Rain Shadow

by L. A. Witt

  I blinked, legitimately startled he hadn’t made another push for counseling. “Where do you suggest?”

  “Anywhere.” He paused. “There’s a B&B in Astoria, down in Oregon, that I’ve been to a few times. If you want to, we could kill a weekend there.”

  “Isn’t a B&B a little romantic for something this casual?”

  Scott laughed. “Well, the alternative is a hotel full of people with either an overpriced restaurant or a stale continental breakfast.”

  “Hmm. Point taken.”

  “And it’ll give you a change of scenery. Something to get your mind off things.”

  I mulled over the idea. It was dangerously romantic, but it was also an escape I desperately needed from . . . well, everyone and everything.

  Except for Scott, right?

  Because sex would distract me. I could do with some rolling in the hay. That was why I wanted him with me.

  Oceanfront property . . . Arizona . . .

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “A few days to clear my head.” And be with you. No one but you.

  He brought my hand up and kissed my fingers. “I think it would be good for you. I really do.”

  “All right. My next weekend off is in two weeks.”

  He smiled. “I’ll make the reservation.”

  Two weeks after I came back from the con, Scott and I dropped a couple of overnight bags into my trunk and left for Oregon. As it always was, the day was gorgeous in Bluewater Bay, but that didn’t last as we left the little town behind us. The skies got progressively grayer as we wound down Highway 101, following the coast past Forks and Kalaloch, and even as we headed inland toward Quinault.

  Halfway to Astoria, the skies opened up. Just a few drops at first, then huge, fat ones smacking into the windshield until water ran off the glass in sheets. What should have been a leisurely five-hour drive became almost seven, and the last two of those were spent driving half the speed limit and trying not to get blown off the road.

  On the bright side, it did get my mind off things for a while, but when we pulled up to the enormous Victorian house where we’d be staying, my hands hurt and I was fucking beat.

  The B&B had a covered driveway, fortunately, so we pulled our bags out of the trunk, and then Scott took them inside to check in while I parked the car in the open-air lot beside the house. By the time I made it from the car to the door, I was soaked. And freezing cold.

  Scott glanced at me and did a double take. “Good lord. It really is coming down, isn’t it?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “Haven’t had rain like this in a while,” the white-haired hostess said, looking at us over thick reading glasses. “We need it, but maybe not all at once?”

  I laughed. “And maybe send some of it to California.”

  “Amen.” She lowered her gaze to the paperwork she was finishing with Scott.

  While they went through the check-in process, I surveyed our surroundings. The exterior was classic Victorian style, and the interior was as well. Ornate wooden furniture, elaborate wallpaper, and the whole place smelled like an antique store—aging upholstery, a hint of dust, and the odd kerosene lamp. It wasn’t unpleasant, of course; if anything, it reminded me of my grandmother’s house, or wandering through flea markets and antique stores with my mother as a kid.

  Our hostess took us up to our room, which was similar in décor to the rest of the house. Everything was burgundy and gold with some green here and there—richly colored, but not tacky. Not normally my style, but so far removed from my apartment that it would definitely serve its purpose and take me away from my own world for a while.

  On any other occasion, walking into a room at a bed-and-breakfast like this—soaked to the bone, freezing my ass off, and ready for a shower—would only end one way. But as I let my overnight bag slide off my shoulder, the fatigue settled in. I’d barely slept recently anyway, and the drive had been brutal. The rain had made me both hypervigilant and drowsy, and now I was exhausted. Just the thought of sex made my whole body ache, and not in a good way.

  As if he could read my burned-out mind, Scott stepped up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. He pulled me to him as if he didn’t even notice my wet clothes, and kissed the side of my neck. “We came down here to relax. So . . . that’s what we should do.”

  I put my hands over his. “Guess there isn’t much else we can do.” I nodded toward the rain-streaked window. “Isn’t like we’re going anywhere else.”

  “I know. But why don’t we actually relax? We have nowhere to be. There’s no pressure or anything.” He kissed my neck again. Softly, as if to say the offer was open, but I was under no obligation to take it.

  “Let me grab a shower,” I said. “Wake myself up a bit. Then maybe we can go find some food.”

  “That’s sounds like a perfect idea.” He released me, and as I turned to face him, added, “I’ll look around online and maybe ask the owners for some recommendations. You in the mood for anything in particular?”

  I shrugged. “You pick.”

  “You sure?”

  Nodding, I smiled. “You haven’t led me astray so far.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’d say that.” He winked. “But okay.” He nudged me toward the bathroom. “Go warm up and wake up, and I’ll see what’s good in town.”

  “Okay.” I kissed him lightly. “I won’t take long.”

  “Take your time. I’m not in any hurry.”

  One more kiss, and I went into the bathroom. It was huge for this kind of house, with a claw-foot tub that looked tempting as all hell. I probably would’ve spent half the night soaking, though, and I really did want to go get something to eat, so I opted for the small shower instead. The water was hot, the pressure was high, and it was just perfect.

