by Cecy Robson
“So where you from?” she asks, ignoring the way I continue to shoot daggers.
When I don’t answer, she keeps talking like I did, and then some. “I’m from South Carolina, born and raised right here on the island. My folks―well, you can call them modern day hippies―used to take me and my brother―his name is Landon―all over the world every summer break up until I was in eighth grade.”
“To Europe,” I guess, even though I more than intended to keep my mouth shut.
She laughs. “Sometimes. Mostly Asia and Africa. We went to England and Italy a few times, but primarily hung out in soup kitchens in the cities, and churches in the rural countryside, tending to those in need of care.”
I frown, confused as to why anyone would drop what had to be several grand to visit Europe only to hang out in soup kitchens and I’m guessing are homeless shelters. But of course, I don’t ask. And of course, that doesn’t stop her from answering.
“They were volunteers, kind of like missionaries without religious intent. More because they could, and wanted to help.”
I’m listening, even though I don’t want to. That doesn’t mean I bother to respond.
“Ever been to Asia?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
“Africa?”
Again, I don’t say a word.
Her voice quiets. “Been to Iraq?”
My head whips her way. And even though I don’t doubt my face shows she’s hit a nerve, she doesn’t flinch. She motions to the ink on my left arm with a tilt of her small chin.
That arm carries the sniper rifle beneath the Death Before Dishonor banner. My right arm is all Ranger. A soldier’s outline covering the entire upper arm that took four hours to ink in.
“I appreciate you serving, more than you know,” she says carefully. “But it must have been hard, protecting your country like you did.”
I almost scoff at her words, but then I don’t, holding in my anger, for my sake and hers. Hard is running along a sandy beach after you’ve worked out for the past two hours. Hard is surviving Special Forces training. Hard isn’t killing a man you never quite get to look in the face—or watching your friends bleed out in your arms—or lifting your buddy’s severed limb from a dirty pile of rubble—hoping like anything they can somehow stitch that shit back on.
Iraq wasn’t hard. Not in the least. Iraq was pure hell.
I want to rage then, and tell her as much―tell her how she doesn’t know shit. But I don’t. She’s a pain in the ass, that’s for damn sure. And while I’m far from kind, I won’t be cruel. Not to her.
For all I don’t want or need her company, she doesn’t deserve the fury that threatens to choke out the last bit of me that remains.
So instead of raging and going all beast, I continue to run. And so does she, diligently beside me like we have all the time in world. I grit my teeth and push past the stress of another mile, wondering if she’s a punishment for my sins. I’m convinced that she might be when I reach the three-mile mark.
Of course I don’t tell her this. Instead I angle around without speaking. Surprisingly, she does too.
My pace slows to a steady jog. Rainbow, or whatever the hell her name is―wait, Trinity, that’s it―keeps up. Her breathing is more pronounced, and her skin more flushed, but she continues to move her slender legs in time with mine.
In the silence, and based on the conversation, my mind should return where I don’t want it to. Back to Iraq. Back to my team. Back to that time when only three days remained. Instead it latches onto what she said about her parents volunteering all over the world, and her working in a soup kitchen.
No wonder she’s screwed up. Who the hell does that?
I focus on the horizon ahead, doing my best to ignore her. But for some asinine reason my mind starts trying to figure her out. Why is she here, with me? Isn’t it damn obvious I want be left alone?
I open my mouth—ready to tell her she’s wasting her time, and warming up to the wrong man, when the blonde—her friend from the other night—hops down the lifeguard tower and calls to her.
“Trin―”
Her smile fades when she sees me with her, and catches the scowl tensing the muscles along my jaw.
Trinity simply grins. “Coming!” she yells. She pats my arm. “Catch you same time tomorrow.”
As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, she runs off, while I almost stumble—trying to understand what just happened. Catch you tomorrow? What the fuck?
