by Mariah Dietz
“Derek seemed a bit intimidated by Craig,” Maggie adds. “Jealous and extremely driven.” She winces. “I’d be careful. Guys who are overly ambitious seem to forget about their partners and are rarely present. They’re always working toward the next goal. The next achievement.” Maggie pushes her door open, leaving me to follow after her advice I’m memorizing like a prophecy.
“Granted, he’s young. It might just be that he hasn’t found the right balance.” She links her arm with mine. “He’s still cute. Your options are flush.” I’m grateful she didn’t overhear the invisible claim Lincoln declared because I have no doubt she’d be sharing an opinion on that as well, and I’m torn debating if I wish it were positive or not.
We pay for our clear day out on the Sound as we face a cold wind, unblocked by any cloud coverage. Our conversation coming to a halt as we quickly navigate our way to the bar.
The sign for Iron and Oak is a giant lit keyboard, only a short distance. “Is there going to be a problem with my ID?”
Maggie pauses, pulling me to a stop. “You don’t have a fake ID?”
“Technically, yes. But it sucks.”
She holds out a hand, waiting for me to show it to her.
I dig around in my purse, catching the card I conceal in a narrow pocket.
“It says you’re thirty-five and Hispanic.”
“Poppy got them.”
Maggie tilts her head back, laughing so hard she grips my arm to maintain her balance. “Mom and Dad got so lucky with you.” She rights herself, digging through her purse. “I think I might still have my old one in here.” She cries out victoriously, spearing the air with a small rectangular ID. I examine the picture first, noting the blonde hair and wide smile, then glance at the age and name. “Anna?”
She nods, excitement ratcheting her grin into a contagious smile. “Come on, Anna.” She threads my arm through hers, hauling me to the front door.
I never hung out with Maggie’s friends. Our seven-year age gap practically guaranteed we’d have little in common, and Maggie’s friends only regarded me on the few occasions they were around when she was stuck babysitting me on days Grandpa had an appointment or couldn’t make it for whatever reason. I’m reminded of this as three ladies greet Maggie, sharing shrieks and giggles between unintelligible words, their gazes crossing over me in fleetingly, trying to recognize me.
“Guys, this is my sister, Raegan.”
“I didn’t remember you had a sister,” a brunette says, holding a near empty martini. “Your brother, him I remember. He made me consider an early career as a cougar.”
The table erupts with laughter, too many of them nodding in agreeance.
“You guys would probably pounce on him if you saw him now,” Maggie admits, sliding her jacket off and directing me to the end of the table.
“He played football, right?” A girl with long brown hair asks.
“Still does,” Maggie says, reaching for two menus. “He’s the starting quarterback at Brighton.”
“You should have brought him along,” another woman cries out, laughter chasing so fast I don’t know which one spoke.
Maggie takes it in stride, laughing off the comment. “I’ll message him, but they have a game tomorrow, so I doubt they’ll come. But, you can all thank me with a drink when your eye candy shows up. I invited one of his coaches to come out with us, and you guys are not going to be disappointed.”
Cheers erupt as they lift their glasses with a toast. I think Maggie is lying, but she lifts her phone, shooting Pax a quick text before setting her phone down and answering a series of rapid-fire questions about her time abroad.
My phone buzzes, showing a text from Pax.
Pax: You guys okay?
Me: Yeah. Maggie was offering you up to her friends. Sacrificial lamb style.
Pax: Are any of them hot?
Me: There’s lots of brunettes.
It’s gross that I know he prefers brunettes, but it’s a wide known fact.
Pax: Brunette doesn’t equal hot.
Me: None of them are your style.
Pax: We’ll go out tomorrow. Stay away from Craig. I had no idea he was going to perv out on you. Fucking D-bag.
Me: Maggie likes him. I might be able to flip him.
Pax: Shake him off on one of the brunettes there.
Me: Going to socialize. Byeeeeeee.
“What do you want to drink?” Maggie whispers. “You can get whatever you want, I’ll drive home.”
“I’m not getting wasted.”
“I didn’t say get wasted, I said order a drink. It will relax you. I can see you over there overthinking everything.” She flips the menu over, running a finger down the list of cocktails, pausing when she hits a drink. “If you don’t drink much, this is good. It goes down easy and tastes like juice.”
Before I can read it, a waitress appears, placing drink napkins in front of us. “Can I get you guys anything?”
“Sex on the beach and a lemon drop,” Maggie says.
The waitress nods, shifting farther down the table.
“Let me guess, yours is the lemon drop?”
Maggie grins. “Good guess.”
“My parents are totally pressuring me to get married,” a blonde explains from the opposite side of the table.
“What did you say to them?” A redhead asks, her gaze drifting to me again. Her complexion is flawless, and when she smiles, you see both rows of her perfect white teeth, a seamlessly rehearsed expression that makes me uneasy. I remember her from years ago, recall how unfriendly she’d been then.
“I tell them to introduce me to more trust fund babies,” the blonde says, sparking laughter.
Maggie’s knee bumps against mine. “Look who just showed up,” she whispers.
