Captured
Page 13
REAGAN
I wake up smelling pancakes and coffee, and the sound of Tommy giggling hysterically. I get out of bed, change clothes, tie my hair back, and put on some deodorant. As I head downstairs, I stop halfway down, before I’m easily visible. I see something that brings tears in my eyes, and leaves my heart clenching in a really, really weird and scary way.
Derek is sitting on the floor, a cup of coffee within reach. He’s got Tommy’s El Chupacabra toy, and he’s pretending it’s a dog, barking at Tommy, chasing him around the kitchen.
Tommy has butter in his hair.
His pull-up is on backward.
He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.
The front door is open, and Ida is standing on the porch, watching, and she seems as stunned as I am, her hand across her mouth, eyes wide. Her gaze meets mine, and we exchange stupefied, emotional expressions.
This just made everything that much more impossible to figure out.
CHAPTER 12
DEREK
Late one night I’m working on the tractor, replacing the starter. I’m no mechanic, but I can figure shit out with enough time and cursing. Three days have gone by since that night at the pond—and behind the barn. Jesus, I can’t get that out of my head. The sounds she made as she came. The feel of her fist around my dick….
I get hard just thinking about it.
But there haven’t been any repeats since then. We’ve been…not quite avoiding each other, but taking a little time and space. It’s remained unspoken, but we both needed it. We also both need time and space to absorb what happened, and to understand what it could mean. What’s going to happen in the future.
All I know for sure is, I can’t stop thinking about her. Not just about her naked, fucking glorious body, or about making her come. Yeah, I think about that nonstop, ’cause, duh. But about what she said that night. How she wants something for her. And I want to do something for her — something to make her happy, just for her.
So after the tractor is fixed, I walk over to Hank’s. He’s sitting on his porch, sipping at a Natty Ice, reading a battered, dog-eared Tom Clancy novel.
“Hank?”
He looks up, nods at me. “Derek. What can I do for you, son?”
“Reagan. She’s here all the time. I thought…I wondered if you think she might want to take a day off. Do some sort of girly day-out kinda shit.” I swallow hard and shift from foot to foot. I’m playing my hand here. I look him straight in the eye and let him read me. “I don’t know anything about that shit. So, I kinda need help, I guess.”
Hank just stares at me for a long time. “Growin’ a heart in there, are ya?” He chuckles. “About damn time.”
I shrug. “Guess so. Any ideas?”
“Women, they like to get their hair done. Manicures, pedicures. That kinda thing.”
The screen door squeaks and bangs, open and closed, and Ida comes through with two beers. She hands one to me, but I wave it off. After the incident at the barn, I haven’t wanted to drink again. That scared me.
“Linda from church,” Ida says, “her daughter owns a day spa up to Brenham. I can ask about a gift certificate for a pampering package.”
“How much?” I ask.
Hank and Ida exchange looks, and Hank nods. Ida smiles, saying, “Don’t worry about that.”
“I couldn’t ask you to—”
“You ain’t askin’, son. We’re offering. Just say thanks and get on with you.”
You don’t argue with a man like Hank. “Thanks, then.”
“I’ll call Linda in the morning,” Ida says.
I head back to the barn. Sleep is getting a little easier. The nightmares still wake me up most nights, but they’re starting to fade. They never lose their potency, but I’m learning to deal with them. Wake up, breathe. Do pushups, sit-ups, squats, lunges. I get back to sleep eventually.
I spend the earliest hours of the next morning replacing the ladder up to the hayloft. Ida finds me in the barn and calls out to me. I descend, wiping the sweat off my face.
She hands me an envelope. “This is the gift certificate. It’s for a haircut and color, a manicure and pedicure, and a facial. She’ll enjoy it, I think. I know I would.” She smiles at me, pats the top of my hand. “This is a sweet gesture, Derek.”
“She deserves a day off,” is all I can think to say.
“She sure does.”
* * *
It’s late evening before I finish the various projects I’ve got going. I’m washing up at the pump when I hear Reagan behind me.
“Would you eat with us? Tommy and me? I made lasagne.”
I swallow hard. Shrug. “Sure.”
Dinner is a weird thing. I don’t know what to say, or how to act around Reagan. Tommy provides most of the conversation, chattering at me and smearing lasagne everywhere. I allow myself one small half-glass of red wine, which makes me feel warm and loose. Tommy nods off right onto his plate, making us both laugh. Reagan wipes his hands and face, and then carries him up to bed.
