Someone to Watch Over Me

by Anne Berkeley

  “You disappeared on me for a second there.” His gaze dropped to the foot resting in his hand. He ran his thumb down the center, smiled when I jerked my leg. “Tell me about your family.”

  “It’s just my mom and dad. They live just outside Philly.”

  “Are you close?”

  “We don’t see each other often, with work and all. You?”

  Grinning, only one side of his mouth pulled up in a dry smile. “My life’s all over the internet. You’re lying if you tell me you haven’t looked it up.”

  I did. Totally. Half the girls at work were watching over my shoulder. The rest of them were running their own queries. Most of it was rudimentary. He grew up in Seattle. Parents divorced when he was fifteen. He turned to music to cope. Started the band when he was sixteen. Signed by Angeles Records when he was eighteen. Started his own label at twenty-five.

  He raced motorcycles when he wasn’t on tour. Nothing pro, just amateur stuff from what I could tell. He collected bikes. Had a garage full of them. Nice bikes. Fast bikes. Crotch rockets. Ducati. Aprilia. Hayabusa. Ninja. A few models I couldn’t remember because they were nothing but a chain of letters and numbers. He would think my ignorance was a travesty.

  On Wikipedia, I found their band history and the origin of their name. The girls all thought it was a sign. Hautboy was actually the name of a wild strawberry, and because my hair was strawberry blonde and I held an uncanny resemblance to the erotic illustration of the woman—practically making love to a strawberry with her mouth—on the cover of his first album, they deemed our meeting was fate. I didn’t fool myself with such delusions.

  Strawberry Island was actually the name of an Island in the waters of Deception Pass, which Ben Ure made infamous due to his seedy occupation of human trafficking. Ben Ure’s wife would camp out on Strawberry Island and signal her husband with a fire, providing it was safe to bring his cargo ashore. If not, he dumped his load of burlap bags overboard, along with the Chinese immigrants inside them. Yeah, real romantic. At any rate, the band originally wanted to name the group Deception Pass, but it was already taken. Strawberry Island was too feminine. So they went with Hautboy. Story told.

  The biography was vague and impersonal. Nevertheless, it was out there for the world to read. I wondered what it was like to live with your personal life put out there on display.

  “Does it bother you, the exposure?”

  “It is what it is. Comes with the territory.”

  “How about the photographers?”

  “They’re annoying, but you mostly see them in L.A. or N.Y. The larger cities. But places like this, you’ve got to deal with the fans and their cell phones. Sometimes they’re worse than the photographers are. But I take it with a grain of salt. As long as they don’t get too close, I just ignore them. Besides, I have nothing to hide.”

  Once again, he filled my glass, took a sip from it. He swirled it around, staring at the contents. “That’s actually good. I can taste the blackberry.”

  “So you’re a connoisseur.”

  “No, just read it on the bottle.” He smiled puckishly and handed the glass back. “I don’t know anything about wine. Never touch the stuff.”

  “It’s local. There’s a small vineyard down the street. I had an hour free one day and they were having an open house so I stopped in. They’re nice people, down to earth.”

  “One hour. You must have been fraught with boredom.”

  Because he was right, I grinned over the edge of my glass. The rare times I didn’t have Levy hugging my leg, I didn’t know what to do with myself. It’s amazing how easily a mother forgets what life was like before children. I usually ended up cleaning something out of sheer habit, but on occasion, I indulged myself with some small and inexpensive vice.

  “So what else do you do for fun, besides ice cream and wine?”

  “Walk. Read. Ride.”

  “Ride?”

  “Horses. My landlord has a few in the barn downstairs. I help him clean stalls sometimes, so he lets me ride them.”

  “Are you good?”

  “I can stay on.”

  “I’ve never ridden. There’s something unsettling about it. Maybe because horses have a mind of their own, and I like to be in control.”

  “City boy.” Reaching up, I pulled the towel from my head. Shook my hair out until it fanned in damp, tangled strands over my shoulders. I had only meant to let it dry, but to Tate, it meant something else entirely. His eyes widened and then narrowed, pupils eclipsing the dark brown irises until they were almost completely black in color.