Our waitress blocks my view as she sets our drinks down, but the moment she moves Pax and Lincoln come into view. My heart thumps, feeling so large I feel it beating on both sides of my chest. Pax is smiling, taking inventory of the table, but Lincoln’s eyes are on me, reminding me of that distilled confidence that makes me lose my footing.
Maggie stands, hugging them both before completing a round of introductions that I miss most of because my attention is pulled between Lincoln and trying to not look at him, though he’s paying attention to everyone except me.
“You guys can sit right here, next to me.” The blonde who was talking about her search for trust fund husbands pats the seat next to her.
“You can only have them until I finish my drink. My time here is short,” Maggie says.
“Why is that?” I jump, surprised by the unexpected appearance of Craig. He grins, catching my reaction. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you.” He shucks his jacket off, hanging it on the back of the chair on my other side.
On the other side of the table, Lincoln’s gaze flicks toward me, irritation marring his brow, interrupting the Hollywood-worthy smile he was bestowing on the brunette I remember, like he knows she’s the most likely offender of having a bitch switch.
“I’m currently enlisted in the Peace Corps,” Maggie explains. “I was sent home temporarily because we had some disgruntled locals making threats, but I’ll be sent on a new assignment soon.”
Craig leans back. “No kidding?”
Maggie nods, launching into a brief summary of her job and the past couple of years in Nepal.
“Excuse me,” I say when she pauses. “I’m going to find the ladies room.”
“You want me to come?” Maggie asks.
I shake my head. “No. I’ll be right back.”
Maggie hesitates, but then sits back in her chair.
I weave around tables and those standing, making my way to the back of the bar, the sound of a new song playing on one of the two large grand pianos sitting center stage.
A bald guy with a beard smiles, taking a step closer to me, and then a hand falls on my lower back, and Lincoln steps beside me, freezing the guy in his tracks.
“What are you doing?�
�� I ask, turning to gain a bit of space from him. But he moves with me, his hand going around my waist.
“We need to talk.”
“We already did. Remember? It ended with you suggesting I wasn’t worth the effort.”
“That’s not what I said.” He shakes his head, his jaw flexing as he looks at me, his eyes shockingly clear from the mask that usually makes him appear so impartial.
“What do you want to talk about?” I demand.
He leans closer as my words are drowned out by the music, his cologne a clean and fresh scent that paints an image of the ocean in my head.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
He twists so his lips are at my ear. “You know why I’m here.”
“You can’t do this.”
He shakes his head. “What?”
I sigh, pulling him in the direction of the restrooms. We step into an alcove near a table of women who crane their necks to catch sight of Lincoln.
“You can’t…” I start, but Lincoln pushes the men’s bathroom door open, pulling me inside before I can object. He locks the door of the two-stall bathroom before turning his attention to me. “What are you telling me I can’t do?”
“This,” I say, waving a hand between us. “You don’t get to play the role of jealous boyfriend when you don’t want to stick around past the sex.”
His eyes blaze, knocking the next line of defense from my thoughts.
“We haven’t had sex, and I’m still here.”
“Only because someone else is interested in me. If he wasn’t here, you wouldn’t be.” His gaze travels to the sink, and I turn to glance at the door, debating if this conversation should even be had right now and if we’re dooming a decision that shouldn’t be made with anger and jealousy still hot in our veins.
Lincoln moves, his palms falling against the tiled wall on either side of me, caging me in like I might flee. “You don’t understand.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“My dad is about to marry his sixth wife.” He pauses, his brown eyes reading my surprise as I try to read the intention behind him telling me this.
“You’re worried you’re going to be like him?”
“My mom destroyed him,” he explains. “I’ve had five stepmothers since turning ten. You know what that average is.” The corners of his eyes pinch, exposing a vulnerability that makes my heart feel like it’s outside of my body.
I don’t know how to respond. Each question seems more callous than the last, as I try to remove myself from the equation in an attempt to not be selfish with this moment. “But aren’t you doing the same by never investing in someone else?”
His jaw flexes as a silent war takes place in his thoughts: the urge to tell me and the desire to not, which apparently wins out as his hands slide down the wall. “I know I’m being a selfish bastard. I’m trying not to, but you make me feel undone, and I don’t know how to deal with it.”
“You make a decision,” I tell him, my voice a contradiction to my terrified and desperate feelings.
His gaze stops on my lips, focusing there so long I’m convinced he’s going to claim my mouth with his.
“What happens with Paxton?” he asks.
It’s not fair how he’s still able to think and make coherent sentences when I can hardly breathe due to his proximity. “I don’t know?”
“What about your parents? The possibility of me transferring?”
I shake my head. “Why are you focusing on obstacles that don’t even exist?”
He spins, hitting the wall beside the large paneled mirror, making it shake. “They do exist.”
“You’re transferring?”
“My options are law school or the NFL, and since the NFL isn’t guaranteed, my chances of law school increase daily.”
“Is this really about these perceived obstacles, or is this because you want to remain single?”
His gaze shifts too fast, hiding the truth before he moves back to me, invading every inch of my skin before he spins away from me, dropping his head back.
