Wide Open

by Tracey Ward

  She catches it, a look of surprise on her face.

  “I always deliver,” I remind her.

  She’s smiling when I walk away. I step straight into the embrace of the offense, their arms going around me. Mauling me. Hugging me. Holding me. It feels good and familiar. So does the rush in my chest when I glance back at Harper, finding her eyes still on me. I know that look. I love that look. It’s a look that says no matter how wrong it may be, how many reservations she has about me, I’ll see her soon. All of her. Because this thing between us, it has legs now. It knows how to run and it doesn’t want to stop. Neither do I.

  I feel like I’m flying, like I’m still going at full speed with the wind at my back and Harper’s smile waiting for me on the other side. It feels good. It feels old and new at the same time, and I wonder if this is what Andreas meant.

  I wonder if this is what the future feels like.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HARPER

  Marengo Apartments

  Los Angeles, CA

  I press my phone tight between my shoulder and my ear, reaching for my day planner. “We want to film your physical therapy, if that’s okay. Not for too long. Just to get some B-roll leading into your main interview where we ask you about the injury.”

  “Sure, yeah,” Sam Linden agrees amiably, his voice boyishly buoyant over the phone. “Whatever you need.”

  An average size guy anywhere else in the world, Sam just clears six feet and one hundred eighty pounds. That’s a toddler on a pro team. When you stand him next to the giants he lines up with on the field, he looks strangely young. The moment I met him I felt a weird maternal instinct toward him, like I wanted to protect him. Him, a grown man who could bench press me without breaking a sweat.

  “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate you being so flexible with us.”

  “No problem. It’s cool what you’re doing. I’m glad you asked me be part of it.”

  “That is not a popular opinion, but I’m relieved you feel that way.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with Matthews. Don’t worry about him. He hates everything and everyone that’s not part of the team.”

  I blink, careful to keep my smile on my lips even though he can’t see it. It’s good practice for when people can.

  Kurtis has been on my mind for weeks. Putting distance between us has done nothing to help the situation. I thought after we slept together, after I put my hand in that flame, the desire would die out. Turns out I don’t learn lessons easily, and the more you tell me I can’t have something, the stronger my desire grows. I tell myself every day that I can’t kiss him again. I can’t touch him. I definitely can’t sleep with him, and every day I feel the need for it more intensely. Every time I see him I feel flushed. I feel my body respond excitedly. Eagerly.

  “Yeah, I’ve gotten that feeling,” I agree with Sam. “So, I’m going to put you down for tomorrow after practice.”

  “Can I take a shower first?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you did.”

  He chuckles, his voice smooth and gentle. “Yeah, my trainer probably will too.”

  “Are you working with…” I grab my cheat sheet of names for the staff, “Luxe?”

  “Nah. She’s kind of unofficially assigned to the offense. I’ve never even spoken to her. I work with Neil.”

  I make a note to remember that for tomorrow. “Got it. Okay. Thanks again, Sam.”

  “Anytime, Ms. White.”

  “What am I? A year older than you?” I laugh. “Call me Harper.”

  He chuckles. “Sorry. It’s force of habit.”

  “Never apologize for manners. It’s a dying art.”

  “You sound like Coach Allen.”

  “I’m flattered. He’s a good man.”

  “Yeah, he is,” Sam yawns, his voice drawn out.

  “Get some sleep, Sam. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Goodnight, Ms.—Harper. ‘Night, Harper.”

  I smile affectionately. “Goodnight, Mr. Linden.”

  I end the call, immediately bringing up my messages. I text Travis quickly to let him know we’re filming Sam’s rehab. I’ve barely put my phone down on the arm of the couch when it pings at me.

  SLEEP. THIS IS YOUR FRIENDLY REMINDER FROM YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD SANDMAN. SLEEP.

  I laugh out loud at the message. I glance at the clock above the TV, typing back, It’s not even nine yet.

  SLEEP. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. SLEEP.

  What happens if I don’t comply?

