by Emerson Rose
I’m still hesitating, and I can’t place my finger on why.
“Okay, I’ll go first. Maybe that will help. I know we have only known each other for a few hours, but I like you. I would be honored if you agreed to come home with me tonight.”
Honored. Wow, you don’t hear that every day. Hell, I’ve never been told that. Maybe I should go with my instincts on this one. Could my jerk magnet be demagnetized? Anything’s possible, right? Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Vie, and you’ll end up with a pulverized heart and a bucket of tears.
“Your turn,” he says, gently taking ahold of my chin and tipping my face up to his.
“I’m scared.” I blurt it out like word vomit. Hey, it’s communicating at least.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know you. Not really, anyway. And this feels . . . different.”
“Different how?”
“Like . . . like it could be something.”
He chuckles. “Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all. Well, it’s not. I quit having relationships. I suck at them, so I stick to one-night stands.”
His left eyebrow arches high and his half-smile fades.
“I have to agree with your assessment. I too feel like this is more than just fucking, but if it’s a one-night stand you want, let’s start with that, shall we?”
“How do I know you’re not the next David Berkowitz or Jeffery Dahmer?”
As insulting as my question is, it still makes him laugh.
“You would have very bad instincts, then, I guess. I suppose you want to see my military ID to prove I’m really Marine too, huh?”
He’s joking, but I don’t laugh and his face falls.
“Really? You want to see it?” he asks. I nod and bite my lip, suddenly feeling guilty for needing proof.
He doesn’t balk, though. He slides his wallet from his back pocket and produces his ID. I should just glance at it and leave it at that, but I can’t. I feel dumb. I mean, I let this man put his mouth on mine and his hand in my panties, but I’m looking at his ID to be sure he is who he says he is.
I tilt it back and forth, looking for the little details I know an authentic ID should have. My father, brother and many of his friends are Marines, so I know what I’m looking for. While I’m looking at the card, he brushes a loose curl from my cheek behind my ear and I lift my eyes to his. Marines are typically difficult to read. If they don’t want you to know what they are thinking, you won’t know. So when I see disappointment in his eyes, I can be assured he is disappointed in my lack of trust.
I slowly hand him back the ID, and he replaces it in his wallet.
“Now that we have determined that I am indeed not Jeffery Dahmer and that I am indeed a United States Marine, can we go?”
“Yeah, we can go . . . wait, where are we going?”
“My house. I live close by.”
“Sorry about the ID thing.”
“Don’t be. I’m glad you’re a smart girl. It’s not safe to let a stranger touch you in an alley outside a restaurant, of course, but this once, I’m glad you did. And I don’t expect you to do anything like that ever again. Unless it’s with me, and in that case, I won’t be a stranger, because we’re friends now.”
“We are?”
“Yes, we are. Now come on. My car’s down the street.”
He takes ahold my hand and tugs me off the wall. He leads me out of the alley onto the sidewalk. There are more people strolling up and down the street now that it’s past the dinner hour. I’m glad we weren’t caught messing around in the alley by an innocent person passing by. I like the possibility of being caught making out in public. Just the thought, though, not the actual getting caught part.
I was so wrapped up in the moment that I didn’t get to experience the thrill, but I have a feeling there will be a next time. At least, I hope there will be.
We stop next to his white Lexus SUV and he points his key fob at the door and opens it like a perfect gentleman—or a perfect Marine. They are interchangeable, in my opinion.
My experiences with Marines have all been good ones. My dad set the bar so high that I think that’s why I’m a jerk magnet. There has never been anyone who even remotely came close to living up to my dad’s expectations, so I lowered mine exponentially. Major Steele is the first man to come close to proving his worth, and he’s done it in less than twenty-four hours. Impressive.
The drive isn’t far, only twenty-five minutes or so, but the alcohol in my system is beginning to wane and I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. Major is quiet—too quiet—and the music is turned down low, making me even sleepier.
“Can I turn this up?” I ask.
“Yeah, sure.”
I turn it up, and it’s set to an old school country station playing a twangy, sleepy song. I switch the channel to a more upbeat, pop channel to keep me awake. Selena Gomez starts to sing about keeping her hands to herself. I chuckle and hum along.
“So you’re here for a wedding?” he asks, striking up a casual conversation.
“Yes, my brother, Taye’s, best friend, Mattie, is getting married. We grew up together, so he’s like family.”
“And they’re both Marines?”
“Yea, my dad too.”
“Did he retire?”
“He was seventy years old, twenty years older than my mom. He died three years ago, but yes, he retired a long time ago. He was a Major General,” I say with pride.
“Major General, huh? What was his name?”
“Lamar Washington.”
His brows shoot up, and I’m not surprised. My dad was well known and respected. He may have retired a long time ago, but he was always involved in the Corps.
“Your father was Major General Lamar Washington?”
“Yep, the one and only.”
He murmurs under his breath, and I barely make out what he says, but I’m pretty sure it was something like good thing he’s not around or I wouldn’t be taking you home.