“Consume me. That’s all you want to do, right? A conquest. Sex. You already have your answer.”
I don’t look back as I unlock the door, knowing that if the room really showed the results of this conversation, there would be angry red streaks spread across each inch of the space.
Lincoln catches my hand, tugging me back to him with a quick jerk that has me stumbling into him. He steadies me, his touch and gaze confident as he captures far more than just my coordination. He runs his hands higher, my sweater bunching as his hands burn hot paths along my flesh. He looks down at me, an intensity shining in his eyes that makes me ready to pledge myself to him. It’s terrifying and freeing, overwhelming and consuming. I cling to him, anchoring myself to him by holding his shoulders.
“You scare the hell out of me,” his voice is a soft blanket, nestling around me on a cold day, soothing me. He dips his head, his lips connecting with my exposed collarbone. I practically moan with ecstasy. I’ve worked so hard to forget and ignore the way he makes me feel, and yet with a single touch, every cell in my body remembers, desperate and frantic for more.
His fingers press into my skin like he’s trying to meld our bodies, his lips trailing up to my ear where his teeth graze my skin, making me shiver. Goose bumps reign across my flesh as each of my muscles fall slack, melting into him like a dependency. He takes my weight, a quiet growl ripping through his chest. I drop my head back, allowing him access to the part of me that seems to keep him coming back, but he threads his fingers into my hair, tipping my head up to meet his mouth. His lips brush against mine, painfully controlled when I want to go to war with his tongue, prove that we both want this.
He shifts, his hand, tangling in my hair as our breaths mix. I open my eyes, catching him watching me through lids heavy with lust. I close my eyes and push up on my toes, pressing my mouth to his and kissing him without abandon, translating a million thoughts and feelings and unspoken words. I twine my arms around his neck, bringing our bodies closer, my nipples painfully aware of his hard chest. I swipe my tongue along his, an electric pulse of desperation and need that makes me moan with the contact and taste of him. I swipe my tongue along his again, slower, firmer, with a determination that makes me forget the reasons and rules I shouldn’t be in here with him and the aftermath that may result after I give him yet another piece of my heart. Lincoln’s grip tightens, moving us backward several steps, and then the coldness of the tile is at my back, a stark contrast to the heat emanating from every part of my body as I crave Lincoln in a way I’ve never imagined. His hand falls from my hair, and he takes a step back. I want to argue—to protest the absence of him when my body is demanding he invade my space. Then his hand travels over my breast, his thumb skimming my nipple through the layers of my sweater and bra. My breath releases in a burst, my back arching as the contact stirs, building an anticipation and throb between my legs.
He presses his forehead to mine, his lips so close I can taste his breath. “I can’t tell you the things you want to hear,” he says, sending my heart colliding into a wreckage that leaves me feeling stranded and cold.
His fingers stop, reading my body and the way my breaths change from labored and needy to labored with anger. He brushes a thumb across the span of my cheek. “You make me want to,” he tells me. “So badly.”
I’m not even certain what words he’s referring to. If they’re ones of affirmation or love. Promises or a devotion that would ensure I was the only one he was pressing against dirty bathroom walls.
I don’t ask.
I can’t.
I shove against his chest, not wanting to touch him or even look at him. He doesn’t move, keeping me caged to the wall while he stares at me. I refuse to look at him, refuse to give him the benefit of reading my thoughts.
“Move,” I demand, refusing to touch him again.
He releases a slow breath and drops his head as he steps back, freeing me in all the ways I
never wanted to be.
31
“Did you get lost?” Maggie asks, smiling at me as I resume my seat.
I had bought myself some much-needed time after parting ways with Lincoln, catching my breath and what was left of my dignity in the ladies’ bathroom where I wished I wasn’t wearing makeup because I wanted to wash my face. Instead, I gargled cold water, squirting soap on my fingers and rubbing it furiously against my lips, though I knew in the back of my head that it was both futile and childish. Soap had no chance of erasing the marks Lincoln left on my skin.
I smile politely. “Sorry. I just needed to make a phone call,” I lie, hoping she forgot watching me put my phone into my purse.
“I was just telling Craig about you taking us out on the Puget Sound.” Maggie stirs a fresh drink. I wonder if she forgot her offer to be the designated driver? Right now, I want to take advantage of my fake ID and see if alcohol has the chance to erase the last thirty minutes.
“It sounds fascinating,” Craig says, leaning closer as a new song starts, the speakers too loud. His proximity feels invasive as I start comparing his hands gripping a tumbler with an amber liquid to Lincoln’s. His fingers are shorter, almost stubby, his nails chewed severely, his cuticles red and sore on several digits. “I was at the beach cleanup,” he continues. “I saw you there. You were one of the leaders.”
“Organizers,” I clarify.
He grins. “Your modesty is refreshing. These days, it seems everyone wants to take credit for every minute thing they do, and you refuse to take any.” I move my gaze to his face, trying to decipher his reverent tone and semi-hating that he finds this attractive when I wish to be a confident and assertive person, rather than a doormat. He meets my eyes, humor and emotions I can’t bear to see much less acknowledge shining at me.