While she’s gone, I clean up. Cover the leftovers with foil, wash the plates in the sink. Dry them, put them in the cupboard.
Reagan comes back into the kitchen. “You didn’t have to clean up.”
I shrug, drying the forks. “You cooked. You shouldn’t have to clean up, too.”
She sits at the table, sideways on the chair, facing me. “So, I was wondering if tomorrow you’d mind helping me in Tommy’s room? It’s still decorated for a baby, and I want to paint it. Update it a little for him.”
I pivot and put my backside to the sink, pull the envelope containing the gift certificate out of my back pocket. “I’ll handle that tomorrow myself. In fact, I’ll take care of the rest, too.”
She’s confused. “What? Why?”
I hand her the envelope. “’Cause you won’t be here.”
She opens it, reads the gift certificate. “What is this? I don’t understand.”
“It’s a day off, Reagan. Sleep in late. Head into Brenham and spend the day at the salon. Sit in the park and read a book. Whatever it is you feel like doing.” I’m nervous, talking too fast.
She doesn’t say anything for a long minute. “Derek, you didn’t have to—I don’t need—”
“The gift certificate and day off was my idea, but Ida and Hank…Ida’s friend Linda’s daughter owns the salon.” I rub my upper lip and try to sound casual. “You deserve a day off. Hell, you deserve a fuckuva lot more than that, but this is what I could make happen. You work too hard. And you deserve something just for you.”
She won’t look at me, staring down at the gift certificate, at her feet. “Derek, I don’t even know what to say.” She glances at me, then away, clearly struggling against emotion. “It’s too much. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself for a whole day.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” I point at the envelope. “I don’t know if it says so on there, but Ida told me that’ll get you your hair cut and colored, plus your fingernails and toenails done. And something else. For your face. A facial, maybe? Just have fun. Relax a bit.”
She’s still for another moment, and then she launches herself at me. Arms around my neck, body flush against mine. We both hold on to each other, a tense, passionate hug. And then she sinks against me, the tension bleeding out of the embrace. And now I’m just holding her. She’s soft, warm, smells of hay and horse and feminine sweat. I inhale her scent, memorize the feel of her in my arms.
She pulls back just slightly, staring into my eyes. Her palm splays across the back of my head, her other hand clutching my neck. A moment passes, another. And then she tilts her face, presses her mouth to mine and leans into me. Her boobs are crushed against my chest, her hands pulling me closer and closer to her, as if she can’t get close enough. At first I manage to keep my arms across her waist, in the safe zone. But then she parts my lips with her tongue, and one of my hands slips down, cupping the swell of her ass.
She moans, a
murmured outbreath, and my other hand joins the first, and I’ve got the firm, perfect feel of her round ass in my hands. I’ve dreamed of this ass—dreamed of feeling it in my hands. I’ve woken up hard and aching and wishing for this perfect ass. Somehow I’m exploring the fullness of it, squeezing, kneading. I’m amazed that she’s letting me do this, here in her kitchen. Her palms slide down my shoulders, down my chest. Our kiss breaks, and she lets out a sigh, curling her fingers into fists in the fabric of my shirt, either to hold me in place as if I’ll try to get away, or to maintain her own balance.
“I only meant to kiss you to say thank you,” she whispers, her breath huffing on my lips. “But now I can’t stop.”
“I dreamed about you the other night.” I’m not sure why I’m saying this, or what I hope to accomplish. My mouth seems to be working independent of my brain. “About your ass.”
She laughs, leans her head against my shoulder. “You dreamed about my butt?”
“Maybe. Yes. It’s so perfect. I’ve been wanting to feel it. I dreamed about…well, this, basically. Kissing you. Making out with you, and getting my hands on this.” I squeeze, lifting the bubble of muscle and flesh.
“Well, you’ve got it now. Is it…does it live up to your expectations?” She sounds hesitant. Unsure.
“It shatters my expectations,” I say, truthfully. “It’s beyond perfect. I don’t want to let go.”
“Really?”
I glance at her. “Why do you sound surprised?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about my stupid insecurities right now. It’ll ruin the moment. I just want to kiss you again.”
