His Road Home

by Anna Richland

  He shot upright in the bed, arms reaching, hands thrust forward in stiff flippers. The explosive movement, as forceful as a whale breaching, shocked her backward.

  His wide eyes and snarl revealed a level of raw pain she’d only seen in injured animals. “Rey—”

  He heaved himself at the wall on the bed’s far side and thudded hard enough to rattle the light sconce. His shoulder blades rose and fell as he panted. “Hurt you.” He pounded a fist against the sheetrock. “No, no, no.”

  “You didn’t hurt me.” Okay, he wasn’t like other men she’d spent the night with, guys who stuffed pillows over their heads and relied on alarms and automatic coffee machines. Rey came awake with his hands up, and the sooner she understood that, the sooner her heartbeat would normalize.

  “Could.” Emotion seemed to have diminished his speech again, yesterday’s multi-word answers reduced to loaded single syllables.

  “But you didn’t.” She put one knee on the bed. “Is it okay if I touch you?” Because he didn’t object, she assumed permission and lowered the hand that had been hovering between them. His skin was hot and smooth over muscles that felt like stone to her fingers. “I’m sorry I startled you.” She matched her voice to her hands, low and even as she made slow circles.

  His clenched fingers opened and slid down the wall, landing with a muffled thump on the mattress. As she kneaded and dug her fingers below his shoulder blades, the muscles of his back became supple. The harder she pressed, the deeper he sank into the mattress. His body’s transformation from lethal to boneless drew her closer until she scooted all the way against his side in order to fully use both hands at her task.

  He threw his arms alongside his head, improving her access. Twisted at his hips, the sheet exposed his back to the curve of his buttocks.

  “Good. Verr-good.” After the briefest pause, he appended another phrase. “Thank you.”

  She kneeled to add force behind her strokes. “Five words in a row.” Her thumbs pushed into the hollows below his shoulder blades, making him groan in his throat. “I fully expect Shakespeare next.”

  Used to the rhythm of his silences and speech bursts, she focused on gliding her hands across his skin. In a moment he’d say three or four words to move their communication dance another step.

  Instead of speaking, he raised himself on two arms, like a push-up, then stayed up with only one bracing his torso. The other encircled her waist and yanked her flat to the still-warm pillow. The speed of the action took her breath away.

  Not only did he have moves, he had biceps like no man’s she’d ever touched, and her fingers bonded to the arms above her. While she marveled that she could in fact be squeezing a muscle this big on a man, nothing she did put a dent in his strength.

  Unlike her, the pillow and sheets had spent the night next to Rey’s skin, covering him and imprinting with his scent. The musk and spice that she’d noticed faintly in the car yesterday rose around her and replaced the lingering traces of her own shampoo with flashes of man, heat, working on a boat deck in the sun, bare arms and sweat and the desire to throw herself wide open. She breathed deeply, glad for the pillow under her head as a weightless feeling left her floating, anchored only where her hands connected to him.

  If he’d asked a question, she’d been too dazed to answer, which must have satisfied him because he kissed her. In the awkwardness of last night they’d been exhausted and building trust. Somehow kissing hadn’t happened, but being pressed body to body in a bed made this kiss rise to a stratospheric level of sizzle.

  “Grace.” He could say her name with a hundred different intonations. This one played across her skin like a breeze while his hand slid over her shirt to cup her breast. His tone was both request for permission and promise.

  “Please.” She arched as his fingers found her nipple through the fabric and tugged. She wanted more, wanted him to twist and roll those needy nerves with nothing between them, but at least she could touch his chest and arms without obstruction. She could stroke the tattoo, feel it strain toward her. He was art in human form. When his skin moved and shifted with life, the tension in the planes of his muscles tightened her own needs, stretched her wants to the breaking point. “Touch me.” Her plea ended with a moan as her hips searched to fill the aching need at their center.

