Spiked Lemonade: A Bad Boy Sailor and a Good Girl Romantic Comedy Standalone

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “Not at all, doll-face.” And if they did, I still wouldn’t care. I realize spending just one more night with this girl is probably the most masochistic thing I will ever do to my poor heart, but it’ll be worth every second.

  We check in to the hotel before Cali and Tango have Tyler unloaded from the car because I’m not wasting one second. We’ll order room-service and not leave the room until she tells me she’s ready.

  “You got a suite?” I ask the man.

  He types some shit into his computer and drags his finger down the length of the monitor. “One left.”

  I hand him my card, and he hands me the key. I take my girl’s hand and wish I didn’t have to let go. I’m pulling her down the hall so fast it’s as if I were in a race to lock us up and throw away the key, even though I’m aware the doors don’t lock from the outside. Right now, I wish they did, though.

  I close us into the room and release every ounce of fear and adrenaline I had rushing through my veins today. Tearing Sasha’s clothes off, I pin her up against the wall, memorizing every inch of her pure, unmarked skin with my tongue and my lips. When I pause to look at her—that expression, I see her eyes are closed, taking in every moment of this too. When my legs get too heavy to hold myself up, I scoop her into my arms and fling us both onto the bed where I cover us with blankets and sheets, drawing our heads into a heap of pillows that form a cave around us.

  With everything I have, I give her what I want her to remember me by. She’s warmed up to this kind of dirty love, the kind that feels too damn good to call dirty. But she still does, and that fucking turns me on.

  I’m quick to lose myself when I’m inside of her, forgetting why we’re here, how we got here and where the hell she is going tomorrow. Right this second, I don’t want to think of anything besides the satiny touch of her nipples rubbing against my cheek or the way she’s pinching my skin so hard with her fingernails to ride me a little harder. This girl who’s afraid to say the word cock has turned into the most skilled bedroom technician I’ve ever experienced. “Jason,” she screams at the top of her lungs. I fucking love that she’s the only person who calls me by my real name, and she only does it when she’s making her goodbyes or fucking the life out of me. How am I not supposed to be with this woman for the rest of my life? It’s like God placed her on this earth just for me, and now He’s taking her away.

  My emotions get the best of me, and it makes it hard to create a grand finale to our grand finale, but I rally, then fall heavily to the side of her, cradling her slim body against mine. I want to beg her not to leave me. I want to plead with her to stay. I want to tell her we’re meant to be together, and leaving will make it so our lives go down two totally different roads that may not cross again. I want to tell her this is a huge fucking mistake.

  But that would be the mistake. I know this.

  Regret is almost always a mistake. And that will be all she feels someday. I can’t be the reason for that. I won’t be the reason for that.

  Neither of us moves an inch for the rest of the night, and I want to stay awake to make sure she doesn’t disappear like all good dreams do, but I drove four hours in a panic, and I’m exhausted beyond belief so I keep my arms locked tightly around her as I succumb to heavier breaths and the backs of my eyelids.

  The sun is creeping in through the window, and it burns my eyes into waking up. The moments before realization and memories attach themselves to my reality, I feel for Sasha still locked within my embrace, and then it hits me: I won’t wake up like this again, with the smoothness of her skin connected to mine in a way I don’t ever want to forget. We fit together like the last two pieces to a ridiculously stupid puzzle, and she’s going to go throw that last piece into the bottom of an ocean.

  I move a little, needing to pull my arm out of the position it’s in since I can’t feel it after lying like this for hours. The movement forces her to stir and slowly open her eyes, which wasn’t my intention. Looking at me, she stares for a minute, and I’m watching the very same kind of a moment I just had, where all of her realizations slip into place, reminding her of the decision she’s made. Unless last night was so amazing that she changed her mind. That could be. I could see myself causing something so life-changing. My own sarcasm isn’t doing the trick right now.

  There are tears in her eyes, and she’s made the decision final. I can see it. “You didn’t tell me not to go,” she says.

  “I love you too much to tell you to stay.”

  “What if?”

  “Don’t,” I tell her.

  “But.” I don’t know what’s going on in my head or my chest right now, but everything feels like it’s malfunctioning and fuck, I think tears are forming behind my eyes, and I can’t let her see that. It’s not fair to her. It’ll make her change her mind and…no. Clenching my jaw so tightly I swear I taste blood, I feel one tear make its way to the corner of my eye, and I squeeze them shut as quickly as I can. But Sasha places her hand on my face, and it forces me to look at her. “I don’t know if I can leave you.”

  “I can’t hold you back from what you need to do,” I whisper. “I wanted you to go right away so you could get it over with. So you could come back here or ask me to come be with you. I won’t get in the way of this time you need for yourself, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it to go by as fast as possible.”

  “Will you be there when I find myself?”

  “Where you find yourself, I’ll be there. So find yourself fast. Okay?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t…not yet. This is silly.”

  “It takes an incident, trauma, life, and death to make you realize what you should or shouldn’t be doing. If yesterday’s outcome, causes, and effects created this decision, then that means something. You’ve got to follow your heart. You want to run away. Run away. Be free. Find you.” Even if it kills me a little.

