Blue Crush

by Barnard, Jules

  This conversation is one of the most awkward I’ve ever experienced, so of course it’s with Lewis. “Why is she like that?” I ask in a low voice.

  He checks his watch. “We should get going. It’s late.”

  He’s dismissing me? Again?

  I asked probing questions, but it’s not like he wasn’t answering. I guess I should be happy he answered as many as he did.

  Lewis downs the rest of his beer and shoves the glass to the center of the table. He stands and raises his hand. Jake, next to him, grips it. “I’m gonna take off. I’ll catch you guys later.” He peers at me. “Next week, team training. Be ready tomorrow—I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “Eight? Why so early?”

  He grins as he turns toward the door. “Special obstacle work,” he calls.

  Crap, he’s going to torture me. More than he already has.

  There is no instinct like that of the heart.

  —Lord Byron

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chances are good I washed my hair in the shower this morning. Considering I’m not fully awake I can’t say for sure. It’s wet, that’s all I know. There’s always the possibility I rinsed and forgot to shampoo but it smells floral, so I think I’m good.

  My arms shake, muscles unused to functioning at what I consider an ungodly hour as I pull damp strands into a ponytail. I left the pizza joint after Lewis threatened me with his butt-crack-of-dawn training, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t fall asleep, too used to staying up late for work. I ended up watching bad reality television with Cali for a couple of hours.

  Lewis pulls into the driveway in his red Jeep. The only reason I don’t snap at him for scheduling our training this early is that he brought doughnuts—and a slice of wheat bread with peanut butter and bananas.

  I snarl at the bread. “What’s that for?”

  He pulls out of the driveway and heads for the main road. “You. Eat it and you can have a doughnut.”

  I bite the corner of my lip, attempting to remain calm.

  You know what? I’m not even going to argue with him about the bread bullshit, for two reasons. One, it’s not worth the mental energy and I’m half-awake as it is. Two, I’m hungry and can eat the cardboard bread, plus three or four of the doughnuts, without a problem. I eat the bland wheat-banana thing in a few bites, gulp my coffee, and go in for a glazed swirl.

  He glances over. “Is that decaf? Because you shouldn’t—” His voice dies at the look I level him.

  Oh, yeah, don’t push it, buddy. Grumpy morning person here. Not. In. The. Mood. I take a massive gulp and cock my head to the side. Bring it.

  A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, his focus returning to the road.

  I wolf a couple more doughnuts down and we pass Camp Richardson, which is pretty far out. We’ll be in Emerald Bay soon. “Where are we going?”

  “Fallen Leaf Lake. The cascades.”

  Sightseeing? “I thought the purpose of this torture—I mean, lovely morning gathering—was for training?”

  He pulls down a narrow road south of the Camp Richardson store. “The cascades are the obstacle.”

  Why does that sentence sound alarms inside my head? I gingerly return doughnut number five to its box. Maybe I should ease up on the sugar. Plenty of time after the workout.

  Several minutes later, I see Fallen Leaf Lake through the trees, glistening in the morning light. It’s dramatically smaller than Lake Tahoe, but just as beautiful—and probably equally freezing. I really hope this outing doesn’t involve swimming. I’d like to keep my ass where it’s located and not freeze it off.

  We pass the marina and Lewis pulls up a windy hill beside a creek that must supply water to the lake. He eases onto the shoulder and sets the brake. As he reaches behind my seat, his hard chest brushes my arm and a frisson of attraction spreads through me. The scent of pine and Lewis makes my mind go blank. He pulls out a backpack. “Ready?”

  “Uh, yeah.” No. So not ready.

  The stones of the cascades are gray and brown, like earthen paper crumpled and laid at an angle with shallow streams running through. I glance down at the steep cliff. I have a terrible feeling I’ll be getting to know these rocks intimately.

  “Wait here.” Lewis descends to the bottom without explaining what the hell we’re doing, and up the opposite face, his backpack secured to his back.

  It doesn’t look like a difficult climb with his long legs eating up the distance across the rocks, but that doesn’t reassure me. He’s at home in this place. I’m used to exercising on sidewalks and whatever urban setting I call home. This is the wild, untamed part of life I try to avoid.

