Live Out Loud

by Marie Meyer

  Plucking the phone from her fingers, I type my response below hers. Didn’t mean to be forward. Wasn’t cool of me.

  Handing the phone back, Harper scans the message, a bluish light shines over her features as her eyes dart over my words. Biting her lip, she types, I had shellfish for dinner, remember? I wouldn’t want our first kiss to send you into anaphylactic shock.

  Relief washes over me. So she does want to kiss me. Thank. Fucking. God. I grab the phone from her hands. I’m willing to take my chances. ;-) I hand it back to her, winking.

  Eyes squinted, she considers my comment, smirking.

  Good, playful Harper’s back. Scooping her hand in mine, I give her arm a tug, leading her to my favorite spot in the whole world, under the diving board.

  I look up, admiring the plank above my head. Countless nights I’ve spent under this board, endless hours. Some of the best music I’ve ever written was born in this very spot.

  Lowering my gaze, I look at Harper and silently welcome her to my sanctuary. I keep the words locked in my head, knowing it’s too dark for her to read my lips, but I’m determined to let my actions speak for me, to communicate to her just how important this place is to me.

  Since I was sixteen, this place has been my safe haven—the place I’ve come to meditate, commune, and hide away until all the shit in my life settles. To an outsider, this place has all the makings of a nightmare, hell on earth—broken concrete, weeds, rusted and decaying chaise lounges, puddles of stagnate water, and two eerie, deserted pools. People always judge books by their covers, but sometimes, the rough exterior is just a stumbling point to get to the good stuff inside. Same goes for this place. To the naked eye, it’s a mess, but the comfort it’s always brought me makes it fucking gorgeous.

  I don’t know if there’s a God, hell, with all the shit Mom and I’ve endured over the years, I’d be more inclined to say there isn’t. But, when I’m here, engulfed by darkness, hidden from the fucked-up world, it’s easier to believe there could be. And now, sharing my place with Harper, maybe the idea of a God isn’t that far-fetched—the fact that she’s here with me, there has to be a God, right?

  It’s a stroke of luck that the space under the diving board isn’t covered in sludge, giving Harper and I a dry place to sit. With my boot, I kick away a few twigs and park my ass on the ground, looking up at Harper. Patting the light blue concrete beside me, I invite Harper to sit. She casts a dubious glance around and plops onto the pool floor beside me.

  Now we’re talking!

  A chilly gust rushes over us, whistling and howling, turning the empty pool into a large wind instrument. Angling her body toward me, Harper tucks her left shoulder behind me and buries her head against my chest. Strands of her hair blow up in my face and I have no desire to swipe them away, enjoying the gentle lashing against my cheek.

  Once the wind dies down, I tap Harper on the shoulder, getting her attention. She lifts her head from my chest and locks her eyes on to mine, her long lashes brushing against her skin when she blinks.

  And fuck me. She does it again. Her eyes are so expressive, it’s like she sees beyond my tough exterior, straight to all the fucked-up parts I try so hard to hide. The girl has superpowers.

  Swallowing, I ignore her scrutiny, and lean forward, holding up my index finger. I shrug off my button-down shirt. The thin, cotton tee I’ve got on isn’t much against the chilly wind, but making sure she’s warm is higher on my priority list than my own comfort.

  I laugh inwardly. Mother Nature is on my side tonight, making all my usual moves way to easy to execute. Holding my shirt out, I stretch my left arm behind her and drape the button-down over her shoulders.

  Looking comfortable and happy with my shirt wrapped around her, she smiles—the right corner of her mouth quirking up a few millimeters higher than the left side. She has such a fantastic smile. I make a mental list of everything I’ve learned that makes Harper King smile, and I hope to keep adding to it.

  She glances down, and with a feather-light touch, hesitant, she traces one of the images on my sleeve tattoo. The largest clock face. I twist my arm, bringing it closer to her, giving her permission to touch as much as she wants. I’m proud of my ink. And I’m loving the way her fingers are brushing over my skin.

