The Reason for Me

by Prescott Lane

  Holt: Meet me outside!

  Have your legs ever moved without you even knowing it? That’s what’s going on. It’s like I’m a puppet, and Holt is the master pulling my strings. I don’t bother changing clothes, still in old sweatpants and a t-shirt. I don’t even bother with shoes. Flicking on my patio light, I see him heading across our lawns and up my patio steps.

  “Did you feel sad or guilty when I kissed you before?” he asks.

  “No,” I whisper. In one stride, he closes the distance between us. “I can’t be . . .”

  “Like you, I haven’t kissed someone in about five years,” he says, running his fingers down the outline of my face. I open my mouth to argue with him, but he’s too quick and pulls me to his mouth. I don’t resist. In fact, I pull him tighter, my hands roaming along the muscles of his back. This is much different than our first kiss, which was so sweet and soft.

  Pinned between the door and his hard body, his hips grind into me. And God help me, my inner vixen takes over, and I grind right back. Granted, I know I haven’t done this in a long time, but this man knows how to move his body. He pins my hands over my head and pulls back slightly, both of us panting. His dick pressed against my stomach, I know exactly what he wants. “Say yes,” he whispers against my mouth.

  Do I want that? Yes? No? Maybe? Shit! I don’t know! And he’s just staring at me with those piercing eyes of his. He releases my wrists, his hand sliding down the curves of my breasts to my hips.

  “Oh God,” I moan softly, reaching behind me for the doorknob. “Good night.”

  “No,” he begs, pulling me to him. “Not good night.”

  “Holt.” His name is my whispered objection.

  “I haven’t been with someone in as long as you. It’s been five years. And until Halloween, I never even thought about it. But now I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “That’s just your penis talking.”

  He busts out laughing. “You don’t hold back a single damn thought, do you?”

  “You’d be surprised,” I flirt and lower my head to his chest, as his fingers play with my hair.

  “Do you feel sad or guilty?” he asks.

  “No. I feel hope,” I say, then it’s my turn to disappear inside.

  CHAPTER SIX

  HOLT

  Every single one of my patients seems to deliver their babies in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn. I don’t sleep much or well, so it doesn’t bother me usually. But as I make my way into the hospital, I can only think about Annalyse, last night, her mouth, her breath, her body rubbing against mine, and the incredible twisting in my gut when she left me alone on her patio.

  She’s not like any woman I’ve ever met before. I’m not even sure what it is about her. She’s got killer curves and a brain to match. Every little thing about her makes my dick throb. It’s more than that, though. She refuses to be fake, to hide, to make polite conversation. I know this woman isn’t going to settle for anything less than my soul. The problem is, I hurt deep in my soul, in a place that I don’t let anyone touch. My soul will never rest.

  But this pull to Annalyse won’t let go, either. I’m clearly fucked. And this is all happening too damn fast. How is that? A few days, two kisses, a couple blog posts, and she’s got my gut twisted into knots already. A woman should not be allowed to affect a man so completely, so easily. I’ve got to establish some clear boundaries with this woman, or she will bulldoze through all my defenses, which will only get her hurt. I know what I want. I’ve known since that first night. But first I need to know where her head is at. Reaching for my laptop, I pull up her blog page.

  The Dirty Truth Blog

  November 3

  Magical dicks and vaginas do not exist

  Let’s just get this out there. There are no magical dicks or vaginas in this world. No man, no matter how great he is in bed, is going to heal what’s hurt or broken in you. Same holds true for my vagina. So what do you do when you find yourself completely attracted to someone who won’t save himself?

  A few months ago, I posted about how I was worried about dating and kissing another man. Well, it finally happened. Well, the kissing happened, not the dating. He says he doesn’t date. But he sure seems to like kissing me. And it sure seems like he wants to do more than kiss me.

  First things first—it feels good kissing him. Really good. Almost too good. I didn’t feel sad or guilty. I didn’t feel like I was cheating on Logan. I didn’t think about Logan at all. Writing that makes me feel sad and guilty, but I think that’s the way it’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to move on. I’m not supposed to compare everyone to Logan. I know I’m ready for something more.

  But the something more being offered isn’t what I thought. This guy doesn’t want a relationship. He told me as much. He hasn’t said it out loud, but I think he’s just looking for a warm body to share his bed. I wonder if it’s even about me. Is it me he wants, or would anyone do?

  God, this is so damn hard. I really like this guy, but I don’t want to be that girl who thinks a guy is going to change his ways for her. And I don’t want to spend my time trying to save him from himself, whatever haunts him.

  But at the same time, I feel so alive when he touches me. Every nerve ending in my body lights on fire. He’s got these beautiful gray eyes and when he looks at me, I swear he knows the pain I’ve been through. I know he understands.

  So do I let myself fall into this man—this man that I know doesn’t want a future? To feel alive for as long as it lasts, knowing I’ll be hurt. Maybe this is a good first step? I can’t really offer a man the white picket fence fairy tale, anyway. You see how confused I am?

