by C. M. Marin
I still find it overly paranoid to think they’re here for her, but just in case, I grab my phone and send a quick text to Blane, telling him to run a check on a girl named Camryn Jones who just moved back in the area. Or is here for the summer, rather.
Shoving back my phone into my pocket, I don’t wait for him to answer. I know he’ll do it. If his ass is already out of bed, that is.
“What do you have planned today?” I ask her. “You must be damn creative to find enough hobbies to keep yourself from dying from boredom after a while.”
“Oh, I always find… Yeah, it can get boring quickly,” she admits, laughing a soft laugh. “But I never say that to anyone because people usually look at me like they want to rip my head off when I dare say that sometimes I wish my time off were shorter.”
“Fuck people,” I counter. “The ones who complain about their lives probably complain about everything 24/7 anyway, and nothing will ever change that.”
She nods. “You’re probably right.”
“I am,” I affirm. “So, what boring stuff have you planned for your boring day?”
I never needed more willpower than what I need right now to keep my eyes away from the slight cleavage her green shirt grants her. An harder challenge than I’ve ever had to face. How can a plain shirt like this one send such a sexy vibe?
“Not sure,” she answers, helping out with distracting me from thoughts that are well on their way to make my physical reaction to the hint of her breasts becoming painful in my jeans. “I’ve been trying to motivate myself to clean up the attic for three long days, and I think today is the day.”
Remembering what she said about her indecision on pretty much everything regarding her current situation, I hope my tone sounds casual when I ask her, “And does cleaning up the attic mean making room for your stuff or starting to move stuff out?”
She lets out a sad sound. “Honestly, even if I decide LA is where my life is, I’m not sure I could sell the house. Not now, anyway. I want to be able to come back, even if it’s every three years,” she smiles. “It’s the place I grew up, the only place I’ve ever felt completely home. It’s reassuring to be in that house when everything seems to be going to shit. Right now, I feel like it’s the place I should be.”
Which means she’s staying for at least a little while longer. Possibly until she has to go back to work. But even that span of time sounds too short. It’s what… Six weeks, at best?
“You missed being here when you went to college?”
“A lot,” is her immediate answer. “But I was busy with classes and my waitressing job, so it didn’t leave me much time to think about being homesick. And then I met Colleen, my best friend, soon after classes began, which helped a lot. It’s only when my parents died that I regretted having left. I wished I had gone to some college in the area. That way, I could have come back more often. I could have felt like I was still part of their lives, you know? Because no matter how often you call your family when you’re far away, there’s no avoiding the feeling that you’re no longer part of that life you all had together. You’re just not there. And if I had stayed, I wouldn’t have missed so much with them.”
“But you have to see that nobody can think that way, or everybody would stay chained to their loved ones all year long.”
She laughs lightly again, but sadness pierces through the sound this time. “Probably. Besides, I guess there are people I wouldn’t have met if I hadn’t gone to LA, so in the end, I just have to accept that history can’t be rewritten.”
“Like your best friend?” I ask.
“Yes. Colleen moved away a year and a half ago. She lives in New York now. She got a job there.”
“Nice.”
“She hates it.”
“Not so nice.”
I force a dramatic expression to twist my face, which tears a laugh out of her, washing some of her lingering sadness off the smooth lines of her face.
“She’s sort of alone, too, so a job is a job. She works for a publisher, which was her dream job, but she had hoped she’d be doing more than photocopies and coffees, that’s all.”
Sort of alone, too.
Like the rush of protectiveness that smashed into me before, emotions I don’t recognize are now swarming in my guts. Imagining this girl living in constant loneliness makes me want to shelter her into my arms and never let go.
My phone goes off, and I take it out.
Blane: Adopted daughter of Kate and Patrick Jones, no siblings. Parents died more than two years ago, car crash. Studied education and teaching at UCLA, now teacher at some school in LA. Fiancé Colin North died about a year ago, plane crash.
Fiancé.
That’s what sticks out among all the information Blane found for me. And I feel like the biggest bastard when I can’t decide what’s worse: that she’s probably still grieving or that she’s had a fiancé at all.
Yeah, I’m a fucking bastard.
One way to know where she stands when it comes to that man she apparently was going to marry. “And besides your best friend? You asked me if I had a girlfriend, but I didn’t ask you if you had a boyfriend ready to kick my ass?”
First time in my life that I feel like a total prick.
“I had a fiancé. I met him not long after I graduated, a few months after my parents died. A year later, we were engaged, but he also died. Just a few weeks after he proposed. That was a year ago,” she adds, looking down on her unfinished pancake. “We moved in together quite quickly after we met. I stayed in our apartment for almost a year because I couldn’t imagine leaving it. And one morning, I couldn’t bear staying one more second within those walls. Maybe because school had ended, so I basically had nothing to do. Too much free time to think. That was four days ago. I packed some things and came back home.”
She stops talking and swallows hard. The pain in her eyes squeezes my heart violently.
“What happened to him?” I ask even though I already know.
