Waylaid

by Sarina Bowen

  Only to me.

  “You want to cheer me up?” I growl. “Then get on that bed.”

  Eyes wide, she sits down on the end of it and scuttles backward.

  “Good girl.”

  I’m preparing to join her when I realize I’ve forgotten something important. Spinning around, I grab the pendant off the dresser and bring it with me to the bed. “This is yours,” I say roughly. “I want you to wear it.” Then I unhook the chain and drape it around her neck.

  “Thank you,” she whispers as I attach it.

  She touches a finger to the pendant, where it’s perched above her breasts. Her eyes get soft and lazy, like she sees right through me. Like she knows the storm will pass.

  My anger ebbs a little further. And when I lean down for another kiss, it's the tender one that she deserves.

  Thirty-Three

  Daphne

  We're on a bed. An actual bed. It's a damn miracle.

  Late afternoon sunlight slants through Rickie's window as he nudges me further onto the mattress and removes my skirt.

  Then he removes my panties.

  Then he removes my bra.

  And when he kicks off the last scraps of his own clothing, all that's left between us is a piece of jewelry depicting a daphnia in all its weird glory.

  Rickie fingers the pendant, and his expression burns with promise. “Better late than never, I guess.”

  “Yes, I—”

  Words desert me as he lowers his mouth to my breast and swirls his tongue around my nipple. I gasp as a sizzle of sensation rips through me.

  I moan shamelessly, because I’m not shy anymore. And I'm no longer afraid to love him. So I shamelessly reach for his cock and stroke him.

  He groans, and I smile up at the ceiling. It's not that my heart is suddenly bulletproof. It's just that I no longer have a choice about how I feel. He's gotten to me. And if I hold myself back, I might miss something.

  That seems like a bad idea, since every touch of his hand sets me on fire. Now he's dotting me with kisses, dropping them everywhere. My neck. My shoulders. My stomach. My—

  I let out a shivery moan as he kisses his way up my inner thigh. “You don't have to go slow," I prompt. “I’m done resisting you.”

  His chuckle is low and throaty. “What if I want to?” He strokes a thumb so slowly over my core that I moan and clench my thighs.

  Then he lowers his head and gives me his mouth. His kisses get hotter and wetter until I'm gripping his plain white comforter in two hands. “Please?” I hiss. “Now. I don’t want to wait.”

  He looks up at me with molten eyes. “You ask so nice when you want me, Shipley.” He pushes up, prowling up my body. Then—finally—he fits the blunt head of his cock against my entrance.

  When he slowly, torturously, begins sliding home, I realize that I recognize the look on his face. It’s a messy mix of hope and awe—and it's the same one I wore when I wondered how badly it would hurt if he loved me and left me.

  I try to pull him down to kiss me. But he won’t come. He hovers, watching me, drawing out this moment. I need him to move. So badly. But he's staring into my eyes instead. "Better late than never," he repeats, his voice raw.

  “Yes,” I gasp, too turned on to be articulate.

  Then he leans down, right where I want him. "Christ, I need you," he says, pressing his mouth against mine. The kiss is slow and intentional.

  Only then does he begin to move. And it’s perfect.

  Needless to say, we are late to karaoke.

  After the slow, mind-melting sex, we stay curled up on the bed for a while. He mindlessly strokes my hair, while I indulge in sleepy daydreams about coming home at the end of the day to this man in this bed.

  I know I’m getting ahead of myself. But when you’re curled up naked next to Rickie, it’s hard not to dream.

  Eventually we get up. We shower together, which leads to shower sex.

  Only after that do we pull ourselves together and walk over to the sports bar. When Rickie and I stroll in holding hands, someone is just finishing up a Cindy Lauper song on the little stage, and everyone starts clapping.

  Since it’s an August Wednesday, and this is a college bar, the place is only half full. It makes it easy to spot the public health crew at a large table along the wall. Jenn and Karim wave us over. They’re accompanied by two graduate students I've met at work.

  “You made it!” Jenn says, clearly surprised.