  Lewis is a small speck in the distance, pulling off his backpack. He waves me over.

  And here we go.

  I climb down, attempting the same path he took, and as predicted, it’s not as easy as it looked. I’m sweating and breathing heavily when I finally reach the cliff he’s standing above. “Now what?” I pant.

  He punches something on his phone. “Too slow. Took you ten minutes to get here.”

  I glance around. The rocks are sharp and steep. This can’t be safe. Running stairs would be better. “Why the cascades?”

  He pauses from fidgeting with his phone and spears me with a look. “Half the mudder terrain includes a steep climbing element. The cascades are part of your conditioning.” He jerks his head in the direction we came. “There and back, eight minutes. Eight repetitions.” He holds up his phone to the zeroed time clock. “Beginning now.” He presses the start button and tenths of seconds fly upward.

  Fuck.

  I spin around and go back the way I came as fast as I can. I’m not even going to consider how many times he wants me to do this. That number shall not be repeated, because it causes doughnut bile to rise in my throat.

  Minutes—hours?—later, my quads are a mix of fire and sludge. Lewis holds up his finger in what I assume indicates the last lap. I’ve climbed the cascades close to a thousand times by my estimation. All the while, he’s exercised from his perch, performing push-ups, sit-ups, and other calisthenics, while shouting that I’m going too slowly, not watching my center of gravity, using my back instead of my legs … Really, I’m about to hurt him.

  “Time,” he calls as I creep below his mountain-god cliff. He holds up the stopwatch, also known as his phone. “Scale this last rise and you’re done.”

  “The one that’s five feet above my head?” I gasp.

  He nods.

  He really is trying to kill me. My face is blazing hot from overexertion, my legs quivering, and I’m pretty sure I’m medically dehydrated. Lapping up water from the cascades sounds reasonable right now. “I can’t. Too high.” He knows I have no upper body strength.

  “You can. If you’re afraid to try it, you should quit the race. Steep walls litter the mudder course.”

  He had to say the one thing that would get me to climb a sheer rock.

  I’m not backing out because of fear. It’s why I’m in this, to take risks and build self-confidence—and he challenged me again, damn him.

  Bracing a squirrely foot on a ledge the width of a pencil, I reach for a crevice above my head and pull by my fingertips. Forearms burning, I slide a shaking palm up the stone several more inches.

  My fingers slip. I’m falling away.

  My mouth parts on a scream a second before a strong hand grabs my wrist and I’m being lifted like a helicopter basket. I scramble over the top and roll onto my back, heaving for air.

  My gaze cuts to Lewis, his breaths slightly elevated, eyes wide, crouching on his toes beside me. He pulled me up like I weighed nothing.

  “You’re not supposed to help,” I croak, my throat dry and sore. I can’t believe I almost died.

  Reading my expression, or the scratch in my voice, Lewis reaches into his backpack, unscrews the top off a stainless steel bottle, and hands it to me. “I won’t let you fall.”

  I sit up and gulp water until my throat constricts a
nd I cough. I gasp in air and take another swig. My head clears. “I have to do it on my own,” I tell him. Doesn’t he get it? I need to save myself. That’s the point of this stupid race. To prove I can.

  His jaw flexes. “I won’t let you get hurt.”

  No, he’ll simply torture me with early morning wake-up calls, muscle-tearing exercises, not to mention the emotional strain his presence puts on me. Who does he think he is? Not my brother, not my father—oh right, because I don’t have either of those—and he sure as hell isn’t my boyfriend.

  “You will if I want.” On an unrestrained impulse, I shove his knee.

  Carelessly balanced on his toes, he’s not expecting it. His face blanks as he falls back, catching himself on one hand.

  I jump up and lean over him, because apparently dehydration has made me insane. “You’re not the boss of me.” I poke him in the chest. “You’re not going to tell me what to do, or walk all over me because you’re bigger.” I realize how crazy I sound, but it doesn’t seem to stop the insanity.