“Plane crash. He was a pilot, doing sightseeing tours in California. Flying was his passion. He was flying alone when he crashed in the ocean. Nothing but pieces of the plane were ever found.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nods. “He was amazing. Kind and thoughtful. Selfless.”
Now I feel like a prick and a loser. Don’t even know why it bothers me that her fiancé was the reincarnation of some saint. It shouldn’t. I will never be one of them, and I don’t want to either.
“Okay, what would you think about going for a ride?” I veer the conversation toward a less heavy subject.
Her smile awakens a sense of victory in me. “Where do you want to go?”
“Don’t know. We can drive and see where we end up, what do you think? Then I’ll drop you back here to get your car,” I offer her, envisioning the possibility of kidnapping her if she says no. “I have to go to the repair shop early this afternoon, so I’ll have you back here by noon.”
What I have to do is go to a club meeting, but obviously I’m not saying that.
“But you haven’t even eaten yet.”
“I ate two of your pancakes,” I wink at her. “I’ll just tell Dona I’m good today.”
“She’s not here. She left to run an errand just before you arrived.”
I hum. “That explains why she didn’t bring me my food. I thought she was just busy. Anyway, what about the ride?”
“Okay, but only if you don’t drive faster than yesterday,” she cautions but is already standing and snatching her purse.
When she’s ready to go, I take her hand. I’m glad she lets me, and not only because touching her in any way has become a steady goal of mine, but also because those fuckers might still be out there. My body is strung tight when we saunter outside. So much that I need to focus on loosening my hold on her hand, worried about crushing her delicate bones.
They left.
At least, there are no Spiders in sight.
Once again, it hits me that I’m to
o fucking careless when I go to Dona’s. I tend to forget about safety measures, and it’s not good. Like wearing plain clothes rips me off the club world. Apparently, it took running into two Spiders to realize I needed to get my shit together before one of them put a bullet in me. I’m being stupidly reckless, but as soon as Cam is settled behind me on my bike, my mind clears of any thought that doesn’t belong to her. Her arms easily encircle my waist and her front doesn’t hesitate to touch my back this time, even if it’s only in a subtle contact. I love it. Never thought I’d ever have a girl on my bike, let alone enjoy it like it’ll stop too soon no matter how long I drive.
Focusing on her fingers gently digging into the flesh of my stomach through my shirt, I only realize where I drove us once I got us there.
The lake.
I hadn’t even realized I drove so long. The lake is more than an hour east of Twican.
Last time I came out here was to clean up Isaac’s cabin with the guys before locking it up. It was a little over a year ago. That day, there weren’t high trees or winding paths leading to the woods or the lake. That day, the color of blood and the smell of death was all that was left, and I was sure it always would be. I never thought I’d want to set foot here again. Looks like something inside me thought otherwise.
Camryn has already taken the helmet off when I’m done roaming my gaze around in a quiet appraisal. Her own eyes are locked ahead on the still water, somewhere in the middle of the lake. There’s a curious sparkle making them shine, and I can’t say whether it’s a happy one or a sad one.
“Want to tell me what it is that’s keeping your attention off me?” I move to stand beside her.
Looking up, she answers my grin with her own. “We used to come here almost every Sunday with my parents. My dad loved fishing, and Mom and I would just come along and walk around or read, or just talk.”
“Sounds nice.”
I have very few happy memories of my mom and me together, and the few I have get blurrier with every day passing. There’re those Saturdays morning when I didn’t have school and my father was working that I still remember. We’d play football in the garden on sunny days or do some craft in the kitchen on rainy ones. Sometimes we’d take our bikes out of the garage and go on a ride around the neighborhood. These times were the only ones my mom appeared free, a carefree smile lightening the frightened lines etched on her face when my father was at home.
“It was,” Camryn says. “I remember how busy it was on sunny days. And there also was this man who became friends with my parents. A nice guy who would buy me an ice cream every time he was there. God, I haven’t thought about those memories in so long to avoid the pain that always comes with them,” she confesses. A dreamy sigh sneaks through her lips then. “It’s still so quiet and beautiful.”
“Come on,” I lead her down the uneven wooden stairs, her soft hand back in mine.
When we reach the beach, I steer her away from the loads of teenagers kidding around and the families spending the day together just like Cam used to do with hers. I pass them all to guide her to a remote spot right before the wooded area begins again.
“Do you come here often?”
“I used to come once in a while.” I sit beside where she’s already getting comfortably settled on the sand, pausing for a moment as I search for the right words so I don’t divulge more than I should about what I’ve been keeping a secret from her. It feels shitty to lie, but I don’t want to see her run away just yet. “My best friend’s granddad owned a cabin here, further in the woods. Loved the guy like my own grandfather. I was fifteen when I met him, and from day one, he always found the time to do with me things my father should have done with me if he had been what you can call a father. Simple things like skipping stones right there,” I point a finger to a spot near the water. “He died about a year ago. The cabin is Jayce’s now, my best friend, but I haven’t been back here since. Don’t know why I drove here today, but now I remember why I loved it. It’s peaceful.”