Against my better judgment I glance over my shoulder. Her friend seems wary and she should be. Trinity is, well, not. She ignores my scowl and continues to grin. “Nice butt by the way,” she calls.
I jerk my attention in the direction of my house, thinking I might need a restraining order to keep her away. She’s relentless, nosey, and unbelievably irritating.
I mutter another curse. So then why the hell am I smiling?
Chapter Five
Trinity
I rest my rescue can on my chair and adjust the umbrella so it’s actually providing shade where I want it. It’s only seven thirty in the morning, but that notorious Carolina sun heating my arms is making it clear we’re in for a hot one.
As I toy with the large bulky umbrella, I sneak a peek down the beach, trying not to look desperate, and failing miserably. The spot where Callahan usually materializes like a hot, sexy, brooding mirage is empty of his presence.
Come to think of it, the only signs of life I see are the speed walking ladies no sane human being would be foolish enough to cross. I won’t lie. I’m disappointed. So much so that the little balloon of hope I usually carry deflates with an almost audible whiz.
I finish positioning the umbrella and look once more. Humph. It’s getting late. If Callahan doesn’t come soon I won’t be able to run with him. I try not to laugh. And wouldn’t that just ruin his day?
“Trin!” Sean calls to me.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“I can’t find the damn surfboard we use for rescues.”
I give his comment some thought. “You mean the spine board?”
“Yeah. The surfboard we use for rescues,” he repeats, like I’m the one saying it wrong.
I drop my whistle beside my can, climbing down the lifeguard chair as I speak. “The pediatric one or the adult?”
His long arms swing against his sides as he walks. “The pediatric one—that’s the little one, right?”
“Right,” I answer. “Hmm. Did you look in the back room behind the desk?”
“Looked everywhere.” He pulls off his shirt and tosses it up to the chair since he and I are sharing watch duty today.
I think about it. “There’s an old one in the shed. It’s dirty and will need to be washed, but so long as it’s not cracked we can use it until we find the other one.”
He makes a face. “And what if it’s cracked?”
I tighten my ponytail. “Then we’ll have to call the local EMTs and see if they have a spare. Can’t be without something we might need. Have Mason and Hale check on their side―and call Becca, too, at her post. With all the training exercises we’ve been doing, it probably got moved.”
He reaches for his radio and calls it in as my hot and studly running partner appears down the beach. I can’t see his face. Not yet. But I know it’s him by his large frame and the way he runs. If those squared shoulders and clenched fists don’t scream, “I was in the military and I’ll whoop your ass” I don’t know what does.
I’m not looking at Sean, but I know he’s looking at me. “You gonna run again before opening?” he asks.
I take a moment to stretch my legs, trying to look casual, and once more failing miserably. “Yup. But don’t you worry none. I’ll be back in time.”
“Oh, I know. I wasn’t worried about that none.” He waits, then says, “Trin, you sure about this guy? I mean, he barely talks to you. I don’t think he said two words to you last Friday night.”
I rise from a deep crouch and grin
. “But he’s no longer snarling, and only rolled his eyes at me once yesterday.” I waggle my finger at him as Callahan nears. “That, my friend, is progress.”
“Aw, hell. If you say so. But you’re, you know, fuckable. Maybe you should try for someone who’s fuckable in return.”
I pause in the middle of stretching my arms. “Sean, you know how we’ve talked about those deep thoughts of yours you should probably keep to yourself?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“That was one of them,” I point out.
I stroll away from Sean, unable to stop my smile. Maybe another girl would be put off by his comment. But I know him well enough to recognize his heart is in the right place. My, how long have we been friends now? Twenty years? Doesn’t seem like that long, but considering we went to the same preschool together it sounds about right.
My feet kick back little scoops of sand as I walk to the water’s edge in time to meet the man who can’t live without me. Okay. Not really. But in his own grouchy, grumbling kind of way he―
I was going to say he seems to enjoy my company. Perhaps, “enjoy” is too strong a word. More to the truth, he no longer attempts to flee at the sight of me.