  *

  ANNALYSE

  I re-read my post before I hit publish. It’s always unnerving to lay your heart out like that, but it feels good, too—like dumping everything out with your best girlfriends over ice cream. I miss doing that with Meg, and I could really use her advice right now. It’s obvious Holt has some issues with women. I’ve got no idea what they are, why he is the way he is. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t fix him. You can’t really fix or save another person. If I could, I would. The thing is: I once had true love. I haven’t worked so hard to get myself back together only to get sucked back into someone’s darkness. And that could easily happen. Sadness is contagious. I guess happiness is, too. But is my newfound pseudo-happiness enough to pull Holt from his darkness, or will he suck me back into that dark hole I lived in for so long?

  The phone rings, and I reach to get it, hoping it’s Meg. She tends to just know when I need her. I’m hoping this is one of those times.

  “Annalyse,” Holt says. “I’m at work, so I don’t have a lot of time, but I need to make a few things clear.”

  “Okay.”

  “First, I like kissing you, too. It feels really, really good kissing you. And second, don’t think for one second that anyone else would do. It’s been five years, remember? It has to be you.”

  Holy hell, the man who makes small talk for a living just laid it out on the line. Wait a minute! “Did you read my post today?”

  Silence.

  “You must’ve read my post! How could you do that? How am I supposed to trust you? You said you’d only read the ones I told you to,” I say.

  “Guess I really fucked this up.”

  “What else did you read?” I ask, my voice as tiny as I’ve ever heard it.

  “Christ, are you crying?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I’m not about to lie to make him feel better. There are things on that blog that I’m not ready to let him know yet.

  “Don’t cry over me,” he says.

  “What else did you read?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So why’d you read today’s?” I ask.

  “I wanted to know what you were thinking after last night.”

  “You could’ve asked me,” I say.

  “You’re right.”

  “Damn right I am,” I spit out then hang up
.

  *

  Choose happy, dammit! Practice what you preach! But instead, I’ve been pissed all day. Thinking the evening fresh air would do me good, I come out to hang my feet off the lake dock. I just want some peace and quiet, but Doug spots me, plops right down, and starts the small talk. He seems nice enough, but instead my mind is focused on Holt. Being pissed at him has more appeal than fake laughing at Doug’s jokes. Still, I laugh anyway. I wasn’t raised in a cave.

  But then I feel him. Yes, I feel Holt, his intensity. I turn around, seeing him on his back patio. It’s weird to feel someone before you actually see or hear them, but I knew he was there.

  And I feel a little guilty. It probably looks like I’m flirting with Doug or trying to make Holt jealous in some way, but I’m not. Truth is, I’d rather be alone. Shit! You only feel guilty if you care about the other person. Double shit! Now I care about the overbearing asshole. How did that happen?

  And Holt has to know there is no competition between him and Doug, but the way he is marching across the yard tells me Doug is about to get his ass kicked. And for what? Talking to me?

  “Hey, Holt,” Doug starts. “Have you met . . .”

  “Hey, babe,” Holt says, bending over and kissing me on top of the head. My jaw hits the dock. What the hell was that? He gives me a little smirk, takes a seat behind me, and pulls me between his legs, wrapping his arms around me. Then he flashes a look to Doug like he better back the hell off.

  Doug shakes his head slightly. “I guess you’ve met.”

  I can tell Doug thinks his flirting is off. Women must always fall at his feet, but I won’t be one of them. “Halloween,” Holt says, locking his fingers with mine. “Haven’t stopped thinking about her since.” He leans into my neck and whispers, “That’s true.”

  I turn my face up to his, our lips almost touching. I’m supposed to be mad at him. I can’t lose sight of that, but right now the only thing on my mind is the way his lips feel when he kisses me.

  “Guess I’m not getting a ride on your Harley,” Doug says.

  Holt’s entire body tightens, and he pulls back. “You rode that thing again today? I thought I told you . . .”

  I hop right up out of his arms. There’s the anger I was looking for.

  Holt captures my hand. “Doug, could you give us a minute?”

  “Sure,” he says, walking off the dock.

  “Don’t say anything,” Holt says softly. “Let me grovel first.” I smile a little, despite the fact I’m trying not to. “I shouldn’t have read your blog post. I know that. It was a jerk move, and I’m sorry. Second, Doug is not a good relationship guy. So even if you don’t want anything to do with me, please don’t let him hurt you.”

  “We were just talking.”

  “You were just talking. Doug was planning which way to fuck you first.”

  “And what? You want to be the one to fuck me first?”

  “No,” he growls, pulling my hips to his. “I want to be the only man that gets to fuck you.”

  I push him away, half turned on and half pissed. My heart is pounding so loud, I suspect he can hear it. “I don’t need you to protect me from Doug or motorcycles or . . .”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “You’ve got to give me more than that.”

  He takes a step closer to me, running his fingers through my hair. “I’ve lost a lot of people close to me. I couldn’t survive losing someone else.”

  “I lost someone, too. You don’t see me trying to stuff you in bubble wrap and hide you in a tower.”

  He captures me in his arms. “Those are good ideas.” I laugh, my head falling to his shoulder, and he whispers, “Please, no unnecessary risks.”

  “Who’d you lose?”

