Break Line

by Sarah E. Green

  As I lead her into the house, I rub my hand over my chest tattoo.

  “You do that when you’re aggravated, you know?” Emery’s voice is smaller beside me as she watches my face.

  “Yeah?” My grandma always used to say it was the little things that mattered. Not just in relationships, but in life too. A shot of emotion swells in my chest at her words.

  She’s paying attention to me as much as I am to her.

  “Bash, you know I have issues from my accident I’m still trying to deal with.”

  I do know that. I just wish she wouldn’t hide herself from me.

  We’re walking through the front door and I grab her hand, leading her away from the kitchen where the glow sticks are and down an empty hallway, pushing through the first door we come to.

  Walking us straight into a bathroom.

  “I know you do.” I put my hands on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze before running them down her arms. “And I’m not pushing you to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I want you to know that you don’t have to hide from me.”

  “Don’t I?” She looks up at me. “This doesn’t even feel real, whatever we’ve been doing. I feel like we’re in a bubble and you’re going to leave soon and the bubble is going to pop, taking everything I’ve told you with it.”

  She’s talking like we have an expiration date, an expiration date for something that hasn’t really begun. I don’t like it.

  But she’s right, isn’t she?

  As much as I’ve been trying to avoid it, I’m going to have to leave one day.

  Soon, if my mother has her way.

  “Even if I leave, Em, it doesn’t mean we have to end.” I don’t want whatever we have to end. I want it to grow. I want to define us. I want to be invested in her, in us. The time frame has been short, but spending every day together has brought us closer in this short time than some people I’ve known for half of my life. We’ve formed a friendship that is starting to develop into something more. “It’s not like I’m never going to come back. Or that I’ll even leave.”

  This vacation has turned into so much more than I’d hoped. More than I had originally planned.

  “Bash—”

  I kiss her, capturing her words with my tongue, swallowing them down. Unheard and unsaid.

  “I’m not leaving anytime soon,” I promise her. “We don’t have to rush anything. You set the pace, I’m good with whatever you want. As long as I get to see you.” My hands travel to down her sides, to her hips, sliding over her ass. Giving her cheeks a squeeze. “And, hopefully, touch you.”

  She laughs, pressing her face to my body and the sound vibrates my chest, traveling everywhere. She digs her fingers into my arms, not lifting her head as she says, “I have scars.”

  The words are mumbled into my shirt, making them not as coherent.

  “We all do, babe.” I kiss her forehead. Something I’ve been doing a lot of tonight. But each time I do, she relaxes. It calms her and it calms me.

  “Mine are pretty bad.” She still won’t look at me.

  “Ask me about mine sometime, Em. Mine aren’t pretty either.”

  “I’m not talking about emotional scars, Bash. Although I have a lot of those, too.” She pushes away from me. Not far. Just enough so her face isn’t pressed into my chest anymore. “I’m talking about physical scars.”

  Oh.

  Right.

  She told me how bad it looked, but I’ve seen her in bikinis and haven’t noticed any—

  Wait.

  No, I haven’t seen her in a bikini.

  Ever.

  She’s always in a wetsuit when we’re in the water and wearing jeans or long dresses and skirts. I’ve never seen her actual legs.

  Her actual body.

  My mind goes back to all the times I’ve touched her body. Felt the raised flesh on some places, never fully registering or questioning them.

  “Do you want to show me?” My voice soft, like cashmere.

  She shakes her head but pulls away. Grabbing the hem of her t-shirt, in a way similar to the night I first met her. My own hands shoot out, capturing her wrists. Holding them steady. “You don’t have to do this.”

  I see the fear in her eyes.

  I don’t know if it’s fear of me seeing her scars, specifically, or if it’s fear of her showing them to someone else in general.

  Whatever the reason is, I don’t like it. I don’t want her to do this out of fear. I don’t want to see them if she isn’t ready to actually show them.

  “Bash, I want to.” She tries to pry her arms away, but I hold on. Loosely. “Let go.”