  She didn’t expect an answer, not a verbal one, but his breath caught, stopped for an instant, then he put more than words into his reply. He bunched her shirt across her breastbone and released the pressure of her bra. Her breasts, bared, felt doubled in size and sensitivity. Cool air didn’t slow the flush of sensation in her nipples because he immediately covered her breasts with his hands. His fingertips were rough, but he was gentle. Her need, his touch, their skin to skin, all combined into hunger.

  They’d shifted until her knees cradled his hips. It felt so natural to squeeze the tight rise of his butt and urge his body deeper into the vee of hers. He wore smooth loose shorts, and his hard cock was right there pushing at her as they humped with want and speed and force.

  The urge to touch that steel took her hand to his fly. Near her ear, his panting grew louder. His fingers burned on her breasts and his lips scorched her neck until she thought she would explode from the inside out with the heat of his body and the sensations building in her core.

  Then his mouth reached her breasts, and the only way she could respond was to rub harder and faster at the fabric while he bucked. His weight pushed into her pelvis but didn’t crush the breath from her, even as his lips pulled harder and her need magnified. She shaped her hand around the stiff length and found the dampness coming through his shorts. Faster, harder, as he suckled her breast and pushed her so close to the fall that she must have squeezed too firmly, because he froze and groaned above her.

  She opened her eyes. His head reared back, lips pulled from his teeth, and the skin stretched tight across his red-stained cheekbones.

  Then he rolled away, leaving her empty and chilled.

  His spine curved like a turtle shell, but she knew better than to ask so, did you just...or reach under the sheets to check. Even though his musk surrounded her and her skin tingled with the burn of his morning beard, this real-life moment left her clueless.

  “Epic fail.” Bitterness rode his words.

  Obviously he referred to his performance, but he’d labeled the hottest kiss she’d ever had a failure. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  “Not you.” He flung his arm over his head like he was hiding.

  “Not you either, so snap out of it.” Although she ached with incompletion, she adjusted her bra and shirt and stood. “We have to drive across Tennessee. I’ll check out while you...” she confirmed that his cane and legs were propped beside the bed, “...get moving.”

  He finally looked at her. His hair was mussed, whether by her hands or by sleeping didn’t matter, because it added to his bad boy appeal. “Sorry.”

  “I have no idea what you’re apologizing for.” This was the type of moment where flirty women tossed their hair or stuck their nose in the air, so she gave both a try. He looked like he needed a good laugh, and she had to restore her own equilibrium. “If it was kissing me, then don’t. Apologize, that is.”

  “Pretty mad.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am pretty mad.” She crossed her arms and stared at him. “I’m tired of you beating yourself up.”

  An almost loopy look crossed his face as his eyes fell to her chest. “Pretty when mad.”

  “And you’re quite articulate when you want to tease me, aren’t you.” She grabbed her purse as much to hide the glow his compliment gave her as to find her wallet. The room was feeling too small and close for her to continue the discussion. “I’ll return with coffee.”

  Chapter Six

  West of Knoxville, the gas needle had dropped to the quarter mark when the song that s
ignaled a message from Rey blurted out of Grace’s purse, freezing her hands on the steering wheel while she suspected red crept from her neckline to her hairline.

  Singing with her phone, he missed the high notes and stretched the “maybe” longer than the original. He probably guessed she’d watched the videos of lip-synching soldiers performing that song. Because Jenni kept sending links with snarky commentary, he would be correct, but that didn’t mean Grace had the hots for soldiers. Or at least not for all soldiers.

  She wanted to crawl into the trunk when Rey waved jazz hands, but thankfully the ringtone ended as she took the next exit.

  “My calls?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Wait.” He fiddled with his phone until infamous Korean pop music blared into the car. “For you.”

  “‘Gangnam Style’ makes you think of me? That is so—”

  “Iron-ic. Maybe.”

  “I was going to say out of date.”

  “Yours. Hip? Think not.”

  That made her want to laugh as she pulled up to the pump. “Agreed, we’re both hopeless.”