  "Jesus, you really are the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on."

  Sliding from the ottoman, he knelt at my feet, sliding between my knees. He pressed his lips to mine in a whisper, holding my gaze. My breath fell short, lungs constricting tightly.

  "Tate, I know it's a little late to ask, but you brought protection, right?"

  "Of course."

  With those two words, I lost myself in the thrill of his kiss. Our breath mingled together, heady and sweet. And then his tongue swept against mine and I lost all thought completely.

  Moaning into his mouth, I molded myself to him. The towel slid free, falling to my waist. Tate’s hand ambled up my side, cupped my breast, thumb circling the peak until it pebbled. It was embarrassing, really. That I was already primed for him. He’d barely touched me for God sake and I was dripping with sexual enthusiasm.

  Pulling me forward with his other hand, I fell into his lap, straddling him. My hips began to undulate, riding against the bulge in his jeans. The wine was definitely starting to work its magic, because all inhibitions were forgotten.

  Breaking the kiss, Tate scored my jaw with his teeth. "Hard and fast this time, babe. We’ll take our time later."

  "Huh," was all I could manage.

  Message received, he reached into his pocket and extracted a strip of black plastic squares. He tore one from the chain and threw the rest to the floor. "Jesus.” He shook his head, his thought lost in translation. “This is...Jesus. I think I might embarrass myself tonight."

  Resting me on the sofa, he dropped his pants only enough to free himself. I watched as he tore the packet open, pinched the tip and rolled the condom down the length of his cock. He glanced at me then, smiling. “Are you ready?" The question was rhetorical. He rose to his knees, tugged me forward until my hips rested on the edge of the sofa, then thrust into me hard and fast, just like he’d warned.

  "Oh God!" I gasped. Closing my eyes, I steeped in the sensation. The fullness. The thrill. The delicious tingling of his harsh entry. My arms and hands trembled beneath me.

  He stilled, his hand sliding between my thighs. I raised my head, watching as he circled his thumb just over my core, fingers splayed over my belly. His thumb was callused from the strings of his guitar, but not so much that it was abrasive. Just the opposite, it was arousing.

  Glancing up, Tate caught my eye. "You like?"

  "Ungh," was my response. I liked, definitely liked.

  "Good. Come for me, babe. I’m almost there already." He withdrew until I was almost empty then thrust in again, hard and fast. I cried out, my knees tightening around his hips, almost in tears from the shock and pleasure of it. “That’s it, babe, scream for me.”

  His hips moved faster. Harder. Heat coiled in a building wave and I climaxed, exhilarated over the effect I had on him. I could get high on the oaths escaping his lips, the guttural sounds rumbling from the back of his throat. It wasn't just me. He was lost too.

  "Fuck. Oh fuck. Yeah. Jesus."

  His force increased, his hips slapping my thighs with bruising vigor. His muscles tightened, face contorting, fingers digging deep into my waist. A deep growl escaped him, loud and unrestrained. He froze, buried deep inside of me, seizing, trembling from the force of his climax. Every muscle strained beneath the surface of his golden skin.

  I could’ve watched him for hours.

  Recovered enough to move again, he grasp
ed my waist and pulled me down with him as he collapsed to the floor. "Fffffuuuuuuccckkk."

  I snickered, shifting my weight so that I lay half atop, half against his side.

  “Laugh,” Tate chastised, slipping the condom off and tying it in a knot. “Go ahead. Laugh. As if I haven’t just emasculated myself with the fastest sex in the history of the world. I think I may have set new records. I never even got my clothes off.”

  “Well, you may have emasculated yourself—your words not mine,” I assured when he lifted his head and stared indignantly. “We both accomplished what we intended. Do I look dissatisfied?”

  “No,” he replied, dropping his head to the floor. “You look deliciously disheveled. Ripe and sweet and edible. My strawberry girl.”

  “Deliciously disheveled. Say that ten times fast.” He did, causing another round of laughter. When we fell silent again, I explained. “I was going to say you empowered me. I liked thinking I had that affect over you.”