A peace my daily life lacks a lot sometimes.
It’s hard to explain why I tell her all that. I’m not one to confide in anyone, let alone a girl. Yet I now open my heart to her like I was the damn girl out of the two of us.
“I’m sorry for your best friend’s granddad,” she says.
I only nod, not wanting to delve further into the subject. She doesn’t probe for anything more either, which I’m thankful for. I don’t want to downright lie to her, and there’s no way I can share the truth about what happened to him like we were talking about the weather.
“Teach me to skip stones,” she says out of nowhere as she already pushes up to her feet.
“What?”
“Never could do that, and my dad was just as bad. Show me before we have to go back.”
Grinning like a damn teenager, I take the hand she stretches out without needing to be told twice, and it’s her turn to walk us toward the water. She lets go of my hand on our way there, and we pick up a few stones.
“Best rocks are the flat, skinny ones,” I tell her. “And not too big.” I choose one that looks like a good fit. “I’ll start so you can watch.”
She nods, wearing on her face a mask of concentration that makes me smile.
“So, your index finger goes against the edge of the rock, and your forefinger and thumb on either side of it. Like this.” I do it myself. “You have to face the water sideways, with your legs spread. Then there is your wrist action. You bend it all the way back and then snap it. The rock should spin when you throw it. Don’t aim for speed, the most important thing is the spinning motion. And don’t forget to bend your knees a little, too. And…” I trail off, demonstrating what I just tried to explain to her.
We both watch the skips of the small rock across the surface of the water until it ends up sinking.
“Nice,” she says, awe in her voice. “Okay, let me try.”
Her meticulous gaze shifts to the crook of her palm where is nestled the half dozen rocks she picked up. After spending a good thirty seconds making sure she chooses the right rock, she places the rest of them on the sand and positions herself rigorously. Then only―well, after checking out one last time whether she’s holding it right―she throws the rock toward the lake.
Not even one skip. The thing sinks straight to the bottom.
“As hard as it was a decade ago,” she deadpans.
“It’s really not,” I promise her through my laughter. “The key is to practice until you find the right movement. But don’t be tense,” I advise while massaging her shoulders to help her relax.
That’s what I’ll tell her if she asks me why I’m touching her, at least. The real reason I have my hands on her is because I crave the contact.
“Practice,” she repeats, not flinching away from my touch. “And here I was telling that to my kids at school like there was nothing easier than that.”
I laugh. “That’s why most kids hate teachers.”
“Mine love me. I’m nice,” she proudly states. “But that’s not the point. Let’s practice.”
I watch her as focus captures her once again. She shifts the rock between her fingers until she’s satisfied with the way she’s holding it, and then she bends her wrist back and forth a few times to get the gesture right before actually throwing the thing toward the water.
Straight to the bottom.
“Do you ever tell your kids that no one can be good at everything?”
She laughs, not frustrated at all by her second failed attempt.
“I’d rather tell them that you can only getting good at something by trying again and again until you are.”
When she turns around, sending my way the brightest smile I’ve seen lightening her face since I’ve met her, I can’t fight the urge I’ve kept fighting laboriously during each one of our few encounters.
My head dips despite the fact that even before my lips steal hers, I’m certain she’ll flat out refuse the kiss, maybe by slapping me across
the cheek or kneeing me in the balls for good measure. But when the contact is made, she doesn’t punish my boldness with either of those painful reactions.
Instead, she kisses me back.
Sure, there was no missing the brief, almost undetectable moment of hesitation right before she yielded, but I choose to ignore it because her lips caressing mine have too sweet a taste for me to back away from them just yet.
As she opens her mouth for my tongue to slip in, I find hers willing to get the same taste mine craves for. The taste of me when I crave the taste of her. My hands beg me to let them go up to feel her hair while drawing her closer, but I’m too afraid to take any further step that could make her pull away. So, nothing in me moves except for my lips and my tongue savoring hers. Well, my lips, my tongue, and my dick that apparently already thinks it’s going to get lucky. It hardens faster than it ever did, the damn thing battling strenuously against the zipper of my jeans.
I wish I could just fuck her. Getting her out of my system and move the hell on. But she’s not the kind of girl you just fuck. She’s the kind of perfect girl you worship, and even if I was the kind of guy who worships a girl, let’s not forget that she’s grieving. Though now, I can only note that she’s experiencing that kiss with the same abandon I am.
At least she does until she draws back, almost startling as she wakes up to what she let herself do.
“I’m sorry,” she stutters hurriedly.
“Don’t, it’s alright.”
Through the same panting breaths that have launched my chest into wild motions, she tries to explain her sudden recoil anyway. “It’s just that I’m not… I can’t… I’m sorry.”
“Really, Camryn, it’s alright.”
“And I barely know you,” she goes on. “This isn’t me.”
“Hey, I understand.” One of my fingers brushes the skin under her chin to lift it up so I can look straight into her beautiful eyes. “No problem,” I assure her that there’s nothing she needs to be sorry for.
