I pause to inhale and stop the angry tears threatening behind my lids. “It’s fucked up and I didn’t want you to know what a mess my life is. You were the one person who didn’t know about my dad being the island drunk.”
I finally lift my gaze from the floor and meet her eyes. Her hand covers her mouth and tears dampen her lashes. The last thing I want is her pity.
“You have no reason to be ashamed for taking care of your dad.”
I shrug. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t grow up here. You don’t know the feeling of being the subject of local gossip.”
She snorts. “Maybe not the local gossip.”
I lift a corner of my mouth in a half-assed smile. “Right.”
“I’m not sure if I should tell you this or not, but since we’re being truthful, Hailey told me about what you and Carter do for your dad.”
I cringe and silently curse Hailey. “Great.”
I don’t see pity in her eyes. She steps closer. “She told me after the Legion. I’ve only known a few days.”
“But you didn’t say anything.”
“I’m smart enough to know not to get into the bear enclosure.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Am I the bear?” The words come out as a growl and I immediately cringe at my angry tone.
She steps close enough to poke me in the chest. I catch her finger and hold her hand against my heart.
“Don’t poke the bear.” My voice is low, but not threatening.
“Too late.” She hesitates before meeting my eyes. The moment feels too heavy and too real. I hope she can’t feel my heart racing under her hand. I inhale and exhale to calm myself, trying to focus on controlling my heart rate. Nothing works.
“Why are you leaving?”
“I need to go home.” She looks away.
“Albuquerque is too far away.”
“It’s home. It’s where I’m from and where my parents live.” She sighs and I hear the sadness in her voice. Wrapping my arms around her shoulders, I pull her closer. “I need to figure out my life after the past couple of months. Reexamine some life choices and decide who I am anymore.”
“What if I asked you to stay?” I tense, waiting for her rejection.
“Don’t. I can’t.” My shirt muffles her words. I feel her lips press against my skin through the thin material. “My life is too much of a mess.”
The contact isn’t enough. I lift her chin and kiss her.
At first she doesn’t return the kiss. I press my lips against hers one more time before pulling away. She grips the front of my shirt and stops me.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she whispers before meeting my eyes.
“Right. Of course not. You’re leaving. Moving home.” I’m not going to ask her to stay again.
“Okay.” I attribute the disappointment in her voice to the idea of moving home.
I run the back of my hand down her cheek. “One more for the road?”
My attempt to lighten the mood works. She gives me a small smile before standing on her tiptoes to brush her lips along mine.
I feel a slight breeze when her towel drops to the floor.
The breath I try to inhale stalls in my throat. An unfamiliar feeling settles in my chest as I kiss her.
As she unbuttons my jeans, my heart races, but not in anticipation of her hand or mouth on me. My heartbeat skips and stutters. I inhale and still her hand before I blow out my breath in a slow exhale. I don’t want her on her knees. She’s the one leaving. This should be about her. I want to leave a lasting mark on her. Not her body, her soul.
“I want to make this about you.” I lead her to the bed and make her sit. Slowly I remove my jeans and shirt. Not moving, other than the rise and fall of her chest, she silently watches me. Every one of my movements is deliberate and meant to seer the memory of me onto her brain.
I kneel at her feet and run my hands up her calves before parting her thighs.
Never once do I break eye contact with her as I press my lips to her skin.
The only thing that matters right now is making her feel good.
Her eyes flutter closed when I press two fingers inside of her.
“Look at me,” I breathe against her skin and wait for her to follow my command. “Don’t. Don’t hide yourself from me.”
Once she reveals the deep green of her eyes, I pause. Her usual fire is missing. Like the day at my house on the couch, some other emotion flashes in her eyes.
I focus on making her smile and erasing whatever sadness I imagine I see.
Soon her breathing turns to pants and she tangles her fingers in my hair as her thighs tighten. I keep going, knowing she’s close. I need to feel and taste her pleasure more than I need air. I want to get drunk on her until I don’t care about tomorrow.
At the moment her orgasm hits her, she closes her eyes. I let my lids drop closed as well, allowing my other senses a chance to take over.
I memorize the scent of raspberries and the softness of her skin beneath my touch.
After, I kiss her inner thigh, making her tremble. I blow warm air across her wet skin to watch her skin pebble with goose bumps before I stand.
“I packed the condoms already.” Her words stop me before I reach the bathroom. When I turn, she’s pointed to the duffle bag. I easily find the box on top of her other stuff.
This time when we join together, there isn’t the familiar itch. This isn’t about getting off or fluffing my ego by getting her off.
I’m not sure what this is.
I slide out for a moment. Realization this is probably the last time I’ll get to do this with her makes me pause. What if this is it?
Unable to meet her stare, I close my eyes and duck my head into her neck.
She wraps her legs around my hips and uses her heels to encourage me. I feel her fingers run through my hair, softly scratching my scalp.
I thrust into her, giving her what she wants.
