Golden Hour (Crescent City)

by Campbell Reinhardt

  Caleb grabs his beer and takes another few gulps of it. “Sure.”

  “Is it a family recipe?” I ask, taking another bite. I bet this tastes amazing at midnight, straight from the fridge. Salty midnight snacks are a huge weakness of mine.

  “Nope,” he says. I don’t say anything, but I guess the look on my face reveals my irritation. Caleb puts his beer down and sighs. “It was a recipe my buddy learned from his wife. When we were in Afghanistan, we caught these guinea hens, and he taught me an improvised version. So much better than those shitty MREs for sure.”

  “Well, his wife is an incredible cook,” I declare as we nibble through the last few bites. “Can I help you clean up?”

  “It’s fine,” he says, taking my plate and the bowl and utensils. “I can handle it.” I watch him, his arms strong and broad, his movements sure and capable.

  I don’t doubt there’s a single thing he can’t do.

  “I’d like to help though.” I pick up with him and try to chat as we head back and forth between the patio and the kitchen. Unfortunately, I’ve never been good at small talk. “So, did you like the army life?” I ask.

  I watch Caleb’s back go stiff, but he never misses a beat. “If you like sand getting trapped in every crevice of your body for months on end, shitty food, no privacy, heat so extreme it makes you puke regularly, and assholes shooting at you and setting up bombs for you to drive over, then you’d love army life.” He takes the plates out of my hands and scrapes them into the garbage.

  “Sorry. Obviously a sore topic,” I mutter. “Um, so, did you get to travel a little? See the world and all that?”

  He stands to his full height, which means he has several inches on me. He smiles, but it isn’t quite nice. “Did you learn everything you know about the army from recruitment commercials?”

  I bristle as he goes back to putting dishes into the dishwasher, calm as you can please. “Sorry. Look, I don’t know what you want to talk about, okay? I feel like I keep sticking my foot in my mouth. I’m not trying to pry.”

  “Then stop prying,” he suggests as he adds soap powder, his voice so flippantly arrogant, it makes my temper flare.

  “How ‘bout next time you have me over, you write up a list of acceptable topics and we’ll go from there?” I snap. “No wonder people keep saying they can’t work with you. I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone as moody as you are, Caleb Warren.”

  I hold my breath and stifle a long string of curses. I just wanted to thank him for being nice to Gran. How did I wind up telling him the gossip everyone at Crescent City Memorial is whispering? That was low down and callous of me.

  There’s an apology about to trip off my tongue when Caleb’s sarcastic laugh makes me pull it back.

  “Unlike you, I don’t give a goddamn what any of those assholes thinks of me, darlin.’” He tosses the door to the dishwasher shut, cranks it on, and leans toward me, so close, our faces almost touch. “I don’t like people knowing my business for the exact reason you’re running from all your so-called ‘friends.’ I don’t need anyone’s pity, and I’m not going to wear my heart on my sleeve and then get all bent out of shape when people treat me like some wounded bird.”

  “That’s not...I don’t…” I stutter, my breath coming out quick and fast.

  “You don’t?” He shakes his head and puts one hand on my hip. I feel the brace of his fingers, strong and warm, through the light cotton of my t-shirt and it makes my breath spiral. “What? So you’re saying you’re unaware that you’ve been walking around all this time looking like you need saving? You’re seriously trying to tell me that you don’t know full well you have the saddest doe eyes anyone’s ever seen? Huh? C’mon, Elise. You’re just begging for someone to come and save you.”

  “You shut your damn mouth,” I whisper, my whole body shaking so hard, my teeth chatter. Shit. I wanted to snarl the words, to throw them back in his smug face. “You see one side of this, Warren. You see how people treat me, how they react to me. But you didn’t know him. You didn’t know Mike and how much people loved him. They don’t want to save me,” I say, balling my hands into fists so tight, my fingernails bite my palms. “They know I must be broken, because no one could lose someone like Mike and come out intact. He’s who they miss. He’s the one they wish they could save.” I take a shaky breath and look up at him, right into those magnetic, sexy eyes. “And don’t think for a second I disagree with any of them. I’m not being a martyr here. Mike was...full of life. Full of love. And I wish—with my whole heart, I wish—he could be here today instead of me.”