  “What about you?” she asks, tracing the tip of her finger in circles on my cheek.

  “I found myself years ago, Sasha.”

  “I don’t think so,” she says. Hearing this surprises me. It makes me wonder why she’d ever say something like that. “The you I have come to know likes to help people. I know you call cars women but they aren’t people. Be true to yourself, if I’m being true to myself.”

  “I can’t go back to that life,” I tell her.

  “You can. It’ll heal you and those nightmares of yours.” I didn’t tell her about my nightmares, or the shadows that follow me around like demons in the night. I haven’t told her about the half-blown-off faces I see in the sky, or the fact that most tree branches look like missing limbs from a distance. I haven’t told her that when I look out into the horizon of the deserts surrounding us, I see combatants heading toward me with weapons. I keep it inside. I hide it. I prevent anyone else from having to feel it.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask her.

  “You talk in your sleep. Almost every night. You did last night too. I know you don’t want me to leave. I know you’re telling me to leave so I don’t regret it someday. No one has ever cared about me this much.”

  There’s nothing else I can say. She’s heard all my thoughts, knows my feelings, and can’t avoid the truth of me loving her.

  But, I can avoid the truth of knowing whether or not she loves me because sometimes cliff-hangers are better for the imagination and the heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ONE—I THINK I FOUND MYSELF—YEAR LATER

  SASHA

  “MOM, I’LL BE home late tonight, don’t wait up,” I tell her, zipping up my knee-high boots.

  “I’ll be home late, too,” she says, walking out of her bedroom with a really short dress on. “Zachary is taking me out again tonight.” Zachary. The forty-something-year-old business mogul she met in the lobby of our apartment a few weeks ago. The divorce isn’t final between her and Dad yet, but it’s close enough that she’s moving on in a true non-housewife fashion. And to a man h
alfway between her age and mine.

  A few weeks after I moved out here, I called her. After wrestling with what I hadn’t told her about dad, I let her know what she needed to hear, and I made her come out to Boston. She needed me, and I wasn’t ready to go home yet. I know I was supposed to do this on my own, find myself and all, but I realized she needed to do the same thing. So we’re together, but finding ourselves separately. Plus, the rent out here is almost completely impossible by myself.

  Boston is high stress but also peaceful. I’ve enjoyed feeling lost in the midst of thousands of people occupying this city. No one knows who I am or anything about me, and that’s exactly what I want.

  I take the T down the few blocks to my office building and stop at the coffee shop on the ground floor for my usual. They know me now and a lot of the times have my hazelnut coffee waiting for me. They must have memorized thousands of orders from the number of people who work in this building, since I think there are at least eight companies occupying the space here.

  “Thanks, Rosie,” I say to the barista as she hands me my coffee. “Add it to my tab, please.”

  “Already done,” she says with a fuchsia-lined smile.

  I head into the glass elevator and up to the fifteenth floor where my cubicle awaits. I didn’t know how I’d like this whole office job business, but the paycheck is nice, and I get to design menus for one of the top-rated restaurants in the city. It’s almost perfect.

  As I’m waiting for my computer to boot up, I glance over at the one and only picture frame I have sitting on my desk. It’s Jags and his silly grin with me at the bar the night I got a little too wasted. I only vaguely remember some moments of that night, but I remember taking selfies, and I remember dancing with him and singing at the top of my lungs—feeling like a million bucks, even if I was very aware that I would not be feeling that way in the morning. It was all worth it.

  The thought of that night encourages me to take my phone out and send him a quick message like I often do.

  Me: I just smiled at your silly grin that stares at me every day on my desk.

  Placing my phone down face up, waiting for a response, I log into my computer, finding a full inbox. It’s going to be a long day.

  My first email is from Cali, though.

  Miss you, lady. Tyler sent you another letter full of drawings yesterday. You should have it in a couple of days. She misses her auntie. How’s Boston today? Cold? Freezing? Is it below zero? It’s eighty here, just saying. You must be cold. You must miss the heat. You must miss me too. Okay, well, enjoy your hot Boston coffee and your knee high boots, and your scarf, and your chapped lips. Love you.

  For someone who so badly wanted me to venture off into the world on my own, she hasn’t let a day go by where she hasn’t tried to convince me to come back. Shortly after I arrived in Boston, she informed me that Landon had been arrested, but not for anything he did to me or us. We don’t have the full story, but it sounds like he robbed something or someone. Whatever it was, he’s in for life. Part of me wonders if Cali, Tango, and/or Jags had something to do with his arrest, but I’m pretty sure I won’t ever know—the three of them are in a league of their own.

  My phone vibrates with a return message from Jags:

  Jags: I miss your pretty smile.

  I take my phone and snap a picture of just my smiling mouth and send it to him.

  Me: How’s that?

  Jags: It’ll do I guess.

  Since I left, we’ve maintained something, but I’m not sure what. I don’t know if he’s dating or doing what Jags does best, and if he is, we don’t talk about it. But I chose this path.

  Me: You don’t sound like Jags today.

  Jags: Sorry, I’ve got a lot going on. Bambi’s been a mess this week with her niece being back in rehab again.

