by Anne Calhoun
“I was tired of everyone in this town looking at me like I was just another big-dreaming Brooks. Living that way for another sixty years didn’t appeal to me. Plates or bowls?”
“Plates. I’ll have a glass of wine, too. So, if the Brookses are grasshoppers and the Walkers are ants, what are the Collinses? I don’t know Adam’s mother. She doesn’t come into the library.”
Marissa got up and pulled two purple stoneware plates from the cabinet, then added two wine glasses from the rack under the cabinets. “Darla Collins is a grasshopper trapped in an ant’s world,” she said as she set the table. “She was a single mother back before getting knocked up by a stock car driver was no big deal. She had big dreams of going to New York and making it in the fashion world. The driver made big promises, all of which included getting her out of Walkers Ford, but skipped town alone when she got pregnant.”
“What about Adam?”
“Adam then, or Adam now?” she asked as she got forks from the silverware drawer. Her stomach grumbled as Alana tipped steaming, seared vegetables and meat onto the plates, then carried them to the table.
“Adam then. Let’s start there.”
She speared a piece of broccoli, chewed and swallowed while she considered this. He’d had a dream then, of going on the motorcycle racing circuit, but time and the Corps replaced dreams with a plan, and completely eradicated his emotions, too. “Then was one running battle between testosterone and willpower. He was the life of the party, the strategist behind every prank, skating through school on charm and just enough to get by.”
“Girls?” Alana asked, her eyes bright.
“What’s the old Marine Corps slogan? Many were called. Few were chosen.”
“So he and Delaney weren’t high school sweethearts.”
“No.”
“Were you?”
There are no words for what we were. Love isn’t big enough. Lust isn’t deep enough. Lost covers it. We were lost in each other. “No.”
“That’s why he looks at you like you’re the one who got away.”
I didn’t get away. He left. “He doesn’t look at me like that,” she said firmly.
“Oh, but he does. And now? Who is Adam now?”
“I don’t know. He’s doing all the right things, saying all the right things, but it’s like he’s not actually in his body. He says he’s here because he’s home, and maybe that’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. Yesterday we went apartment hunting in Brookings. Then we had supper.” She finished off the last of her wine. “Then we had sex.”
Alana lifted her glass in a toast. “Sounds like a date.”
“It wasn’t a date. He’s here for the wedding, and being home early has something to do with Delaney, too. I just can’t figure out what.”
“Tell me why he’s best man in that wedding?”
It always surprised her that there were people in the world who didn’t know every intimate detail of the Walker/Brooks/Herndon history. “He and Keith were best friends. The Herndons have been here for fifteen years, which is a drop in the bucket compared to us Walkers and Brookses, but Keith’s dad is the only lawyer in fifty miles. When he retires, Keith will be the only lawyer in fifty miles.”
“I can’t see Adam Collins and Keith Herndon as best friends.”
“They were. Keith liked Adam for the same reason the rest of us did. Things happen when he’s around. They always did. For better or for worse, things happen when Adam Collins is around. Keith . . . encouraged those things. None of us thought about it then, but Keith had a safety net Adam didn’t have.”
“People keep mentioning an accident,” Alana said quietly.
“We’d lost Brookhaven by then. The house was abandoned, but it was easy to get inside, and somewhere along the line it became the party house. As long as we weren’t too out of control, the sheriff turned a blind eye to the drinking. One night, things got out of control. Adam and I had put two hundred miles on his motorcycle that afternoon and watched the fireworks from Brookhaven’s roof. Then kids started to show up. There was a lot of alcohol. Someone decided to build a bonfire—”
“Using the wood paneling in the great room,” Alana finished.
That’s when she knew Brookhaven, and by association, herself, mattered to no one but her. She’d tried to stop them, but once Adam got in on the act, hauling a long, rickety wooden ladder out of the barn, she’d failed. When Adam was around, things happened. “After that, it was really out of hand. Adam’s motorcycle was there, and this other kid, Josh Wilmont, got one as a graduation present. Adam challenged him to a race, Josh accepted. It had rained the day before and the dirt roads were still a little slick. Josh lost control taking a corner, and died.”