  SLEEP. YOU’D BE A BITCH WHO DOESN’T APPRECIATE THE EFFORT HER FRIENDS GO TO IN ORDER TO KEEP HER HEALTHY AND SANE. SLEEP.

  I think I can live with that.

  SLEEP!

  OKAY!

  “After one more episode of Homeland,” I mutter to myself, flipping my day planner closed.

  I settle into the couch as I press PLAY on the DVR. It doesn’t take long for me to get lost watching Carrie fight for her life, sanity, and country. I’m twenty minutes in, my body finally relaxing, my eyelids getting heavy, when my phone buzzes insistently.

  You can’t keep avoiding me.

  I frown at the text, wondering what the hell Travis means by that. Did I miss something else he said? I try to scroll through the thread to check, but it’s stuck. This is the only message between us. That’s when I realize it’s not from Travis. It’s from Derrick.

  I need to talk to you. Now, he texts again.

  I immediately darken my phone, dropping it down onto the coffee table. I watch it like it’s a living thing. Like it’s dangerous. And it is, because Derrick is in there.

  I didn’t tell Travis how uncomfortable our meeting in Foxborough was, but every time someone says Derrick’s name my blood runs cold. Now this text message on my phone, it leaves me raw. Vulnerable in a way that makes me sick and so angry, a feeling I haven’t had to handle in a year.

  On the other side of the room a bomb explodes. Fire is everywhere. Shrapnel blows through the air. Carrie is tossed back like a rag doll, her world flying out of her careful control. I see it out of the corner of my eye, but I feel it in the pit of my stomach. I feel like I’m tumbling. Like my grasp is slipping.

  I should call Travis. I should tell him that Derrick is texting me again. It’s what we agreed to when we started this project. I promised him I wouldn’t lie to him, not again.

  The knock on my door makes me jump up off the couch. Dread rises up like acid in the back of my throat. It burns, distorting my voice as I call out, “Who’s there?”

  Silence. Three long seconds of it before a deep rumble replies, “Kurtis.”

  Air escapes my lungs in a rush of relief that leaves me dizzy. I stride purposefully to the door, tossing the locks aside and yanking it open.

  He’s there in the half-light of the open hallway, dressed casually in cargo shorts and a plain white T-shirt. It hugs the curvature of his chest, his shoulders. It contrasts with his dark hair and shining eyes. He has sex on his lips as they curl into a small smile. It makes me hungry. It makes me hurry. My emotions fly through me in a flurry of relief, joy, anxiety, and need. Kurtis makes me raw in a whole other way. A way that feels just as good as it hurts, pain and pleasure in equal measure.

  “What do you want?” I breathe, but I know.

  He looks at me, devouring me with his eyes, and I’m already naked. I’m already writhing, whimpering, pleading.

  “I want you to lie with me.”

  I step across the threshold, throwing myself shamelessly against him. He greets me with open arms, taking my face in his hands as our lips crash together. As our tongues and breath collide, my body going soft as his goes hard. I mewl and he growls, and we’re two animals unleashed in the wild. Unleashed on each other, feeding for the first time. We’re ravenous. We’re rough. We’re fast and hard and needy as he lifts me off the ground, walking me into my apartment. He kicks the door closed behind himself and then we’re falling. We’re dropping to the floor where we strip each other ba
re, tasting and teasing until we’re past the point of no return.

  He lays his large body down on his back, pulling me on top of him. Straddling him. He takes my frenzied hands inside his, stilling them as he stares up at me with a dark desire that only makes me want to move faster. To fall farther.

  “Take it,” he tells me gruffly, tugging on my hands to pull me forward. To hover my body over his. “Ride it.” He kisses me possessively. “Own it.”

  I’m breathless. Burning. Desperate. I flex my fingers against his, our palms sweat slicked and hot even as I shiver. As I fall back on top of him, taking him. All of him.

  “Go slow,” I whisper.

  “You’re in charge. You set the pace.” He reaches up to touch my neck, threading his fingers in my hair. “I’m with you. Whatever you want.”

