by A. S. Green
I pound on his back with my fists, laughing. “Put me down!” But in my head I’m thinking, Finally! He carries me through the kitchen and turns to his left.
“Fine,” he says, throwing me onto my bed, just like the last time he was here. Raw hunger is bubbling up inside my chest. He leans over me, putting both hands on either side of my head, trapping me there on the pillows. My hands glide down his arms. The texture of his skin ignites me. The butterflies in my stomach turn into birds that are too big for their cage. They beat their wings frantically against my heart, trying to escape.
“You were wrong the other day,” he says.
“I was?”
“I’m not an honorable guy. And there’s no fucking way we’re ever going to be just friends.”
“Bennet.”
His chest expands as I speak his name. “I have to know what you’ve got on today.” After a few quick seconds he has unbuttoned my blouse and exposed my bra. “Ah,” he says. “Just my luck. Gollum. Why would you buy something like this?”
I know better than to bring up Andrew at a time like this. My chest rises and falls quickly, and I suck in a breath when he undoes the clasp at the front of my bra and trails his fingers down my sternum, undoing the button on my shorts.
Very quickly all my clothes are deposited on the floor, and I am naked on the bed without any protest. Still, it’s a vulnerable position, having him fully clothed, looking down at me. I fold my arms over my breasts.
“No,” he says, reverently, pulling my hands away. “Please don’t hide yourself when you’re with me. In this, or any other way. You are perfect, D’Arcy. Abso-freakin’-lutely beautiful.”
He settles himself between my legs, kissing my mouth, my neck, my ear. He inhales the scent of my hair while his hands weave through it, bringing my head closer to his. He smells like clean air, and pine trees, and soap. The taste of his lips is exactly as I remember, and I’m glad I hadn’t imagined it from before. Hot chocolate teases my tongue, heightening my awareness of every inch of my body.
“God, I’ve missed you.”
“Me, too,” I say on a sigh. It’s like the world has righted itself on its axis.
“You call the shots tonight,” he says.
“That’s ironic, since you just stripped me naked.”
His eyes heat with intensity. “Yeah, that was impulsive of me. But besides that, you’re in control.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re the one still trying to find your way. For the first time in my life, I’ve got things figured out.”
“Oh, do you now?” I say, nipping at his bottom lip. He hasn’t once looked over at my bedside table, but I’m glad I was smart enough to put Andrew’s photo away, zipped up tight in my suitcase.
“Absolutely,” he says, his blue eyes now shining with humor.
“I don’t think you’re right about that.”
“Oh yeah?” he says softly.
My fingers find his hair. I’m so glad my Bennet’s back. The coarseness of his jeans presses against my most sensitive spot, and my body is humming for him, like a live power line.
The backs of his fingers stroke my cheek. His touch is gentle, but in it is the same desperation I have for him. I’ve never wanted anyone so much, and I can sense how much he wants me, too. Never once do I have any doubts. I am his. And he is mine. And this makes sense. There is an order to us. And it is real—so very, very real.
“Yeah,” I say, “because you were right before. I am falling in love with you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Wrong again,” he says, with a teasing look. “You’re way past falling.”
My eyes widen, and Bennet’s eyes burn with a passion so intense I can barely hold his gaze. Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, he adds, “And so am I.”
His mouth crushes down on mine. I move fast. Gone is his shirt, up and over his head. I rake my fingers down his cut abs, popping the button on his jeans. He’s commando underneath, and the surprise of it makes the air catch in my throat. His own breathing is hot against my shoulder, and when my hand wraps around him, he stops breathing altogether.
It doesn’t take long to coax my name from his lips, and his hand trails slowly across my hip as his mouth explores my body, relearning every detail until I am putty in his capable hands.
My head spins and white lights flash in my eyes from lack of oxygen. I’m like my own personal Fourth of July. A second later his lips and tongue beat a path down my body, building a constant throbbing and bringing me higher and higher to the peak of that Bennet roller coaster. I’ve missed so much.