  The sternness in her voice causes me to listen.

  I let go.

  I step back.

  I wait.

  With a deep breath, Emery pulls the shirt over her head, holding it at her side. Her eyes are closed and my eyes are on her stomach.

  Fucking hell.

  I CLOSE MY EYES BEFORE the shirt is over my head. If Bash were just a little closer, he’d see that my body has a slight tremble. A vibration struck from within, born of nerves and apprehension. Aside from family, no one has seen my scars after the doctors didn’t need to look at them anymore.

  It has taken me years to love my body again. It might not be smooth and soft in places anymore, but the scars are a sign that I survived.

  And I love the way I look—now that I’m used to it.

  Doesn’t mean other people will see the same thing. I can’t handle the pity, the questions, the glances, and the speculation.

  It’s easier to hide the scars behind clothes than feel the eyes of strangers when I go somewhere.

  Hiding them forever isn’t an option. I mean, I live in Florida where seasons don’t really exist and it’s miserable wearing jeans in the summer, when the humidity is at a kill level. Death by denim is how I’ll go if I keep wearing them.

  I’m just scared and find it easier to hide behind clothing than hear the whispers of nosy people.

  Yet, there was something in Bash’s words that gave me the small courage to show him. Something unexpected that caused a rush of strength in my veins.

  So now, I’m standing in only the cropped pants and my bikini top with nothing covering my stomach. Cold air brushes against my belly in a tentative caress.

  My eyes are tightly shut. Body shaking. Adrenaline steadily flowing.

  My shield has been lowered and I can’t look at Bash. Refuse to.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  I hear no intake of breath.

  I hear nothing and the soundless air hanging between us has me almost opening my eyes to see if he silently slipped out the door.

  Almost.

  My eyes remain closed. I remind myself to breath.

  Still no words are spoken.

  I’m about to yell fuck this and put my shirt back on when large, calloused hands run slowly up my stomach.

  I shiver for a completely different reason now.

  He doesn’t falter at my scars. Tracing them, learning them, as if committing them to memory.

  His hands move at a snail’s pace, fingers working over every inch of skin, smooth and raised.

  I keep my eyes closed. Lids squeezed tighter as I lose control of my breathing.

  His fingers are the first to touch this part of my body in years and I don’t want to see what is reflecting in his eyes.

  I don’t want to know.

  Soon, too soon, his fingers are pulling away. My eyes flicker, about to open, when hot breath and soft lips touch the very place his fingers just were.

  His tongue flicks over once, twice, and for a moment, I have no beating heart. No working lungs.

  My fingers dive into his hair, pulling him closer.

  The nerves on the scars are extra sensitive. Sometimes I don’t feel sensations as intense on that side, sometimes I feel too much.

  Right now, I feel everything.

  With my eyes shut and Bash’s mouth moving methodically over my fl
esh, my nipples tighten. Fireballs race down my body as my core tightens, heavy with a need so strong I feel tears prick my eyes.

  Soon, Bash’s mouth is working its way up and over my scars, moving higher up my stomach. His pace never wavering as the skin transitions from raised to smooth. He grazes my nipple through the fabric with his teeth.

  “Bash!” I cry out, my fingers tightening around the locks of his hair. He sucks one last time. Hard. So hard that I feel my breath start to become labored, heavy lungs and sharp gasps. “Fuck.”

  “Open your eyes, Emery,” his growls in my ear.

  His voice. His voice is so strong, so thick, like rich whiskey and cigar smoke. So different from his usual carefree attitude.

  I shiver again, my body responding to his command.

  My eyes snap open and the heat in his eyes is so intense, I’m sucking in a breath the same time his lips crash into mine. He might have slowly explored my body, but exploring my mouth is a different story.

  His lips are hungry, rough over mine.

  Hands graze my stomach and then cup my breasts in a flurry of stolen touches as his wandering fingers journey north.

  His hands go to either side of my neck, tipping my head back, creating a whole new angle for him to invade.