She’d never forget that moment when she heard Adam’s screams over the drunken shouting. Never. Within seconds kids were piling into cars and running down the road, headlights picking out wheat in the fields, the dust plume from the bikes, homing in on Adam, on his knees in the stagnant water in a ditch, next to a crumpled, twisted scarecrow wearing Josh’s faded jeans and flannel shirt.
Adam’s hoarse, unearthly screams.
“Neither of them were wearing helmets, although at their speeds, I’m not sure it would have mattered. Josh died. He’d planned to join the Marines at the end of the summer. Adam joined in his place. Keith and Delaney went to college. I got married, and bought back Brookhaven. The end.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s back,” Alana said eventually. “Maybe he’s got something to prove.”
Marissa bristled. “It was a mistake. A stupid, horrible mistake. He was seventeen. No one here expects him to pay for that for the rest of his life.” She collected the dishes and took them to the sink.
“We all have something to prove,” Alana said with a small smile.
The sound of a car door slamming cut off Marissa’s response, and the moment was gone. “Thanks for supper. I should get going,” she said. “I’ve got a date with a hot bath.”
“I’ve got a date with a book,” Alana said, and opened the kitchen door to the driveway to let Marissa out. Chief Ridgeway looked up from greeting his dog, Duke, to give Marissa a nod of greeting before transferring his level gaze to Alana. Marissa climbed into her truck and turned the engine over. When she paused in the street to shift from reverse to drive, Alana and the Chief were still looking at each other. The only change was the pink flush high on Alana’s cheekbones.
A steady drizzle persisted the whole way to the house, and when she got home, Adam’s Charger lounged at the top of the driveway. She pulled in under the oak tree, shifted into park, and got out of the cab. Adam stood under the sheltering porch, one shoulder braced against the post, watching her.
“Hey,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“Define ‘okay.’”
A little laugh huffed from her nose as she came to stand in front of him. He’d stood there, still and waiting, long enough for the drifting mist to seep into his button-down shirt and cargo pants. She lifted her hand to his cheek. A tremor ran through his big body, but he didn’t move.
“You’re cold,” she exclaimed, then brushed her thumb over his lips. Even those were cool to the touch.
“I don’t feel cold.” His voice was distant, remote, as if the forty-degree temps and fog had chilled his voice, too.
She let her hand slip down his jaw to rest on his chest. He looked down at her, physically present, emotionally in the cold emptiness of space. “Says the Marine. I know cold. You’re cold.”
He reached up to pluck her hand from his chest and bring her hand to his lips. Warm breath gusted over her chilled fingers, then his tongue touched her knuckles. “So are you.”
Heat zipped sharp and electric deep in her belly. “I’m always cold.” The porch light behind him turned the drops on his hair into scattered diamonds set in the thick, lengthening bristle cut, and cast his face in shadows. “Are you coming in?”
He followed her into the tiny kitchen, and stood on the
welcome mat while she hung up her coveralls and sat down to unlace her boots. “I’m going to take a bath,” she said.
His gaze focused ever so slightly. “Hard day.”
“Average,” she said. She went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water tap, sending water gushing into the deep claw-foot tub. When steam rose into the cooler air, she plugged the drain so the tub would fill. Adam still stood in the kitchen.
“In or out,” she said. “I close the bathroom door to trap all the heat.”
He followed her into the small room, closed the door, and stood, arms folded across his chest, with his back to it. She started shedding layers, starting with the red fleece and her fleece-lined jeans, then stopped to test the water temperature. Plenty hot. She added some cold to the mix, dumped in two cups of Epsom salts for the aches and pains, and resumed undressing under Adam’s increasingly interested eye.
“Where were you?”
The tone was too remote to be accusatory. “I had supper with Alana,” she said. “How long have you been here?”
