Step Summer

by Gallagher, Tanya

  I know exactly what she means.

  “Of course, Kenn,” I promise, and I grasp the fish and pull the hook from its mouth. “You sure?” I ask one last time, and she nods.

  I throw the fish overboard with a splash.

  “So now what?” I ask.

  McKenna looks at me, and her face is so full of life, so fucking hopeful that I can’t help smiling back at her without even knowing what she’s going to say. This day with her has appealed to the thrill-seeker in me, given me an adrenaline boost without needing anything other than her presence. It’s more attractive than is fair.

  “First we eat our lunch,” she says. “Then I teach you how to drive.”

  7

  McKenna

  July

  Blake drops onto the lounge chair next to mine a few days after our boating incident, unable to let the whole thing go.

  “I still can’t believe that fish had eyes on both sides of his face,” he says.

  I stop writing in the notebook I’ve got propped on my knees and consider. It’s bright out, but I’ve pulled the chairs to the shady side of the wraparound deck, and a faint breeze curls around the corner of the house to bring a little relief from the heat. The fact that I’m in only my bikini helps, though it also makes me feel exposed and vulnerable in Blake’s unexpected presence.

  “Flounders do look pretty weird if you’re not used to them.” I shrug and twist the pen cap under my fingers. “Still not the weirdest thing I’ve ever caught.”

  Blake tilts his head to the side. “Oh yeah? What was the weirdest?”

  I give him a proud grin. “Mating horseshoe crabs.”

  He chokes on a laugh. “Are you serious?”

  “Serious as shit. They weighed as much as a toddler, and I swear the line was going to snap. Not the easiest throw-back I’ve ever had. Those things are basically armored.”

  He flips onto his back and wedges one arm under his head, and even though he’s on the next chair, an arm’s length away, this position makes us feel close and intimate. Him looking up. Me looking down. From here it’s way too easy to look into his eyes. I wish he were wearing sunglasses, or that I were.

  Blake runs his thumb over his lower lip. “Guess you did a lot of fishing growing up.”

  “I pretty much spent every summer here.” Blake and I have never so much as slept in the same house until this past week, and other than a few hints from Jim, I have no idea how Blake spent his childhood. Where he grew up or who his friends were. Whether or not he had a terrible haircut at any point in his life. I didn’t want to look at photo albums or hear the stories because I didn’t want to feel too close to Blake. To feel like his stories belonged to me. Anyway, by the time Jim and my mom got married, all the stories were about what Blake had done wrong, not who he is. He’s a whole new person to discover, and now that he won’t let me run away, I want to learn him.

  “What did you do during the summers?” I ask.

  Blake brings his other hand behind his head, and the movement makes the hem of his shirt ride up. I force my gaze away from the line of skin just above his shorts, but even the tiny flash of taut, tanned muscles that I do see makes my mouth go dry. Blake’s stomach is sexy as hell, but this stupid infatuation needs to end.

  “Lacrosse camp, mostly.”

  “It was a big part of your life, huh?”

  “It was everything.”

  Blake’s voice is so honest and open and almost wistful, and I want to reach for his hand. Instead, I grip the pen tighter and look down the block toward the ocean. Even though a few houses shield the water from my view, it’s comforting to know it’s there. The rumble of the waves is a feeling in my chest wherever I go on this island, like nature’s sound machine.

  “Do you miss it?” I ask.

  “I…” Blake’s voice trails off. “That part of my life I was surrounded by a lot of people who liked to tell me yes, who wanted to ride the wave of my talent. That part, no, I don’t miss.”

  “But playing?” I whisper.

  He nods. “Yeah, I do. It made me feel alive. The kind of feeling I tried to chase off the field, too.”

  It’s the first time he’s even hinted at the drugs, and I hold my breath and wait for what he’ll say next. But he just lifts one of his hands to gesture at my notebook. “What are you working on?”

  I drop my eyes back to the page. “A business plan for my shop.”

  “Good for you.”