  I’ve never said it out loud, and now that I do, it knocks the wind out of me.

  I expect the argument to keep going, even if I’ve got nothing left to add. I should have never come here with him. I should have never dredged this all up.

  “Elise.” I look up when he says my name. His eyes are bright, burning into me, and his jaw has softened, no longer mocking. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I sigh, sagging against the counter. “I’ve been in a bad place lately, and I get that I’ve been a bit of a drag. Sorry you met me at a low point.” I try to smile, but I’m not quite sure I pull it off. “I was never the life of the party, but I swear, I wasn’t always such a total wreck.”

  For a second there’s only the sound of our breathing and the press of his fingers at my side. Then he pulls me closer, one step at a time, until I’m an inch from his body…

  Barely brushing against him…

  Pressed tight, hips locked, looking into his eyes…

  “If this is your low point, I’m glad I met you during it,” he says, his voice hitched low.

  “Why?” I ask, but I’m watching that mouth, strong and sure, moving to mine too fast.

  And I’m doing nothing at all to stop it.

  “Because,” he whispers, “if I’m this attracted to you when you’re a mess, I probably would have been out of my mind if I met you when you were yourself.”

  I have nothing to say, but it doesn’t matter if I did. He presses his lips hard on mine, his hands tightening around my hips and dragging me close, so tight in his arms, I’m crushed against him.

  For a second I go stiff, feel wrong, but his tongue slides across my bottom lip. My mouth falls open like he whispered a secret word. He arches me back, moaning into my mouth, the sound of him locked low and deep in my throat.

  My hands move up over the tight muscles of his chest, to the strong base of his neck. I run my fingers through his dark hair, cropped close to his head. I pull him down to me and squeeze my eyes tight when he lifts me up and sets me on the counter.

  He steps back, his eyes flashing, his jaw tight, and just looks at me. It’s the first time since the day Mike died that I’ve been looked at like without pity, without worry. Caleb’s look is pure, starved want, and I suddenly know exactly how those water droplets felt when Caleb flicked them on the hot pan.

  He puts his palms on my knees and looks down, his nostrils flared from breathing too hard. He presses down and slides up, spreading his fingers as he works his way up my thighs. He stops at my hips and closes the distance between us, his mouth finding mine again.

  “Goddamn, you drive me crazy,” he murmurs as his mouth moves along the side of my jaw. He buries his face in my neck, the prickle of his five o’clock shadow rubbing me raw.

  “Crazy like you can’t stand me?” My mind is fogged. My body is shaky. To steady myself, I reach down and put both hands on his shoulders.

  Big mistake. My fingers dig into their strong, elastic curves, and the fog turns to a pitch black midnight where I’m crazy like a madwoman, tearing to get his shirt off. Because I want to feel the heat of his skin and the muscle underneath. Because he’s making me greedy and wild, and I love it.

  He chuckles and rips the shirt over his head, tossing it to the side. “Crazy like out of my goddamn mind, Elise.” He looks down at my hands, running over his body like I’m looking for something specific.


  I’m not. I’m just savoring. I’m just letting myself feel and be felt…

  My forehead drops to his chest, and I press my nose to his skin and breathe deeply. “Mmm,” I hum, my blood singing with the visceral pleasure being close to him brings me.

  “I did some work on the roof before you came by. Apologies if I smell like a sweat hog,” he says, his fingers running over my hair and along my neck in a loop that I never want to stop.

  “You smell amazing,” I say, drawing that scent deeper. I tilt my head back to look at him and he cups my face with both hands. “I can’t sleep with you.”

  “I wasn’t asking for that.” His thumbs trace my cheekbones. I close my eyes against the perfection of those calloused fingers against my skin.

