Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  “Maybe when you see him, you’ll know,” he says, retrieving a small leather-bound book. Cracking it to the middle, he scribbles something down with a pen that had been functioning as a bookmark.

  “What’s that?”

  “Travel journal. Had to write something down before I forgot.”

  “I didn’t know you had a journal.”

  Chuffing, he says, “You and the rest of the world.”

  “How long have you been doing that? Documenting your travels?”

  He shrugs. “A while. Few years maybe? I don’t know.”

  “Have you written about our road trip?”

  Turning to me, he smirks. “Yeah.”

  “Read what you’ve written.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why, is there something bad?” I nudge him with my elbow.

  “No. It’s just not something I want to read. It’s private.”

  “Did you write about me?”

  “This isn’t some teenage girl’s diary,” he says with a smirk. “There are no juicy secrets in here.”

  “Then read it.”

  “These writings aren’t meant to be shared. Don’t take it personally.” He shuts the book and tosses it to the backseat before reaching for the radio knob, a subtle hint that he’s done with this conversation. I guess I respect that. I’d be annoyed if he were prying into my personal musings. A moment later he whips his phone out and thumbs across the screen. “We should be in Scranton in about five hours.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watch him tap out a text message and slide his phone back into his pocket a moment later.

  It’s weird . . . five hours from now, we’ll say goodbye. These last few days have flown by and now they’re coming to a screeching halt. Forever. In the span of four days, I went from loathing this complete stranger to feeling an unexpected pang in my stomach when I realize this is the end of the road – literally – for us.

  Squinting over the dash, I find myself struggling to see the taillights of the car ahead.

  “Is it just me or is it snowing harder now?” I ask.

  Cristiano leans forward, staring ahead, “Huh. Yeah.”

  Taking his phone out, he drags his thumb down the screen and mutters something under his breath.

  “What?” I ask, hands tight on the wheel.

  “There’s another snowstorm hitting eastern Pennsylvania.”

  “I thought the snowpocolypse was over?”

  “Nah,” he says, gaze narrowed on his screen. “It was supposed to start again on Sunday, but I guess it’s moving faster than they thought. It’s here two days early.”

  My heart rate quickens. “We’re still going to make it, right?”

  We pass a car in the ditch, its tail lights cherry red and lit. It hasn’t been there very long.

  “I’m not one-hundred percent certain, but I could’ve sworn that car passed me a few miles back,” he says slowly.

  “I think you’re-”

  Thump. Pop. Whoosh.

  My foot is pressing the gas pedal, but it feels as though we’re slowing down. Gripping the steering wheel within an inch of its life, I glance at Cristiano with pleading eyes though every cell in my body is trying not to freak out.

  “We blew a tire,” he says, remaining calm as he reaches for the hazard lights button. “Hold the wheel steady, foot off the gas.” Checking the mirrors and our perimeter, he adds, “Get over here on the shoulder, come to a gradual stop. Let it coast until you’re off the road.”

  Shaking, I follow his orders, appreciative of the calm he brings to this literal storm. It’s snowing faster now, the flakes dense and heavy, hard enough to quickly cover the glass if the wipers aren’t moving fast enough.

  Without saying another word, he flies out of the passenger side and heads around back, knocking on the trunk. I hit the trunk release button and feel the car rock as he digs around in the back. A minute later, he climbs back in, face red and wind-kissed.

  “Fuck,” he says, slicking his hands together and blowing his warm breath between them. His dark hair is sprinkled in snowflakes and there’s a clean crispness in the air that might feel refreshing if we were anything other than stranded.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Spare’s flat.”

  Gripping the wheel, I bang my forehead against it and groan. “Okay. What do we do now?”

  “I’m calling a tow.” When I look up, his phone is already pressed against his ear.

  I refuse to believe this is happening.

  We’re. So. Close.

  Hours from home.

  Literally. Hours.

  “Yes, I’m needing a tow as soon as possible,” he says. “We’re on I-80, just past the Coalfield exit.”