  I can’t help a bitter laugh. “Is it?”

  His forehead wrinkles. “Yeah, McKenna. It is.”

  I sigh. “It’s just that I want it so much. Everyone seems to think I’m wasting my life if I don’t live up to my full potential. But what about my potential for happiness? Isn’t that worth the most?”

  Blake didn’t know what he asked for when he said he wanted the real me. But ever since that conversation, I’ve been giving him bigger and bigger pieces of me. This one’s the biggest by far.

  He sits up and reaches for one of my hands, and it’s so unexpected that I freeze and let him touch me.

  Oh, shit.

  My pulse beats hard in my throat, in my palms, in my traitorous clit. My face feels flushed and overheated.

  “It’s worth everything, Kenn. You deserve happiness. We all do.”

  “So how do I let them down?”

  Blake grins and drops his hands to his thighs, and the feeling slowly comes back into my fingers. “I have a whole history of disappointing people. It’s easy.” He softens his voice. “But seriously, no one’s going to fault you for choosing joy. And if they do, fuck ’em.”

  “What about you and…” I trail off, but he seems to know what I’m getting at.

  “The drugs and alcohol?”

  I nod and my breath catches again.

  “That wasn’t me choosing happiness. That was me choosing my own destruction under the guise of feeling good. It’s not the same.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I want to undo the last few minutes just so I don’t have to see his eyes cloud over, but he looks at me, firm and clear and unapologetic.

  “Don’t be. It was a lesson I needed to learn.” He gestures at my notebook. “Keep going, okay?”

  “I will.” I turn my eyes back to the paper, but I’m too flustered to read what I’ve written. No matter how much I try to make Blake’s words sound like brotherly advice, they feel like more than the same old bullshit everyone wants to feed me. They feel like a slice of his truth, and it matches up with mine.

  “You have a shop name?” Blake asks.

  I catch his eye and my stomach dips. “Still working on it. But I go by Pretty in Peonies on all my social media accounts.”

  His face cracks open, and he reaches for the pocket of his shorts and pulls out his phone. “Pretty in Peonies?” He clicks into Instagram, taps a button, and smiles at me. “There. I just followed you.”

  I roll my eyes and close the cover of my notebook. No way am I going to accomplish anything else today. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I swing my legs over the side of the chair. “Well now that I’ve hit my social media follower goals for the day, I’m going to head to the beach. It’s getting too hot up here.”

  “Is that part of the strategy? Get hot, then go jump in the water?”

  “Something like that.”

  I shove my notebook and pen into the beach bag sitting next to my chair, then pull out a bottle of sunscreen.

  I turn away to apply the sunscreen, twisting my arm up to try and cover my back.

  “For the love of God,” Blake groans.

  I look over at him and find his eyes trained on my shoulders. “What?”

  “If you need help with that sunscreen, you could just ask.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  He shakes his head. “You keep missing the same spot.”

  The idea of his hands on me makes me nervous in a way I can’t explain. Like I’ll like it too much.

&
nbsp; “It’s not that bad,” I say. But it is. There’s a spot of skin that I can’t quite reach, and when my fingertips brush the edge, heat radiates out. I wrinkle my nose and smile. “What’s the point of all that yoga?”

  “Yoga?” Blake coughs out.

  I nod. “I’m working on my flexibility.” I shrug. “That and I need to justify all the yoga pants I wear.”

  “I haven’t seen you in yoga pants.”

  I give him a small smile as I feel his eyes drift over my body from my hips to my breasts. I like the way his gaze feels on my curves. “No, I guess not. But actually, being on my feet in the shop for long hours is going to mean I have to take care of my body that much more.”

  “Right,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  I go back to applying the sunscreen and Blake clears his throat. “Still missing that spot.”

  I huff a sigh and relent. “Fine. Will you do my back?”

  I watch his throat dip like he didn’t think it would be a yes. He stands from his lounge chair and circles behind me with a slow saunter that makes my heart race.

  “Sure, I’ll do you.”

