Fahrenheit

by Alex Rosa

  “But you did hurt me, and that’s fine. Just do me a favor and don’t go judging my life when I’ve spent a good chunk of mine trying not to judge yours.”

  His head snaps in my direction. His steely blue eyes are serious and void of their normal humor. “I’m not judging you.”

  I shake my head. “Garrett, stop playing games with me. You’re still my best friend. Tell me what’s wrong. So—” I offer with a hopeful shrug, trying to make it easier on him, even if I shouldn’t. “—you’re mad at me for sleeping around? You’re suddenly attracted to me and want to give it a go? You’re confused? C’mon, Garrett, let’s be honest for once here. We’ve never been honest about us.” Please.

  He’s back to turning away in classic Garrett style. “It’s whatever.”

  “You did not just say whatever to me?” I chuff. He knows I hate that word. I banned it from our friendship two years ago over the same topic. We both decided it was an unacceptable response, that and “I don’t know.”

  “Fuck you, Garrett. You’re jealous. If we’re such good friends, why can’t you be honest with me? I don’t know why you always fight how you feel about me, but ya know what? I can’t anymore. This is why we will only ever be friends.”

  I’ve never put my foot down on the topic before, and I never knew I had it in me. Normally, I’m the one puppy dogging around, waiting for Garrett to throw me a bone. Not today and not anymore. Not when I feel this bizarre weight on my shoulders drift away. If this is what it took to grab Garrett’s half-assed attention, then I don’t want it.

  The explosion of everything I’ve kept locked up feels too good. I’m ready for more, but when I open my mouth, he cuts me off.

  “Lo, stop. You have no idea what’s going through my head.”

  “But you don’t deny it!” I cackle. I actually cackle. That’s how mad I am at him. Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? No way. He feels something for me, but can’t face it. Doesn’t he understand how unworthy that makes me feel?

  “Fine,” I bite out. “How about you go figure out how you feel about me by doing what you do every time. Have you called Amy lately? She’s been a frequent flyer around our apartment. Our walls are thin. I know you two aren’t swapping war stories, just bodily fluids.”

  “You’re being a bitch.”

  This time I wince. We haven’t fought this bad in years.

  “Maybe if you could give me straight answers, I wouldn’t be such a bitch. Maybe I’m not the one who needs to figure his shit out. Don’t push your judgment on me because you can’t figure out how you feel.”

  He gets up. No explanation. No eye contact. Just a grunt and a, “I gotta take a walk,” before he stomps off.

  I watch him meander out of view as he speed-walks in the direction of the pier.

  “What the fuck just happened?” stutters out of my mouth in a whisper, and the sound of the crowds around me makes its way into my bubble.

  My heart is beating frantically, and not in the way I like. I hate fighting with Garrett, but I think that argument needed to happen. Except, I was the one who was okay with how we were. Platonic. I had come to terms that Garrett was never going to want me.

  In reality, his confusion over how he feels about me is him wanting what he can’t have, and not necessarily having to do with what he actually wants. I’m sure of it.

  I place this topic in a mental file for future articles I might want to write for the magazine, if I make it past my current assignment.

  I rerun our argument in my head, fact-checking my feelings, trying to decipher what exactly we argued about.

  I shake my head, focusing on the ocean, trying to find my center, or what does Rebecca call it? My chi?

  I pull in a deep breath, desperate for that balance, my bad mood laying waste to anything I set my eyes on. That is until I think I’m hallucinating.

  While in search of Zen, in the far off distance of the shoreline, among the heat waves that billow from the surface of the water where it touches the blue sky, a shirtless male in pale blue swim trunks is stalking toward me. He’s dripping wet, a surfboard tucked under one arm, and although he’s everything my body seems to need, he’s exactly what I shouldn’t want.

  Nathan Sanders.

  What. The. Holy hotness. Fuck.

  I freak out. I turn away, flip over on my stomach, frantically tossing my sunglasses over my face, trying to play it cool and incognito, but I’m sure I look like a flopping fish on my beach towel as I attempt it, scrambling to calm my fidgeting.

