Bedwrecker

by Kim Karr

  There aren’t many people left, but Makayla and I are rocking it out. Singing. Dancing. Laughing. Having a blast.

  The door opens and the cool night air floats in. In my fuzzy state, I notice Makayla jumping down and rushing toward Cam, who is just walking in.

  Unable to stop myself, I continue my performance solo. Singing. Shaking my hips. Turning in circles.

  When I twirl back around, I notice Brooklyn has come home and is staring at me up here with sober eyes.

  Now, I can’t have that. I beckon him forward. And he comes. Hopping up on the table beside me, I make sure someone hands him a bottle, and then I turn to sing to him. Serenading him because he, too, is one of my best friends.

  Making a complete fool out of myself is something I really don’t care about. I bump my ass to his, my hip to his, my front against him. This is Valentine’s Day and it is my party. The song is coming to an end, so I go all out. Moving to the beat, shaking my ass and swaying like I am the lead singer, blaring my vocals into the pretend microphone.

  And then in the matter of a single glance everything changes.

  The sharp ache of betrayal knifes across my chest.

  My knees go weak.

  The room starts to spin even faster.

  My body is shaking.

  And I sober up faster than I ever have.

  Time to get off this table.

  Behind Cam is a dark figure silhouetted by the shadows. But I’d know him anywhere. Chiseled face, chiseled nose, chiseled chin, and chiseled body.

  Before I can get down, a wide swath of moonlight illuminates his face, and all I can see is his eyes. Those blue, blue eyes. Eyes that gazed into mine. Eyes that songs are sung about. Eyes I never wanted to see again. Yet, no matter how hard I try, I can’t force myself to look away. Like two sapphires, they are on me, and I, God help me, like that they are.

  “Maggie, you okay?” Brooklyn shouts. That’s when I realize I’ve fallen from the table and somehow landed on top of him.

  Standing up straight, I pat myself to check for physical damage, and then look down at Brooklyn, who is laughing uncontrollably at me.

  Popping up to his feet, he is perfectly fine, so I don’t have to worry about him. Instead I concentrate on willing my heart rate to slow down, but it won’t.

  Fine.

  It’s show time anyway. I give a little bow so as to show everyone—him—that I am okay. Everyone starts hooting and clapping, and I do it again.

  I.

  Am.

  Okay.

  Unable to stop myself, I find myself glancing toward the man with the black leather jacket remaining stark still behind Cam.

  The one I hate.

  Hate.

  Hate.

  Hate.

  I mean, wouldn’t you?

  That’s when I notice everyone is cheering but him. His eyes are still on me, though, and they are completely unreadable. Almost daringly, I narrow my eyes to see if he’ll look away.

  He doesn’t.

  I wait.

  And when I can’t take it any longer, I shift my own gaze for fear of what I might see in those blue pools.

  As I do, my eyes land on my best friend, who is in a lip-lock with her boyfriend, and that makes me smile.

  I might not believe love is in the cards for me, but I have no doubt Makayla and Cam were made for each other.

  Time for me to fly.

  I take one small step, and even still, I can feel his gaze on me.

  He can stare all he wants.

  He can go fuck himself.

  I really don’t care.

  With outrage burning in my blood, there is one thing I just have to do before I leave this party.

  Making my way toward the stereo, I load the list Makayla chose not to play tonight and blare it loudly, so every single person in this room can hear it as soon as it starts to play.

  And then, needing to get out of here, I grab the box of remaining chocolates and head toward my room.

  As soon at the first song begins to play, I swing my braid over my shoulder and start singing the chorus to Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” as loud as I possibly can.

  Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to me!

  Maggie

  That dumb trope where women eat ice cream in bed and cry all night after a breakup is so passé. Chocolates, that’s the way to go.

  Popping another in my mouth, I eye the clock with disdain. Seven in the morning on a Saturday and I’m awake. This is completely unacceptable.

  Turning, I shove my face into my pillow, and? feel like Makayla is really starting to rub off on me. She loves the early morning, and is always so productive before noon, whereas normally on the weekends I don’t even get out of bed until then.

  A loud crash from outside has me jumping out of my own skin. Sitting up to turn the light on, I look down at my white camisole to see that it is chocolate stained.

  It’s his entire fault.

  What is he doing here?

  How dare he show up at my house!

  He has some nerve.

  And again, my mind wanders to Keen Masters, where it has been all night, all week, all month, all year.

  I just don’t get it.

  We fuck, we talk, we make plans, and he disappears without a word, and yet I’m still thinking of him to the point of obsessing.

  It’s so crazy.

  Another boom and I’m swinging my legs off my bed and rushing toward my French doors, which overlook the beach.

  The rumble of the thunder grows louder.

  Peeking through my blinds, the speed at which the clouds are moving, and the fact that the sky is as black as it is even though the sun is up, brings instant worry.

  As I open my door, the cool wind blows harder than I had expected and the handle flies out of my hold. Pulling it back, I push it closed behind me.

  Taking a moment to look around, the first thing I notice is how choppy the ocean is—like really, really choppy, and not as in good surf conditions.