  “No,” he says, his voice as hard as nails. “You have to be alright with me not talking about certain things.” My heart sinks. What kind of relationship involves no sharing and honesty? “I’m not going to be good at this. I’m warning you ahead of time.”

  “Think I got that much,” I tease.

  He holds out his hand to me, and I look down at his open palm, knowing if I take his hand, I’ll be setting myself up for heartbreak. I told him I wasn’t going to save or fix him, and he’s said there are things he isn’t going to share. He isn’t going to let me in. I know letting someone see your pain is the deepest form of love. He doesn’t want that, and I can’t make him. If I take his hand, am I choosing happy or heartbreak? As I slip my hand into his, I’m not sure.

  We only make it a few feet before I stop. “Wait,” I say, taking my hand from his. Something just doesn’t feel right. I know he’s not looking for a relationship, but I need to make my situation clear to him for my own peace of mind. “Holt, you know how I said I wasn’t going to fix you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there are parts of me that can’t be fixed, either. I just need you to know that.”

  His head tilts, and I know he’s seeing the dark parts of me, the parts the fire has blackened. It’s like he’s looking right through me, but he’s not afraid of what he sees. “Is that what you meant about not offering ‘the white picket fence fairy tale’?” I can only nod. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone that I hadn’t realized was vibrating. “Fuck.”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  He shakes his head and types a response. “It’s the hospital. I need to go, but this is more important.”

  “Go,” I say. “It might be easier if you read it, anyway.”

  “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be,” he says. “The girl who hates small talk and busts my balls every chance she gets is really quiet, shy, a bookworm.”

  “Who can ride a Harley!” I tease.

  He shakes his head a little, his hands finding my waist. “And is the best kisser.”

  “Really?”

  He leans in close, running his finger across my mouth. “All I do is think about your lips. God, they are so soft and smooth. You know how a baby’s skin is so soft, brand new? That’s what your lips feel like. Like no one else has ever touched them.”

  “October 31st,” I say then turn and walk away.

  The Dirty Truth Blog

  October 31

  Happy five-year wedding anniversary, Logan

  I still miss you, every day. Especially today, what should have been our fifth wedding anniversary.

  Hurts.

  We didn’t even get one anniversary. Hell, we didn’t even get one day. We spent less than one hour as husband and wife. It pisses me off more than anything these days. I can still remember the way you looked in the limo driving away from the church towards the reception. All the things we said and did in those few minutes. Your last words to me, “I’ll love you the rest of my life.” I try to focus on those things and not on the sound of the screeching tires, or the look of fear in your eyes as you threw your body on top of mine, shielding me. Or the minutes that followed as I sat on the side of the road holding your head in my lap—your body laying ten feet away. My beautiful wedding dress ripped to shreds and covered in red—blood. Some insensitive bystander thinking it was all a Halloween stunt.

  I hate this day. All my pain coming to the surface. I’m trying, Logan. I really am. I need you, though. I need you to help me. Send me a sign, something. I’m trying to move on. I saw somewhere a saying that read, “It’s the scars you can’t see that are the hardest to heal.” God knows that’s true.

  *

  Crying, I rub the jagged ridges on my stomach—the only outward scar of that horrible day. Our limo was struck in the side by a construction truck. The other driver wasn’t drunk. It was no one’s fault, a freak accident. The tire blew on his truck, causing him to lose control. He struck us with such force the limo flipped over the median into oncoming traffic. Logan was thrown from the limo and run over by another car.

  Meg was following us to the reception and saw the whole thing, and she might be the only reason I didn’t die from shock that day. She reco
gnized the early signs—anxiety, thirst, confusion. She held my hand and wrapped a blanket around me because I refused to let anyone else touch me. I refused to let go of Logan. I know it had to be the worst thing she’s ever seen. Her baby sister holding the severed head of her new husband on the side of the road. But Meg can stand the burn of the most intense fire, and she stayed with me. She never gave up on me.

  And to this day, we’ve never discussed it. She knows I can’t, not even with her. But I needed Holt to know the degree of fire he’s walking into. And while that’s not the whole story, it’s enough. Enough for him to realize that Logan will always be in my heart, and any man who is going to be with me can’t be afraid of that. He’s got to be able to stand that heat and not feel threatened by my love for Logan because it’s not going anywhere—ever.

  And Holt needs to know that what happened that day to me cannot be fixed by him or anyone else. I’m as fixed as I’m getting. My phone rings, and I immediately answer.

  “I read it,” Holt says, and all I can do is sniffle. “I know you don’t want to talk about it.” Another sniffled response. “Come over,” he says. It’s quiet for a long time, long enough that most people would start to feel uncomfortable and try to fill this silence with stupid, meaningless words. But he’s not. He’s not using his usual small talk, and I know he hasn’t hung up. He’s just sitting in the flames with me. Maybe he’s a firewalker, after all? “We don’t have to try to fix each other.”

  “Then what?” I ask.

  “Let me in, and I’ll show you.” I hear a little rap on the back door. Dressed only in a t-shirt and panties, I walk with my phone still to my ear and open the door. His gray eyes are so dark, it’s scary. This is where he lives—in the dark places. And if you live in the dark too long, it becomes your friend. “Tell me what you want?”