  As his mouth destroys mine, moans escape from my throat only for him to steal the noises, locking them away.

  “You’re beautiful,” he growls into my lips, his hands on the move again. Caressing my scars.

  His rough mouth is at war with his soft touches.

  He’s destroying and cherishing me.

  “C’mere.” His teeth and stubble nip my chin. He lifts me up, setting me on the sink countertop and spreading my legs apart. Stepping between them, he lifts my thighs high around either side of his waist, pulling me close, angling our bodies so I can feel how hard he is.

  With only the light fabric of his swim trunks and my leggings, I feel everything. Every hard inch of him as he rubs our bodies together. Hard. Fast. Rough.

  Losing myself to the sensation, I break away from Bash, my head hitting the mirror.

  The cool glass does nothing to quench my scorching skin.

  “Fuck, Emery.” Bash grunts. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you don’t even know, Firecracker.” His voice is so deep with need. “You don’t even know what you do to me. How many times I’ve thought of your sexy as hell body.” He sucks my neck and I groan at the feeling. “But no matter how many times I’ve fantasized about you, the real thing is so much better.” His stubble scratches my jawline as he moves toward my ear.

  He doesn’t push for more. He doesn’t ask for more, taking the limits I’ve set and running within them. Each touch has power, but tentative. It’s like we’re back in high school, two teenagers daring for exploration.

  I reach out to trace the curve of his swollen bottom lip.

  He buries his face in my neck where he takes a nip of skin before placing a kiss, when loud banging on the door douses us like ice water.

  We stiffen.

  “Fuck off,” Bash yells. It comes out muffled with his face still cradled in the crook of my neck.

  “Dude,” Dez yells back and I groan. Of course, it would be him. “We’re heading out.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I bite his ear to keep from laughing. He’s going to need more than a minute.

  His fingers dig into my thighs.

  “No can do, broski.” Dez sounds causal. Way too casual. Casual like when a situation is anything but casual. “Can’t have you and Emery fucking in my parents’ house. There are children who stay here.”

  We both stiffen.

  Dez knows.

  And if Dez knows, how many other people?

  Gah, how good are these bathroom acoustics?

  “We both still need a minute,” Bash growls, turning around to face the door in case Dez decides to barge in. Pretty sure neither of us thought to lock it when we came in here.

  We hear Dez’s laughter, not as muffled as his voice, and I notice the door is slowly moving.

  I smack Bash’s shoulder, frantically pointing at it.

  “Fucking hell, Dez!” I scream. “Close the damn door, what is wrong with you?”

  “Calm down, Surfer Princess.”

  That name. That fucking name. Red swarms the edges of my vision. I am going to strangle that fucker.

  “Don’t get your bottoms in a twist—if you’re wearing any that is. I’m just bringing my boy these. Figured he might need them.”

  Another pair of swim trunks come flying from the other side of the cracked door and, by some twist of fate, hits me in the face. “You better run, Desmond. Or I’m going to throw my shoe at your head so hard your ears will be ringing until Christmas.”

  “Sheesh, Emery. Not even a thank you? I’m wounded.” He sounds anything but.

  “Go the fuck away now, Daimon.” Bash’s tone leaves no more room for jokes. He’s serious. And this voice is kind of really sexy.

  We’re rewarded with the sweet sound of Dez’s laugh, retreating down the hallway.

  “Come on, Em,” Bash calls through the door. “I got the glow sticks.”

  I’m standing in the bathroom, alone this time.

  I told Bash to give me a few minutes and I’d join him. Not sure how long ago that was.

  I’m not hiding, per se, but I’m not rushing to get out.

  After Dez interrupted, my high crashed hard and the full gravity of what Bash saw sunk in.

  I still can’t believe I did it. I’ve been hiding behind my shield of fabrics and showing Bash has left me emotionally bare. Raw. I feel lighter, more exposed, and free.

  I want the high back, sipping the intoxicating adrenaline.

  I want to show someone else. I want to show Bash the rest of them. All of them and all of me.