  Lewis’s eyes flash surprise, then anger, and then they do the worst thing imaginable: They fall to my mouth, his chest rising and falling more rapidly.

  I lean down until our breaths mingle. He smells so good, even his breath is minty and clean. He doesn’t clear the half inch to my lips. He waits, like he’s giving me permission to make the first move.

  My gaze drops to the scar on the corner of his mouth. I know what I want. It’s what I’ve silently obsessed about ever since he told me Mira wasn’t his girlfriend, and what I’ve imagined since we first met.

  I feather the scar with my lips. Puffs of Lewis’s choppy breath tingle my skin. I kiss his bottom lip, then the top, slanting my mouth over his.

  His response is immediate and devastating, his tongue inside my mouth, his lips running over my chin, my neck. He could sit up, grab me, but he doesn’t, he keeps his elbows locked, holding himself up.

  So I climb on top and straddle his waist.

  Lewis moans, the deep sound sparking fire through my belly. Hard angles below my ass and bare legs, his length swelling against my thigh—it conspires to drive me nuts.

  I grip his shoulders, run my fingers up his strong neck and through his soft hair. His mouth covers mine, deliberate, sensual, the rest of him wound tight. His hard body beneath me, the way he tastes and smells, and because he’s holding back when no other guy I’ve known would have, fires desire. I rock my hips.

  Another growl tears from his throat, but he still doesn’t grab me. I run my hands down his shoulders, his sexy forearms, to his wrists and pull until he releases his hold on the ground. He sits forward and I place his hands on my hips.

  The restraint breaks. He winds his arms around me, leans me back, and runs his mouth down my throat, over my chest. “Genevieve …”

  My brain halts. What?

  He called me …

  No one calls me Genevieve, except my mom—and Drake.

  I push and shove and scoot off Lewis’s lap, frantic to get away like that day in the suite. I stare at Lewis like he’s the wild animal and not me—the instigator of this seduction. My reactions are all wrong, but it’s unavoidable, the shock of unwanted memories so sharp, I can’t catch my breath.

  Lewis holds up his hands, the question on his face obvious. What’s wrong?

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He looks away and breathes in deep. Rolling to his feet, he runs tense fingers through his hair, his gaze flickering to me. “We should go.” He holds out his hand.

  I attempt to rise without his help, but with my sexual adrenaline doused, I’ve lost all energy, and by energy I mean, my muscles have called it quits. My legs give out and I land on my ass with a soft thump. “Give me a minute … I need a minute,” I say on a shaky exhale.

  Lewis slings on his backpack, squats, and helps me up, securing my weight with his arm wrapped around my back and holding my waist. I should have a problem with this—it goes against everything I’m trying to do these days—but I’m too screwed up in the head to care. I freaked out because he called me by my birth name. What the hell?

  He guides me a few paces away to a section of the ridge slightly shallower than the area where I nearly killed myself, and climbs down, carrying most of my weight. “My fault,” he says. “I pushed you too hard.”

  Is he talking about the cascades or the kiss? The cascades were absolutely his fault, but I needed the kick in the ass reminder that I’m a long way from prepared for the race. As for the kiss, I freaked out, plain and simple, the reminder of Drake like a slap in the face.

  I turn my forehead into his chest, because I can’t tell him how I feel inside. That I’m messed up. That I really like him. And our kiss … I’ve never experienced anything like it.

  My legs are moving but I’m not paying attention, and honestly, he’s doing most of the work anyway. When I look up, we’ve managed to climb to the other side. He shifts his hold on me slightly and his car horn beeps.

  “I can walk on my own now.” I attempt to step away and my quad cramps. I rub it with the heel of my hand.

  Lewis tucks me in close and opens the Jeep door for me, easing me onto the seat. He rests his hands on my knees for a moment, remorse flickering in his eyes. Does he regret kissing me? He said he pushed me too far, but he didn’t.

  He backs away, leaving me feeling chilled. I want to say something to bring him back, but I have nothing.

  On the way to my house, I try to talk to him. “Lewis, I’m sorry. Back there was my fault.”

