by Allen, Dylan
He’s tall, over six feet. And he’s built. Not like Duke’s steroid-pumped, running back’s body. No, he’s lean and ripped like someone who plays basketball or swims.
I watch and am unable to look away as he throws his head back and shakes the water out of his dark wavy hair.
From here, I can only see his profile, but even with his sunglasses hiding any glimpse of his eyes and the top part of his face, his strong brow and chiseled and lightly-bearded jaw hint at a classically handsome face with the straight sloping outline of his nose and the curved silhouette of his full lips.
He stops and turns as if he heard someone call his name, and I watch as his gaze sweeps the lakeside where I’m standing.
I can’t see his eyes, but he appears to be looking right at me. I stand there like a deer caught in the headlights. But, as mortified as I am to be caught staring, I can’t look away.
Then, I remember Etta’s jibe about my wig being askew, and my stomach falls. I have to stop myself from reaching up to fix it, but I want to die. He grins suddenly and I start to smile back.
A loud shout from behind me makes me jump and just then, a tall, statuesque blonde in a red bandeau bikini, with her hair caught in long, swinging pigtail braids, runs past me and jumps onto his back.
I watch as he carries her off, both of them laughing. A single trickle of sweat runs from under my wig and plops into the corner of my eye and stings. That droplet is the proverbial drop of water that sent the bucket overflowing. I’ve had enough.
I turn and stalk off. I rip the wig off my head and moan in relief when the breeze moves through my hair and cools my scalp. I drop it into the first trash can I come across.
As my head cools off, so does my anxiety. This is fine. None of these people know and after today, I’m sure I won’t see any of them ever again.
There’s no point hiding who I am.
It’s a beautiful day, I’m in a beautiful place and I may not have a group of friends clambering to party with me or girls eating their words with a side of envy like I hoped, but I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to be somewhere like this again.
I’m going to enjoy this afternoon of freedom and solitude and when the sun goes down, I’ll find a fire to sit by and draw.
I press my nose to my shoulder and grimace at the horrible stench of the drink I spilled all over myself.
The smell overwhelms my earlier qualms about stripping. I can rinse my dress in the lake and it’ll be dry by the time Duke’s ready to go. With one last look at the beautiful man and the equally beautiful woman he is with I turn and walk away.
Beauty, I decide is overrated and I’m finished chasing it.
4
DANCE
CARTER
“There are so many hot women here tonight,” my brother says as he eyes the crowds of people who have descended on the lake today.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I don’t bother to look up from my phone.
Until he lets out a low whistle and a groan. He’s been talking about women all night, but a whistle from him is high praise indeed. So, I follow his gaze. But all I see is the hint of a shapely back, a long neck, and flash of dark hair before the crowd swallows her.
“What a spectacular ass,” he groans. “God, sucks to be you. I mean, how you’ve sworn off getting laid, I don’t know.”
“I haven’t sworn off getting laid… it’s just gotta be really fucking worth it for all the trouble it takes.” I turn back to the book I’m reading.
“I hear you. And soon you’re going to have to get anyone you fuck to sign a NDA.”
“Uh—nah man. That’s you. I’m not pretending be a saint. I don’t need to pretend I’m saving myself for marriage like you do.”
“I hate my life.” He groans up to the sky.
I squint at him in disbelief. “Right. It’s so hard being a famous, rich, successful pro athlete who has his own television show in the off-season. It’s much better to be me. Publicly fired by my own father and so unknown that I don’t need a baseball cap to sit around in public.” I say dryly.
He adjusts the brim of his hat and shakes his head. “Carter, all you have to do is agree to do that tour and Dad will let you back on the show.”
“I don’t want to. And there’s no guarantee that he won’t still say no when it’s all said and done. He’s such a hard-ass,” I snap irritably.
Jack laughs. “He’ll come ‘round.”
He sounds so sure. I’m not convinced. My father has made his feelings on my career choices clear. He’s been my manager since I was old enough to need one. He’s also the executive producer and creator of our family reality show that I was fired from last year after only a few episodes.
I’ve spent the last few months doing whatever he asks in the hopes he’ll let me back on.
So far, he’s refusing to consider it. But, he’s dangled a carrot in front of me – if I can complete a successful European tour, including a two month stint with the Vienna Orchestra, he’ll consider it.
“If I’d known what I know now, I would have held onto Camille like my life depended on it. A good woman like that doesn’t come along in our world.” Jack says suddenly, and I don’t bother hiding my groan.
Any talk of his ex-girlfriend is the world’s biggest buzzkill.
“You know I’m right, Jimbo. She was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I ignore his use of my childhood nickname because he sounds so damn despondent.
“I say a prayer of thanks every single night that she’s gone. And you should, too. She fucked with your head.”
He stares out at the campfire, unseeing and shakes his head in disagreement.
“She gave me clarity. It’s my bad that I only realized she was the one after I lost her,” he says.
“Well, clearly you were wrong. If she was the one, she’d be here.”