“Did you just say you wouldn’t take me home if he weren’t dead?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“Yes. Yes, I did. Your father wasn’t a man to cross. I’m pretty sure he’d have a few million things to say about me dating his daughter.”
“You knew him?”
“I met him once, but for the most part, I only knew of him. He was a great Marine, but great Marines are protective of their daughters—very protective. I’m not saying I’m glad your father is dead, just that I’m grateful I don’t have to pass his inspection.”
“I think he would have approved.”
“That’s quite a compliment.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So do you live near Oceanside?” he asks.
“San Diego.”
His expression changes microscopically when he learns that I’m not from Oceanside, but only for a moment. It was such a quick transition that I can’t tell if that was good or bad news to him.
“How do you feel about that?” I ask, forgetting that not everyone is as forward and blunt as I am.
“How do I feel?” he says, glancing in my direction.
“Yes, are you glad I’m forty-five minutes away or disappointed?”
“You’re pretty forward, aren’t you?”
“This coming from the man who took my blouse off without asking first?”
“It needed washing.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.”
“Well it did, and for the record, I’m disappointed you’re not local.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re friends now, and I like to spend time with my friends.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. I almost forgot. So, friend, what do you do for fun?”
“I don’t have much time for fun, but I play golf.”
“You do? So do I. My dad taught me to play. Do you play on the base?”
“Mostly yes, but like I said, I don’t have much spare time.”
“But you’ll find
time to come to my brother’s best friend’s wedding?”
“I will so I can see you again.”
I smile at his honesty. He doesn’t play games either. That’s good.
“What do you do in San Diego?”
“I’m a computer software developer for Facebook.”
“A computer geek, huh? I would have never guessed. Do you have an ID? You know, to prove you’re really a computer designer for Facebook?” He never looks directly at me, and I’m pretty sure he’s holding back a smile.
“Touché, Major.”
“No, I’m serious. Hand it over. I need to see some form of identification so I know you’re not some black widow looking for her next victim.”
I roll my eyes and sigh when I slip my work ID card and my driver’s license out of my phone case. He tilts and turns them carefully, the way I did his earlier, until I snatch them away.
“Point taken, smarty pants,” I say.
He laughs, and I notice tiny wrinkles on the corners of his eyes. Men age well. I don’t think I look too young for him, though, but I’m asking.
“How old are you, Major?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Well, you have to have been in the marines ten to fifteen years to reach your rank, so I’d say thirty-five.”
“Oh, I’m wounded,” he yells, holding his hand over his chest.
“Okay, thirty-two. Is that closer?”
“Ding, ding, ding, give the lady a prize.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me how old I am?”
“Nope, saw it on your license. You’re twenty-seven.”
He turns off the main road onto a residential street and pulls into the driveway of a moderate-sized Mediterranean house. He presses the garage door opener and I watch the door rise, revealing the cleanest, most organized garage I’ve ever seen.
He pulls inside and closes the door behind us.
“Wow.”
He cuts the engine and looks at me with a question on his rugged, handsome face.
“Wow, what?”
I look out the window of the car at the garden and lawn tools that are perfectly aligned on hooks. Everything in his garage looks brand new. A workbench in the corner with a long pegboard holds what looks to be every tool ever invented, but it’s so . . . sterile.
“You’re just super tidy,” I say, downplaying the perfection of his garage.
“I like things a certain way.”
“I see that.”
“Stay. I’ll come around,” he says, opening his door. I watch him walk around the front of the vehicle. He is damn near perfect himself. He’s physically fit, intelligent—or so I assume, since he’s a Major in the Marines. He couldn’t have gotten that rank with an empty head. He’s successful, so he doesn’t lack motivation or drive. He’s educated, and so far, he’s kind. I could do a lot worse on a one-night-stand, that’s for sure . . . and I have.
He opens my door, and I slide down out of my seat. He takes my hand to steady me. It’s a big step, even in heels.
“You’re a little thing, aren’t you? How tall are you anyway?”
I straighten up taller and hold my head high.
“I’m five foot one and a half,” I say with pride.
“And a half, huh? You may as well claim that half-inch.”
“Okay then, five foot two. I like that better anyway.”
“Come on, let’s go inside. I’ll fix you a drink. I’m afraid I don’t know the ingredients for a Red Velvet Martini, but I can get you some wine.”
“Wine is good. The martinis are my mother’s drink, not mine.”
He opens the door that connects the house to the garage and immediately toes off his shoes and places them on a rubber matt. I don’t want to track anything in. If his house is anything like his garage, nothing goes unnoticed, so I follow suit.
At the end of a long hall is a kitchen. When he reaches it, he flips on the lights. It’s beautiful—not exactly my style, but still nice—and clean. I lean against a large island, feeling much shorter without my heels, and watch him move around the kitchen.
He works on pouring us two glasses of a blush wine while I look around. The rooms flow one into another, starting with the kitchen flowing into the dining area with French doors that open out to a deck. The living room is next, facing the front of the house. All the spaces are sparsely furnished. The essentials are here—table with four chairs, a couch, coffee table and a television mounted on the wall—but no personal touches, no knickknacks or photographs. Nothing, just bare, unlived in looking space.