  “I want you to touch me.”

  His eyes flash with something ugly. Something painful, but he quickly pushes it down. His face is clear, his brow at ease as he lowers his hand down my body. He caresses my breasts, softly tickles my stomach, but then he’s there where I need him. I rub against him, making him buck and groan. The ugly in his eyes is forgotten, washed away in a wave of ecstasy that sends me rushing. Running faster. Riding harder. Breathing erratically, moaning words that make no sense, but he hears them. He listens. He listens so damn well.

  My body is speeding away from me in desperate gasps that end on whimpers. Pleadings that pull tight in my throat. I beg him without words and he hears me without hesitation. I don’t want to wait for this one. I want it to hit me hard, I want it to run me over and leave me a wreck in my own body. And he gives me exactly that. He runs his fingers over my clit rough and fast. He holds my eyes, tethering me to him body and soul. I can’t escape him and the intimacy of it is overpowering. I feel naked to the bone as he looks at me. As I crumble and tremble. As he shudders underneath me. We fall apart together, holding each other to the end when my vision goes dark and my body collapses against his on a cry of pure joy.

  “Fuck, Harper.” He takes hold of my hips and continues to drive inside of me until his own orgasm runs out, fading away in the fitful beat of our hearts pounding against each other. “So beautiful.”

  I close my eyes as I hold him tightly, pressing his hands hard to my hips. I’m willing him to still. To stay.

  “Don’t go yet. Stay with me,” I plead breathlessly.

  “I’m right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He wraps his long arms around me, holding me tight. His thick fingers massage up and down my spine until I’m humming in a different way. A passive, purring way. I blindly kiss his chest, his neck, his face. My lips rove over him, every inch I can reach, memorizing the contours of his body in the darkness behind my eyelids. He moans happily against my skin. He kisses me gently, slowly, matching pace with me. Syncing his body to mine. The feeling is just on the edge of too much, my eyes stinging with muddled tears that I refuse to let fall. I feel happy lying there in his arms. Lazy and sated for the first time in weeks.

  Safe for the first time in months.

  ***

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  I laugh, covering my mouth with my hand to keep my waffle inside. “You want to ask me a question?”

  Kurtis grins slyly. He sees the irony in the situation.

  “Am I allowed to pull a Matthews and not answer it?” I tease. “Can I stare at you impassively, waiting for you to give up and retract the question?”

  “You can do whatever you want.”

  “Thank you.” I impale another bite of syrup soaked waffle with my fork. “Hit me with it. What do you want to know?”

  I watch his jaw move under his skin as he chews slowly. He made the waffles that we’re eating here on the floor of the kitchen. I was stunned when I found out he’s not a bad cook. It was after ten when we pulled ourselves up off the floor, pulled on our underwear, and headed for the kitchen. Now we’re parked across from each on the cold tile, our legs stretched out in parallel, our backs against opposing cabinets. I don’t know why we’re shunning my furniture but I’m enjoying it. There’s something basic about it. Something simple and refreshing. Everything looks different from the floor. My windows looked larger, the night sky deeper and darker from where I laid on top of him. My ceilings seem higher from here on the kitchen floor. The lights brighter, cleaner. Kurtis feels closer; his smile warmer, his eyes larger.

  “Your eyes when you come,” he begins.

  I cough, choking on my waffle. I hold up my hand to ask him to wait. He watches me intently as I cough twice more, dislodging the bit of bread from my throat. “Sorry, wrong tube,” I gasp.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. You just surprised me. I thought you were going to ask about work or something.”

  He smiles. “No.”

  “No is right. Holy shit.” I clear my throat one last time, giving him my full attention. “You’ve got me hooked. Go ahead. Where was that statement going?”

  “Your eyes go out of focus when you come.”

  “So do yours.”

  “Not the way yours do.”

  “How do you know? Have you ever looked into your own eyes as you get off?”

  “Yes.”

  I falter, watching his face for signs of humor. I find none. He’s not kidding.