  Since my senior year of high school, I’ve had an obsession with tattoos. When I’m angry, the bite of the machine can quell my rage faster than anything. But I’m picky. I don’t get just anything inked. There has to be a significant reason why I’m adding the art to my body, and it’s usually something I don’t want to forget. My own version of a ribbon tied around my finger. When I was little, my grandma used to do that, tie a ribbon around her finger, so she wouldn’t forget.

  Lifting her phone, I watch Harper’s fingers sweep over the screen as she punches out a message. Your tattoos are impressive. Can I ask what they mean?

  She passes me the phone.

  Shit. I want to tell her everything. I don’t want any secrets between us, but for me to tell her what the clocks on my arms mean, that would mean I’d have to tell her about my dad—that each time he beat me, I recorded the time the beating ended in a notebook. The clock face she traced, the biggest one, has the time I fought back. The last time he hit me.

  That story is too fucking sad for a first date. If I want a second one, I’ve got to keep my response vague. I like clocks. Each one reminds me of growing up. Becoming a man.

  After reading, Harper glances up at me, her long lashes fluttering against her eyelids. I wish I knew what was going through her head. I suck at reading people.

  Lifting the phone from my hand, she looks down and starts typing. They’re beautiful.

  I laugh as I drag my thumbs across the onscreen keyboard. I was going more for badass, but if you think they’re beautiful, I can live with that. I hand the phone over and wink.

  Harper smiles. Didn’t mean to wound your manly pride. ;-) Nothing wrong with being beautiful and badass. Kind of like this place. Won’t we get caught for trespassing?

  She holds up the phone and I take it from her hands, adding my response. Harper leans in close, reading as I type. Nah. I’ve been coming here for almost eight years. Never been caught. The owners sold the property. It’s supposed to be subdivided, but the developers—an incoming text appears at the top of the screen, so I can’t finish my thought—Mom: Why are you ignoring me, Harper? Please respond ASAP.

  “Shit. Umm…” Not quite sure what to do, I tap on the text before it disappears and hand the phone back to Harper.

  Reading the message, she throws her head back, her face contorting into an angry scowl. Signing something, no clue what, she double clicks the home button and flips back to our conversation on the note screen. Sorry about that. My mom. Again.

  Sure you don’t need to get back to her? Seems important. I type and give her the phone.

  She takes her frustration out on the keyboard, smashing her fingers against the glass. A chat about the weather would come attached with an ASAP. She can wait. Finish your story, please? Harper glances at me, eyes pleading. She’d mentioned her relationship with her parents was complicated; I’m picking up on that vibe.

  “You sure?” I say, hoping she can read my lips.

  She nods. If you say so, Red. If there’s anyone on the planet that understands parent issues, it’s me. I scroll up, find my original comment, and scan over it, mumbling, “It’s supposed to be subdivided, but the developers…” Okay, got it. Memory jogged.

  The developers haven’t gotten around to subdividing. Not sure what the holdup is, but I’d be fine if the project never went through. Don’t want to lose this place. It’s quiet. I can think here. I make a move to pass the phone back to her, but think of something else, so I pull it back. I already know “sorry,” will you teach me some other signs?

  Teasing, I hand the phone to her, but yank it back each time she tries to grab it. On the fourth fake-out, she makes contact, latching on with her right hand as she pokes me in th
e side with her left. “Ow! Damn, Red, you play dirty!” I laugh, doubling over to avoid any more of her assault.

  Harper’s shoulders bounce in silent laughter as she works her fingers over the screen. It hits me hard how much I want to hear her laugh. She’s got the best smile on the planet, I bet her laugh is just as perfect. Who am I kidding? There’s nothing about this girl that isn’t perfect. She hands the phone over. Gotcha! Somebody’s ticklish! filing that away for later ;-) I’ll teach you all the signs you want to know, if you teach me to play the guitar.

  I take the phone from her hands. Deal. Show me how to sign your name. I’ve wondered how to do that all night.

  Showing me, she holds her right hand between us. I watch as she extends her index and middle fingers outward, tucking the rest beneath her thumb. Bringing her fingers up to her face, she wiggles them on her upper cheek.

  I raise my right hand next to hers and copy the shape. Nodding, Harper repeats the motion, tickling the skin just below her eye. Clumsily, I do the same, not even close to matching her fluid, refined movement.