The weird combination of emotion and dread swirl together as I pick up my pace. I slide my hand between us with the goal of drawing out one more orgasm for her.
At the moment when her back arches and her hands cup my ass, controlling my rhythm, I release the last strings of my control.
Our gazes lock for a beat before I’m the one to hide my emotions behind my lids.
Offer to stay. Don’t make me beg. Change your mind. Please.
“You’re smothering me,” she whispers, tapping my shoulder.
“Sorry.” I shift my weight to my arms and plank above her for a moment before I step off the bed.
I take too long in the bathroom. If it had a window, I might try to crawl out. Facing Cari again and faking it are the last things I want to do right now.
When I come out, she’s dressed and the bed is stripped. The sheets are wadded up at the top of her laundry bag.
That was fast.
“I guess you’re really leaving.”
She nods. “I want to catch the ferry and get some miles behind me tonight. It’s going to take me a couple of days to drive down there.”
I want to ask what’s the rush, but I don’t. It’s not my business.
We stand in silence for too long. Awkwardness spreads between us.
“Maybe you should flip me off for old time’s sake.” I smirk around my hollow joke.
“You could sneak out the slider when I turn my back. Or throw your shirt at me.” Her snark is missing from her voice.
“On the count of five?” I hold up my open hand.
She surprises me when she walks into my arms and hugs me tight. “We could say we’ll still be friends, but I’m not sure if we ever were.”
I envelop her and hold her tight. “Don’t punch me, but I’m going to miss your hostile sense of humor.”
Her laugh sounds a little like a sob. “I’ll text you. Or maybe leave rude comments on your social media to keep you in line.”
“Wouldn’t want my ego to get too big.”
“Too lat
e.” She leans away and I let her go.
“Take care of yourself, Caribou Caldwell. Be kind to strangers.”
“You too, Erik Kelso.” Again, she doesn’t quite meet my eyes as she speaks.
I pretend to walk toward the living room before dashing for the slider. I think I hear her laughter as I run up the hill.
I can still taste her on my lips as I drive away.
My pretties,
The sad day has come.
You know how I hate to be the bearer of bad news. (Unless it involves faux-liberties getting their cheap desserts.) But more on that topic in another post later today. #reallifehotmess
No, this is soul crushing.
Get the gallon size ice cream and a big spoon.
Load up on the tissues.
After the bonanza yesterday, we flew too close to the sun, my fine feathered friends.
It’s with a heavy heart I post this picture. If you look closely the hearts are smudged with tears from my very own eyes.
Our beloved HAG is in LURVE. Check out these pics of him professing his true-lurve feelings . . . with his tongue.
Now the question we all want the answer for: Who is the luckiest woman in the world who gets to touch the magnificent ass?
I hope she never washes her hands. I know I wouldn’t.
Sad, teary smooches,
Gomez.
P.S. Anyone know if the brother is single? Yes, yes, I know I’m fickle. But you love me anyway.
I STAND ON the hill above the ferry and watch her Mini drive onto the ferry dock. She has a one boat wait. I could run down to the dock before the next boat unloads and beg her to stay.
But I don’t.
I lean against my truck and stare.
I lose track of the Mini once it’s loaded on the boat.
There’s still time for me to run after her. I could be down the hill before the last car is loaded.
Even after the ropes land on the deck and the engine roars, I’m still thinking I could stop her from leaving.
White water churns behind the boat as I resign myself.
She’s gone.
I didn’t stop her from leaving.
I’m not giving up.
Not yet.
Not ever.
I pick up the harmonica and blow. The sound is not unlike a cat in heat.
Even if my glasses aren’t hipster, the harmonica playing screams sad hipster.
Why we have a harmonica in the house I don’t even know. It must be Carter’s, along with the collection of kazoos in his room.
My vision of myself riding the rails as a modern day hobo, playing my harmonica for my new vagabond friends might be more farfetched than I imagined.
Nothing better to do, I sit on the deck and practice. It’s been ten days since Cari drove on the ferry and left.
I’ve been a grumpy bastard ever since. Those are Jonah’s words.
I wonder if Jonah will start a jug band with me.
Probably not. He’s probably too cool for a jug band. Clearly Carter is in a secret kazoo band society. Maybe I can join them. Although I think I’m more of a washboard or ukulele player.
At least Jonah’s not pissed at me anymore, not since I charmed my way through my do-over interview Dan arranged. Our wholesale orders are up. We’re getting inquiries from national and international businesses who want to order or partner with us.
I should feel like celebrating. Our hard work is paying off.
The year of long hours, sweat and blood prepared us to be ready to maximize the attention from butt frenzy.
Or so Roslyn tells me.
She’s wise in the ways of media. More than a little scary, she tends to be right. I’m learning to trust her and just say yes to whatever she suggests.
After narrowly escaping Cougarpalooza at the Dog House, I’m not doing anything in public without consulting her.
I deleted all the social media apps from my phone again.
I’m better off disconnected from society, real or virtual.