  What’s the right thing to do here, and why would the sight of him in public set me into a panic?

  Fahrenheit is like Fight Club. The rules of Fight Club? First rule, you never talk about Fight Club. Second rule, you NEVER talk about Fight Club.

  I should ignore Nate, right? You don’t acknowledge members of Fight Club in public, just like you wouldn’t acknowledge members of Fahrenheit in public, right?

  This is only a guess.

  My heartbeat is back to light speed. Can’t the men in my life leave my fricken heart alone? I’m going to go into cardiac arrest.

  I want to sneak another look at that body glistening in the California sun, but instead, I tell myself I can never come to this beach again. I clench my eyes shut in hopes he’ll disappear, and I don’t have to torture myself with the sight of his body in the most perfect swim trunks on the most fuckable body I’ve ever encountered.

  Whoa, did I just think that?

  The humph sound to my right causes my eyes to spring open, and a surfboard has been tossed onto the sand next to me. I petrify.

  “Scoot over.”

  Oh, God, that glorious timber.

  I’m hallucinating, right? He must be the mirage of that wishful thought I made up in the barren wasteland of my anger, because he’s the only person who’d be able to salvage my mood.

  Stunned, I still manage to scoot over, following his direction like that one time he told me to bend over a bed so he could spank me into a sexual mind-fuck. That molten feeling pools between my legs at the thought, and I try to calm my breathing.

  I’m afraid to open my mouth at this point. I roll over on my side, and Nate has no shame laying down close to me, his body still slicked with his dip in the ocean. I try to ignore his leg brushing against mine, the ocean chill on his skin sending an electric current through mine.

  I wish there was a way to make stunned look cute, but there’s no chance. I find my confidence buried among the only thing I’m ever sure of. My sarcasm.

  “Aren’t you breaking the rules? I thought Fahrenheit is about keeping your identity secret?”

  I pull off my sunglasses, because Nate grins, and I don’t want to see it through a tinted filter, because it’s the most handsome, blinding, Technicolor smile I’ve ever seen in broad daylight in a human’s natural habitat. Yes, watching Nathan Sanders is like being witness to an endangered species, which you never get to see, and question its existence.

  He’s still dripping wet, lying on the same towel as me, and I’m baffled about so many different things. A drop of water falls from his beach hair, dripping over the slope of his nose. I gulp as I focus on following its trail until he speaks.

  “Discretion is important,” he replies, running his hand through his wet hair, slicking it back.

  Interesting. His simple answer and nothing more gives me the impression he doesn’t have an explanation for once.

  “Ya know, I wasn’t going to acknowledge you,” I offer, trying to keep an even keel.

  “Well, I guess I couldn’t resist. Ya know how I like it when you get nervous.”

  My eyes shoot to his, and it’s stunning how the sunshine reflects off the gold glint in his eyes, making the streaks of green I never noticed before stand out in the hazel of his stare.

  “I looked nervous?” I try to look away, but I can’t. His heated gaze is tethered to mine. He seems enthralled, not breaking our eye contact.

  “All the time,” he jokes with a flippant
wave of his hand. “Especially that epically nervous look you gave me when you saw me on the beach.”

  A smile tugs at my lips.

  This Nate is new. He’s carefree, and I’m thrown yet again this afternoon, but by an entirely different man.

  Nate’s a bit giddier, a little more boyish, and a helluva lot more charming in the warmth of the sun, and I didn’t know he could raise that bar.

  “So.” My eyes drag over his chest and abdomen before taking in the object behind him. I smile, making a personal-Nate-note. “You like to surf, huh?” I raise my eyebrows double time.

  He fights a laugh as he rests his head on his palm, tilting his head in an almost patronizing way as he examines me with a curve to the corner of his mouth. “Yep. Why do you have that smile again?”

  “I’ll just add it to the list of personal facts I have of you. It’s getting good now,” I tease.

  He grumbles. “You and your personal details. If you’re not going to use them for your article, then what’s the point?”

  “Because you’re like a mystery I can’t wait to unravel, for sheer personal amusement and curiosity.”