  After a few tries, I lower my hands. Harper picks up the phone. That’s my name sign. It’s the sign for freckles, but the fingers make the letter “H,” for Harper.

  I lay my hand out flat, palm up, waiting for her to pass the phone. What’s the sign for Thor?, I type. It was a turn-on watching her spell my name, can’t wait to see how hot it is when she signs it. I pass the phone back to her.

  A gust of wind blows over us, kicking up a swirl of dead leaves. The long tree branches hanging over the pool creak in protest. Midway through typing, Harper curls her body closer to my side and I welcome the opportunity to hold her tighter, squeezing. She smells nice and she fits so perfectly against my side. This is fucking paradise.

  Glancing up at me, she shivers, but doesn’t look uncomfortable, quite the opposite actually. When she’s finished typing, she hands the phone back. Names don’t automatically have signs. Name signs can only be given to someone by a deaf person. My dad always called me Freckles as a kid, so my second-grade teacher gave me the name sign to match.

  I rub a hand over my face, then type out my answer while Harper watches. Can’t wait for you to give me one, then. Shooting a wink in her direction, she fires back with a smug grin and a noncommittal shrug.

  Her eyes roam over my face and it’s crazy, but I can feel it. Heat trails over my skin, down my cheeks at the same time a shiver rolls up my spine. How does she do that?

  I’m sure a minute passes, if not more. With each breath, my pulse kicks up, heavy and raging. The urge to grab the side of her face and pull her mouth to mine is almost unbearable.

  Drenched in moonlight, her pale, freckled skin is set in contrast against her wild red hair. She could be some sort of forest nymph or spirit—to beautiful to be a part of this world, for sure. “Teach me more?” I whisper, her eyes fixed on my mouth.

  Lifting her hands, she presses the tips of her fingers to her thumbs and touches them together, slowly bringing her right to her pursed lips as she turns her body into mine. No clue what she signed, but her body language is screaming, Kiss me. Fuck, I want to.

  My eyes are locked on hers, blood pounding in my ears. Reaching for me, the tips of her fingers brush up my face, scratching against the stubble on my jaw, until her whole palm rests against my cheek. She licks her lips and that’s it, I can’t take it anymore. I need to fucking kiss her.

  Bowing my head to meet hers, I shove my hand into her hair. Knotted spirals catch between my fingers until I’m cradling her head in my palm. With delicate pressure, I pull her closer, watching her eyelids fall shut. Our hot breaths mingle in the centimeters dividing us. I inhale, she exhales. We breathe each other in.

  My heartbeat thunders in my ears and with one yank, lightning strikes.

  Hot and searing, her mouth is on mine. She melts against me, pressing her fingertips into my cheek, begging me closer. Her lips are strong and soft all at the same time. I can’t get enough, and I fucking want it all. Opening my mouth on hers, I run my tongue along the seam of her lips, tracing each curve and dip, until she parts them. I push into her, tasting, wanting, my body craving the sustenance a kiss only hints at.

  With my arm still behind her back, I pull her forward, guiding her onto my lap. My shirt falls off her shoulders as she straddles me, and now I have all the leverage I need. Burying my other hand in her hair, I draw her closer, deepening the kiss, my tongue thrusting against hers.

  Harper presses her palms on each side of my face, changing the angle, her body rocking each time our tongues meet. I’m so fucking hard. My dick begs for her to keep grinding, at the same time mourning the fact that it’s not inside her.

  A soft groan rumbles in my throat as I lower my hands down her back. The fabric of her shirt is smooth beneath my callused fingers. Following the path of her spine, I move lower, over her bra strap, and the dip in the small of her back, until I curve my hands around her ass, thrusting her against me. I thrust again, my dick right at her opening, separated by the fabric between us. “Fuuuuuck.”

  Grinding against my hard-on, Harper sucks in a sharp breath and bites my lower lip, her tongue plunging into my mouth one last time before she pulls away, panting.

  I stare into her eyes, my dick throbbing. “Shit,” I sigh, smoothing the curls off Harper’s face. That was fucking close. The last time a girl made me come in pants I was fourteen, and my self-control was shit. Seems I’ve met my match in Harper King, when it comes to her, she’s the one in the driver’s seat.