He laughs and shakes his head at me.
“Man, it doesn’t work like that. Timing is everything. It doesn’t matter how bad you want that slice of caramel cheesecake if the store is out of it.”
I narrow my eyes at his analogy and then poke holes in it.
“But…since we’re at the store…we have choices. If they’re out of caramel, I’ll just get strawberry.”
He looks impressed but still shakes his head. “Strawberries aren’t in season, and they use frozen ones to make that cheesecake. And when you bite into it, you can tell the difference right away.”
“It’s just cheesecake. Who cares?” I ask.
He claps a hand on my shoulder.
“And therein lies your problem, youngin’. It’s not just any old cheesecake. It’s the cheesecake. The one that sets your taste buds on fire and ruins you for all other cheesecake for the rest of your life. Sure, you can get a different one, but you’ll never find one made just for you.”
“Okay, I don’t even like cheesecake, and I don’t know why we’re using it as code for women, but I’m bored and I’m going to swim.”
I stand and stretch, water-skiing this afternoon wore me out, but I want to get one more good swim in before the sun sets completely.
“I’m going back to the house. I’ll take your phone with me so no one picks it up.”
“Cool. I’ll be in soon.” We slap hands in a parting high five. I grip his hand and help pull him to his feet.
“Wow, I thought you’d say forget it if it meant me taking your phone.” He slips it into his pocket and looks impressed.
“I like the fresh air, and I like swimming. Go ahead. I’ll catch up.” I slip my shirt off.
I shrug. My phone and I are generally inseparable. But since my whole life went to shit, I find it a source of stress and anxiety because I can’t help but google myself. The reception here has been pretty bad all week. The first few days were a bit of an adjustment, but now I only reach for it when I want to read the books or listen to music I downloaded before we got here.
I can’t believe we’ve been here a wee
k. It went by really fast, and there’s this weird pang I get in my chest every time I think about leaving. There’s something nice about being here. I feel relaxed in a way I haven’t in a long time and I’m finally starting to write music again.
“Okay, don’t be long though. Dad—”
“Tell Dad I’m fine. Haven’t had a drink, and I haven’t gotten into any fights,” I say through clenched teeth, and then I turn and head to the lake. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk away, and under his scrutiny, my skin feels too small for my body.
I know they’re all worried about me, but I wish they would back off. I can barely handle my own emotions most days. When I have to deal with theirs, too, it feels like I’m being crushed by their guilt and worry.
Not that I don’t think they shouldn’t feel guilty or be worried…at least my parents. They kind of deserve it.
Last year, my parents sat me down and told me I was adopted. I didn’t take the news well. I started drinking too much. Spending money I didn’t have. Sleeping with people whose names I didn’t remember, and in some cases, hadn’t known to start with.
My family thought I was fine. I hid my inner turmoil well. I never missed rehearsals, performances, or press availabilities. But one night, everything came crashing down on me. I took a girl home and fell asleep before she left. She crawled into bed with me, and I woke up to her screams and my hand around her throat.
Needless to say, it was a big fucking deal.
She called the cops.
I was arrested, and she had to go to the hospital because I hadn’t just choked her in my sleep, I’d punched her hard enough to fracture her cheek bone.
Because I was drunk when it happened and because I had a juvenile record that was full of violent offenses, I was sentenced to sixty days in jail and sixty days in rehab.
That was my rock bottom.
I lost my contract with the New York Symphony. I was fired from my recurring appearances on my family’s reality show.
But losing those things felt insignificant when I stacked them against the pride that used to be in my father’s expression every time he looked at me.
I’m desperate to get that back.
I stopped drinking, haven’t had sex with anyone in months, and I’m faithful to my anger management sessions.
Even when we’re traveling, I talk to my therapist.
But, my reputation won’t ever recover. If you google me, the news stories about my arrest are higher on the search results than my music career.
I have a chance at a comeback, if my father will agree to let me appear on the show again. But until he thinks I’m ready, I’m out.
I agreed to do all this traveling and family time because it was important to him, but also because it would give him a chance to see that I’m better and in control now.
I’ve just reached the lake shore when a loud scream of laughter to my left draws my attention back over my shoulder to the bonfire.
That’s when I see her. And everything else falls away.
She’s dancing alone at the edge of the crowd of people gathered around one of the huge communal bonfires that were lit at sunset.
Her eyes are closed, her arms hang loosely by her side as she sways languidly. Her lips are curved in a contented smile.
My plans to go for a quick swim are forgotten. Lord, but I’m a sucker for a girl who likes music enough to dance all by herself.
Add to that how damn pretty she looks from here and it’s like waving a red flag at a bull. But, a bull who knows it’s days of goring matadors are behind it. I didn’t make it this whole week to fuck it up over a pretty face.
So, I can’t explain what possesses me to turn around and head in her direction.
I have no idea what I’ll do or say when I reach her.
Or if I’ll do or say anything, at all.
I also don’t know why my heart is nearly beating out of my chest.