“Did you decorate yourself?” I ask.
He turns and sets the wine glasses on the counter next to me and surprises me by lifting me onto the counter in front of him.
“It was hurting my neck to look so far down at you,” he says with a half-grin. I punch his rippled abdomen and wince when it hurts my knuckles. He tilts his head to the side and looks at me with a twinkle of ornery and a dash of sympathy.
The wine glasses seem to catch his eye, and he reaches out to adjust them on the counter. They don’t look to be in a different position, but he appears satisfied.
“I remodeled the house a few years ago. I was going for simple and understated.”
I twist to look at the living room again. “Well, I think you accomplished that.”
“You don’t like it?” he says, pulling me to the edge of the counter and pushing up my skirt to nestle in between my legs. I’m tempted to lie and tell him it’s lovely so he’ll just kiss me, but as usual, I say what’s on my mind.
“It’s very impersonal. I can’t learn anything about you looking around this room.”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t want people to know you?”
“People know what I want them to know and that’s all.”
“Why?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“You avoid a lot of questions.”
His hands are traveling up and down my back in a hypnotizing pattern, and it’s very distracting, but I try to keep focused on the question at hand . . . which was what again? I groan and remove his hands from my back and hold them between us. He sighs and backs away from me a step.
“Violet, I don’t invite people into my life because I don’t want to complicate it. I don’t bring people into my home because I can’t stand to see them mess it up. I like order and neatness in all aspects of my life.”
I cross my arms over my chest, unconsciously protecting myself. His desire for neatness extends far past his immediate environment. It’s deep, personal, intimate. I am not that kind of person. I don’t live my life in a little box where everything is ship-shape and orderly all the time.
What am I doing here? This is ridiculous. Coming home with this tempting man seemed like the best idea I’d ever had an hour ago. But seeing his blank slate of a life is ebbing my enthusiasm more and more by the minute.
I hop down off the counter onto the cold Spanish tile. I don’t know where I think I’m going. I didn’t drive here. I’ll call a cab.
Major reaches out to stop me. “Violet, what’s wrong?”
I turn and look into this gorgeous, complicated man’s endless blue eyes and see honest confusion. He doesn’t even know that what he just said is a depressing turn off.
“Major, I don’t think I belong here. I’m confused. I wasn’t looking for anything more than a one-night stand, but something makes me want to know more about you. I’m supposed to be having drinks, playing golf, and going to bachelorette parties, not deluding myself with thoughts of and hearts and rainbows. But something made me want to come here, and now I see what a mistake that was. I’m a free-spirited dreamer, and you’re a disciplined Marine, and I have absolutely no idea what the hell I’m trying to say. I’m sorry. I need to go.”
He pulls me into his arms and presses my cheek against his chest.
“You’ve misunderstood me. I didn’t mean that I don’t want you here—on the contrary. I
don’t bring women to my house, but I brought you. In fact, I’m a strict believer in one-night stands in hotel rooms where there are no connections, no expectations . . . but I want you here in my house with me.”
Being pressed against him makes his scent intense and intoxicating. I close my eyes to try and sort out my thoughts.
He moves my head back, placing his hands on either side of my face, and I open my eyes.
“I want you here. I don’t know what will come of it, if anything, but I brought you here instead of a hotel for a reason.”
“What reason?”
He caresses my cheeks with his thumbs while looking back and forth between my eyes like he’s trying to find something there.
“I don’t know, but I don’t want you to leave.”
I cuff his wrists with my small hands on both sides of my head.
“Then tell me something about yourself that you don’t tell people.”
He blinks, and it seems like time stops for a moment before he speaks.
“I was adopted. There. No one but the Marine Corps knows that about me.”
Okay, wow. I thought he’d tell me his favorite color or football team, but he’s taken it to a whole different level.
“Now you,” he says, lifting me back onto the counter and handing me my glass of wine.
“I sleepwalk.”
He tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes.
“Lots of people sleepwalk.”
“Lots of people are adopted.”
“True. Is this sleepwalking something you do often?”
“I’m not really sure. You see, I’m asleep when I do it.”
“Watch it there, Target girl.”
I smile at the dumb nickname.
“I find things in places they shouldn’t be all the time. Like I put my brush on the counter in the bathroom when I go to bed, and it’s in the kitchen sink when I wake up—things like that.”
We are close to each other. He has his hands on my thighs, and he’s standing between them. He takes a drink of wine while he unconsciously rubs his thumb back and forth over my bare skin. When I tell him about my mysterious brush story he cringes—like, he actually cringes—and a little shiver runs through his body.
“Have you ever left the house?” he asks. “That you know of, I mean.”
I chuckle. “Yes, I have, on several occasions.” I avert my eyes to a tall vase in the corner filled with long sticks that look like pussy willows. It’s one of the few decorative pieces in his house, and I find it strange that of all things to choose, he would choose pussy willows.