  His face says it all, from the clench of his jaw to the flattening of his lips.

  “Are you sure? . . . There isn’t anything . . . all right,” he hangs up, exhaling loudly.

  “When are they coming?”

  “They’re not.” He performs a search on his phone, pushing a hard breath through his nose. “Apparently the storm’s worse about ten, twenty miles from here. All the trucks have been called out already, and they’re thinking the DOT’s going to enforce a tow ban in the next couple of hours. I’m checking somewhere else.”

  Sinking back in my seat, I close my eyes and listen to him make phone call after phone call after phone call.

  They all say the same thing.

  They’re busy. The trucks are all in service. It’s going to be several hours before they can get to us and even then they might not be able to.

  15

  Cristiano

  I throw our luggage on the bed of yet another hotel room and watch Daphne collapse in the middle of one of the beds. She buries her face in a pillow, though I don’t think she’s crying. She’s too disappointed to cry.

  I am too.

  We were supposed to be in Scranton by now. Instead we waited for three hours for a tow truck and a lift to the nearest town. The tire shops in this area were closing by the time the tow truck showed up.

  The driver dropped the Toyota off at a nearby shop and gave us a lift to this chlorine-scented Superior Inn Express.

  “We’ll be on the road by eight o’clock tomorrow,” I say, sinking back into the second queen bed. Eyes closed, I slip my hands behind my head. “We’ll be in Scranton by noon. You’ll be home by two.”

  “Just stop.” Daphne huffs.

  “What?”

  “Stop being so positive about everything. We’re stranded. It fucking sucks. And knowing my luck, my sister’s going to have the baby before I get home. And how do you know the roads won’t still be closed tomorrow? We might get halfway to Scranton and have to call it a day. Again. And why aren’t you worried about missing your friend’s wedding? How can you just sit there and act like we’re going to get home when you don’t know if we’re going to get home?”

  “We’re going to get home.” I place as much conviction in my tone as I can.

  “When, huh? When?”

  Standing next to the dresser and unfastening my watch, I glance over at her bed. She’s sitting up now, her blue eyes stormy and slightly bloodshot as they bore into me.

  “I’ll get us home,” I say. “I promise.”

  “Don’t,” she says, face twisted as she slides one foot off her bed. In a blurred rush of seconds, eyes bleary and squinting, she storms to my side, finger pointed in my face. “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

  “I’m going to try,” I add. “I promise I’ll try to get us home. Better?”

  “Now you’re just telling me what I want to hear.”

  Chuffing, I drop my watch on the dresser top and tug my t-shirt over my head. I can’t win with her. Not tonight. Not when she’s in this . . . mood. Stepping around her, I unfasten my jeans.

  “What are you doing?” she asks. “Shouldn’t we make more phone calls? Try to line up a new rental or something?”

  “I’m hitting the sh
ower.” I lift my brows, my hands paused at my zipper. “That okay with you?”

  “You don’t have to ask permission.”

  “Really?” I spit sarcastically.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re fucking priceless, you know that?” I smirk, scraping my hand along the underside of my jaw as I stare past her and focus on a mass-produced portrait of a lighthouse hanging on the wall behind her.

  Her jaw hangs. “Are you trying to insult me? Last I checked, being priceless was a good thing.”

  “Depends on the context,” I say, making my way toward the bathroom and trying to ignore the fact that she’s following me. “You know, we’ve only known each other a few days, and already you’re acting like you’re my goddamned girlfriend, starting fights and shit.”

  I shake my head, turning to face her, trying not to laugh when I see how pinched her face is or how tight her arms are across her chest.

  “If you were my girlfriend,” I add, taking one final dig, “at least I’d be getting laid more.”

  Smack.

  The warmth of her palm precedes a blossoming sting radiating across the side of my face.

  She just fucking hit me.

  My jaw snaps and then locks. I pop it back into place, my eyes locking on hers.