As I get closer, the details that the distance and dusky lighting hid from me reveal themselves.
Her face is rounder than the firelight’s shadows made it appear.
Her dark hair is slicked back away from her heart shaped face. The sun-tanned skin is a canvas for eyes that are wide set, framed by dark arched brows, and fringed by thick, sooty lashes that cast feathery half-moon shapes on the high rounds of her cheekbones.
Her nose is pert and slightly upturned.
In a visage that’s all soft curves and delicate angles, her mouth is a standout. Her lips are full and wide and very pink in the center. The deep crease down the middle of the full bottom one reminds me of the indent on the cherries we’ve been eating all week. She’s fucking gorgeous. But it’s the way she seems to be relishing her solitude that makes it so hard to look away. The crowd between us has thinned and I can see her whole body now.
She’s wearing a black, low-cut, one-piece bathing suit that on anyone else, might be modest. On her, though, it should come with a warning. She’s got small, but full breasts that swell out of the top and peek out of the sides of the suit.
Her tiny waist flares out and curves down to hips that sway seductively to the music.
Flawless, smooth, tanned skin sets off her long, muscular legs.
Her body should come with a warning sign that reads “Carter Bosh’s Kryptonite.”
By the time I’m close enough to reach out and touch her, I can see every riveting and fascinating thing about her.
There’s a thin line of freckles that trail over the creamy skin that’s stretched taut over the high rise of her left cheekbone. It arcs like the tail end of a shooting star and disappears into her hair.
And her dark hair isn’t scraped back. It’s cut very short, wavy and longest on top, but even there, it’s not more than a couple inches long. It hugs the delicate curve of her scalp in dark waves and tapers to curly wisps at her nape.
It’s not a hairstyle many people can pull off. But on her, it’s perfect. It leaves a clear view of her striking bone structure and her long, elegant neck.
She’s wearing small, gold earrings in the shape of some sort of flower in her ears and an impossibly delicate gold chain dotted with diamonds wraps around the base of her throat, and in the firelight, they sparkle like stars.
There’s a telltale white trail of dried tears on her cheeks.
It’s so at odds with the contentment in her smile that, before I can think better of it, I reach out to touch it.
Her eyes pop open and I freeze, my hand in midair as I fall into an ocean of blue. My breath catches in my throat. It’s the color of the water in the picture I carry around in my pocket.
She stops dancing and her posture turns rigid. She glares at my hand that’s still stupidly suspended between us and I drop it to my side.
“Were you about to touch me?” she asks, and her voice is high and cold with indignation, and I drop my hand and shake my head.
“No, no…I’m sorry. You’re just… I saw…” I sound like a total idiot, but I think it’s better than trying to explain what I was doing and sounding like a total creep.
“Well?” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her hip to the side as she waits for me to answer.
I blurt out the first coherent thought that forms. “Do you want to dance?”
“I was dancing,” she says irritably, but she doesn’t look at me. She looks around the campfire and then out across the lake, scanning as if she’s looking for someone. Her gaze settles on something and her jaw tightens.
“I know…I mean…with me…”
Her eyes come back to me, still full of wariness, as she gives me an assessing once-over.
I smile awkwardly.
She says something under her breath and then she loosens her stance a little. She blows out a breath, puckering her plump lips before they spread into a very meager, but honest smile. Her expression softens, and the grooves of tension between her brows disappear.
“Thank you. But, I’m fine. You don’t need… I shou
ld probably go…maybe try and find my frie—the people I came with,” she says and turns to look across the lake again, her expression full of dread.
“Are you okay?”
She nods without looking back at me, and I follow her gaze and see her looking at a small group of people I’ve noticed a lot today.
They’re the loudest group here. And a small fight broke out between a woman and man that ended with him on the ground and her on top of him kissing her. They look older than my twenty-two, like mid-twenties and judging by her looks, that means they’re much older than her.
“Yeah…that’s them. I should probably go back,” she says, and her whispered response is raw with resignation.
“You say that like you’re about to get on a roller coaster you’ve been peer pressured to ride,” I say.
A bark of surprised laughter bursts from her lips. Her eyes come to mine, but then she looks away again as soon as our gazes lock. She looks back at them.
Her brow knits together and she purses her lips.
“That’s exactly how I feel.” Her voice is hollow and I get a knot of apprehension in my gut.
“Did something happen?”
Her expression is at once amused and anguished.
“Do you ever get a feeling that you were born in the wrong place?” she asks softly.
It’s a startlingly personal question. It's so on target it's scary, considering my thoughts earlier about playing the piano.
Her eyes are clear and intent on mine and full of expectation. Like she expects me to be just as candid with her.
Intimacy with perfect strangers, no matter how compelling isn’t something I can manage. Unless of course, I’m playing the piano for them – there’s nothing more intimate than that for me.
I take stock of the woman in front of me and make a quick assessment. She’s clearly having a shitty night. Maybe she just wants someone to listen and I’ve been there. And as long as she does most of the talking, I’ll be fine.