  “Babe, you have that affect on every man. I mean…look at you.” Rolling, he pinned me beneath him. Lifted his weight. His eyes travelled over the length of me, devouring every inch. I felt myself blush from head to toe.

  When he reached down and traced the scar from my cesarean, I all but stopped breathing. I hadn’t given it much thought. Much thought? I hadn’t given it any thought. A mistake on my part. God I was such a moron. His eyes drew up, meeting mine. My mouth pulled into a frown.

  “How old is he? It’s Levy, isn’t it?”

  “Almost two.”

  “Where is he—with his dad?”

  “No. He’s next door. My neighbor watches him while I wait tables.” I supposed the cat was out of the bag. No reason to delay the inevitable. “His father doesn’t know he exists.”

  Sliding out from beneath him, I stood, grabbed the throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around myself. This wasn’t what I had planned; explaining my past. I hoped we could part ways on even ground. I was just Cooper, not poor, abused, broken Cooper.

  Needing a little reinforcement, I finished off my glass of wine.

  Tate followed, tucking himself back into his pants. He left the button undone. “You don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to push. I was just curious.”

  Curiosity killed the cat. In our case, a night of great sex. “It’s ok. I don’t mind talking about him. At least I usually don’t mind. You, I didn’t tell because, well, I just assumed that you’d have second thoughts about me. I wanted to be with you, even if it was just one night.”

  “I knew you had a kid,” he confessed, surprising me. “I asked the girl in the ice cream shop after you left.”

  “You still came.”

  Tate crossed the space between us. Pressed a kiss to my lips. “I like you, Coop. I want to get to know you.”

  “You don’t have to say that. I won’t delude myself to this being more than it is.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Sex.”

  “Is that all it was for you?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like you, Tate. I do, really, but it can’t be more than that, even if you wanted something more. I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “For a million reasons. The least of them being that you’re going back on the road in a few weeks.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, pushed my hair from my eyes. Tate sat across from me on the coffee table. “I can’t let my ex find out about Levy. All it’ll take is one photograph, and he’ll know he’s his. I can’t let that happen. He’s abusive, mentally and physically.”

  “Is that why you ran off yesterday, because you were worried there might be cameras following me?”

  I nodded, annoyed that my eyes rimmed with moisture. “I might have overreacted a little. But Grant is seriously screwed up.”

  “Your eye injury wasn’t really an accident, was it?”

  “No.”

  “He hit you so hard that you needed surgery?”

  I nodded. “I nearly lost my sight. The police arrested him, but he came after me as soon as they released him. The restraining order I placed against him is just a piece of paper. It does nothing. He shows up every so often, harasses me. By the time the cops come, he’s always gone. I moved out, hoping he would leave me alone, but somehow he found out where I lived. Maybe he hired a detective. I don’t know. So far, he hasn’t mentioned Levy, so I don’t think he knows about him. If he did, I really don’t think he’d leave me alone. I’m afraid he might try and take him.”

  “Jesus. You deal with all this alone?”

  “I have my parents.”

  “You said you didn’t see them often.”

  “I talk to them on the phone or on Skype so they can see Levy. But, no, I won’t let them visit. Each time I move, I hope he won’t find me, but then I’ll get a phone call or a text and he’ll allude to the fact that he knows where I am. I won’t even let them send me mail anymore because I’m afraid he’s reading it, and it’s possible he has. I’ve lived here the longest, almost a year. But I’m afraid to let my guard down. I don’t want to move again.”

  Resting his elbows on his knees, Tate propped his head in his hand, staring at me as if I were some crippled puppy that someone threw out their car window along the interstate.

  “I don’t want your pity,” I sighed. “I’m not broken or mentally scarred. I don’t blame myself for what he did. I don’t think I deserved it. I don’t blame the entire male race either. I’m not afraid every man I date is going to be just like him. That’s not why I’m telling you this. I told you earlier—I tell everyone about my past. It’s for your safety, Levy’s safety. I’ve seen what Grant can do. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “What about you?” Tate replied, nonplussed. “You haven’t said anything about yourself.”

