by Marata Eros
He interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t ask. He shows up when he’s not hungover.”
“Huh.” I lick a path down his bare chest. His eyes go dark with heat, a look I know really well . . . a look I never get tired of seeing.
“What did you tie-dye?” he asks, his breaths coming shorter.
“Panties.” I stop and look at him. I sit up on my knees, mine pegged between his legs as he looks up at me from the bed. I survey his muscular body, completely relaxed as he looks up at me, loving his eyes that change color like the sea, his inky hair, his awesome muscles marked with the symbols of his ancestry. He watches me looking at him and I slowly roll down the waistband of my yoga pants to reveal the brightly colored band that used to be white and is now a riot of brilliant jewel tones.
Chance gives a low whistle then drags me closer as he sits up, plowing his hands into the back of my pants, grabbing my butt. “I need a closer look!” he says loudly and I’m suddenly underneath him, the muscles I’d admired straining against me, caging me as his hand locks over my wrists and binds them above my head. He inserts a finger underneath the top of my pants and inches them down to reveal the beautiful pattern the tie-dye made.
They clear my ass and his eyes flick to the panties underneath, then to me. “I love them . . .”
“But?” I asked, breathless.
“I like them better off.”
He shows me just how much.
Afterward, he takes my wadded-up colorful underwear and studies the pattern the rubber bands made against the cotton fabric.
“You went by yourself?” he asks.
“No, Evan came too.”
Chance looks at me, his fingers clenching around the vibrant fabric. “Evan helped you tie-dye your underwear?” he asks, incredulous.
I nod.
“Hey, I don’t want any guy touching your underwear but me,” Chance says.
“Are you serious?” I ask, slightly uneasy. I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.
He leans over me, tucking me underneath him again, trapping me. “No.”
Chance kisses me lightly on my lips.
He lifts his head, looking deeply into my eyes, his gaze reaching my toenails. “Yes,” he says and moves his mouth over mine, hard.
I open to the bruising pressure of ownership his lips convey—demand.
He lifts his mouth, coming up for breath as I pant beneath him, my panties not there to soak up my arousal. He pushes his finger inside my wetness and I gasp, the intrusion as welcome as it is unexpected.
“Deadly,” he says, his finger moving in and out of me as his mouth lowers to own mine again.
Chance proves something to me today. He is lighthearted when he needs to be and can switch gears if he wants to.
Deadly serious.
Lacey’s at the Homer airport, trying for incognito and missing it by a mile. She has Seattle chic going on: yoga pants, platform flip-flops with a sparkle thong accent, also black, and an aggressive red cami peeking out from underneath her ebony tee. Large movie-star sunglasses cover eyes I know are a clear greenish brown.
“It’s gotta be true love for me to brave that wacko journey of a hundred layovers,” she says as soon as I come near. Her eyes start at my head and end at my clog-adorned feet. “What’s happened?” she asks.
I look down at myself, seeing the metamorphosis of my wardrobe. Certainly Seattle’s casual, but Seattleites would look positively uptight compared to the eclectic attire I’ve seen since coming to Alaska.
“What?” I say, a little self-consciously. Lacey’s always been my rock. She’s been there for every milestone, big or small. I don’t know what I’d do without her. I want her to like what I’m wearing. It’s stupid, I know . . . but she’s really all the family I have left, and I want her to approve of my new life.
“It’s like . . .” She shakes her head, puzzled, her finger tapping her bottom lip. “I don’t know: hippie meets girly meets . . . fisherwoman?”
I grin suddenly. “You wait, girlfriend, you haven’t seen anything!” I sling an arm around her.
“I can’t wait,” she replies in a droll voice.
Lacey gets over the shock of seeing the bus in all its psychedelic glory and gingerly slides her butt in. She looks around, her gear already in the cargo hold.
“You’re full of surprises,” she says noncommittally.
She grills me as I gush about Chance.
“So fisher boy is the new stud?” she asks and I give her a sideways glance, our conversation flowing easily as we wind down East End Road.