Hell, two days ago, I got Carter to sit down with our parents to talk about running a taxi service and how it enables Dad’s drinking if he knows one of us will always be there. Not the best night in the Kelso family history, but in the end, Mom saw our side. Promises about change were made. Far from a real intervention, we can only hope Dad will get himself some help before he truly hits bottom.
However, Roslyn is wrong about one major thing.
Hence the harmonica playing.
She says I did the right thing in letting Cari go. It’ll be better in the end.
So much for being all about a love story for the ages.
I should’ve seen this coming.
In the classic horror movies of the eighties, things always go to hell after the couple has sex.
That’s when the shit hits the fan. Depending on the film, literal shit.
I blow a sad string of caterwauling notes.
I’m somewhere on the other side of pitiful, but I can’t seem to care.
Before I can’t stand to be in my skin, I decide to go for a long run. As long and as far as it takes to get over this feeling.
I might run up the island and then swim to Canada.
A MONTH AFTER Cari’s departure, I finally open Roslyn’s email about corporations and other businesses interested in riding my ass fame.
I expect two or three. Underwear. At worst one for diapers for men or hemorrhoid creams. Maybe sunscreen, because who wants a burned ass?
Leather chaps.
Butt pads.
I realize there are more products related to asses than seems acceptable.
Roslyn’s attachment includes a list of over a hundred names.
Apparently, hot buns can sell a lot of unrelated products.
Hot dog buns, cinnamon buns, those sweet rolls from Hawaii . . . a lot of bread products.
A sunscreen brand wants to recreate their iconic image with a dog pulling down my towel.
“Holy shit.”
Ros answers on the second ring. “Erik.”
“Holy shit.”
“I’m guessing you finally opened my list.”
“All of these people want to work with me? Because of my butt?”
“It appears so.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. This doesn’t include the porn offers. I figured those were an automatic no.”
“Thank you.”
“I told them you were flattered.”
“I am.”
“I figured.
“How do I choose? Do I have to choose?”
“You can say yes to everyone who asks. Think of this as dating to have a long term relationship.”
Okay, that puts me out of my comfort zone already, but I don’t tell her this tidbit about my dating history.
“You need to be smart about who, if anyone, you say yes to. You’re a brand. Whidbey Joe is a brand. Your first priority needs to be to protect those.”
“And my second priority?”
“Make as much money as quickly as possible before you’re irrelevant again.”
“Gee, Roslyn, you’re good for a man’s ego.”
“Did Dan tell you that, too?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” She types something on her laptop. “Anything look appealing? Want me to tell you who I’d recommend?”
“I’d like to avoid anything having to do with body functions involving butts.”
“Those products will pay the most money.”
“Seriously?”
“Huge money.”
“Being known as Hot Ass Guy is barely tolerable. Imagine all the shit I’d get for being Mr. Hemorrhoids. Or Mr. Irritable Bowel Syndrome? How am I ever supposed to date again when people think of those things when they see me?”
“If you nail down your photographer, you won’t have to worry about dating.”
“Offering relationship advice?”
“Working the romance angle.”
&n
bsp; “Except the part where there is no romance. She left, remember?”
“Shame.” The sound of her fingers flying over her keyboard tells me she’s only partially focused on me.
“Should I let you go?”
“No, just multi-tasking and taking some notes while I have you on the phone.”
“I’m overwhelmed.” I admit.
“That’s why you have me.”
“I might love you, Roslyn Porter.”
“Save it for your photographer. Or even better, the camera when we shoot these endorsement ads.”
Great—my best dating option right now is a lens. Isn’t that how this all started?
“Speaking of products, did you okay the T-shirts and mugs being sold online? If not, you can probably legally claim their earnings if you wanted to pursue it. Unless you signed a model release.”
“I haven’t signed anything for anyone but you and my overpriced lawyers.”
“Smart boy. You’re learning. I can recommend a lawyer who’s excellent at contract negotiation, and reasonable. I’ll send you his information.” Roslyn can’t be that much older than I am, but sometimes she speaks to me like a child while she is an adult. I guess in some ways, she’s much better at being a real adult than I am. She’d never do anything spontaneous that could get her in trouble like being naked in public.
Imagine how boring never being spontaneous would be.
Exhaling, I make a mental note to speak to the forces behind the butt swag. “I’ll talk to Sally and Connie.”
“Sure you don’t want me to? I’m good at being scary.”
“That’s what Dan said.”
“Dan told you I’m scary?” Her voice becomes soft “He used the word scary?”
“Not exactly. More like I inferred it. It’s true, though. You know you’re a ball-buster, Ros.”
“The words every women yearns to hear.”
“It’s not a bad thing. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
She’s quiet for a few seconds. “I guess I’ll take the compliment.”
“If this wasn’t a professional relationship, I’d tell you how gorgeous you are and how Carter’s got the most ridiculous crush on you.”
Anything but Love (Wingmen #3) Page 22