  Me: Poor thing. I thought she was doing better?

  Jags: Yeah, her parents showed up and ruined that.

  Me: Tell Greta I send my best, and I’ll make sure to send her another box of cannolis from the North End soon.

  Jags: You’ve made a best friend because of those cannolis. You know she questions my motives every time I open the fridge at home? I’m watching my weight, though, and she knows that, but still doesn’t trust me.

  I try to forget that they live together now. My mind still wanders, but what right do I have to ask questions when I’m the one who left? Sometimes, though, I feel like part of my heart stayed back in Texas, and I wonder if this was a mistake I’m forcing myself to pay the consequence for. I know I needed this, and I still need it, and I know I love it here, but I love someone back there too. And if he’s living with someone he’s that close to, and she’s as beautiful as Greta is, I can’t expect everything to continue going my way forever. That would be selfish, and how could I do that with how selfless Jags has been for the past year.

  Me: Well, I miss my best friend.

  Jags: You miss Bambi?

  Me: Jackass.

  Jags: God, I love it when you talk dirty.

  Me: Soooo…I was thinking about maybe coming to visit next week. Will you be around?

  Jags: Wherever you find yourself, I’ll be there. I told you that a year ago.

  What I really want to ask is, do you still love me? Do you miss me like that? Have you moved on? Will I be the third wheel? Did I make a really big mistake? The odds to all of those questions being no are so slim, so it’s making me truly debate if I should go out there.

  I miss him so much it hurts, though. While I don’t know if there’s anything left of us now, I’m grateful we stayed connected this past year, even if it was nothing more than joking text messages and lame updates on how many times a day he poops. Even with those lovely thoughts, I miss his smiles and the way the whole room shakes when he laughs hard at something.

  I came out here to find myself, and I have a little, but I’ve mostly found that the best parts of me are things I only feel when I’m with Jags, and I’m not sure that’s good. No man should be the reason a woman feels like she’s living, but I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit that to be a little bit of the truth.

  “What’s on the menu for today?” Grant asks as he sits on the corner of my desk.

  “A little menu humor, huh?” I joke back. I’ve lucked out in the whole boss area. He’s pretty down to earth, relaxed and lets me come and go as I please so long as the job gets done. But there may or may not be a reason for his easiness with me.

  “I’m working on the Valentine’s Day specials right now,” I tell him.

  “Nice, just don’t let hearts throw up on the menu like you did when you first started last year.” He places his hand on my shoulder and gives me a quick wink as he moves onto the next cube. He’s a schmoozer, and he’s got those dimples that can make a woman melt in his hand.

  “Oh, Sasha?” he says, sticking his head back in my cube. “What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?”

  I look over at the calendar and see it’s next Friday. “I think I’m going to go visit home for a few days.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “Good for you.” He offers an unsettling smile and pushes back off of my cube wall. I see the signs. I get the looks. I know the cues and the awkward pauses. I’ve just avoided them since I have one smile burned into my mind and I’m not sure anything can cover it up. However, I’m pretty sure if I gave in and hinted at being interested, that door would be wide open, regardless of the fact that he’s my boss, and that’s so wrong on so many levels.

  “Actually, Grant?” I call over.

  He’s quick to return, eagerness and all. “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “Mind if I take a few days off next week?”

  He smiles an, “I just lost a battle” smile and nods his head before leaving again.

  “Thanks,” I say, trying to sound grateful.

  I have this silly idea that Jags will be waiting at the airport for me—one of those romantic gestures after I left him cold turk
ey. Unlikely. Of course, if his heart felt anything like mine did—does, it was probably in a few different pieces. Even more of a reason for him not to be here waiting. When someone leaves someone else like that, it doesn’t typically result in a movie-scene ending. It results in me showing up a few days early to surprise him and finding him in bed with Bambi. I mean, Greta. If I’m being honest with myself, that’s how this will all probably play out. I should just tell him I’m coming home early, make it so I don’t have to find out anything crazy, and that way I can keep living in this fantasy world of mine.

  I clutch my bags tightly as I walk out of the airport terminal. My feet quickly carry me through the long walkways, out past security where everyone is waiting for the people they’re picking up. The only person who knows I’m coming in early is Cali, but she’s working. I asked her not to tell Jags, and while part of me thought she still may have, she’s pretty loyal when I ask her not to do something.

  There’s no one here for me, and there shouldn’t be. I made it that way.

  After an hour of locating my luggage and retrieving my rental car, I’m making the trek out to Candlewood. The roads are familiar, yet now seem old and something that can only be a part of my past. Twenty-eight years I lived here, heading in one direction in my life, and I had no idea during all that time how easy it would be to break away.

  The moment I pull into town; I debate which direction to go. I know no one is home at Cali and Tango’s, and I don’t think anyone would be home where Jags and Greta live.

  I’m supposed to see Dad, but I’m not ready to face that just yet. He calls me a traitor. I ruined his life. He has no cooked meals on the table, no one to iron his clothes, no one to clean up around him, and his secretary just got married to a man her own age. That is the rumor I heard through Cali, anyway. So, he can wait.