  “All right. Maybe I deserved that,” I say, voice low and ego lightly bruised. I pull in a lengthy breath and push it out through flared nostrils. “But I don’t deserve you fucking picking fights with me because you’re pissed off that the universe isn’t bending to your every need. Guess what, Daphne? Life doesn’t work that way. Never has, never will. Don’t take shit out on me. I’m just the guy that saved your ass when you thought driving three thousand miles across the country by yourself was a good idea.”

  “You didn’t save me. I didn’t need saving.” Her hand flies to her hip.

  “Really Daphne?”

  “I don’t understand why you have some sort of super hero complex,” she says, brows meeting in the middle.

  If she only fucking knew . . .

  “I’m going to hit the shower,” I say, keeping my voice even and steady, though I can’t look at her right now. I need to calm down, or I’m going to say something I’ll probably regret. “Why don’t you go down to the bar, have a drink. Get some space. We’ve been together twenty-four seven for the last several days, and I think it’s starting to get to us.”

  She rolls her eyes, turning on her heel and waving me off. “Whatever, Cristiano.”

  “What the fuck do you want from me?” I throw my hands in the air. “I didn’t cause any of this. Don’t take it out on me.”

  Daphne’s on the other side of the room now, throwing her phone into her purse and muttering under her breath.

  I need to have compassion for her. She wasn’t in a good place the day I met her, so I don’t know why I’d expected that to miraculously change after several days together in a cramped car and winding up stranded at some hole-in-the-wall roach motel.

  “I imagine you feel powerless right now. Maybe you’re overwhelmed by the fact that we made it this far and now we’ve come to an impasse? It fucking sucks. I get that. But what can we do?” I move toward her. “Yelling at each other? What’s that going to solve, huh?”

  She says nothing, and when I glance down, I see her phone resting in her hand, her thumb hovering over her sister’s name.

  “If I could get you home right now, I would,” I say. “But we’re stuck here. At least for one more night.”

  Daphne sits her phone down on a nightstand, her shoulders falling as she exhales. “I hate feeling stuck. And I hate that I’m not with her. And I hate that you’re so calm when all I want to do is yell and scream.”

  “Then yell and scream,” I say. “You do you. I’ll do me.”

  She turns to me, her glassy eyes blinking and a hint of a reserved smile appearing across her full lips. “God, you must really think I’m a nutcase now.”

  “Yeah,” I say with a chuckle. “You are a nutcase. But I kind of like that about you. Shows you’re real. And you’re not afraid to be yourself. That alone puts you leagues ahead of everyone else I’ve ever met.”

  “You’re too nice,” she says, burying her hand in her head. “I’m sorry I got upset with you. I just really, really want to get home, and I have all this pent up anger and no where to put it.”

  “You can hit me again if it’ll make you feel better.” I’m only half kidding.

  Her gaze flicks to mine, and she rolls her eyes when she sees the smirk on my face.

  “Look,” I say, exhaling. “Let’s try to make the best of this, all right? After tomorrow, you’ll be back home with your sister and I’ll be in Jersey, and we’ll never see each other again. This’ll be a distant memory. All we have is right now. Tonight. Let’s make the best of it. It’s all we can do.”

  Daphne’s chin tucks against her chest and her stare is pointed at the carpet between our feet. I reach for her face, cupping the side of her cheek and lifting her face. A moment later, her eyes rest on mine once more, and I catch her nibbling her lower lip.

  “What?” she asks with a nervous titter. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’m beginning to think I’m the nutcase here,” I say.

  Her nose wrinkles and her eyes search mine. “What? Why?”

  “Because despite the fact that you just freaked out on me . . . despite the fact that you fucking slapped me . . . I still find you ridiculously sexy right now. And I still really, really want to kiss you. But not only that. I want to slam you against these god-awful wallpapered walls, crush your mouth with a kiss, and fuck you like it’s the last time I’m ever going to see you.”