The sounds rolling out of me would be horribly embarrassing if I had a mind left to think about these things. Rather, I am dizzy from the altitude, rising toward the crest of the hill.
I feel his firmness press against my thigh and push his jeans past his hips and over his ass.
“D’Arcy,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Jesus, D’Arcy.”
For a second I think he’s changing his mind—that he’s going to make me go back to Minneapolis and tie up loose ends before he’ll let himself loose and take me the way I want to be taken.
But he’s not as noble as all that because he pulls away from me and digs in my nightstand drawer, murmuring, “Please. Please, be there.”
I know what he’s looking for, and I’m glad I had been optimistic enough not to throw them away after he stormed out. He holds up a condom triumphantly and kisses me hard, like a man possessed.
I wrap my legs around his back once he’s ready. And I am more than ready. He plunges me into ecstasy, filling me completely, stretching me in a way that heightens every sensation. His back muscles flex under his smooth skin, and I slide my hands over his body, feeling every bit of him. I arch as the pressure builds inside me until I’m sure I will break into a million tiny little pieces, vaporized by the pressure and heat of him.
In a moment of self-preservation, I turn him over so I am on top. He grips my thighs and rolls underneath me. His pace quickens until I am crying out his name, and everything inside me explodes into chaos, right along with him.
Chapter Forty-Five
Bennet
Me: did you see the email i sent you?
Jordan: listening to the first track right now. hella good stuff, man. good stuff. we’ll need to get you in the studio when you’re down in nashville. c.c. is going to have some good ideas about who should produce it. what’s it called?
Me: callisto. you really like it?
Jordan: fasho. love the chord progression in the bridge. genius.
Me: what about the others? there should be three other songs attached.
Jordan: dude. they’re all here. don’t get your panties in a bunch. i’ll text you once i take a listen.
It should have taken Jordan twenty minutes—tops—to listen to the first four songs I sent him. He didn’t get back to me for nine hours, and by then I was at work for the late shift and too busy to really get into it with him. I only had enough time to glance down at my phone when the notifications came through.
Jordan: shit, man, what got into you the last couple months??? haha!
Jordan: seriously, this stuff is bomb and i’ve got ideas man. IDEAS!
Jordan: give me a couple weeks to talk through some stuff with rmi. i’ll get back to you when i’ve got something to report, but dude, i am STOKED to see you back. no more pushing you to leave that island. it’s all good.
When I see that last text, I stand a little taller. I hadn’t realized how much I was dreading another move. A week in Nashville I can do. It’ll be awesome. But Little Bear is feeling like home, and not a home I’m in a hurry to leave.
I wonder what Katherine would think about making this her home, too. Eventually, at least.
I wiggle my fingers, indicating to a nervous passenger that he’ll need to inch his precious SUV a little closer to the ferry’s rail. There are a lot of cars this run. We need to pack them in.
&nb
sp; “A little more,” I say. “A little more.” I slap my palm down on the hood of his car. “That’s it.” When I walk to the driver’s window to take his ticket, I see he’s got a car loaded to the gills with sleeping bags, a zonked-out wife, and four Cheetos-stained kids under twelve. He’s in for a good time.
When I get up to the bridge, Doyle is opening a stack of personal mail. He’s reading over a letter, the paper covered in tiny blue script. If I’m not mistaken, he’s…crying? Or at least, I think that’s a tear.
“Doyle? You okay?”
He huffs and snorts, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. His knuckles make a scratching sound over the stubble on his face. Then he folds up the paper quickly and shoves it into his back pocket. “Just a letter from Sully’s sister.”
Doyle’s a private guy. I don’t press. It doesn’t concern me. But then he surprises the shit out of me by saying, “I’ll talk to you about it later. Need to process first.”