  It warmed my skin, thank God, but it didn’t do much to wake me up. Or pull me out of this funk that had nothing to do with roads or rain. The truth was, I’d felt like shit since Vegas, and it wasn’t getting any better. The drive down here hadn’t been pleasant, but it was a drop in the bucket. I just . . . felt like I was spiraling downward. Yeah, I still had a job. Yeah, I still had at least some communication with one of my kids. But I felt useless. I’d screwed up as a bodyguard. I’d failed as a father. About the only thing keeping me sane these days was the time I spent with Scott.

  Maybe he was right, and this weekend was what I desperately needed. We could relax down here, enjoy this B&B in this seaside town, and then go back and deal with everything once I had a clear head.

  I’d promised Scott I wouldn’t take long in here, so I wrapped up my shower and dried off with one of the huge fluffy towels stacked beside the sink. That was a perk of a B&B—none of the thirty-grit dish towels hotels seemed to think were sufficient.

  After I was dry, I pulled on a pair of boxers and jeans, and then shaved, because that always seemed to help wake me up. I did feel a bit more refreshed and a bit less bleary-eyed after I’d splashed some cool water on my freshly shaved face. My God, maybe there was hope for me after all.

  When I returned to the bedroom, Scott had taken off his shirt and was reclining on the giant four-poster bed, one hand behind his head and the other loosely holding the TV remote on his thigh. When I came out of the bathroom, he clicked off the TV and sat up. “Feel better?”

  “Yeah. Much.” Well, maybe that was exaggerating. A little.

  I held his gaze.

  Okay, it was exaggerating a lot. I sighed and rubbed the towel over my arms, as if drying off more might get rid of some of this irritating feeling.

  “Come here.” Scott patted the bed beside him.

  I hesitated—I was so not in the mood for anything—but he was gazing up at me with genuine concern in his eyes. There was no wicked grin or suggestive wink.

  So, I lay back beside him on the mountain of pillows.

  He rested his hand on my hip. Despite the location, there was nothing suggestive about his touch. Just contact. Very welcome contact.
>
  I put my hand over the top of his and closed my fingers around it. “I’m sorry to be such a downer these days.”

  “Don’t be. I know this thing with your family is hurting you.”

  “It’s killing me.”

  “I can see that.” He turned his hand over and laced his fingers between mine.

  “It’s pretty much on my mind nonstop,” I said. “Living so far away definitely doesn’t help.”

  “Did you think it would?”

  The question needled some raw wounds, tried to bring to life some voices I’d carefully ignored for the last few months. I hadn’t come up here to escape my kids. I loved my kids. I did not, as my daughter accused me time and again, abandon my family. I fucking . . . I fucking didn’t, goddamn it.

  “Jeremy.” Scott watched his thumb trace gentle arcs along the side of my hand. “When you moved away from Los Angeles,” he asked softly, meeting my gaze, “did you think the distance would help?”

  “I . . .” I exhaled. “I didn’t want to be away from them, but I mean, yeah, I thought having some space would be good. Give them some breathing room.”

  “Them? Or you?”

  My heart sank deeper and deeper in my chest. “Maybe . . . a little of both.”

  He smiled slightly and squeezed my hand. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sometimes people need some space while they sort things out. As long as that space doesn’t become an excuse not to keep trying to fix it.”

  Nodding, I sighed. “Yeah, I get that.”

  “It’s kind of ironic you picked Bluewater Bay.”

  “It actually picked me, but . . . why do you say that?”

  “Remember what I said about it being in a rain shadow?”

  I nodded.

  Scott stroked my hair. “It’s kind of become an emotional rain shadow for you. Being there, you’re farther away from the storm clouds. Even though the conflict with your family is still a problem, it’s more . . . removed. So much so that when you actually have to confront it face-to-face like you did in Las Vegas, it’s more of a shock than if you were living near them all the time.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I’m not saying this as a counselor. I promise. This is just . . . it’s just me. Scott. The guy you’re spending a weekend with.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t take a counselor to see where some of these cracks are coming from.” Squeezing my wrist gently, he whispered, “You can’t hide in Bluewater Bay forever.”

  I forced a laugh. “It’s ironic that you’re saying that while I’m actually hiding in Astoria, and there’s a fucking rainstorm happening outside.”

  Scott glanced at the window that was being pelted by drops the size of seagulls, and his laugh sounded about as genuine as mine. “Yeah. I guess it is kind of ironic.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “I’m serious, though. I just want to see you back on the same wavelength with your kids.”

  Immediately, my throat started aching, and I muffled a cough. “Believe me, I want that too.” I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. “I’m sorry. I keep steering every conversation back to this.”

  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s weighing pretty heavily on your mind. I don’t mind talking about it.”

  “I feel like that’s all I do is talk about it. I don’t know what to do about it. Everything just seems to make it worse.”

  Scott took my hand. “I know I keep going back to this, but a counselor really could do you and your kids some good.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then . . .” He sighed. “Look, it’s not magic. But it’s better than nothing.”

  We locked eyes. He could probably see the skepticism etched across my face as clearly as I could see the frustration on his. I wasn’t going there, though. Counseling had only prolonged the inevitable and made my divorce worse than it was. No point in letting it torpedo what was left of my relationship with my kids.