  “That’s some serial killer behavior right there,” I warn him.

  “It’s not—“

  “No, seriously, visit the visual of that,” I insist. “You’re in a bathroom. For the sake of this story I’m going to say it’s at a truck stop with a cracked mirror and rust around the faucet handles. You’re fully dressed, your dick is out, the fluorescent lights are flickering. You’re jerking off into that poor sink, and the sad thing is that your jizz is probably the cleanest, nicest fluid it’s seen in a while. You’re sweating and grunting. Your arm is pumping. It’s racing. You’re getting closer, and the thing that finally pushes you over the edge is when you lock eyes with yourself in that dirty mirror, the fracture in its surface cutting across your face and chest, splintering you in two. And your eyes are focused. Intense. They’re challenging you to finish from both sides of the looking glass, so you do. You come staring at yourself like a psychopath.”

  Kurtis chuckles, not offended in the least by my assessment of him. “Damn. I see why you’re a director. That’s a hell of an image.”

  “I have a wonderful imagination.”

  “You also have eyes that go out of focus when you come.”

  I smile, avoiding his stare. “We’re still on that, huh?”

  “Even after you tried to turn it around on me, yeah. We are.”

  “I forget sometimes that you’re smart.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I go blind,” I tell him abruptly, swirling my fork through my syrup.

  He pauses before carefully repeating, “You go blind.”

  “As a bat. Actually, worse than a bat because bats aren’t blind. They can see, they just hunt at night in the dark and it’s impossible to have perfect sight in the dark so they use sonar to help them hunt, but in the right light they can see just fine.”

  “You’re rambling.”

  I nod stiffly. “Yup.”

  “Talking about this makes you uncomfortable.”

  “A little.” I look up, forcing myself to meet his eyes. They’re patient and waiting. “It terrified me the first time. I thought I was going to be blind forever, but after a few minutes it fades. But even though I know what it is now, just a quick constricting of blood flow to my eyes, it still scares me a little. I’m already in a really vulnerable place, totally out of control of my body, and to lose my sight on top of it…” I force a grin, hiding the weakness of my fears. “For a control freak like me, it’s not my favorite feeling. But at the same time it is, because man, it feels good before it happens.”

  “You literally have blinding orgasms.”

  I point my fork at him. “Don’t get a big h
ead about it. It’s not just with you. I can do it to myself too.”

  He chuckles, taking another bite of waffle. He’s doesn’t look at me when he asks, “And you don’t tell men that it happens?”

  “No. No one has ever noticed before. I never wanted anyone to know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I don’t mind you knowing.”

  “Because you trust me?” he asks heavily, resurrecting my confession from the first time we had sex.

  I nod without comment. I’m watching his face, trying to gauge his reaction. God, he’s hard to read. Carefully controlled and concealed to a worrying degree. To the point where you wonder if he feels anything, but then there are these moments where he bursts to life. Where emotion suddenly flies across his face in vibrant color. Moments where he looks honest and open and afraid.

  Moments like right now.

  “I betrayed a friend. That’s why I left California,” he tells me slowly, the words drawing from deep inside him. They come reluctantly. They fight him as he evicts them from his mouth and I feel strange hearing them. I feel like they hate me. Like they’re not meant to be mine. “There was a lot of money involved. A lot of lies. I haven’t talked to him since I left and I never will.”

  I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Nothing seems right. Kurtis is watching me with real fear in his eyes, anger building around the edges. There’s a tightness to his posture that I can’t fathom after the lithe way our bodies moved together less than an hour ago. He looks ready to bolt and I wonder what I can say to stop him.

  “Thank you.”

  He blinks slowly, like shades being drawn on a window. When they rise again the scene is entirely different. It’s softer, like sunset. “Why?” he asks, his voice low.

  “For trusting me.”

  “I didn’t say that I trust you.”

  I smile sadly at his barbs. At the pain they slice across my chest. “I know, but we’re getting closer, aren’t we?”