  But not yet, not while I’m feeling impulsive and lightweight.

  I need to wait for this night to end, when my rational, sane thoughts return.

  Well, as sane as my thoughts can be.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I look at myself one last time in the mirror.

  I tried to tame my hair as best I could, but this is as good as it’s going to get. A mess of controlled tangles and waves. Less sexy-times-messy and more of a I-tried-to-make-this-messy-on-purpose-and-failed.

  Whatever.

  It’s fine.

  It’s dark outside.

  I wiggle my eyebrows at Bash as I open the door and he smirks, holding up the goods.

  “Hand them over, Surfer Boy.” I hold out my palm and he places the sticks in it.

  He’s already wearing a necklace, one bracelet on each wrist and the same goes for his ankles. Bare essentials.

  I, on the other hand, make quick work with the multitude he gives me.

  I slip a small stack of bracelets on each wrist, three necklaces around my neck and two on each of my ankles. I’m a glowing mass of color and I love it.

  “How do I look?” I ask, twirling around slowly.

  “Like one of those lights that flashes different colors.”

  “Perfect! Let’s go.”

  We don’t say anything as we walk outside to grab our boards, but when I see what his looks like I can’t stop laughing. “Nice pink hearts and—is that a princess crown?”

  Laughing.

  So much laughing my abs clench from the workout they’re getting and I wipe tears from my eyes.

  “Yes, it is,” Bash deadpans.

  So serious, I think as my laugh keeps rolling.

  “It’s Dez’s sister’s, funny girl.”

  I can barely hear him.

  Laughing.

  “Did you find laughing gas in the bathroom while I was gone?”

  “Nonono.” I gasp for breath, trying to calm myself down. “I’m just really happy and apparently when I reach this level of happy, I can’t stop laughing.”

  I flick on the lights around my board, making it come to life. Colors fade and bleed into one anothe
r as we walk toward the bank.

  “What kind of happy? ’Cause, I might just keep you in a constant state of this.”

  “Ugh.” I bump his shoulder with mine and he laughs. “You’re trying to be cute-funny, but you can’t be me, Bash. This relationship will never work if there are two Emerys. Plus, I love myself, but not enough to date me. Although that would make holiday parties a lot more bearable—Bash?”

  He looks a little dazed, a little crazed, but I can’t tell if it’s on the good or bad side.

  He grabs me, pulling me as close as our boards will allow. “Relationship?”

  Oh.

  Right.

  “What? Relationship? Are you trying to tell me you’re in a relationship, Bash?” I wave my hand, as if that will somehow carry our words into the breeze. Taking the memories of this conversation with them.

  As it turns out, my superpower is not erasing memories. It’s creating awkward tension.

  “I’m trying to fucking be.”

  Oh.

  Well. Then.

  “Emery.” He’s trying not to be amused, the corners of his mouth are fighting to turn up, rebelling against his serious tone.

  “Sebastian.”

  “Do you want to be in a relationship with me?”

  “Do you want to be in a relationship with me?” Is it childish to parrot his words back to him? He doesn’t get a chance to answer. “You don’t want to get in a relationship with me, Bash. I’m going to fuck it up. I’m not an easy person to deal with. Commitment scares me and when I get scared I run—”

  “Emery.”

  “What’s our expiration date?”

  He blinks, his grip tightening around me. Like he’s not sure if he wants to pull me closer or push me away. “Do we have to have one?”

  “I mean, yeah. We live on opposite coasts,” I remind him. “Even if you don’t want to admit it, you have to go back home one day, Bash. You have a career. Responsibilities.”

  “Last time I checked, you have oceans here. I don’t have any ties really holding me in California. I had planned on staying for a vacation, but then I met you—get that scared look off your face, Emery.” Is my face scared? If it is, I can’t help it. Did he just hint that he’d move here? For me? “I’m not talking about moving here for you. But I can come see you and have it not affect my surfing. You can train with me when I’m here. It’ll help you get back on a routine at a pro’s level.”