  Harper shifts on my lap, and I suck in a breath, “Whoa.” I try to calm myself, but my dick is still rock hard, cramped as fuck in my tight jeans, and craving release.

  Glancing down at my crotch, Harper’s eyes go wide with realization. She signs furiously, her body rocking with the motion of her arms. This is not helping. My hands at her waist, I lift her tiny body off my lap, and do my best to readjust without being too vulgar.

  Harper says something in sign language, but I only catch the word “sorry” here and there. I clasp my hands around hers and shift my body (very uncomfortably) around, so we’re face-to-face. The moon’s still bright and I hope it’s enough light for her to see my face. “You”—I press my index finger onto her collarbone, shaking my head—“have nothing to be sorry about.”

  She bites her lip. Looking unsure, her eyes dancing from mine to my lap. Pinching her chin between my thumb and forefinger, I draw her face back up, forcing her to look at me. Please, Harper, understand this. I don’t want her to think all I want to do is fuck (well, I do, but God, it’s so much more than that). “I not going to lie, taking you back to my place and getting you naked is high on my list right now.” Not that she doesn’t already know; there’s no hiding the bulge in my pants. “But, not just that. I want to get to know you. Everything about you.” There’s a first time for everything.

  Harper scrambles, twisting and shifting her body, patting the ground, coming up with a phone. Hurriedly, she unlocks the screen and types, then hands the phone to me. OMG! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean…

  I swipe the phone from her hands. Don’t apologize! I’m glad you were into it as much as I was. It was amazing. Already looking forward to the next time.

  The flustered, concerned expression on her face morphs into a sultry grin as she types her response. On the bright side, I didn’t send you into anaphylaxis! Kissing me didn’t kill you! ;-)

  Oh, Red, give yourself more credit. You were most certainly killing me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Harper

  Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling, the events of last night on a continuous loop in my head. I touch my lips—still a little sore—and a smile creeps to my mouth. I don’t know what came over me; I’ve never reacted like that on a first date. I don’t know this Harper, but damn, if she gets to have more make-out sessions with Thorin Kline, I welcome her with open arms.

  Squeezing my abs, I pull myself up, stretching my hands over my head, y
awning. Seconds later, I’m greeted with little wet licks on my cheek. Bobby. I pull his warm body close and bury my face in this furry neck, snuggling him.

  Stroking his head, I glance at my bedside clock, the display reads 6:57 a.m. And why am I up this early? Bobby swipes his tongue over my nose, nuzzling my face.

  Oh, right. Someone needs to go outside. Bobby doesn’t seem to care that I just got home five hours ago. For a second, I contemplate rolling over, throwing the covers on my head, and going back to sleep (and with any luck, dream of Thor), but I’ve got to study, and I don’t want Bobby leaving me any “gifts” in my bedroom. Besides, I can’t let one amazing date get in the way of something I’ve worked for years to achieve. The end is almost in sight, I can’t lose focus now.

  But there won’t be any focus without coffee.

  I pat my leg and Bobby leaps off the bed, landing at my feet. Opening the door, we shuffle down the hall to the staircase. The living room is dark, except for the light spilling from the kitchen doorway—Chloe must be up. I hop off the last step and head to the back door before I sneak into the kitchen.

  Unlatching the sliding door, I yank it open, and Bobby runs outside. I turn toward the kitchen, and walk in to see it’s been transformed into a baker’s wonderland. Mixing bowls, pans, a standing mixer, and a variety of different size spoons cover the countertops. On the other side of the kitchen, Chloe’s camera is perched on a tripod. Sweet Nothings filming day.

  What is the date? Looking across the room, my eyes land on the giant dry-erase calendar hanging on the wall. Chloe always films on the second Saturday of the month, and sure enough, there’s a cupcake magnet sitting in the square. I need to make my coffee and get out of her way, the last thing I want is to be roped into being on the show. I’ve been on my fair share of Sweet Nothings webisodes, but I don’t have time today. Nothing is going to keep me from reviewing case studies of neonatal treatment plans. I had my wild and crazy last night, now it’s time to get back to reality.