Stupid insecurities? What is she talking about? I don’t get it. But I let it go, slide my lips over hers, teasing her mouth with mine, pulling away when she leans in to deepen the kiss, darting close to nip at her lower lip. She unclenches her fists, slips her hands around my back, tugs up the hem of my shirt and connects with my skin. Skims her palms up my back, mashing her lips to mine and demanding more of my mouth, my tongue. She rakes her nails along my spine, then flattens her palms and wedges her hands under my jeans, against bare skin.
She sucks my tongue into her mouth, clutches my ass with clawed fingers, moans into my mouth. I need more. I lift her light frame, sliding her up my body. She clings to me, her legs encircling my waist, her arms around my neck. One arm holds onto me for balance; the other palm goes to my cheek. My hands have ideas of their own, one palming her butt, the other going up under her shirt, grazing her flat stomach, cupping her breast over her bra. Tongues tangle, we break for breath, mouths merge once again. I’ve got the tail of her T-shirt in my fist, dragging it up. She tugs her head free, presses her body against mine, hands roaming my shoulders and chest. She rips off my shirt.
I release the hooks on her bra, a breath, two, and she’s topless in my arms, her hot flesh sliding across mine.
Holding her, I walk into the den, then set her on the couch. I crawl over the arm to kneel with my knee between her thighs, one foot on the floor. With my palm on her side, I slide my hand up her ribs. Her tit fills my hand, just barely more than a handful. Softer than anything I’ve ever felt.
I taste the salt of her skin behind her ear, on her throat, down the slope of her breast. Her nipple slides between my teeth, and she’s moaning, arching her back. Clutching the back of my head with one hand, roaming my back with the other. Reaching between our bodies, she finds my zipper. Buttons are unsnapped. God, god, her hand is warm and small around my achingly hard dick. Sliding so slow and deliberate, making me crazy. So hard I’m leaking, moments from coming already—just like a damned teenager. Her perfect tit is in my mouth, and her hand is caressing my cock, her breath moaning in my ear.
A floorboard creaks above our heads. Reagan stills. “Wait. Wait.” She places both palms to my chest.
Silence.
But then she looks at me. “We keep getting carried away.”
I lean back, and she sits up, but doesn’t cover herself. “Yeah, we do,” I say. “One taste of you, and I just…can’t stop.”
“Me, too.” She’s wearing jeans with a hole above one knee and she picks at the frayed white threads. “I like getting carried away with you. I do. But I’m not—I’m not on birth control. And I don’t have any protection. So we can’t let it go too far. No accidents.”
I run my hand through my hair. “God, you’re right. I haven’t even been thinking of that.” I touch her knee through the hole in the denim. “Is this what you want? With me? I don’t want to just get carried away. I don’t want it to be an accident. I don’t want you to feel guilty. Or to regret it.”
I can’t help letting my eyes roam from her face down to her boobs. She follows my gaze, looks down at her own chest and cringes. She covers herself. Stands up, rounds the end of the couch, and finds her clothes, faces away, pulls a shirt on braless. I fasten my pants, move up behind her.
“Did I say something wrong?”
She shakes her head. “It was dark before. We were caught up in the moment. Sometimes I feel okay about myself. But now, with the lights on, you looking at me? All I can think about is that my tits aren’t as high or firm as they used to be. They sag. I’ve got stretch marks on them, and on my belly from carrying Tommy.”
“I just see you.” I’m behind her, holding onto her arms. “You’re beautiful, Reagan. In the light, in the darkness. All the time.”
She shrugs. “Thanks. You’re sweet.” She turns, looking up into my eyes. “I hate feeling like I have to make a decision about this. I want to be able to just…let what happens, happen. I want to give in and not think about it. But I can’t. I have Tommy to think about. I want you, Derek. I—I need this with you. It’s been so long since I felt the way you make me feel. You make me forget the stretch marks and the stress and the loneliness. But…what about Tommy? What if he gets attached to you? How long will you stay? What will I tell him? You can’t just live in my barn. If we did this, if we…I don’t even know how to say it. If we fuck…if we make love, whatever phrase you want to use, if we do that—I’ll get attached. I’ll want you in here. With me. In my bed. And what if you don’t stay? I can’t take another heartbreak. Not yet. Maybe someday I’ll be strong enough to risk getting hurt again. But I’m scared. Because you’re…you’re a soldier. What if you change your mind about going back? What if they make you? I couldn’t send another soldier off to war. I couldn’t. I won’t. And what if—what if we do this and I’m not good enough? What if I don’t satisfy you? What if a woman with a kid isn’t what you want? I’ve been thinking about this nonstop. Over and over and over. What if, what if, what if….”