  My fingernails scrape against his skin softly, and, when I look down, I can see he may not be asking for anything, but his body isn’t necessarily in agreement with that sentiment.

  He follows my gaze and shakes his head. “Darlin,’ I can’t make excuses for him. Like I said, I’m more than happy doing what we were.”

  There’s guilt radiating through me. Guilt because I was just Mike’s, just one blink ago, and now he’s not even here anymore. Guilt because Caleb is someone I’m using because I need to be touched. And the most guilt because I know good and damn well he’s so much more than that.

  And I really don’t think either one of us wants to go there.

  “I haven’t been touched...like this...in so long,” I say, pressing myself into his hands. I want him to touch more. I want him to imprint his touch on me so I can lie in my bed and run the memory of it through my brain and over my skin.

  To replace the ones that spilled out like sand through a sieve and disappeared for good.

  My throat feels scratched up and raw when I think about it. Because the truth scares the shit out of me.

  And the truth is I’m forgetting things about Mike. His exact smell when he wore the new cologne I gave him. The pattern of those spokes of brown and gold in his green eyes. The way his hair looked when he let it get a little too long. I’m forgetting, and I can’t ask anyone for those memories back. Losing them is just one more way I’m still failing Mike and myself.

  And the loss of those memories is leaving me empty. I don’t care if it’s callous, I don’t care if it’s greedy and heartless and shitty...I don’t want to live empty. I don’t want this shallow, porous existence. I have to fill myself up somehow, and this—this—is something I can get lost in.

  I can get lost in Caleb for now.

  He moves his hands to my shoulders and rubs them, long and hard, down my back and up again. “Touched like that?”

  “Mmm. Yes,” I sigh, leaning hard on him, letting my hands drag slowly over his skin.

  He strokes my ribs and lets his thumbs drag along the underside of my breasts. “Like that?” His voice is huskier.

  “Like that,” I agree, then wiggle back and pull my shirt up over my head. “And more.”

  His hands, huge and warm, close over my breasts. I push forward and he squeezes, running his thumbs in an arc over the sensitive skin peeking out the top of the cup. His fingers hook into the lacy fabric, and I wait for him to give it a pull, to send us both into a dizzying spiral of torn-off clothes and sweaty bodies wild with friction.

  I wait for it, eyes shut, until I feel the cotton of my shirt pulled over my head. I open my eyes, and Caleb is tugging down, picking up my wrist and pushing one limp arm, then the other, through the armholes. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  He grabs his shirt off the counter and pulls it back over his head. “The pace,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

  “I’m fine, Caleb. I promise I’ll let you know if I need you to stop.” I catch the edge of his shirt and drag him back to the counter. He lets me. He rubs his forehead against my shoulder and kisses me through the fabric.

  He pulls back and cups a hand under my chin. “How exactly are you going to tell me what you need when you have no damn idea?”

  All the good that was coursing through me like some kind of strong drug in my veins empties out with a sudden rush. “No idea what I want, huh?” I hop off the countertop. “You know what? I get enough condescending bullshit about what I feel and what I need from my friends and family and fucking therapists. I don’t need another person telling me what the hell is good for me.”

  He lets me grab my purse and march to the door before he speaks again, his voice strong and anchored with a sadness that threatens to pull me down.

  More than ever, I want to walk out the door—I want this is be fun, good, heady...or nothing. I don’t need—

  To turn to him. But I do.

  I sure as hell don’t need to walk back across the room, stand right in front of him, so close I can feel the hum of electric desire between us. But I do that, too.

  “I know what it’s like, Elise. I know how it feels to tow that ridiculous line between the place you left in the past and where you are right now.” His eyes are fixed on my mouth while he talks. “This past year? I’ve been so fucking broken that I didn’t think I’d ever feel whole again.”

  “And do you?” My voice stops and starts a dozen times over those three words.

  “Right now is the closest I’ve been,” he says. He reaches out and touches my waist with two fingers. It’s a silent invitation. That maybe, maybe there’s a chance that our crumbled souls could become one whole person, even if it’s only for a night.