“It’s Chance, and yes it’s L-O-V-E.”
Lacey rolls her eyes. “You’re not even twenty-one; don’t let a case of panty-dropping lust pull a brain fog on you.”
I scowl and she shrugs.
We’re quiet until we get to Aunt Milli’s. “So this is the place Milli was always telling stories about.”
I just nod, a choke threatening me. “Yeah,” I manage.
Lacey studies me. “I thought you didn’t like Milli.”
I look at my hands. “I didn’t but . . . I didn’t want her dead. Then she gives me a house!” I say, sensing the guilt beginning to bubble to the surface again.
Lacey sniffs at the small cabin. Instead of going inside, she noses around the property. When she steps within sight of the outhouse, I can immediately interpret her expression of distaste. She eyes the weathered door, the classic half-moon cutout at the top of the door for ventilation that is now nothing more than decoration.
I don’t remember Lacey being this stuck-up. I don’t remember feeling so much like an adult either.
I sigh. “It is sort of small . . .”
“And . . . awful,” Lacey says, sympathy thick in her tone of voice.
I stop. And look critically at the cabin. I’ve been here almost two months now, Independence Day around the corner, and as I look at the cabin I realize what it represents now.
Home.
I haven’t felt right in my own skin for more than half a year . . . and finally, I do.
It’s not the six-thousand-square-foot house of my upbringing. But that was filled with my family—our memories. And they’re not there anymore so it’s not home. Milli’s home is fresh and new, at least for me. She was part of my family and a piece of them remains within these four walls, but the house’s existense doesn’t define them. It’s a place of good memories, not the ones I’ve left behind. So I don’t give a shit if it’s small . . . it’s not awful. Nowhere near.
Lacey sees my expression and regret slides over her features, a shadow of something else chased away before I know what it is.
Maybe better I don’t.
“Oh, Brookie . . . I’m so sorry. I . . . fuck. I’m an ass.”
“Yeah,” I say with a nod.
We stand in awkward silence, the buzz of bees lighting on the wildflowers a typical comfort for me. But my heart’s full.
To breaking.
Lacey takes my hand. “You know how much I love you?” Her eyes flood with emotion, brimming with sincerity.
I nod, my eyes dry.
“Come on . . . show me the rest.”
“Okay,” I say, but my heart’s not in it. I want Lacey to love Alaska as I’ve come to love it.
Then I realize: would I love it as much if Chance weren’t a part of it?
NINETEEN
Chance
The weather is made to order. I’ve just gotten off a run of three days of balls-to-the-wall fishing, 6 a.m. to almost 9 p.m. of solid sea time, and I’m ready to meet Brooke and Lacey at the Dawg. They’ve been able to get plenty of girl time in while I’ve been working. My turn.
Maybe Evan can stop worrying about my girlfriend’s panties and distract himself with Lacey.
I drive up to the Dawg in the ’Cuda, parking it carefully, tight against an old outdoor streetlamp, my hair still damp from the shower and clinging to the back of my neck like a wet hand. I’m so ready to feel Brooke in my arms I almost forget my gui
tar. I swing back around, gripping the chrome handle and lifting it as the back door swings open, smooth and heavy. I grab the neck of my guitar and take it out, closing the door. I look at the pool of light cast by the streetlamp and chuckle to myself. As bright as the sun is at 10 p.m., the illumination value is beyond weak. I still like my car packed in tight against something that won’t beat the hell out of it with a swinging door.
I stride to the Dawg, the smell of booze, residual smoke, and old wood carry outside, greeting me in a memory trigger of nostalgia. The Salty Dawg will always be the place I first played my music in front of others.
I move inside the gloomy interior, the small, four-pane-divided windows allowing little light to grace the interior. I scan the saloon for Brooke and find her . . . and her friend Lacey.
I note Lacey is good-looking. It takes me about three seconds to lose interest; my eyes are all for Brooke. But Evan’s noticed Lacey and is clinging like a fly to shit.
Perfect.