“Reagan, I—”
“You could say anything right now. Reassure me. You’d mean it, too, I’m sure. But you could change your mind. Things change. Feelings change. And yeah, I want you. You want me. We have this insane chemistry, and you make me feel things…such amazing things. And I want more. I want all of it. But I’m scared, Derek. I’m scared of feeling guilty. And—it’s been so long since…my last time, with Tom. I’m sorry to bring him into this right now, but you need to know what I’m feeling. It’s been so long since my last time with Tom, I barely remember it. I’m forgetting him, Derek. And that scares me. It hurts. What he looks like, what he felt like. What we felt like. And I’m scared that if I keep letting this happen with you, that it’ll—it’ll be better. Than before…than with him. And what would that say about me? He was the love of my life, Derek! I loved him…so—fuck.” She sucks in a sharp breath, an almost-sob. “I loved him so much. And I don’t want to feel like I didn’t. It’s so damned complicated, and when I think about it, try to figure it out, I just get more confused and mixed up. I think sometimes maybe you should just go, because then things would go back to the way they were. The farm, Tommy, Hank, and Ida. Tommy would grow up, I’d get old, the end. But I…I don’t want that. The way things were sucked. I think about you going, and something inside me just…resists it. I don’t like it
. And when I’m with you, not even doing anything, just being around you, it’s easy to feel like…like it would be okay. Like it could work out.”
I stay silent, let her think, let her talk. Absorb.
She tugs at the hem of her shirt, making the outline of the tips of her breasts and her nipples stand out. I can’t help looking once, and then return my gaze to her face. She searches my eyes. “I wish I could be the kind of girl who can do casual sex. It’d make this easier. I want you. I’m crazy with wanting you. But I can’t do casual. I just can’t.”
“Can I say a couple of things?” She nods at me, and I take a moment to breathe deep, let it out, formulate what I want to say. “I can’t give you some reassuring speech about how to deal with grief. I don’t know what to say about that. I’m fucked up over it, too, honestly. Losing Tom, losing—shit—watching twelve of my buddies get fucking slaughtered. Watching Tom die. Being a prisoner of war. It fucked me up. I may never be normal again. So…I don’t have any reassurances about forgetting him. Because I can only remember him the way he was at the end. And that—it blows, Reagan. I’m glad you don’t have that. I’d be happy if I could forget him. Sometimes, I think, you just have to…accept that you’re gonna feel like shit. You miss him. You forget him sometimes. I want to think that’s natural. It’s your heart healing, your mind helping you past the hurt. I don’t know. I know none of that is making you feel any better, and I’m sorry. But I know you loved Tom. He knew you loved him. But I want to think that Tom would want you to find…peace. Happiness. He wouldn’t want you to be alone, or to suffer. Or to be miserable.”
I have to pause and gather my thoughts. Sometimes you just have to put it all out there, good or bad.
“I know you’ve got a lot to think about, as far as this thing between us goes. It’s complicated. It’s not just sex. You said you can’t do casual…well, neither can I. I used to. A lot, actually. It’s all I did. I wasn’t really a very great guy in that regard. I chased tail, and I got a lot of it. But it was all casual. I never got close to any of them. I mean, how could I? I’d have a couple of weeks, maybe a month. I told myself it wouldn’t be fair to the girl to act like it meant anything but fun. Why start something I couldn’t finish, right? But I’m not that same guy anymore. I’m a fucking mess, Reagan. I’ve got damage. Baggage. Nightmares, survivor’s guilt, all sorts of complex psychological bullshit. And how could I ever saddle anyone with all that? I could go somewhere and probably get a girl to take me back to her place, but as soon as she saw my scars, as soon as she wanted to make small talk, I guarantee you most girls would run screaming. I couldn’t tell some innocent little hipster city chick who’s never left Houston about being tortured by the fucking Taliban. I couldn’t tell her why I still wake up in the middle of the night crying and screaming. She wouldn’t get it. How could she? I’m too messed up to play the games I used to play. So…I can’t do casual, either.”