  Finally, Scott sighed, his shoulders sagging a little. “Just keep talking to them.” He squeezed my hand. “And listening to them. More families than you think go through rough patches like this.” He kissed me softly. “You’ll get through it.”

  Closing my eyes, I swallowed, both relieved that he’d let the counseling subject drop and depressed by the hopelessness of my situation. “I want to believe that. So badly.”

  “Trust me,” he whispered. “It’s not hopeless. Relationships take a beating sometimes, but they can be fixed. Especially when you’re talking about parental relationships, not romantic ones.”

  I turned to him. “Do you ever see parents and kids who can’t sort it out?”

  “Sometimes. But to be honest, the vast majority of the time it’s because the parent is a toxic influence. Controlling. Manipulative. Abusive.” He brought my hand up and kissed it softly. “I have a very hard time imagining you in that role.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “My daughter would probably disagree.”

  “She’s a teenager. She’s at an age where kids tend to rebel hard against their parents anyway, and there’s often a lot of anger during the high school years.” He kissed my fingers again. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds here—I’m not your counselor, and I’m not pretending to be—but just trust me when I say it is not hopeless.”

  I swallowed. “I’m not going to give up. I’m just afraid she will.”

  “I think if she was going to, she would have a long time ago. The fact that she even came to Vegas is a positive sign.”

  God, I hoped he was right.

  I shifted so I was facing him. “Thank you. For letting me vent about this and, you know, not judging me.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He smoothed my hair.

  We lay in silence for a little while. Facing each other, arms draped loosely over torsos. I wanted to get up and go find food—he’d probably found us someplace amazing—but I didn’t want to move. Despite this funk that seemed to be dragging me down one molecule at a time, I liked the way this felt—being next to him.

  I clasped his hand between us. “This might sound kind of ridiculous, but I’m really glad you’re here.” My own words sent a bolt of panic through me.

  Way to sound like you’re depending on him.

  Am I depending on him?

  He just smiled, though, and kissed my fingers. “I wish there was more I could do. But if being here helps . . .”

  “It does.”

  More than it should. Way more. What the hell are we doing?

  Scott held my gaze, and his smile faded a bit. My heart sped up. Was his doing the same?

  Then he slid his hand over my cheek and smiled again. “You shaved.”

  I couldn’t help a quiet laugh, just because I was relieved he’d broken that weird momentary tension. “Yeah, I did. Wakes me up.”

  He trailed his fingertips along my jaw. “You look good right after you’ve shaved.”

  “Do I?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I touched his face, running my thumb along the heavy stubble. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clean-shaven.”

  “You telling me I should shave?”

  “I didn’t say that. Scruff looks good on you.”

  “Glad you like it.” He kissed me lightly and started to draw back, but I stopped him with a hand on the back of his neck.

  Our lips brushed again.

  “I thought . . .” He draped his arm over me. “I thought you weren’t in the mood.”

  “Changed my mind.” I dipped my head to kiss his neck. “You always seem to have that effect on me.”

  The B&B owners recommended a steak and seafood restaurant down by the water. Granted, in this weather, everything qualified as “by the water,” but we managed to find the place despite the relentless rain.

  Long after we’d braved the elements to find dinner and then come back to share a joint and a shower—ostensibly to warm up, but we both knew better—Scott was sound asleep beside me. The room was dark except for some gra
y light from the streetlights coming in through the thin curtains and the blue numbers of the clock beside the bed that announced it was a little past three.

  The weed had worn off. The lingering buzz of my last orgasm had faded, leaving only the dull ache I’d still feel tomorrow.

  Rain smacked against the windows and drummed on the roof. The wind had kicked up too. The weather was probably calm in Bluewater Bay tonight, but it was all coming down in Astoria.

  For the longest time, I just listened to the falling rain and the whistling wind, and when all of that occasionally died down, the soft sound of Scott breathing beside me.

  I did feel somewhat better after talking to him earlier. That, however, unnerved me.

  Should we have been having these deep conversations? Should it have been this easy to talk to him? I wanted to believe it was because he was a counselor and was trained to be easy to talk to. He’d gone to school for this, for God’s sake—he got paid to coax difficult topics out of people.

  But I’d never once felt like I was talking to a therapist. Most of the time, I all but forgot that’s what he did. He was just . . . Scott. And Scott was easier to talk to than anyone I’d hung around in recent memory. Even more so than Anna.

  Two weeks ago, I’d playfully suggested that a bed-and-breakfast was a little on the romantic side for the kind of relationship we had, but now that we were here, it didn’t seem as funny.

  We weren’t a couple. We were fuck buddies. Sure, we hung out a lot, and drove around to find random places to eat, but at its core, this thing was friends with benefits. Scott didn’t date guys like me. I didn’t date at all.

  But here we were, lying together in a Victorian-style bed-and-breakfast after some amazing sex and some conversations that were way too intimate for a couple of guys who were just in it for some dick. Lying there with sweat on our skin and smoke in our hair was one thing. But moving my hand up and down his arm because I just needed to touch him, and not being able to imagine being here with anyone but him, and not wanting to be anywhere but here . . .

  I sighed.

  Just what I needed. Something else that could blow up in my face.