  “Sorry we’re late, we had a few things to take care of.” Rickie says this with a straight face, and I hope I’m not blushing. My fingers find the daphnia pendant at my neck and worry it.

  Maybe all the clichés are true, but I feel like a new person after spending an hour or so in Rickie’s bed. It’s not just that I am more relaxed than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe ever.

  But I also feel like we’re a team. And I’ve never had that before—this sense that I’m building a strong bond with someone. Rickie and I know each other’s secrets. We’ve seen each other’s pain.

  Until now, I didn’t understand why that was sexy. I would have thought the opposite was true. Who wants to share pain and misfortune?

  Me, apparently. When Rickie got angry today, I just wanted to soothe him. Because I’ve been angry, too. And he deserves better. So I told him—with my body. And he listened.

  Now he pulls out a chair for me, and his hand on my lower back is more than just a caress. It’s an acknowledgment. Of us.

  “Here guys,” Karim says, pushing slips of paper toward us. “Write down what you're singing.”

  Rickie grabs a menu. “This requires some thought. And probably some french fries.”

  “Yeah, okay. But if you need a partner for a duet, I'm your man,” Karim says to Rickie.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Rickie says, grinning. His hand slides onto my knee. “What are you singing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hey,” Karim complains. “Everybody sings.”

  He’s winding up to say more when the DJ interrupts with an announcement. “The next singer is Karim. And Jenn is on deck.”

  Karim slides out of his chair. “Pick a song,” he insists as he goes.

  “I’ll help you pick,” Jenn says. She slides a stack of laminated lists toward us. It’s held together by a metal ring. “I’m working my way through Whitney Houston’s repertoire.”

  “You probably have a great voice.”

  “Nope!” she says gleefully. “Whitney is probably turning over in her grave. But it’s fun.” She turns her attention to Karim, and the first bars of his song play as he grips the mic.

  “I don't sing,” I whisper to Rickie. “At least not in front of coworkers.”

  “Daphne,” he says, his rich voice right in my ear. “You’re not supposed to sound amazing. It's a bonding experience. The point is to show your soft, off-key underbelly to your colleagues, so they know you’re human.”

  I know he's right, but I still don't want to.

  “What if we did a duet?” Rickie offers. “You can pick the song.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” He pulls one of the paper slips toward himself. “I’ll do one by myself, too. What the hell.”

  On the stage, Karim starts to sing. The song is “Father Figure” by George Michael. It starts off kind of low and whispery. And he sounds competent enough.

  But then it rises in pitch and tension, and he nails every note. Rickie leans forward in his chair. “Wow, right?”

  “Wow,” I agree.

  “He’s our ringer,” Jenn says. “And he has a thing for George Michael. If you don’t know what to pick, just put him down for a duet on ‘Freedom’ and be done with it. Everything sounds good with Karim.”

  Rickie nudges me under the table. “I want to sing with you.”

  “You do?”

  “Totally. Although I suppose we could have a threesome.”

  I actually giggle. “Just the two of us is plenty. I’ll pick something.”<
br />
  “Anything,” he says, kissing my cheek as Karim croons into the mic.

  “What if you don’t know the song?”

  “I’ll fake it.” He shrugs. “Want a four-cheese bacon burger and fries? That’s what I’m getting.”

  “Yes, please.”

  He flags down the waitress while I scan the karaoke list like there will be a test later. What would Rickie sing with me?

  My eye stops on a particular song. It’s one that I know he knows.

  Hmm.

  Karim finishes the song with a flourish, and we all cheer loudly.

  “Come on, Shipley,” Karim says when he returns to the table, flushed with victory. “Pick a song.”

  “Fine, fine.” I scribble down my song just as the waitress arrives to take our order.

  “Huh. Interesting choice,” Karim says, shamelessly looking over my shoulder. “That’s a little dark, Shipley.”

  “What did you pick?” Rickie asks.

  “You’ll find out in time to sing it with me.”

  “Mine is a duet, too,” Rickie says. “Karim, can you help me with this?” He passes my coworker a slip of paper.