  His brow twitches. “I know all about you and your curiosity.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks, and I’m still coming to terms that I just confessed I like the mystery that he is. He doesn’t seem to mind though.

  “Do you surf often?”

  He’s giving into me, because he doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It’s what I do in my free time when I’m not working.”

  “Or, not prowling for innocent women to tie to beds?”

  “That’s a nighttime activity,” he replies.

  I’m sure I’m blushing everywhere now. My thighs press together, and his eyes slide over my entire body. It’s calculated, precise, lingers in distinct spots, and is utterly shameless. Garrett didn’t eye-fuck me earlier compared to what Nate is doing to me right now. It feels like Nate peels away my bikini with achingly slow sensuality with a single drag of his eyes.

  It’s practically a magical power.

  When his stare meets mine, I wonder what it means when we’re out in public like this. The same fiery gleam is there in all its glory, and I don’t know where we stand without the backdrop of neon.

  The lust in his eyes beckons me, so when he leans in, and I so badly want his lips on me, my mouth opens enough to pull in a breath—wet and waiting for his to meet mine. He comes close, his lips not quite touching me. A drop of water from his hair rolls over his nose again and falls on mine; he’s that close. I lick my lips, lapping up the salty drop, waiting, but the kiss never comes.

  He’s frozen, his stare darting back and forth between my eyes, and I can see the battle raging there, fueled by lust, but stopped by logic. I wish I had that much resolve.

  He releases an exasperated breath that skims against my face.

  I’m sure it’s obvious I want his mouth. My eyes, my physical state, and the fact I’m still waiting says it all, but he still doesn’t move.

  My sexual frustration wins when I realize he won’t give in.

  I roll my eyes, turn away, and fall flat on my back on the towel we’re sharing.

  Whatever.

  Yes, I’m aware I hate that word.

  His hum begs my attention, but his hand smooths over my stomach, causing my body to spring to life in a tiny leap of surprise. His hand drags down to the top of my bikini bottoms. I try to fight the burning trail his hand leaves in its wake. I want his hands on me as much as I want his mouth.

  “I like this.” He tugs on the string of the black bikini bottoms.

  However, what’s more annoying is he’s acting like he didn’t just deny our almost kiss. We are chock-full of almost moments now.

  I smirk, thinking that this might be my opportunity to tease him. I smack his hand away, turning back toward him, and perch my head on the palm of my hand as I lean on my elbow. I’m so close to his chest that all I’d have to do is lean in to kiss him there, but I resist. It’s almost as if he knows it when I lift my stare to his. His grin makes me anxious, excited, and annoyed.

  “Obviously, we have boundaries to keep,” I say a little snootily, teetering on petulant child.

  He shakes his head, admonishing me as he says, “I just—”

  “If I hear one more person say they don’t know how to feel, I might lose it—”

  His lips cut me off, slamming into mine. Apparently, his logic has a short circuit.

  Hallelujah.

  A moan makes the briefest of appearances between our lips. He lifts his hand to curve over my jaw in unison with his tongue, which makes its way into my mouth, tasting me greedily, but too briefly. He tastes like the ocean, sunshine, and sin.

  Then his touch and lips disappear as quickly as they were there. He pulls away, and you’d think he’d ran a marathon from his sharp breaths.

  He runs a frantic hand through his hair before tugging on the crotch of his trunks, while pulling in an exasperated breath. “Damn it, I want you right now. It’s fucking absurd.”

  I think my aura is glowing. I also think I’m a mother-flipping beacon of good vibes, and that Rebecca’s third eye would be thrilled at the sight.

  “I thought you were an exhibitionist?” I goad.

  A short burst of laughter escapes him as he shoots me a raised brow. His eyes hold a lustful glow. “I am, but I’d rather not go to jail today for fucking you on the beach in front of all these people.”

  I join in with my laughter, and when I look up, his smile is as bright as his eyes.

  “What a shame,” I tease.

  His eyebrow and lips do that thing I love. “Damn shame, really.”

