a momentary break, Niall is gasping for breath, pulling back ever so slightly, staring at me as if stunned by the kiss. Eyes searching mine, fingers in my hair, tracing my nape, feeling the muscles in my shoulder.
"Jesus," she whispers. Again, more to herself than me. "So good. I need it--I..."
Instead of finishing, instead of telling me what she needs, she leans into me. Somehow we're going horizontal, me on bottom, my back on the bench, Niall above me, one knee between my thighs, hands on my face, hands roaming. Touching my pecs, tickle-tracing the lines of my ribs. And kissing me, Jesus, she's kissing the ever-loving fuck out of me, demanding this kiss be the most epic kiss there's ever been. All lips and tongues and teeth, hungry, desperate, devouring kisses. I can't help but kiss her back, can't help but respond to the need I feel in her.
She's fully on top of me, some of her weight braced on her knee, but most is on me. And it feels so good, so perfect. I cup her nape in one hand and let my other find the center of her back, find the hem where her scrub top has ridden up, the lab coat slipped to one side. Soft, warm skin. Firm muscles, soft skin, lush curves. I'm touching her, find the inches of skin one by one. Up, up, to the lower edge of her bra strap. Down. Back down, closer and closer to the tempting swell of her ass.
I slide my hand under the drawstring waistband and palm her ass. She groans, murmurs into my mouth, and breaks the kiss. She rests her forehead against my shoulder. I knead the firm, round globe, and she lets out a breath as if this touch is reaching not just her flesh but also some long-neglected portion of her soul.
She lifts her head, eyes open and on mine. Lips swollen, wet, parted slightly, gleaming in the starlight. And then she slowly, slowly lowers her mouth to mine, and this time it's soft and delicate and sweet, slow as molasses.
I'm getting lost to this.
I want this more than I've ever wanted anything.
But I break the kiss. She's confused. Lifts up, braces her palm on my chest. And Jesus goddamn, I've got a hell of an amazing downblouse view of her perfect cleavage. Hint of nipple, even, the way she's falling out of her bra. God, I'm hard as a rock, and I know she feels it.
We can't do this--that's what should come out of my mouth.
"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." That's what does come out.
Her lip trembles, her eyes close. A tear trickles down.
Now what did I do?
The worst me is just a long gone memory
How could he know? Could he see how badly I needed to hear that? I'm ashamed of my tears, of the involuntary way they squeeze from my eyes.
I'm on top of this gorgeous guy, kissing him with all the desperation I possess--which is a lot. And now I'm crying. He's confused, reaching up in that adorably hesitant way he has--as if he's not sure he's doing it right--to wipe away the tear.
"What'd I say?" he asks.
"The right thing, for once."
"Oh. Then why are you crying?"
I shake my head. How do I explain it? I can't. It would take too long, and I don't want to talk.
I want to kiss him again.
I want to get lost in it.
God, I'm already lost in it. I can taste him on my lips, feel his hand on my butt, feel him tracing my curves. And I want more. So much more. It's been so long and I've been so lonely, so cooped up in this little nowhere town, and I'm desperate enough to just give in. I can't resist it anymore.
It's foolish. I barely know him. He's a vagrant, an itinerant. He'll move on. But I don't care about that right now. All I care about is the need.
I sit up. Pull him with me. Open my door. Get out, turn back and look at him. "Come inside with me."
I wait at front of the truck as he slides out through the driver's side, closes the door behind him. I take his hand, hoping it's obvious what I mean, what I want. I should be nervous, should be terrified. It's been a long time since I've done this with anyone, let alone with anyone except--no. No thinking his name, not now. It's been a very, very long time since I've done this; that's enough truth for now.
But I'm not afraid and I don't know why.
I know I'm crazy for this. For Lock. For his hands, for his mouth, for how he makes me feel. For what I hope he will make me feel, once we get inside.
I'm up on the porch, unlocking the door.
But then Lock's hands are on my waist, spinning me in place. The screen door slams closed, and he presses me up against it. Cups his hand against my hip and palms my cheek. Feathers his lips against mine.
"Lock, come in with me." I whisper it again.
I reach up, grip his wrist.
Silver light from the full moon glints off my diamond. I see Lock's eyes flit from my eyes to the diamond, and just like that t
he spell is shattered.
"Fuck." Lock grates the word, growls it. Backs away. "Fuck. I'm such a bastard."
He turns abruptly and jumps off the porch, jogging away.
"LOCK!" I shout his name. "Wait! Just...wait."
"I can't, Niall--I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He's in the yard, backing away, passing his hand through his hair, distraught, angry.
But not at me, I don't think. At himself?
"I can take them off, Lock. Just... come back."
He shakes his head. "You don't understand. You don't--you can't. Fuck!" With this last curse, he turns away again and starts running. Literally running away from me.
He's right--I don't understand.
The only thing I know right now is that I'm worked up, wild, horny, raging with need, turned on and left needing him. And he fucking ran away from me.
I'm so confused.
I let myself into the house, not bothering to lock the front door behind me. I stumble mindlessly to my bedroom and flop onto my bed. My fingers find my lips; they're swollen from kissing. My nipples are so hard they ache. My core is throbbing. My stomach flutters. And god, my mind? It's manic. Crazed. I keep seeing him, feeling him. In those moments with Lock, before he bolted, I felt so...alive.
I felt his powerful hands on my ass, kneading and gripping. I felt his lips on mine. I felt his beard tickling and scratching my face, and I smelled the essence of pine he must oil it with--a heady, masculine smell.
And holy fucking hell, I felt his erection. It was a thick, steel-ridge presence between us. It felt so thick, so hard, and I could almost feel it in my palm. It'd be warm. Soft skin against my palm. I could feel every inch of it, and judging by what I felt in his jeans, there are a lot of inches.
I tug on the drawstring of my scrubs. I picture Lock naked. I start at his torso, bare, muscular. I picture him peeling his shirt off, crossing his arms in front of him and grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, dragging it off, flexing his pecs and abs in the process. In my fantasy, he swaggers toward me. Maybe we're out in a field, under the moonlight, like earlier. But alone. Miles from anyone. Shit, we could walk out my back door and be utterly alone within ten minutes; once we got past that stand of cottonwoods there'd be no one to see, no one to hear.
In my fantasy, I've got my back against a tree trunk, watching Lock. He tosses his shirt aside. Reaches down, unbuttons the fly of his jeans. Lowers the zipper. Stalks a little closer. Jeans ride low on his hips, the waistband of boxer briefs showing above. There's that bulge, thick against the material of his underwear. That V-cut, that sexy indentation of muscle leading down under to the Promised Land. His eyes would be blazing, like sunlight reflecting off seawater. He'd stop a few inches away from me, staring down at me, daring me.
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