  Rey went in for coffee while she filled the tank. The wait gave her time to read.

  About this morning. Almost glad I can’t talk, but I should explain. Some vital bits have been AWOL, but I can’t take geezer meds b/c pulmonary embolism risk. They said the problem’s common, not permanent, and PT had therapy for it (let’s seriously not discuss that) but nothing helped. Pretty happy this morning when all signs pointed go but hate to admit I missed the target. I screwed up, but you made it OK. There are probably better words, but this is a sufficiently awkward cluster already.

  He must have worried she didn’t understand, because there was a brief second message.

  To be clear: I really, really, really hope to try that again. With you. When you’re ready.

  The anxiety she’d felt during the drive this morning, wondering what he’d expect to happen tonight and where they’d both sleep at his apartment, evaporated when she considered how worried this confession must make him. His tattoo, his shirt that said “My Other Ride’s a Blast” and the way he showed the world his C-legs by wearing shorts in November underscored his self-image. For him to reveal what magazines claimed to be a man’s biggest fear softened her, but his willingness to proceed at her pace, instead of at the speed she assumed guys as hot as Rey usually charged, eased the nerves that had tightened her chest.

  Or maybe he knew that any woman would feel like a goddess to be told she was a magic cure. It was entirely possible he was campaigning flat-out to seduce her.

  But that wasn’t necessarily bad. Under her jacket, her breasts still ached with the memory of his hands and mouth. She shifted her feet, forced to stay in one place by the pump although the thrum of her unreleased energy made her want to vibrate. In college she’d accepted that she wasn’t a hookup girl, and the guys who were interested in women with her degrees and slow timetable weren’t generally men with vast seduction skills.

  Rey was different. She touched her lips with two fingers. Even though her hand was cold from the metal handle and Rey’s lips had been hot, the slight pressure was enough to recall this morning’s kiss. Thinking about the strength of his arms and the pull of his mouth on her neck warmed her insides until her breath was almost visible in the November air.

  The speed of her heartbeat told her that when she took the leap and said yes to Rey, being together was going to add up to more than great sex. Like the wake from a super-fast ship, repercussions were going to wash through her life. Instead of being safely ensconced on the east coast, he’d be in Pateros, close enough to see on weekends. The privacy of texting every night would be replaced by navigating their relationship under the public gaze of a small town.

  She hooked the nozzle into the pump at the same moment she saw Rey push open the convenience store door with his forearm, a coffee tray in one hand and the other gripping his cane.

  Change was coming. She was driving at it instead of away.

  * * *

  The paper cup in Rey’s hands had cooled to the approximate temperature of the air blasting from the defrost, but holding it gave him something to do that wasn’t replaying this morning. First he’d overslept. Then he’d almost shattered her nose, but thankfully Grace didn’t know that. Worse, he’d shot his wad like a teenager and utterly failed to please her the way a man should take care of a woman. She must have read his explanation at the gas station.

  “You know, I liked this morning.” Out of the blue, she tossed an ambiguous statement.

  Although he was a simple guy, more so since stepping on a mine had focused his life on basics like live, walk, run, his chick radar still worked. Sketchy sometimes, but functional enough that the way she formed that sentence, so hesitating and quiet, gave back a chirp.

  “Good...” Her empty cup was stuffed in the holder. Like most women, she drank it milky, but without flavors to clutter the brew. It was the type of rhythmic three-word phrase that he was able to order for her at stops. “Coffee.”

  “Not the coffee.”

  Visual check of her smile confirmed what he’d heard in her voice. “Bacon?” They’d stopped at a diner near the motel.

  “Not the bacon. And before you ask, not the eggs.”

  The lilt in her voice demonstrated she was teasing too, and he wanted to speak the way he always had, offer her a song and dance—dancing, that was something he still had to try again—and sweep her into bed to show her he could last the whole race. “So. Liked toast?”

