A Field Guide To Catching Crickets: ( a sexy second chance tearjerker romance )

by Unknown

  “Eat it.”

  “That’s disgusting. What is wrong with you? This helpless baby needs a mama. I’m a good mama…and…” I turn away as my mouth sours. I know he can smell it on me the second he jumps back in. Guilt.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Yes. You know what, yes. How about I grab you some crumbles at the mill? I think I can wrestle up a heat lamp from the barn as well.”

  “Thank you. If you could bring those things down here, plus a box, can you grab a cardboard box from the house?” Sauntering backward to head for my cabin, I stop when Daddy gets out of his truck.

  “I’ll get everything, yes. Now, hold up there, Sloan.” He moseys to me, gaze dropped, tucking his gloves into the back pocket of his worn-out jeans. “Listen, sweetheart.” He places his callused hands on my shoulders. “I don’t want you to feel funny about seeing Hawke later today.” He runs his hand along my cheekbone then tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear.

  “I won’t feel funny. Nervous, yes.” I’m already a bundle of nerves at the idea of seeing Hawke. More nervous than if this weekend were my own wedding.

  “You’ll need to talk to him soon. Tell him.”

  We both nod.

  “He’ll need to understand what you went through. He deserves to know why you disappeared.”

  I let out a big sigh. “Yeah, well. In time. But not this weekend. I need to get to know him again. I can’t just barf my life all over him in the first few hours. It’s been ten years. Don’t push me.”

  “I’m not saying that. It’s just…he’s a man, and it’s time. You know what needs to happen. You’ve had three years of intensive therapy, you’re ready.”

  Time. Yeah. He’s right, and I know it. How do I tell Hawke why I never responded when all I wanted was him?

  With my duckling settled in a box, along with food and water, I decide to shake off the heat of the day with a swim. According to Mama, no one will be arriving until later. All that says to me is skinny-dip. My sundress falls down my body, landing in a pool at my feet on the sand. Cool water tickles my calves, then thighs, and I take a shallow dive. Minutes later, out of breath, I climb the raft’s ladder and collapse onto the hot wood. My nerves flutter as I chew my pinkie nail. I’ve asked nothing about him, and I told my family and friends to keep me in the dark. It served its purpose. It gave me hope there could someday be an “us” again. It helped me get through every day. Every night.

  Unfortunately for Hawke, I made it clear to my family they could tell him nothing about my circumstances. I’m sure he must hate them for it. Not to mention the hate he must have for me. That is if he thinks about me at all.

  My cheeks burn as I run a finger across the tattooed dates on my arm. The blank spaces with underscores awaiting numbers that will inform the next chapter about me and Hawke. Will they say new beginning or will they say end? I’ve imagined so many things about him. Is he a filmmaker like I am? Does he still wear our ring? Is he in a relationship? Married? And what if he has children? My spine stiffens at the thought and I roll over in a huff of worry.

  I shove a mass of hangers aside, looking for my old chambray shirt. Sloan’s favorite. I’ve kept it all these years, never washed it, as it still holds the remnants of her scent.

  Sloan. A decade. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror as I button the shirt.

  What does she look like now?

  I stare at the photo I took years ago, tucked in the frame of my mirror. She’s standing in a meadow at her folks’ ranch, wearing a sundress, and reaching out to me with a braided grass heart in her hands. That mile-wide smile on her face. Do the blues in her eyes still look plucked from a cornflower? Is the black of her hair still shiny like a raven’s feather? Is the curve of her waist the same, so small my hand can wreathe it? What about her mouth, does it still taste like sugar and vanilla?

  How is her time spent these days? Knitting? I chuckle as I think of all the things she made for me. I still wear those hats on chilly mornings when I run. And making films… Does she do that for a living? Does she have a friend to make gravestone rubbings with like we used to on weekends? When is the last time she saved an abandoned critter?

  I pluck the photo from the mirror and kiss her face like I’ve done multiple times over the years. Does she still braid grass from a meadow into a heart? And who is she handing it to if she does?

  Does her heart have any openings for me? Do I sit somewhere in her memory bank, locked in a crevice that could maybe still be found?