“Morning, Callahan,” I say brightly, picking up my pace so we run side by side.
He doesn’t say anything back. But―score!—he doesn’t scowl either. See? Progress. Now that’s what I’m talking about. We plow ahead, falling into a smooth and easy rhythm.
He keeps his focus down the beach, and I let him. But once my legs warm up I convince myself something’s missing. Oh, I know! Mood music. And what’s better than a little Flo Rida as we run along the Carolina coast?
I start with I Cry, humming to the beat as best I can before I move on to Low. But hey, I love that song so it’s not long before I’m singing the words out loud, alternating between deep and high voices with each beat of our steps—just to keep it interesting.
“She hit the floor. She hit the floor. Next thing you know, Shawty got low, low, low, low, low, low, low.”
He briefly closes his eyes. “Do you have to do that?”
By now I’m sort of shimmying as I run and sing (no easy task, mind you) so I’m not sure which part he’s talking about. Shame he’s not impressed by my moves and coordination.
“You mean shimmy?” I clarify.
He doesn’t answer, swallowing as if in pain.
I try again. “Surely you don’t mean my singing?”
He makes an irritated gesture down my body. “It’s the whole package.”
I pretend to think about it. “Maybe it’s just the song. If you want, you can pick the next one. I take requests.”
He opens his mouth only to shut it. I back off and take in how those messy waves trail just above his blue eyes, before my gaze falls to his beard. The beard looks . . . thinner as if freshly trimmed.
I reach up, mostly because I can’t help myself, and attempt to stroke it lightly. Thing is, we are running, so the stroke turns into more of a slap and I sort of ram my middle finger up his nose.
“Oh, gosh—sorry!” I say as we both stumble to a stop.
I shake my hand out and run into the water to rinse my finger even though I don’t think there’s anything on it. For a hot beach bum, Callahan is surprisingly well-kept. I glance over my shoulder as my fingers splash along the waves to find his narrow eyes locked on my . . . butt?
I grin and throw in a wiggle. “Like what you see?”
His head jerks to the side, and his jaw tightens. When he turns back to face me, that now familiar scowl is set firmly in place. “Did you just slap me?”
I skip back to his side, ignoring the heat behind his accusation. “Of course not. Why would I slap you?”
He regards me like I’m the stupid one. “You seriously need medication,” he tells me.
Okay, now he thinks I’m crazy. But that doesn’t stop me from smiling.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks, his tone clipped.
I step in a little closer, my grin softening. “I guess because in the last seven days we’ve run together, and in the two days I’ve seen you at Your Mother’s, this is the most you’ve ever talked to me.”
Sean was right. Friday night when my team and I returned to our favorite dive bar, Callahan barely acknowledged my presence. And the days we’ve run, he’s mostly said “Christ” when he’s seen me and “Jesus” when I’ve said something that annoyed him.
Such a nice religious boy that Callahan.
But every so often, I’d catch his eyes on me when he didn’t think I was looking, and the barest hint of a grin tugging at his lips when we ran. Those tiny flickers gave me hope that maybe I’m starting to reach him, and that smile I’m gunning for isn’t far beyond my reach.
At the bar, I’d grinned at his scowls, but had given him space. But today, maybe I need a little more. I inch up to him. “I didn’t mean to slap you, and I’m sorry if that’s what you think. I’d never disrespect you like that.”
“Then why were you touching me?” he bites out.
His choice of words cause me to tilt my head and make me wonder who if anyone is allowed to touch him. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” I explain, keeping my voice quiet. “I was trying to stroke your beard.”
His expression is stony and one I can’t quite figure out. I’m not sure if he believes me so I show him I mean what I say.
I lift my hand, ignoring the way his narrowing eyes watch me closely as my fingertips gently graze his jaw. I keep my motions light, barely making contact, and trying real hard not to let my fingers sweep upward and smooth the wavy strands of hair dangling along his brow.