  Suddenly, the whole sky is engulfed by black swirling storm clouds. Shit, a storm is coming to shore. I need to clear the patio after the party last night.

  Just then the palm trees start bending precariously to one side as though they are going to fall over or get blown away like feathers, and I know I have to hurry.

  Struggling against the intensity of the wind, I start to make my way through the sandy beach and head around to the outdoor patio. The very loud roar above the rumbling of thunder is the howling of the wind gaining strength.

  That is not a good sign.

  The roar only gets louder and louder with each passing second. The sound is as though a gigantic train is approaching, which obviously out here on the beach is impossible. Now hurrying even faster to open my gate, I rush onto the patio just as I see a white curtain of rain approaching.

  Needing to push the furniture against the house, I move the easy things first. The umbrella over the table is a struggle, but I’m finally able to close it.

  The lights Makayla had hung last night slam against the wooden beams of the trellis above me and shatter to the ground like confetti. And then with the next whip of wind the sky opens up, with fat, cold drops of rain crashing down all around me.

  Great!

  Trying to avoid the shards of glass, I push the chairs against the house and then move to shove the table up close as well. Half-filled glasses and bottles of wine tumble over and roll to the ground, and I’m torn between clearing everything off and just pushing the table out of harm’s way with everything still on top of it.

  Raindrops splatter harder, stinging my skin. The wind whips the ends of my hair, tangling it, but I don’t take the time to tie it back. I need to move this table.

  The kitchen door opens, but I can’t look up. I’m too busy trying to push the very heavy iron table against the wall and avoid getting assaulted by the glass on top of it.

  When hands grab the iron lip and my struggle comes
to an end, I slowly cast my eyes up, expecting . . . no, hoping . . . to see Brooklyn. Still, I already know it’s not my roommate, but my roommate’s brother.

  The crinkle, tickle, tease on the back of my neck gave it away the moment I heard the creak of the hinges from the barnlike kitchen door.

  I suck in a huge breath, trying to ease the tightness compressing my chest. And then I meet his eyes, but for only a moment before I let my Keen-starved gaze take the rest of him in.

  Even through the heavy raindrops I can see him standing across from me in nothing but a pair of those damn tight-fitting, black boxer briefs. The twin pair to the ones I’m wearing right now.

  Shit!

  Two or three inches over six feet, he is so leanly muscled that I can see his veins, his tendons, the ridges of his abs, the jut of his hip bones, and even the ligaments running under his skin.

  Barefoot like me, just as unclothed as me, I have to bite my bottom lip to stop my tongue from sneaking out and licking it at the sight.

  I hate him.

  I hate him.

  I hate him.

  Yes, I have to remind myself of that fact.

  Wouldn’t you?

  Rain puddles at my feet as my dignity wars with my outrage. I don’t need his help. I don’t need him here. I don’t need him at all.

  I.

  DO.

  NOT!

  “I got it,” I grit through my teeth, yanking the table back with all my strength.

  He remains as silent as he had last night, and the only noise is that of the bottles rolling across the glass of the tabletop. At lightning speed he reaches to grab them and stop them from shattering at our feet.

  Watching, I draw in a ragged breath. I hate to admit how good he looks. Muscles rope around his wrists, his arms, his shoulders, his chest. And damn him, with each and every movement he makes, his abdominal muscles flex and release in the sexiest way.

  As he bends to lay the bottles on the paved bricks of the patio, the wind rolls them out from under our feet, and we both let them go.

  The same wind, now so cold, rips through me. I continue trying to drag the table and he continues to pull it away from me. He’s such an asshole. I bite down to stop my teeth from chattering, and say through my clenched jaw, “I said I got it.”

  Again, he says nothing.

  The silence between us is unbearable. It feels thicker, colder, and more dangerous than the storm lashing the two of us. The push-and-pull comes to an end when the table is completely out of my grip.

  Hefting it up, he hauls the heavy iron table toward the house and begins to lower it into the space I left open beside the chairs.

  Once he has set it down, he braces himself on it, his shoulders sagging, his head hanging low. Even under the awning, drops of rain splatter his face, his chest, his legs. “I’m sorry,” he says over the howl of the wind and the rumble of the thunder.

  Standing completely still in the rain, I draw in breath after breath of the stormy air, but even out in the open I feel like I’m suffocating.

  Keen starts to walk toward me with raindrops slipping down his face, and then dripping from his chin. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”

  Shaking my head, refusing to accept his I’m sorry, I take a cautious step back and will my entire body to stop its trembling and for my stomach to cease flipping just because my name left his lips.

  I really do hate him.

  And it’s all his fault.

  “Maggie.” He reaches for me and I step out of his reach, leaving his hands pushing at air.

  Rain makes tracks down his face, and mine. The drops on mine, though, hide the tears that slip unwillingly from my eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I shout. “It was a one-night stand. It didn’t mean anything. Forget about it. I already have.”

  My words cause him to flinch, like that is supposed to mean anything to me. What? Did I bruise his precious ego? Good, I hope I did. He takes another step closer. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

  “Isn’t it?” I shout.