  “Not the toast.” She didn’t take her eyes from the dotted lines along I-40 as pink rose to her cheekbones. Even though she blushed over everything, she wasn’t thinking about toast.

  “Rest?” He meant, Would you like to take this exit, park at a rest stop or somewhere quiet and make out? Maybe in the old days they would’ve hiked a scenic trail to find privacy. In that fantasy she’d marvel at a squirrel or scenery the way women did, and he’d spout nonsense about her hair or soft skin until she opened like a blossom.

  She misunderstood. “We’ll cover the rest by three.”

  They were driving back to the life of the old Cruz. With a stab in his gut, he wondered if that Cruz would have paid attention to a quiet woman like Grace.

  If he hadn’t, he was an idiot who deserved to be left in a canal.

  * * *

  Grace thought the housing at Fort Campbell was tidy, even the homes that had more kid gear than the school where her sister taught. Lawns and parking strips were mowed and edged to carpet-quality, flags flew next to doors and not one stray November leaf blew in the street.

  Rey had been texting for the last half hour while she had followed signs and the navigation system prompts and tried not to dwell on who might be waiting at his apartment.

  Two minivans occupied the parking pad, and two women stood on the sidewalk while a handful of children chased each other on the grass.

  “Friends. Wife.”

  “They’re your friends’ wives? Sure as hell better not be yours.” She winced. “Oops.” She’d said that out loud, and he laughed until she grinned too. “You make me talk to myself.”

  “Good. Eave-eave-eave-drop.” While she reversed to align the rental car tires with the curb, he pointed to the blonde carrying a winter-suited baby on her hip. “Kris-tin. Cap-tain wife.”

  “Wait a sec.” She could parallel park on a rainy December night on First Hill in Seattle, but not at a flat curb with a passenger and two women staring in judgment.

  “Jew. L.”

  That sounded like two words, which couldn’t be right. “Jewel? She’s the other woman?” She cranked the wheel and tried to control her heartbeat, knowing they’d see if she checked her teeth in the mirror.

  “Yes.” His grin was as big as the curves on the second woman. “Bes
t bud. Wife.”

  Once the car’s movement stopped, the kids swarmed the passenger side before Grace switched off the ignition.

  Rey opened his door and levered himself upright. By now she was nearly used to the miracle, but the two women cheered and cried in a rush of hugs and cheek-to-cheek kisses. When the blonde passed her baby to Rey, the group’s love for him made Grace blink. The tight threesome on the grass surrounded by kids was his home.

  Then Rey pulled her into the circle. “Grace Kim.” He hugged her, but she didn’t think he needed help with balance. Since it was too awkward to stand stiff under the weight of his arm, she slid closer to his hip and wrapped her own arm around his waist. Somehow being held tighter to him was more comfortable than standing alone.

  “My husband told me what happened last April, how your life got hijacked by this brah’s boneheaded plan and that picture.” Jewel shook her head and smiled.

  “You know?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or shrug, because she hadn’t thought of the concocted photo in months, except when she’d noticed it on his bulletin board. After she’d sent the smartphone, Rey had explained about the warlord’s daughter, but she didn’t realize he’d told other people about their false engagement. Other than Jenni, she hadn’t told anyone.

  “Didn’t expect you to tolerate the man for this long,” Jewel continued.

  “Ouch,” Rey said, covering his heart with his free hand. “Cold.”

  “Uncle Cruz.” The biggest girl grabbed his hand. “Can we sit in your car? Please?”

  “Here’s your keys.” Kristin tossed him a metal ring as he followed the kids to a garage. In a quieter aside, she said, “We want to thank you, Grace. You’ve been amazing for him.”

  “I didn’t do anything special.” She hadn’t visited him a second time at Walter Reed, one of those good intentions swamped by summer cruises.

  “You paid attention. Our husbands are overseas a lot, and we tried our best—” the blonde broke off to remove her earring from grasping little fingers.