Her blond hair is styled in that overly coiffed way that I think looks like ass, affected. My eyes move to Brooke; her softly waved hair has an untrained and natural look. My gaze doesn’t end there but travels to her tight jeans, formfitting cami with a sheer top thrown over it. It’s a soft purple color that makes me wish we were outside so I could see her better. Lacey’s been a good influence, I notice. I finish my visual sweep at Brooke’s high-heeled shoes and smile. Girls don’t usually wear heels in Homer. Brooke wore Xtratufs the two times she worked for me and now wears just clogs. Yet here she is in heels and a top so sheer I couldn’t tear my stare away from her if I tried.
Brooke smiles, turning her head to whisper something to Lacey, and the two girls’ hair mingles together, one black and one like dark gold. Lacey glances my way and giggles. Then Brooke stands and meets me in the middle of the packed bar. My hand has a tight hold on the guitar, but I use my other hand to drag her close. I lean my head down to her neck, closer now from the extra height of the heels.
“You look hot,” I say into her ear, the talking all around us loud, way above white noise.
“Thank you,” Brooke says, moving sideways until her thigh touches my hard-on. Now bigger thanks to her maneuvering.
I laugh. “Alert: banana in pants.”
Brooke’s eyes drop. “I like bananas,” she says, perfectly deadpan.
I groan—no shit?
Suddenly Lacey is there and I move Brooke in front of me, hiding my dick. Her ass moves up against my hardness.
No improvement.
“Nice,” I hiss good-naturedly.
“Welcome,” she chimes.
Lacey looks puzzled then sticks her hand out. I take it over Brooke’s shoulder.
“Brookie’s told me so much about you . . .” Her eyes sparkle with humor.
“Brookie?” I ask.
Brooke nods with a short laugh. “We’ve been best friends since—”
“—kindergarten,” Lacey finishes for her as Evan walks up, two drinks in hand.
I raise my brow. “Twenty-one.” Lacey answers my unspoken question. She takes the glass from Evan, sipping the cola-colored drink through twin tiny red straws, a cherry centered on top of the ice. “Yum, yum,” Lacey says, perfectly pivoting into Evan, her hand on the center of his chest for balance. “Lacey says thank you.”
“Simon says come dance with me,” Evan says, his mop of hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape. A spiral of hair escapes as I watch, as if it refuses the captivity.
“Simon says yes,” Lacey purrs. She flutters her fingers at me. “Nice to meet ya . . . Chance.”
She saunters off, subtly shaking her ass . . . balanced on heels as fragile as Brooke’s.
“Interesting girl,” I say. My mind’s not made up. But she gets a tally mark on the good side for distracting Evan, though she comes across as brittle somehow. Not fragile, but somehow breakable. Unsteady.
Brooke turns into my arms, and I switch hands with my guitar. “We’re totally different, but she’s . . .” Brooke bites her lip. “She’s the only thing that kept me alive . . . after.”
I nod. Tonight isn’t about solving the problems of the world, psychoanalyzing Brooke’s friends . . . or any of that happy horseshit. It’s about being near Brooke, jamming a set, and later . . . being with Brooke.
I smile so wide my cheeks make that creaking sound when you can’t grin any harder.
“What’s that for, Chance Taylor?” Brooke asks, the smoky coal liner on the tops of her eyelids making that purple gaze look even more arresting. I give a hard swallow, very aware of every part of her body pressing against every part of me.
“Happiness.”
Brooke puts the side of her face against my chest. I strain to catch her next words. “Me too.”
I tow her behind me, pulling out a chair right in front of where I’ll play my guitar. For her.
For us.
I systematically tune my guitar as I do each time I play at the Dawg. When I look up, Brooke’s eyes have found my fingers. Her gaze tells me that she’s thinking about something other than my playing.
I smile, strumming a chord, and it’s her turn to swallow with a dry click I can’t hear but see as her delicate throat convulses.
Lacey breaks the sensual tension of the moment, sliding in next to Brooke as Evan sits by her side.
He smirks, giving me a down-low middle finger. I lift my chin. It’s okay. I have the faintest glimmer of hope we can move past our butting heads over Brooke.