  All I can do is nod my agreement. My obsession with Nate is getting ridiculous. I want him at all times. His hands, his mouth, and even that ever-frustrating brain of his.

  “Where’s your roommate?” he asks, distracting me. Good thing, too, but this is an unfortunate topic.

  I shrug. “Garrett’s probably out hunting for ass. We’re kind of fighting.”

  Nate tuts, chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares.

  Maybe he wishes he could ask more questions, but something in his eyes shifts. It’s as if I can see each brick being laid to build that impersonal wall again that he won’t let me break down. I guess carefree Nate was nice while it lasted.

  I can’t help myself though. I want to vent to an outsider, even if I’m watching the brutal construction of Nate’s emotional barrier.

  I look away into the distance as I sigh. “It’s so stupid too. Garrett can’t figure out how he feels about me. He never has been able to. He also can’t handle the truth. What am I supposed to do with that? Why is reality so hard to handle? I should’ve kept my mouth shut and—”

  “Always be honest. It’s your strongest weapon,” he blurts out. His hand is back to curving over my jaw, turning my head, as if to hold my stare to his sexy, desperate one. “Nothing should matter if it’s not the truth. Why would someone want to live in a fantasy world of fluff, half-assed compliments, and white lies?”

  I’m mesmerized.

  He continues, and I think for the first time, he might be babbling.

  “Actually, your honesty is probably my favorite thing about you. If he can’t take your honesty, then how can he be your best friend? Whether he knows how he feels about you or not, how can he deserve you when he can’t accept your truths?”

  My lips bob up and down, and I’m so enlightened by his words—fulfilled even. “Nathan Sanders, the philosopher and all-round good-advice-giver. I’ll be damned.”

  He blushes, and holy shit, it’s magnificent, but Nate releasing me is not.

  “I’m just saying, he’s probably a jackass,” he says, trying to recover his cool.

  “No argument there,” I reply, realizing I don’t know which way is up or down even though the clear blue sky is in plain view.

  I’m trying to level the playing field, but nothing comes to mind and nothing seems to make sense.
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  Nate is here. In public. He likes me nervous. He also likes my honesty. And he totally kissed me. In public. He also called my best friend a jackass. Did I forget to mention he kissed me? In public? Oh, and on occasion we go to a sex nightclub, and he does mind-blowing things to my body for my research.

  As if reading my wandering thoughts and steering them where he sees fit, he pulls me in for another shocking kiss, only tailspinning my confusion into a twenty-car pileup on the highway of my brain.

  I kiss back with confusion and deep-seated frustration fueling the words I manage between our lips, “You’re insane, and you get some sick pleasure messing with me.”

  He pulls away, nodding his confirmation. Is it insanity, or to messing with me? It’s hard to tell.

  His hand slides over my shoulder, and down the side of my torso before he lifts it back to his side of the towel, putting blatant distance between us, and I wish goose bumps weren’t so obvious as they pebble over the skin he’s touched.

  “I have a request,” he says a little too sweetly, and I’m interested in that tone and his effortless switch in bravado. I can barely keep up, and I worry he knows it.

  “Really? I can’t imagine what that’ll be,” I admonish, wiping my mouth of his recent assault, trying to pretend I’m basking in the sunshine and not his stare.

  I don’t want him to leave yet, but he’s already shifting his body as if he’s getting ready to. That isn’t before he leans forward, his eyes heated, and his lips soft and swollen as they brush against the shell of my ear, igniting my adrenaline. “I want you to touch yourself tonight, and I dare you not to think of me.”

  Nate’s mouth nips at my earlobe, which apparently shares a nerve ending with the one between my legs.

  Dirty talk is something I’ve never encountered—ever—but I think I like it.

  He’s clambering up, smirking, adjusting his trunks again without uttering a goodbye, because apparently, his work here is done. I try not to turn into a blabbering idiot.

  “Y-you don’t play fair!” I shout as he grabs for his surfboard and walks away, shooting me that dammed half smile before he’s heading back to the water. The bastard even winks with his teeth clamped down over his bottom lip, forcing all the heat in my cheeks to rush south.