  I still because those words are everything. Did he mean them to drip with suggestion? Or am I layering a naughty promise over an innocent offer?

  Blake takes the sunscreen bottle from me, and then his fingers brush over my skin.

  I have to stifle a moan because it feels so good.

  What would it feel like if he were doing more than just applying sunscreen? If he were massaging me with those strong hands?

  I hate myself for leaning into his touch, for being so greedy for it, like a dog begging for scraps. But my body responds to him, and I’m wet through my tiny bikini bottoms.

  Oh, Jesus.

  I pull away and whisper thanks and head down to the beach without asking if he wants to join. If I ask him to join me, I’m going to want to keep him for my own, and that will never do. But I’m still thinking about him even after I dive into the ocean and pull myself out, dripping, to dry off in the sun. I’m still thinking about him when I walk back to the house an hour after I’ve left and step under the spray of the upstairs shower.

  Water rushes in my ears, and the tile feels cool at my back as I lean against the shower wall. I close my eyes and imagine Blake’s strong, angular jaw, those tattoos like a map of where he’s been. He’s there with me in my mind, cracking open the door to the bathroom, a cloud of steam surrounding him while he steps inside.

  My heart thumps hard for him, my breath growing shallow and my skin tender and swollen. I slide a soapy hand down my body, cupping between my legs while sensation shoots through me. I can feel my pulse in my clit, a needy throb that only he can satisfy.

  I don’t want it to be him, don’t want to feel this way. But my body’s coming alive, and here in this shower—in my mind—it’s the only way I can have him.

  A wave of desire rolls through me, and I give in. I’m safe here, even though I’m not.

  “Wet for me, baby?” Blake asks as he steps into the shower behind me.

  “Soaked,” I moan.

  My fingers brush my slit and they’re his fingers, strong and skilled. Just the lightest sensation. “What a good bad girl.”

  “I want to be bad for you.” And I do. With everything I have. I stroke my fingers, his fingers, over my clit and rub hard, my breath bottling in my chest until I have to gulp for air.

  Blake’s hands touch me and test me, and he slides a finger inside to fuck me. Then two.

  My body clamps down hard around the pressure, so, so greedy, and an uncontrollable orgasm builds with every touch.

  Blake trails his free hand higher, dragging it up my side and to my chest, every millimeter a mile of sensation. He flicks a finger over my nipple and I gasp, my body riding higher and higher.

  “Such pretty breasts on a pretty girl.”

  “Woman,” I correct him breathlessly, and his laugh is low and rumbling.

  “Woman,” he agrees.

  “Let me show you.”

  He groans in pleasure and then spins me so I’m caged against the wall, his chest broad and solid at my back, the tile cool against my forehead. And he’s fucking me with his hands, and I’m so slippery and hot and wet. My orgasm crests and I chase it, my skin sensation and the bud of my clit blooming under his touch.

  “Yes,” Blake says, and the approval in his voice is carnal and visceral. “All woman,” he growls in my ear, and I come.

  I shove a hand over my mouth to muffle my moan, my body soapy and spent.

  Oh, god.

  I slide down the wall and sit on the shower floor until my heart returns to my chest, but longing and logic don’t stop warring inside me, and the water runs cold before I’m ready to get out.

  Why does the one person who makes me feel like I can do anything have to be the one person who I can’t do anything with?

  8

  Blake

  July

  If you catch me at a bad moment and I’m being honest, the one thing that alcohol one hundred percent helped me with in the past was falling asleep. There was a certain pleasure in knowing my next drink would cradle me in bed, that I’d be able to sink into the soft embrace of oblivion. It didn’t matter that half the time I passed out rather than fall asleep gracefully—once I was out, I was out.

  Now it doesn’t matter if I do breathing exercises or meditation or fucking count sheep—nothing seems to help with my insomnia. Maybe it’s because the idea of McKenna keeps running through my head.