So I guess both of us have a lot to think on, which makes it a dark and quiet trip back to the island. I spend my time fantasizing about the day my dad turns on the radio and hears my music. If he can’t be proud of me, at least—maybe—he’ll shit his pants. That just might be enough.
August
Chapter Forty-Six
Bennet
I blink, and the next thing I know, three more weeks of summer are behind us. The days aren’t long enough to satisfy my need for Katherine. The nights are fucking miracles. Every morning I wake beside her, amazed by my good fortune. It is nothing short of awe-inspiring to roll over and run my hand down the topography of her. The rise of her rib cage, the deep valley of her waist, and the sweet, climbing crest of her hip.
But it isn’t just about sex.
For the first time in years, everything is finally in place. I’m not alone. I belong to something bigger than myself. Something better.
As of this morning, I’ve shared all my songs with her—something that has always been difficult (if not painful) for me to do with other people. It started after our day on Turtle Island, and now, slowly, she’s built up my confidence in her. She is my greatest supporter. She even loves my songs that were born out of our separation. “Sheer beauty,” she called them.
God, this woman.
Today is warm—that baking kind of warmth that makes me satisfied and confident and sure I can do anything, be anything. So, of course, I’m napping on the couch in the lighthouse.
So are Lucy and Sam, except they’re on the kitchen floor.
Katherine, however, is busy at work. The last time I cracked open an eye, she was going through some kind of checklist for the Summer Fest, and by the look of things, she and Natalie have everything well in hand.
There’s a shuffle of paper and the sound of something being set on the coffee table. I don’t open my eyes again, but I can tell she’s staring at me. I wonder what I look like to her. I wonder if she feels the same way I do when I watch her sleep—like I could watch her for hours.
“Quit staring at me,” I murmur, still not opening my eyes.
“How do you know I’m staring?”
“D’Arcy.” I sigh with exasperation. “I can feel you staring at me. I could feel you staring at me if you were a hundred yards away.” If I were placing bets, I’d bet she wriggled her nose at that because she knows I’m right.
“Don’t be stupid,” she says. Then I hear her move from where she’s been sitting. I think she’s standing now, and she says, very seriously, “I’ve been thinking.”
“Good. So have I.” I open my eyes to find her looking down at me, her eyebrows drawn together. I push myself up so I’m sitting, and she drops onto the couch beside me.
Behind us in the kitchen, a low sound rumbles through Sam’s chest and Lucy snores.
“What have you been thinking about?” she asks.
“Uh-uh. You first.” My voice is croaky from sleep.
“I’ve been practicing my painting,” she says, gesturing at the watercolors taped to the walls.
“I’ve noticed.”
“But I don’t think that’s going to be my thing.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” She can do whatever she wants. Anything she wants is what I want for her.
“Right, but I think I’m meant to do something creative.”
I lean against the armrest and give a little shrug. “Okay. Maybe you could take a pottery class at Art Musique.”
She shakes her head. “I mean…maybe not creative in the typical sense.”
Okay, now I’m intrigued. I wait for her to say more. She looks shy all of a sudden. Maybe even embarrassed, but so damn cute.
Picking at a nub of fiber on the back of the couch, she says, “I was the social chair in my sorority. I planned all the parties. Now I’m having fun helping Natalie plan this year’s Summer Fest. And I’ve had some really great ideas.”
“I’ve heard.”
“And I’ve got all these business classes under my belt…”
Where is she going with this? The anticipation is killing me. “D’Arcy. Enough. Spill.”
“Fine.” She tucks her hair behind her ears and sits cross-legged on the couch, facing me. “I was thinking, after college, that I could start my own party-planning business. Do weddings, retirement parties, sweet sixteens…”
Wow. Why was she afraid to tell me that? “I think that’s a fantastic idea!”
“You do?” she asks with more than a bit of surprise.
“Of course I do. It capitalizes on your schooling plus all your natural organizational talents, and it allows you to channel them into a creative outlet. It’s perfect.”