  The drive from Los Angeles to Ojai takes three hours, thanks to traffic. I’m not sure if there’s more of a jam in my head or on the freeway. Questions and images of the two of us continue to storm my brain, things that are easy for me to access because of the hundreds of videos we took for years on end. Every time we kissed—every time we did anything—she’d call on her video camera or laptop, Soul Sister, to join in on our fun. The number of times I’ve watched them… Well, there aren’t enough numbers in my brain to remember. All I know is, even when I tried to forget her—when I tried to stop loving her, when I “moved on” or whatever I did—I still watched them.

  Memories flood my mind as I turn into the long dirt road of the one-hundred-and-twenty-acre Moonstone Ranch. The syrupy, familiar scent of clementines wafts up my nose. I follow the fork that’ll take me to what we called Paradise, the spring-fed lake on the McQueens’ property, where I spent my youth skinny-dipping, fishing, drinking, and screwing.

  Rye McQueen—Sloan’s mom and my second mother of sorts—called me earlier this week to let me know I could stay in one of the five cabins on the ten-acre lake’s sandy beach for the weekend festivities. Tonight, is the rehearsal dinner, which is being held up at the ranch. I’m hoping to hell Rye had the smarts to put Sloan in a cabin next to mine. Better yet, in mine.

  I pull into the dusty, empty lot, throw my truck into park, and head up the clementine-and-lavender-lined trail to the cabins.

  After dropping my bag at the stoop, I kick my boots off and strip down to nothing for a quick skinny-dip to wash off the ride, not to mention my nerves. I cross the beach, relishing the hot, fine sand under my feet while I look toward the willow bank, where I last saw Sloan ten years ago. A piece of me thought she might be sitting there knitting as I’d seen her do dozens of times over the years.

  Minnows dart away from my feet in abundant schools as I wade into the lukewarm, clear water. It’s a long swim to the raft, but one I relish and perform underwater with my eyes open while trying to hold my breath the whole way exactly as I used to. My fingers touch a barrel on the raft minutes later. I climb up the ladder to find an early Christmas gift. Thank you, Santa.

  Sloan. My heart jolts. She’s facing me, lying on her belly, naked. Her skin is slick with oil, pale as ever, and seemingly unchanged, every inch of her looking just how I remember. I chuckle at the pool of drool forming under the plumpness of her candy-colored lips. I don’t think I breathe for long seconds.

  I make no sound—besides the thud of my noisy swallows—as I inch around and lie next to her, propped on my side. My sweet Cricket is home.

  Does he hear my heart beating? Does he think I don’t know he’s lying next to me? Hawke…I’d feel you anywhere. I never stopped feeling him even when I lied to myself and fed my heart toxic thoughts about him. At first I tried to starve it, to close off that part of me that had him locked inside. But it never worked. Then I opened my heart and held on to him. He saved me. Does he hate me? How could he not? I hate me for what I did. Not that I had a choice. Choice would have meant a very different life.

  I speak to him silently, wondering if he hears my words, if he feels pain or love or numbness. Is it dead where I once lived inside him? Or is that part still alive? I have guilt stacked on guilt denser than a pile of lead pancakes.

  You’re all over me. Inside and out. When I run, I feel your breath filling my lungs. When I bathe, it’s your hands washing me, soft and wandering. When I cry, my tears are about you, us, and how I want you,
need you, love you. Still.

  “And, when I come, it’s your face I see, your voice I hear, your name falling off my lips. It’s you. It’s only ever been you.”

  “But you won’t look at me when you say those words ten years later?” His rough whisper at my neck, sends a shock of electricity down my spine, the warmth of his hand settling on the dip of my lower back.

  I said that aloud? Dear God.

  I flip my head to look at him, shading my eyes from the sun’s blaze. Holy mother of Nazareth. Hawke Slater, one decade gone by. My heart slams into the wooden deck we’re lying on as I gaze at him. A slow smile builds on his face and my body goes spaghetti limp.

  I say nothing as heat crawls up my insides, blooming over my face and chest. He is a Lord-have-mercy-on-me man. How many ripples are on those dark hair dusted abs? My eyes follow that trail, and for the love of God, he’s erect.