  I watch her chest rise as she sucks in a startled breath. She wasn’t expecting me to say that, but then again, neither was I. The realization that I’m never going to see her again after tomorrow weighs heavy in my bones in a way I didn’t expect it to.

  She says nothing, locked somewhere between shocked apprehension and piqued curiosity if I had to guess by the confused expression blanketing her face right now. Cupping my hand beneath her chin, I inch her mouth closer to mine, willing this to happen and nudging it in the right direction. All she needs to do is say the word, and I’ll make her mine. I’ll make her mine so fucking hard.

  This woman . . . this infuriatingly complex woman . . . has some kind of hold on me I’ve never experienced with anyone else before. And maybe it’s because we’re more alike than we’re different. We’re both a little broken. A little damaged. A little fucked up. A little crazy. We’re both stubborn, feet firmly planted in the captain’s seat of our respective choose-your-own-adventure lives. Maybe we’re both a little empty too. Searching for something to fill that gaping void we try to ignore by cramming our lives full of all the things we’re convinced matter most.

  Regardless, and whatever it is, my feet are firmly planted in the here and now. With her. It’s all I have, and right now, it’s all I want.

  My body hums with anticipation, my cock hardening at the mere thought of all the things I want to do to this woman. Resting my hands around her waist, I pull her against me, her hands landing flat on my bare chest. Pressing my mouth hard against hers, I feel her exhale against me, her body surrendering as I sweep her closer into my arms.

  “I want you, Daphne,” I say, my lips grazing hers in the seconds before our tongues meet. My right hand travels up the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in the silky waves at the nape of her neck, making her smile. I gather a fistful, gently tugging and guiding her lips back to mine all over again.

  I kiss her. I kiss her harder than I’ve ever kissed anybody before. In this moment, it feels necessary. My mouth claims hers over and over, reveling in the taste of her sweet lips and how her body fits against mine, her curves filling my angles like we’re made to fit.

  My palms slick down her sides, tracing the curves of her hips before gripping a handful of her perfect ass. Daphne lifts
on her toes, and my hands travel to the waistband of her leggings and panties, tugging them down her long thighs with a quick yank. My hands ride up her bare legs, and the way they quiver at my touch forces my cock to strain against my jeans. Daphne works my pants off, tugging at my boxers until she sets me free, taking my length in her hand and urgently pumping it in her soft palm.

  Lowering herself to her knees, she presses her mouth against the tip of my cock, swallowing my girth one inch at a time. Her tongue is velvet and smooth, flicking the underside of my hardness, swirling, pumping. Gathering her hair in my hand, I guide her rhythm, my hips gently fucking the hell out of her perfect, bee stung mouth.

  “Goddamn,” I groan, tipping my head back. I knew she had a mouth on her, but this . . . this is fucking magical. I let her suck me off a while longer because it feels too damn good to make her stop, but the greedy bastard in me wants more. I want the heat and the friction, the scent of her arousal, her sweet taste on my tongue.

  Pulling my cock from between her lips, I reach down and swipe my wallet from my jeans pocket, retrieving a perfectly intact rubber and ripping the packet between my teeth.

  “Take your shirt off, Daphne,” I command, pumping my cock in one hand.

  Following orders, she slowly pulls her blouse over her head, followed by the swift unhooking of the black lace bra covering her perky tits. The dim lamp from the hotel nightstand illuminates her curved body perfectly, and I love that she isn’t rushing to shut it off. Moving my mouth toward her breasts, I take a pointed tip between my lips, tugging gently until I hear her release a soft moan.

  With my free hand between her thighs, I slide my fingers between her wet slit and massage her clit softly with my thumb. Backing up against the wall behind her bed, she melts into submission, her eyes squeezed and her tongue grazing her lower lip. Falling to my knees, I breathe in her addictive scent, lapping her arousal, swirling my tongue between her soft folds, devouring her pussy because it’s fucking perfection.

  Her hands find my hair and she takes a fistful before giving it a good pull, and while it’s clear she’s in heaven, we both know she wants more.