He lifted one shoulder, an eloquent dismissal of the passage of time. He wouldn’t sit around home in a button-down and khakis, so he’d been somewhere, but wherever it was, he didn’t want to talk about it. Next came her turtleneck, and a waffle-weave long-underwear shirt and matching pants, leaving her standing in front of him in her bra and panties. He sank down, butt to floor, back to door, and braced his forearms on his knees. Well aware of what she was doing, less sure of why, she faced him while she unhooked her bra and let it fall, then pushed down her panties to stand in front of him, naked.
His pulse throbbed at the base of his throat as his gaze traveled from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, lingering in places that picked up the beat of his heart. For a moment water lapped at her senses, gushing into the tub, pattering at the roof over her head, streaming in rivulets down the porthole window overlooking the back meadow, turned to liquid heat in the crux of her thighs. Even Adam, solid and strong, blurred at the edges like a watercolor painting.
She could slip under so easily. Instead, she turned off the water, then lit candles on the shelves under the window and behind the tub. Adam reached one long arm up over his head to flick off the light, sheltering the room in flickering candlelight and the steady rain. Water lapped at the tub’s curved rim as she climbed in, then sank down with a low moan.
“Oh, that’s good,” she said. Cradled in blessed heat to her hairline, her muscles eased enough for her to relax. With her eyes closed she pinned her braids to the top of her head.
“How was Alana?”
“Fine,” Marissa said, eyes still closed.
“Don’t blame her for giving me the books. She asked if I’d known you a long time. I said yes.”
“It’s fine.”
“I thought I knew you.”
She turned her head to look at him, and realized the blurry edges to Adam’s face and neck were from a sheen of sweat. “You do know me.”
“Not like I used to.”
She smiled. “According to some standards you know me better than you did twelve years ago.”
“Sleeping with a woman only makes her more complex, not less.”
Shadows darkened his hazel eyes. “I’m the same person I was then, Adam. Aren’t you?’
“No.” The word was emphatic, required no explanation. “I’d better not be. You aren’t, either.”
The wine and heat combined to ease the pain in her back, and loosen her tongue as she looked at the tin-paneled ceiling again. “Alana didn’t know anything about what happened,” she said. “I forget that most people don’t know. She’s been in town for just a few weeks, so she didn’t even know the history between the Walkers and the Brookses.”
“Did you fill her in?”
“I gave her the short version.”
A little huff of laughter, which was, aside from the sweat now beaded on his temple, the first sign of a thaw. “What did she say?”
“Not much. She’s a good listener. Doesn’t judge. Maybe she’s not invested in the community enough to judge us.” Curiosity got the better of her. “Where were you tonight?”
“I had supper with the Walkers.”
That got her attention. “Why?”
“They invited me.” He nodded at the tub. “Long day?”
“I picked up the siding for Mrs. Carson’s house and took it over there. It’s stacked in her side yard, protected by tarps. This rain better let up, and soon, or I’m going to be working on that house when it’s ten degrees out.”
He stood up, unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt, and pulled it over his head. “How big is it?”
“About the same size as your mom’s house. A small rectangle. The only difficult parts are the windows, and the cuts around the utility meters.”
“So if you had help, you could be done in a couple of days.” He set his hands to his buckle, and she tried not to stare.
“Uh, yeah.”
“We’ll start tomorrow,” he said, and shoved his shorts and pants off, then stepped out of them. His erection jutted away from his abdomen.
“You’re taking a lot for granted,” she said. “I thought I had to ask.”
He looked down at his shaft, then back at her. “I’m not taking anything for granted. It’s got to be ninety degrees in here,” he said. “When a gorgeous woman strips to her skin in front of me, I’m going to get hard. It doesn’t mean tab A will be inserted into slot B.”
That was it, the problem, the crux of the matter, the issue, the elephant in the room. All that was wild and reckless now subdued under an iron will that locked down everything unpredictable. Like emotions, and not all of them were happy, sunshine feelings. He was strung tight, and the urge to comfort him rose with the steam from the tub.