I play the song that’s been on a constant loop in my mind since the moment I knew Brooke had captured me like a fish in my own net: “Spin.”
I slowly pick notes on my guitar and the buzz of the saloon grows quiet. I pick up more notes until the chords run into one another and narrow, the melody becoming singular, focused. Brooke’s eyes lock with mine and I begin to sing, softly at first, then in a ringing baritone that’s meant for her, only her, and I watch her reaction, her cheeks flushing.
“On the waves of an ocean . . . I can see your inner motive . . .” I keep my focus on her with steely resolve, every plucked note and strummed chord aimed at her like an arrow, every note I sing wringing out my emotion for the whole place to see. Raw, open.
“When you wear it on your face . . . indisposed to the world . . .”
I change the last line, tailoring it for us, my voice going low with the resonating emotion. “Let yourself be saved . . . by me . . .”
I hit the last note like a broken heart now healed by love—whole and perfect.
The final note dies and Brooke stands up suddenly, her purse falling to the ground, and I lean my guitar against the log pole that runs floor to ceiling beside where I played.
Brooke runs to me and clasps my face between her hands, and the moment heats—real and alive. Then she wraps her arms around my neck and I lift her off the floor.
I tighten my arms around her as I smile into her shoulder.
The bar erupts in applause and Brooke leans her face away from me, her eyes wet with tears.
And I know we’ve found it. Both of us.
The joy in the darkness.
Brooke
I’m laying uncomfortably, my head leaning against Chance’s shoulder on the drive home as the center console’s various parts dig into my side.
I want to touch him so much I don’t feel the discomfort, only a thrill of happiness that starts from deep inside and spreads like fire through my body.
He wraps his arm awkwardly around my body, pressing his wrist against my head, pushing me tighter against him, and I feel so lucky for this moment I could die.
I almost did. But for Chance, I would have.
Between Lacey arriving and Chance’s guitar nod in front of the crowd, I didn’t have a single thought about my family for an entire day. A first.
Chance pulls into his garage and parks the car, turning off the engine. He slips away from me, charging around the car and ripping the passenger door open. I get up on my knees,
eager, wanting. I salivate with anticipation, like before biting into a piece of ripe fruit.
He scoops me up easily and I wrap my legs around his waist, eating at his mouth. If he had words, I took them. My legs squeeze around Chance and he stumbles for the door.
He pushes it open and it swings back behind us, slamming into place. Chance strides with me around his body like a monkey and dumps me on the couch. The ottoman sits beneath me, slid into the center of the sectional like a full-size bed. Perfect.
I gulp air and he strips his shirt off, flinging it to the ground as I count the shadows his abs cast, licking my lips, taking in all of him like the first dessert I’ve ever seen.
“I love that look,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine.
“What look?” I ask, unzipping my jeans. Chance bends down over my feet, his large hand circling my ankle, and he slowly takes my high heel off. His finger strokes my anklebone in a seductive circle that causes warmth to spread and pool just where I want it.
I gasp in a laugh.
“Am I wrong?” he asks.
“No,” I shake my head, my hair partly covering my face. Chance moves it out of my eyes and tucks it behind my ear.
We look at each other as I sit up, grabbing the waistband of his jeans while he grips my upper arms. I tear the buttons open on his Levi’s and suddenly his penis springs free and my eyes rise to meet his as he wraps his hands in my hair and I can feel myself go wet . . . The pleasure of his hiss of breath when I touch the tip of him makes the heat inside me grow, moisten.
He pushes me back on the widest part of the couch and I watch him crawl toward me, moving until he’s suspended above me. “Spread your legs, Brooke.”
I do, my legs trembling. But instead of coming inside, he splits my lips with his penis. Spreading me gently, he uses my own wetness as a lubricant, and rocking against my clit, he moves back and forth softly. Chance has his palms planted on either side of my body, driving against me . . . back and forth, faster and faster until the delicious friction swells and I hang on that chasm that comes right before a shattering orgasm.