  His jaw clenches. “No it wasn’t, Gen. You need …” He pauses. “Tell someone.”

  We both know what he’s referring to.

  “Like a psychiatrist?” I laugh bitterly. I don’t know why I find it ironic that the psychology student needs to see a psychiatrist, but I do.

  “That’s not what I meant. Though, you could. Do that. Talking to someone might help. But you should tell the casino about this guy.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I don’t want to talk about what happened to me, but I’m not the only person at risk. Every woman who works at Blue is in danger around Drake. I waited to find out what was going on at the casino before I took action. I’m still not entirely sure what management is up to, but with Cali getting fired after her run-in with Drake, something has to be done about him.

  It’s time I stepped up.

  We pull into the chalet driveway. My legs have turned from weak and incredibly sore into Silly Putty. I ease out of the Jeep and take baby steps to the front door.

  Lewis wraps his arm around my waist again and I don’t protest. “Where’s your bed?” he asks once we’re inside.

  I nod to the door and he opens it, leading me to the edge of the mattress, arm supporting my weight until I’m sitting. “I’ll be right back.”

  The pipes rumble beneath the house. A few minutes later he returns with a glass of water, three Advil, and a plain turkey sandwich. No idea where he found the Advil, though he likely confronted a good deal of tampons and maxipads during the search.

  He glances around my small bedroom, his eyes alighting on the brown and orange seventies coverlet, the scarred wooden nightstands. “No TV? Do you have a book?”

  I’ve humiliated myself enough in front of Lewis. I’m not gonna bust out the OCD vampire paperback. I nod to the Kindle on the nightstand. He grabs it and places it beside the sandwich. I lean back on a pillow and close my eyes, opening them seconds later when I sense him still there.

  “Are you going to be okay?” It’s the way he asks that has my throat tightening, moisture pooling behind my eyes.

  I rub them and smile. “Yeah.” But if he keeps looking at me with concern and caring, and kissing me the way he did, I’m not sure anything will be okay.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For some reason I woke early this morning, and big surprise, I’m still sore. No, sore is not the right word. Debilitated. I’m walking like an old lady.

  “Gen, cookie?” Tyl
er, Cali’s brother, who’s staying with us for a few weeks, sets a double-double chocolate on the counter—about a mile from where I’m sitting on the couch. He smirks and returns to his laptop at the kitchen table.

  He and Cali like to watch me walk. They think it’s funny.

  I might have tortured them a time or two with my athletic prowess—okay, Cali hundreds of times—however, I fail to find the humor in the situation. “You are cruel. And you don’t even pay rent.”

  Cali calls Tyler the Tahoe bum. He’s a community college biology teacher in Colorado with summers off, and for some reason he decided to crash with us this summer. Tyler’s only a couple of years older than Cali, but he’s so smart he skipped grades and graduated early from both high school and college. None of this is evident in talking to him.

  “Caliii,” I whine. “Make your brother bring me the cookie.”

  Sitting on a lounge on the patio outside the back door, Cali looks up from her sketch. The isosceles triangle we form—me on the couch, Tyler in the dining nook, and Cali outside—is about fifteen feet at the farthest point, which means we’re in separate parts of the house and still able to talk to each other.

  She glares at her brother. “Tyler, don’t be an ass. Make yourself useful and carry Gen around or something.”

  “Yeah,” I say, because son of a bitch. Lewis and his conditioning—killing is more like it.

  Tyler tips his chair on two legs, extends his long arm to the counter and tosses the cookie in my lap.

  Cookie torture aside, I like having him around even though he forces us to watch motocross and other random sports instead of our reality shows. He’s got us DVRing so he can watch sports live—something about not being able to record his shows because he’ll hear the results before he watches them.

  That—that right there. That’s how men rule the world. Women are too accommodating.

  A couple of hours later, Cali leaves for her first day of work. She got the job at Sallee Construction, and now that she has it, I’m not sure how I feel about her working there. I encouraged her to apply, but I forgot there is another Sallee in the house, so to speak. Cali will see Lewis on a regular basis.