He stood there, hands on hips, while she looked him over. The hot water melted her muscles, and her resistance. “Are you getting in this tub or not?”
“Ask me to,” he said without moving.
Her pulse throbbed in her throat, her temples. “Adam, please get in the tub with me.”
The tub held two quite nicely. With his added mass, water lapped dangerously close to the rim, and she sat forward to drain enough to keep the floor somewhat dry, then leaned back against him. His body cradled hers, his erection pressed hard and hot against her lower back, his legs stretched alongside hers. He lifted his hands to one braid and loosened the elastic, then the hair. He repeated the process with her other braid, until her hair hung around her face. He swept it back, then his big palm cupped her forehead and tucked her head into his shoulder.
Her eyelids drooped. Immersed in water that sloshed against the sides of the tub, with only the candlelight for illumination, she could pretend she lay on a bunk in a sailboat in the Caribbean, warm inside and out. With Adam.
“That’s nice,” she murmured.
“What is?” His voice rumbled low and rough in her ear as his hands skimmed her thighs, hips, up to her breasts. Maybe she wouldn’t have to ask for anything else tonight.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just dreaming.”
11
ADAM WOKE UP curled into the fetal position he’d adopted as protection against the futon’s frame. The direction of daylight, at his back rather than over his head, was his first clue he wasn’t in his mother’s house. The dead giveaway was the warm, naked female body tucked into the curve of his, hair spilling across the pillow wedged between his arm and her head.
Marissa.
She stirred, stretching her legs out and rolling partly onto her stomach. A pretty average morning wood hardened to desperate need in the space of two breaths; he tightened his grip and pulled her close, barely resisting the urge to growl possessively into her hair.
“Are you making up for lost time?” she asked, her voice sleep-rough, amused. By the time he’d lifted her from the tub and dropped her on the bed, he barely remembered to put on a condom before he sank into her. The hot, wet temptation of r
ubbing against her naked flesh as they lay in the tub together stripped away what passed for control around Marissa. He’d come home with no intention of making up for everything he didn’t do that summer, but if she asked, he was there.
Last night she’d begged. He’d spread her legs, braced a hand on either side of her head, nestled the tip of his cock just inside her, and kissed her through her pleading little gasps, all the while pretending he’d gone stone deaf. He’d sunk into her when she dug her fingers into his ass and shimmied her way onto his cock, an undulating, writhing movement that nearly blew the top of his head off. His tough girl was stronger than she looked.
He swept her hair back from her face, and out of his mouth. She turned enough to look up at him sleepily, her dark eyes soft, her mouth red and swollen. “I have no idea what you’re taking about,” he said.
A little swivel of her hips. “I’m talking about that.”
“You have to ask me for that, Ris.”
“I asked quite nicely, and very frequently, last night,” she said, and rolled onto her back. “Can we agree that you’ve cured my initial resistance to sleeping with you?”
“We can agree to that,” he said very seriously, “except for one thing.”
On forearms and knees he straddled her, bent to her jaw, kissed the soft, hot spot under her ear, then licked his way down her neck to her collarbone.
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice still soft and rough. Her hands slid along his upper arms to his shoulders, where her fingernails left several somewhat tender dents.
He kissed each pebbled nipple, then blew on one. They had to be sensitive. He’d been far less tender last night. “It makes me very, very hot when you ask, tough girl.”
“I don’t ask,” she said, then whimpered and tried to spread her legs when he lapped at the flushed tip. “I beg.”
“I’m trying to be politically correct.”
“Politically correct is for the rest of my life, not bed, and if it makes you hot, it’s probably not politically correct anyway.”
“I could pretend,” he said, then kissed his way down her belly to the trimmed dark curls. “I could be very formal. Yes, ma’am,” he said, and spread her legs with his palms. “No, ma’am.”