  I reach for him again, my fingers knotted in his shirt, my lips desperate on his.

  And he pushes me away again. “Elise.” He swallows so hard, I can see his throat working. “I want this. But not yet.”

  “Why not?” I demand.

  “Because if this is one night now, that’s all it will ever be. I’m not sure what exactly I want from you,” he says, running his fingers over my neck, stroking my pulse point with gentle fingers, “but it’s sure as hell more than one night.”

  “I’m...ready. Now,” I lie, burying my head against his skin.

  It’s a new smell, unfamiliar but inviting. The way he smells is a combination of sweat and his soaps and colognes, and, under that, just the clean, good smell of him. New as it is, it also feels like a scent I’ve always known and liked.

  That one detail convinces me that his words might make sense.

  “So, if you don’t want to do, um, that—”

  “Oh, I do,” he says, his words strained.

  “Okay. If we decide not to do that right now, what do you want to do?” I ask, looking up at him with a sliver of hope that, no matter how shitty an idea it might be, he’ll change his mind.

  One of his eyebrows pops high. “Watch the sunset. Drink beer. Trade war stories. Maybe go back to a little more of what we were doing before. When I’ve had a chance to calm back down.”

  “I don’t have war stories,” I say, letting my hand run down his arm slowly just to watch him go tense. Just to prove to myself that he really does want this deep down, whether he’s admitting it or not.

  “You don’t?” He narrows his sky blue eyes my way. “You don’t have blood on your hands? You didn’t watch people you love die?” he challenges.

  My heart pounds fast and hard. This isn’t condolences and pity and giving me my space. This is real. Raw. And might very well be way more than I was ready for.

  I swallow hard. “I’ll grab the beers.”

  By the time she heads back, I’ve got a fire started in the low pit. I’ve picked the least tattered of the lawn chairs from the back porch. The sun is setting and the bugs are coming out with a vengeance, but they don’t seem to be bothering her nearly as much as they are me.

  “You must have sweet blood,” she says as I smack my hand on my neck. She holds out a beer and nods at me. “Drink up. Once you’re a beer or two in, they won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Four or five in, and I won’t care if they’re eating me alive.” I smile to myself as she grabs a flat, long piece of wood and adjusts
my kindling teepee. “I know we’re getting to know each other, but I think it’s pretty bold to remake a man’s fire in his own backyard.”

  She bounces on her heels and tosses me a smile before she goes back to what she was doing. “Those bugs will get tired of you soon. I don’t need them leeching off me. Anyway, you want to keep the chill off when the sun sets, right? Because that sad fire wasn’t going to be able to handle anything like that.”

  “Burn,” I say, but I laugh. Damn, I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun just shooting the shit with someone.

  I guess because the last time was with Lopez, when I was a whole other kind of man.

  “What, me?” she asks with a cocked eyebrow. “Cause you couldn’t possibly be talking about that weak ass little fire.”

  We settle back as the flames lick and leap, just listening to the crackle and sipping on our beers. “So, what’s the story? Your guy must’ve died young. Was he military?”

  For a few long seconds, I don’t think she’s going to answer. Hell, I don’t think she’s gonna stay sitting next to me. It’s just long enough to make me wonder why I didn’t keep my fucking big mouth shut. I know how I feel about assholes poking around where they shouldn’t.

  “Police officer,” she finally says, her voice low and sweet, like she’s using it to caress a good memory. She stares at the sun, dipping low and purple-hued behind the cypress trees. “He was Charlie’s friend growing up. And then he became his partner. And then my brother was there. When Mike died.”

  Fuck.

  She can’t have a clue that that single fact is the only thing that can make me feel some pity for her asshole brother. No wonder he’s such a dick: he and I have identical excuses for our jerkoff behavior.

  “I’m real sorry to hear that. I know it doesn’t mean shit to you to hear that,” I rush to add, but she doesn’t even tense. “I guess I just mean I respect how hard it is to lose someone like that and pick yourself up. Keep going even though you want to lie down and let go.”