  “You’re staring.” He groans, and it sounds filthy when combined with the gaze he’s pinning me with. “You’ve always stared at me, and what’s that look in your eyes? Is there a word for it? I used to have one.”

  A pulse flutters in my throat and I sigh, long and slow. Shaky. At least I’ve started breathing; I might have passed out.

  “Hi,” he says as he sweeps his hand through waves of his wet hair.

  Did I somehow not notice his arms? Their bulk and beauty? He taps my chin, and I close my mouth with a pursed smile.

  “Hi.” That’s all I’ve got. Two letters.

  “Been a while,” he says as his eyes sweep down my face and land on my lips. I lick them in invitation. What I wouldn’t do for a kiss right now.

  I’m on my belly, wood gnawing my elbows as I prop myself up. He looks at my chest as I shuffle to cover my breasts. A dirty little laugh escapes his throat followed by a growl, setting off hot sparks searing all points of my flesh.

  “Yeah. A long time.” Still working on my words, but feeling great, as I’ve moved on to four-letter words.

  “You, ah… You don’t need to cover up on my account. Seen you before. Naked.”

  “Oh.” Shit. Back to two-letter words. I focus on my fingers and bite my thumb cuticle to still my hands. I’m sixteen again.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I’d like to remind you of the following things,” he says as he sweeps a bit of my fallen hair through his fingers then lingers on my ear, tracing the edge of it. He tucks the hair behind then fondles and pinches my earlobe.

  “You’re beautiful, Sloan. Still so beautiful.” He nods, eyes blazing into mine. Then his gaze follows the line of my back and settles on my ass until it comes back up to my eyes with more than a smile on his face. “You’re funny, too, ’cause you haven’t said much. Except that you see my face, hear my voice, and say my name when you come.”

  He licks his lips, then drags his thumb across mine. Stopping at my pout, he slips the thumb in my mouth and I suck the tip. Thank God he starts speaking again, because my tongue is still lost in the land of two-letter words.

  “You know, ten years is a long damn time, yet you’re still my favorite girl. Or, well, guess you’re not a girl anymore. A woman now.” He swallows hard, his throat bobbing. “Yes, you are all woman.”

  Pressing my shoulder back, he drops his gaze to my chest and lingers. I let out a breath when he closes his eyes and smiles to himself. When he opens them seconds later they pierce mine. “You’re also brilliant because, somehow, you’ve forgotten about me for ten years.” He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. “That takes more than average smarts, sweetheart. It takes some serious disregard.”

  My heart stops before it suddenly has an adrenaline attack.

  “So exactly how little do I mean to you?” he says, nodding, his voice low and sure. “Obviously very.”

  Without uttering another word, I flop onto my back. Time for little Miss Ten Years Tongue-Tied to start flapping her lips. I’m still nine inches of hard cock, and not giving a damn that she’s getting a lip-licking eyeful of what she’s been missing. I also hope every guy she’s been with was sporting a puppy-sized dick. With my hands behind my head, legs crossed at my ankles, I enjoy the hundred-and-five-degree blast of heat buttering my skin.

  Long, quiet minutes go by, so I toss another stick of dynamite. Girl clearly needs some excavation in that heart of hers. I have to be buried in there somewhere.

  “How long did it take you to fall out of love with me?”

  She releases a heavy sigh in answer.

  “Maybe you never felt what I did. Love. I’ve tried to figure it out. Shit, I’ve tried. Ten years is a long time to try to figure someone out. I’m still stumped.”

  Hour one and I’m already on her. Not how I wanted to be, but this part has to come first in order to get to that other part. Which I’m not sure will ever happen, as she seems to have lost her ability to speak.

  “Answer this. What’s the most repulsive feeling you’ve ever felt? Then, before you tell me, multiply it by a gazillion. Then I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Thinking I’d only ever get to be with you that one last time,” she whispers in a cracked voice.

  Amazingly, her eyes are glossed and filled with feeling. Though, for the life of me, I don’t know what kind of feeling. I laugh so hard, thinking she’s lying. She rolls onto her side and faces away from me. A punishment? It feels more like a gift, as I now have the sweetest view of her ass. Ten years without looking at the best ass ever is too damn long.