  Karim hoots with laughter. “Oh, man. Totally. You are a good time.” Karim hands both slips of paper to the waitress.

  “What did you pick?” I ask.

  “You’ll find out,” Rickie says, repeating my own irritating words to me.

  The waitress peeks at the slip of paper in her hand. “Ooh, I’m going to make sure I’m not on break when you sing this.” She gives Rickie a big smile. “Now what would you like from the bar?”

  “Tequila,” I grunt. “But it’s a bad idea. I’ll have water instead.”

  Rickie laughs.

  As I wait for my song, my discomfort turns to dread. The waitress brings our food, and the burger is delicious, with a garlicky local goat cheese on it. But I only eat half. Rickie also ordered me, of all things, a Shipley cider.

  “Thought you could use the comforts of home,” he says when I recognize it on the first sip.

  “That’s so cool that your family makes cider,” Jenn says.

  “My brother has plans for world domination,” I tell her. “He’s making applejack now, too. They have it at Vino and Veritas on Church Street.”

  “Oh, I like that place,” Karim says, bobbing his head. “Hey Rickie! Our song is up!” He cackles. “Brace yourself, Shipley. Your man is about to sing you a poppy love song. I can’t even handle it.”

  “Which poppy love song?”

  Rickie gives me a smack on the cheek. “You’ll see.”

  He and Karim confer as they walk toward the little stage. They each get a mic, and the introduction kicks in. Both of them sway back and forth, and Karim snaps rhythmically to the easy beat.

  “This song is for Daphne,” Rickie says, just before he begins to sing.

  My face heats, and I still don’t recognize the song. But Jenn lets out a hoot. “Omigod, he’s doing Meghan Trainor! That is adorable.”

  It takes me another minute. I paste a smile on my face as Rickie sings an easy sequence about a dream. Then the fictional dream ends, and he wakes up bereft.

  But then the chorus kicks in, and I remember the song all at once. It’s called “Like I’m Gonna Lose You.” He looks right at me and sings his heart out, while every woman in the room starts feeling lightheaded from how attractive he is.

  Or maybe that’s just me.

  “Oh!” Jenn elbows me. “Karim is taking the John Legend parts! This is epic.”

  It is super, super cute. And I’m not worthy—of this song, or the hot man singing it.

  He seems to think I am. So I can only try to live up to the hype.

  Karim and Rickie ham it up at the end, and everyone in the bar claps and whistles. I feel flushed and self-conscious as he walks back to the table and then leans down to kiss me.

  Somebody does a cat-call whistle. I might die now. But it will all be worth it. “Nice job, McFly. I loved it.”

  Grinning, Rickie plunks down in the chair and steals one of my french fries. “Thank you, Shipley. What’s the duet we’re singing?”

  “You’ll see.” I pick up my cider and take a gulp. Singing in front of strangers? How did I agree to this?

  I worry about it while someone from another table sings a passable rendition of “These Boots are Made for Walking.” But then the DJ calls my name, and I’m almost glad.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I grumble, and everybody laughs.

  Rickie springs out of his chair. “It won’t hurt a bit.”

  “Liar,” I gasp. And then I straighten my spine and head for the stage.

  Thirty-Four

  Rickie

  Aw. Daphne is really nervous. I feel bad about pressing her to do this.

  I’ll just have to make it up to her later. That could be fun.

  “Okay, let’s hear Radiohead’s ‘Creep,’” the DJ says with a smile. “Awesome song.” He hits a button.

  “Interesting pick,” I say. “A little dark, but it’s a killer track. I like it.”

  She gives me a funny little smile. Then she switches on her mic, and I do the same. The intro kicks in, and she taps her toe easily to the rhythm. I put a hand on her shoulder and give it a squeeze.

  And we start to sing.

  The first part of the song is pitched a little low for her. She stands very still and sings the lyrics carefully, and I help, without drowning her out.

  We sound awesome, if I do say so myself.