  I wonder if anyone’s ever told her that she’s perfect just the way she is. That no one else’s approval should matter. I know that’s easier to say than to accept, but it’s true. Approval can be just as addicting as alcohol if you’re not careful. It can make you do just as stupid things. And I want something different for her.

  With her business plans and her big dreams, McKenna’s not your typical nineteen-year-old. She may not have it all figured out yet, but she has her shit together way more than most people my age. Hell, way more than me.

  Not that any of these revelations are helping me this morning.

  I stare at a knot in the wood on the high, sloped ceiling over my bed. I’ve been awake half the night, but dawn’s already drawing its rays across the boards, and I might as well get up.

  I slip on a pair of workout shorts and an old practice jersey from Rochester, then make my way downstairs.

  McKenna’s dancing around the kitchen when I step into the room, swaying her hips as she beats eggs and pours them into a pan.

  “What’s cooking?” I ask when her eyes are on the food.

  “Eggs.”

  I like that she doesn’t jump this time, that she seems less inclined to bolt around me. She’s actually pretty fun to be around when she doesn’t look like I terrify her, and I find myself craving these quiet moments more and more.

  McKenna reaches for a spatula and stirs the scramble. “There’s enough for two,” she offers.

  “Thanks.”

  She glances over her shoulder at me and appraises my gym clothes, then stops mid-stir. “You look sporty.”

  Her silly Putt-Putt Hut shirt hangs off one shoulder to display the curve of her collarbone and neck, and I have to force my eyes not to skim past her cut-off shorts to the smooth line of her legs. Dammit, her legs get me every time.

  “You look work-y.”

  McKenna glances down at her outfit and lets out a low laugh. “Since I’m headed to work, I’m going to take that as a compliment.” Somehow she makes even her hideous mini golf shirt look good. Maybe it’s the mascara on her lashes, framing those bottomless eyes.

  I wait until she plates the eggs before I ask, “Know any good gyms on the island?”

  McKenna looks up from the plate and gives me a teasing smile. “You know, most people come to the shore to relax.”

  Relaxing isn’t my problem. It’s getting rid of this restless energy bubbling through my veins.

  Instead of telling h
er it’s all her fault, I nod. “What can I say? Gotta work on the beach body.”

  Her cheeks go the most delightful pink. “I’ll take your word for it,” she mumbles.

  I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth to hide my grin.

  McKenna and I eat in silence while morning light fills up the room. The eggs are good, just the right texture, and it feels peaceful to just sit and enjoy the meal.

  “You okay if I post up a picture on social media really quick?” she asks after she finishes her food. “I don’t want to be rude.”

  “Of course.”

  McKenna taps on her phone, so I pull out my phone too. I visit her account on Instagram and watch in real time as she posts a picture of one of the flowers out in the garden, something pretty and hot pink that I can’t name.

  I touch the little heart icon above the photo to “like” it, then sit back to watch her face.

  When she sees the notification pop up, her eyebrows raise and her lips dance between a laugh and a smile.

  McKenna looks up at me and shakes her head with a grin, this wordless conversation making my chest feel open and wide and bright.

  She tucks her phone into her pocket, then takes her plate to the sink and grabs her purse.

  “I’ve gotta head off,” she says. She pauses just before she walks through the door. “Good luck with Operation Beach Bod.”

  “Thank you.” I set my phone on the table and flash her a smile. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  It feels like something to look forward to.

  * * *

  Sandcastle Athletics squats between a pizza parlor and a shop that, from what I can see, exclusively sells tacky lawn decorations and beach flags. The hinges on the Sandcastle door are rusted, and paint peels from the gym in long, sagging strips. I guess around here nothing escapes the erosive clutches of the ocean wind.

  From the way there’s a single car parked out front, it looks like McKenna was right about people not wanting to work out while on vacation. Even inside, the place smells like mildew and sweat, but the lights are bright. From the front door, I can see the whole place—a room with free weights, an area with weight machines, and a section for cardio, where a sickly-looking girl pounds on a rattling treadmill, her face red. Still, the place has enough equipment to get me through, and that’s what counts.