The short, prickly hairs of his beard tickle my fingers and widen my smile. “There,” I whisper. “That’s all I wanted to do.”
His expression remains unreadable, and his mouth closed as my hand drifts away from his face to fall at my side. I motion down the beach. “Want to keep going?” I ask. “It’s still early yet.”
Instead of answering, he backs away and starts down the beach. In a few quick strides, I reach him, but only because he’s not moving very fast. This time, I keep the Flo Rida tunes in my head. It’s only when we reach the end of Magenta Groves Beach and turn around that he finally speaks.
His tone is tight, not quite angry, but not very friendly either. “Why did you touch me?” he asks.
It’s almost the same thing he asked me before. Almost. But there’s more to it this time for sure. “You trimmed your beard,” I respond.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then do it again, trying to gather the courage to answer him honestly. “I wanted to see what it felt like,” I admit.
“What it felt like?”
I can’t figure out if he’s angry or genuinely surprised soI respond the only way I know how—by cracking a joke, because that’s one thing I can pull off."If I had a beard, and I trimmed it, I’d let you touch it. In fact, I might even thank you for it.”
“You want me to thank you,” he says slowly.
“Only if you liked it,” I answer, laughing, because I know he just loves the way I laugh.
He doesn’t respond, forcing me to throw out the big guns. “Are you a virgin?”
He does a double-take. “What?”
“Are you a virgin?” I repeat.
“Why the hell would you ask me that?”
I try to keep my expression quizzical instead of full out laughing at my own ridiculousness. “I’m not trying to judge you—really I’m not. I’m just trying to figure you out. Now, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But if you were it would explain your shyness.”
“You think I’m shy?” he asks in that slow way he does when he can’t believe the things shooting out of my mouth.
“Among other things.” The ocean breeze picks up, and the waves crash, forcing me to speak up to be sure he can hear me. “You can tell me if you are. I promise not to tell anyone, cross my heart.”
>
It’s not that I believe there’s a snowball’s chance in Hades that this boy hasn’t single-handedly popped enough cherries to make a pie, it’s more like I want him to keep talking. No, I need to keep him talking. Me and Callahan . . . I don’t know. I think we’re actually getting to know each other. And I really like who I’m getting to know.
“No. I’m not a virgin,” he admits, something that may or not be a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “What about you?”
I almost can’t believe he went there, mostly because I can’t believe he’s speaking all on his own. I smile to myself thinking I should’ve checked on his hound status long before this.
Instead of answering, yes or no, I say, “If I tell you I am, would you believe me?”
“No.”
“No? You callin’ me a slut?” I ask in my thickest southern accent.
And good day in the morning, that’s when I see it, his very first grin―even though he’s fighting with all that he has to beat it down.
“Maybe,” he finally manages.
“Maybe you’re calling me a slut?”
That smile he’s trying to destroy turns into a laugh―we’re talking full-out guffaw. And right then and there I can’t tell who’s more stunned, me or him.
His expression darkens, as if embarrassed or angry he allowed that long-denied laugh to release. So instead of pushing him too far I give him space. A lot of it. Maybe too much.
I spot my lifeguard stand just ahead, saddened that our very first and real conversation is quickly coming to an end.
“I meant you could be a virgin, but I doubt it.”
His words are so low they barely register over the sound of waves splashing along the shore. But I hear them well enough.
“Why?” I ask.
I slow to a stop just in front of my designated perch. Already the first of the beach goers are pulling into the lot. In the distance, a man grunts and curses, likely trying to lift something heavier than sin followed by the delighted squeals of a few children, and their momma’s urgent voice telling them not to run.
Callahan stops a few feet away from me, and although he knows I’m still behind him, he keeps his back to me. I kick the sand at my feet, but my attention remains on him, waiting for him to tell me more before this moment between us is gone for good.