  When we hit the chorus, she sings it full-out. And I instantly get the chills. Her voice is silky over the crunchy guitar, and I feel her voice roll over me.

  It’s exhilarating.

  The next verse goes the same way, and I’m really enjoying myself as we hit the chorus again. And I risk a glance to the right as we build up to the crescendo on weirdo.

  She picks the same moment to glance my way. And she smiles.

  And then… I don’t know what happens to me. I get a prickly sensation all over my scalp. My face gets hot and it’s suddenly hard to get oxygen into my lungs. I glance at Daphne again, and it’s like hardcore déjà vu. As if I’ve been here before, but maybe on an acid trip.

  I keep singing on autopilot. Or maybe I’m just mouthing the words.

  It’s a short song. Daphne sings the last quiet line alone, and then the bar erupts in cheers, especially from our table against the wall.

  Daphne smiles, but it’s forced. She’s shooting me strange glances.

  What the hell just happened? I’m having a panic attack for no reason at all.

  We walk back toward the table, but the tightness in my chest isn’t loosening up. “I’m gonna smoke,” I grit out. Then I make a beeline for the door.

  Outside, it’s a pretty summer night. The light is fading already. That’s August in Vermont. I kick a foot against the bricks, lean against the building and tilt my head up. And I just breathe.

  I stay out here alone for a few minutes, just trying to figure out what triggered me. That song, maybe. But why?

  The door opens and Daphne comes out, her bag over her shoulder. “I paid the bill. We can leave if you want.”

  “We don’t have to,” I grunt.

  She shakes her head slowly. “I think we do. What happened in there?”

  “No idea.” It comes out as a sigh, because I’m so tired of making excuses to this girl. “Why, uh, did you pick that song? It made me feel…” Crazy? Possessed? I don’t even know how to explain it.

  She looks uncomfortable. “Because we sang it together before.”

  “What?” The prickles on my scalp are back. “Where?”

  “In your car,” she whispers. “On our road trip.”

  “Fuck. Really?”

  She nods.

  “Holy shit.” I put my head back against the wall. It’s tempting to bang it right into the bricks.

  “God, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to screw with you. I just saw it on the list.”


  I reach out and grab her hand. “It’s okay. I want to remember.” As I say these words, I am nearly consumed by self-loathing. “But aside from having an episode of the creeps, I don’t actually remember. Christ.” I’m a delicate fucking flower, apparently. “What else did we sing in the car?”

  “Whatever was on the radio. And also, um, things you had on cassette tape. Joan Jett and the Black Hearts.”

  My laugh is bitter. “Prince?”

  “Yeah, ‘Purple Rain.’”

  “Journey? Or maybe not. I wouldn’t have wanted you to think I like Journey if I was trying to impress you.”

  “Maybe you did like me, because there was no ‘Wheel In the Sky.’” She squeezes my hand.

  “Of course I liked you,” I snap, sounding like an asshole.

  “Joking,” she whispers.

  “Sorry. Can we go home?”

  “Yeah. Come on.”

  Daphne offers to drive, but I turn her down, as usual. She doesn’t argue, but she shoots me worried glances for the first few miles.

  I’m a broody asshole all the way home, too. And when we pull into the driveway, I realize I haven’t said a word for thirty miles.

  Shit.

  I kill the engine, and the silence practically throbs.

  “Sorry,” I grunt. “I’m a little tired.”

  “Oh please,” she says, not letting me off the hook. “You're freaked out. Can’t you just admit it?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Uh huh. I know you will. But you just spent the whole summer trying to get me to trust you. And when I finally decide to do that, you clam up. So why do I have to show you my whole bag of crazy when you never show me yours?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  She snorts.

  “I’m serious. Everything that’s gone wrong in your life right now is someone else’s fault.”

  “That’s crap, Rickie,” Daphne fires back, with her trademark lack of bullshit. “What you don’t understand is that the only reason I do trust you with the darker things is because I’ve gotten a glimpse of yours, too. You make me feel like I don’t have to be perfect all the time. That song? ‘Creep?’ It’s like our little secret.”