She exhales as if some huge weight has been lifted off her. “I can’t believe you think it’s a good idea.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“No one’s ever supported me in something I wanted to do. And, I mean, it’s just a little thing. It’s not like it’s important work, or anything.”
I stop and stare at her because that about damn breaks my heart. When I realize she’s not joking, I get up from the couch and find my boots, pulling one on, then the other.
“Where are you going?”
I take her hand, pulling her toward the door. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
Lucy raises her head, curious, then lays it back down again, snorts out a burst of air, and goes back to sleep.
“Trust me,” I say as we step outside.
Together, we climb over the berm and into the woods. When she complains about her flip-flops, I fling her onto my back. She wraps her thighs tight around my waist, while the tall trees choke off the afternoon sun and the silence buzzes in my ears. The smell of early decay—a summer’s worth of debris starting to break down—tingles in my nose.
A few minutes later, we’ve descended into a shallow ravine, and we are deep in the thick of it. It’s surprisingly dark for this time of day. A crow caws, and Katherine squeezes my shoulders with both hands, and I can tell she’s a little spooked.
“This isn’t the part where I finally find out you’re a serial axe murderer, is it?” she whispers in my ear.
I laugh as my boots make dull, thudding sounds on the ground. “Just a little farther,” I say. “Relax. Have I ever disappointed you?”
I can’t see her, but I’m pretty sure she’s making a face. We keep plowing forward through the dark underbrush, then I stop.
“Okay,” I say, letting her slide off my back. I turn around, both to face her and to block what I’m not quite ready for her to see.
“Close your eyes.” She does, and I lead her another twenty paces. Then I move to stand behind her. “Okay. Open them.”
When she does, I recognize the gasp of bewilderment. It’s the same sound I made when I first stumbled upon this place.
We are in a clearing. It is a small, ten-by-ten square of flat ground, littered with pine needles with only the smallest of invading saplings. Where the woods around us are dark, th
e sun hits this spot like a stage light, making its main feature a dramatic spectacle.
In the center of the clearing is a miniature village built out of concrete and bits of metal and wood. There is a main street cleared in the dirt and on either side are approximately two dozen buildings, the largest no more than twelve inches tall. Each building is created in great detail and instantly recognizable: Big Ben, the Taj Mahal, L’Arc de Triomphe, the Sidney Opera House, St. Basil’s Cathedral, and an Egyptian pyramid. These, along with another fifteen cottages, create the most amazing village—some of the best sites the world has to offer—all on Little Bear.
I watch Katherine’s face, enjoying the spectrum of emotions that play across it—surprise, confusion, wonderment—and remembering the sensation I first felt, that I was a giant walking into a fairy tale.
“What is this?” She crouches down to get a better look. A few of the smallest cottages on the outskirts of the village are crumbling at their edges, and piles of powder and fine gravel border their walls. Last season’s brown leaves are caught up in the archway of L’Arc de Triomphe, and their dry edges make scritch-scritch sounds against the rough concrete.
Katherine plucks a fine spider web that is laced like a hammock between the Taj Mahal and St. Peter’s. A large gray spider creeps out of a window to check on the disturbance.
“It’s like a town for fairies,” she whispers. “It’s magical!” She crawls over to the L’Arc de Triomphe and brushes her hands over it. She pulls the leaves away and walks her index and middle fingers through the passage like a person on a stroll.
“I found it accidentally last summer, thought it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. Vowed not to share it with anyone until I found someone who was equal to it.”
She graces me with a small smile, then looks around, trying to get her bearings.
“If you look up, you can see a bit of the lighthouse tower. There,” I say, pointing through a break in the trees.
“After I found it, I asked Doyle about it. He had no idea what I was talking about. He thought I was crazy, but Don overheard me mentioning a fairy village. He took me aside. Told me it was a secret. Told me Calloway made it, and that he’d rather I didn’t make it public.”