  “That’s a given. Of course I worry. I’m not completely selfless. But in the same breath, what can I do? I’ve done everything legally possible.”

  “Do you think working at that bar is wise?”

  I exhaled loudly, gritting my teeth. “I have bills to pay. And I don’t think where I work is any of your business.”

  “I’m not judging you, Cooper. It’s the hours. From what you’ve said, this guy is dangerous. Do you really think it’s safe for you to be out at that time of night? Not to mention the unifo—”

  “Again. None of your business.”

  “Damn you’re testy.”

  We sat quietly, locked in a stalemate. I polished off another glass of wine. He was right. I could taste the blackberry, and the uniform did suck balls. It wasn’t like I hadn’t said the same exact thing to Billy a few weeks ago. All the waitresses had voiced their opinion at one time or another. “You don’t have to wear it,” was always his response. “There’s always the door.” And that was that. I kept my mouth shut because I needed the job. End of story.

  “I never said I liked the job.”

  “Good, me neither. That’s not to say you don’t look good in the uniform, but I find it degrading. I’m insulted for you, Coop. Those men, they put their hands all over you, and all you’re doing is trying to make an honest dollar. It’s wrong. Especially when you could do the same job in a t-shirt and a comfortable pair of shoes, but that prick that owns the place would rather make a buck off your pain and humiliation.”

  “Nonetheless, it pays the bills.” I rose, heading for the bathroom where I could collect myself, hide the moisture rimming my eyes. Tate might want to spend time with me now, but he would still go on tour in a few weeks, and I would still be waiting tables at The Loft when he was gone. I didn’t hold his prosperity against him, but I hated that he was making me question everything about my life. I prided myself on my strength and ability to overcome adversity. So why was I feeling like such a failure?

  “Coop?” Tate said, standing with me.

  “Give me few minutes and I’ll drive you home, your hotel, whatever.” I rifled absently through my dresser drawers for a t-shirt and
a pair of sweats, settled for a pair of pink velour pants with Juicy stitched across the rear. They weren’t the real thing. I couldn’t afford them.

  “Coop.”

  Dropping my head, I hid the tears running down my cheeks. It was silly. Embarrassing, really. I know he knew I was crying. I had Tate Watkins in my apartment. We just had rabbit sex, and I was crying because he made a general observation about my place of employment.

  “Cooper.” Gripping my shoulders, he spun me around.

  “I think you got me drunk, Tate.” I’ve told my story a million times and I’ve never cried. My life was what it was. No amount of tears would change what happened. I wasn’t hard or reclusive. I was careful. I was strong. It was the wine. The alcohol was making me weepy.

  “It certainly looks that way.” He reached up, dragged the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “If I took advantage of you right now, would you regret it come morning?”

  Surprised, I looked up, blinked the tears from my eyes. “I’m not that far gone; besides I think I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. I had vast expectations for tonight.”

  “I bet I let every one of them down earlier. Shame on me.” Pressing his lips to mine, he parted them with his own. His tongue slid against mine in a slow stroke. His hands followed my waist to the curve of my buttocks and down to my thighs. He lifted my knee, hitched over his hip. “Tell me what you want, strawberry girl. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “On the bed,” I murmured against his lips as I looped my arms around his neck. He lifted the second leg, hitched it over his hip. His hands slid around my hips, carrying me across the small space to the bed. “Clothes off this time. No, let me do it. I want to.”

  As he lifted his arms, I pulled his shirt up over his head. Dropped it to the floor. Lifting my hand, I traced the curves of his chest. He was lean, long-limbed, but corded with muscle. His chest was smooth, not a single hair marring its golden complexion. The edges of his ribs rippled along his sides. His stomach flexed under my touch, his eight-pack growing defined.

  The tattoos on his arm continued up his shoulder and neck and down his ribs. It was the woman from his first album. She was sitting in a meadow filled with wild strawberries, high above the ocean, amidst the trees. The moon was high overhead like a beacon in the night.