  “Fuck you.” She flips me off over her back.

  “Yeah, well, we got a little bit of stuff to wade through before we do that, but sure. It’d be nice if you’d fuck me again. I’m talking sex, not desertion.”

  “What’s your answer?”

  “The most repulsive thing I’ve ever felt? Easy. It was when you ripped my heart out. Christ almighty, was an occasional call or letter too much for you, your highness?”

  “What do you want?” She flips over to face me, her fingers shaking as she runs them through her hair.

  Full frontal naked Sloan McQueen, inches from me. Fuck.

  “You want me to post all my sins on Facebook so you can feel good about shaming me to the whole goddamned world? Stop trying to intimidate me.”

  A flood of tears slide down her pale, freckled face. Her freshly bitten lips quiver. Then she must realize she’s flipped herself over to show me all of her. Collapsing to her belly, face buried in her arms, she bawls.

  I did intend to give her shit, a whole cattle barn full. She deserves it. The same shit I was stewing in for all those years. I’ll admit watching her squirm is a triumphant feeling. Mean, but still, it makes me think she cares. Could she? But I don’t want to hurt her. Startle, yes.

  “I didn’t mean to make you cry, Cricket.” I rub her back, inching too close to her ass—then onto it. Oh hell. How could I not? It’s so touchable.

  “You know I don’t like seeing you cry. But shit. I don’t do runner-up, okay? I’m not, nor will I ever be, any woman’s plan fucking B. More than your bare-naked body, all I have ever wanted is your bare-naked heart. Time has not changed that, for me.”

  She returns nothing. Maybe she’s thinking really hard about the right thing to say. She ought to be scrambling.

  “You locked me so far out even your family colluded with you. What the hell went on over there? Was there a pre-arranged marriage or something your hippie parents set up when you were ten years old? Level with me.”

  Then, out of nowhere, my hand comes up and spanks her across the ass. And oh fuck if I wasn’t hard before. She turns over to face me, her mouth open, and laughs out loud in this little, sexy way that has my lips slammed onto hers that very second.

  Ten years is a damned long time. But not kissing Sloan McQueen—the love of my life—for ten years was worse than torture. Quickly, though, the torture is turning into something akin to free-falling lust wrapped in all the love I’ve been forced to ignore. It’s not words for me—it’s a feeling. A reaction to her vibe, an electrical
pulse that flows from her body into mine. It’s heaven-meets-the-best-orgasm-of-your-life good. It’s her beautiful, soft, full lips sliding over mine then sucking them into her mouth. It’s as if her whole body wants to climb into mine. All via this kiss. Her hands slide onto my ass as she drags her body against mine, and when she does, all of time dissolves. Ten years become breaths, moans, and memory, as though we’d never left each other that last night on the willow bank, as though I’d imagined the torture and grief I’d gone through.

  “Hey,” she says when our mouths separate. “It’s really you.”

  My throat contracts with emotion upon realizing she doesn’t know who I am anymore.

  Our lips collide like a ball of fire. His hands grab my neck along with a fistful of my hair in a greedy yank that slams me into him. My fingertips travel fast. His hair, face, sliding over his mouth to feel his wet tongue. Then I find his ass, the meat of his muscled behind in my hands, and pull him against me. Rigid and fighting for breath, he growls words into my mouth.

  It’s chaotic and hungry. Desire backed with lust and sexual angst that’s boiled to the surface after having been buried for years. Then I think other things too: things I’ve been dying for, things I need from him. Things that include the hollow I feel that needs a Hawke Slater man-sized filling.

  “I need to fuck you, been too long…too many years,” he whispers. It’s a cracked tone spoken into my mouth as though the idea of his lips leaving mine pains him. “You know me. Well, you used to.” He pins his forehead against mine. And, with our breaths coming at us in full force, he says, “I don’t do baby steps, sweetheart. Either we’re gonna fuck or we’re gonna forget about it.”

  I grab him. Then I gasp. I guess my hands have forgotten. “Jesus, you’re bigger.”

  He lets out a raspy groan. “Sloan, wait. I’ve gotta tell you something. Oh, God, just hang on.” He captures my hands and stills them.