  “Maggie.”

  More with my name. I can’t take it, and flee without thought out the gate and around to my bedroom doors.

  Pulling as hard as I can, I can’t get them to open. Crap. Crap. Crap. The wind is too strong, the doors are too old, and my heart is too fragile for this, although I’d never admit that out loud to anyone.

  Step by cautious step, I ease away from my house. The waves in the ocean are so high that their sound almost surpasses that of the thunder as it roars overhead.

  “Maggie!” The wind whips Keen’s voice away from me, but I still hear it.

  Dramatics have never really been my thing, and although I have been told I am dramatic, still that’s not what I’m going for now. I just honestly can’t be near him.

  “Get back here! Where are you going? Are you crazy?” Keen yells.

  Now, crazy—that, too, I have been called before. Still, I’m not on my way to crazy town or anything, I’m just going to see Makayla, my best friend, who I have yet to tell about my night with Keen, and I have no intention of bothering to tell her now.

  She calms me, and I need that, because for some inexplicable reason I find myself still very much attracted to him, even after what he did.

  And that is completely unacceptable.

  Pushing against the wind is harder than it should be, and the sand flying in my eyes causes me to slip on a pile of seaweed I hadn’t seen.

  Just before I land on my ass, Keen yanks me upright and subsequently tosses me over his shoulder.

  “Put me down!” I yell and kick and punch.

  More lightning lights up the sky and I swear it has struck here. The feel of his skin against mine crackles with an energy I remember feeling only one other time in my life—the time he first pushed his naked body against mine.

  With long strides, he’s whisking us through the open gate and in through my kitchen door, slamming it closed behind us before setting me down on my feet.

  Anger courses through me as I stare at him standing in front of me, soaked to the bone in his boxer briefs, still looking incredibly sexy, which only pisses me off more.

  Nipples popping, teeth chattering, I point my finger at him in my see-through white camisole. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”

  Ignoring me, he grabs a dishtowel from the counter and hands it to me. “Here, you’re shivering.”

  I contemplate not taking it, but in the end I do. The fabric is inadequate to do much more than wipe my face, but it gives me a chance to calm myself down. Reckless behavior leads to reckless actions and I am not looking for a repeat of New Year’s Eve, nor do I wish to chop his balls off, although that idea is somewhat appealing.

  Lightning from outside flashes across the sky and lights up every square inch of him. Keen remains where he is, dripping wet, tousled and practically naked, without saying a word. Perhaps waiting for me to speak.

  When I do not, he runs a hand through his wet hair, which seems longer than it was six weeks ago, and smooths it back only to highlight his gorgeous features.

  A flurry of nervousness ripples through me. I am not this kind of girl. Men do not get under my skin. And this one will not either, not any longer anyway.

  With an intake of breath, I let it out and finally speak. “I don’t want you anywhere near me, Keen. Visit your brother. Do whatever it is you are doing here in California, but stay the hell away from me. I never want to see you again, and I mean it.”

  He exhales as if he’d been holding his breath. “Will you listen to me, Maggie? Just hear what I have to say. I’m not saying what I did was right, but I’d like a chance to explain myself.”

  The power goes off, and then flickers back on. A second later it goes off again and doesn’t come back on. It happens all the time, and normally doesn’t bother me, but being alone in the dark with Keen isn’t something I need right now.

  Although, I will say, darkness makes what I need to say much easier. “No, Keen, I wo
n’t. I don’t want to hear it. Nothing will change what you did. I let my guard down for you. Let you in like I never have let anyone in. And you crushed me. Dropped me like what we had was nothing. And you know what? It took me a while to figure it out, but it was nothing.”

  I can hear his harsh intake of breath.

  The lights flick back on and without looking at him, I whisper, “It was nothing.”

  I dare to glance up and he’s shaking his head.

  A note on the kitchen table draws my attention away from him. I pick it up and read it. It’s from Brooklyn. “Gone to Sasha’s for the night. My brother stayed in my room. I should be back in the morning before he even wakes up. I’m pretty sure he’ll be staying at Cam’s since he has an extra room.”

  Well, at least Keen won’t be staying here.

  Sasha is Brooklyn’s go-to girl. You know, the one that when he doesn’t score, he goes to so that he can score. They’ve been at it for years, but neither ever wants to take it to the next level. He says they’re fuck buddies only. And for him that works. I’m not interested in such a thing anymore, and that’s all this will be if I listen to Keen make up excuses for why he left me hanging.

  The truth is, he is a guy, and guys do what they want, when they want. It’s the truth, and the only one that matters. Yes, I truly believe in the whole “men are from Mars, women are from Venus” philosophy.

  Lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize he’s moved closer to me.

  “I miss you.” His tenor is deep, raspy, and if I didn’t know better I’d say sleep deprived from a night of mindless fucking.

  This man screams sex appeal from the very tip of his beautiful dark head to the very bottom of his sexy bare toes.

  Whirling around, I attempt to point my finger at him again but it winds up poking him in the chest. “You—” I start to say but stop. Lifting my chin, I try again. “You don’t get to miss me.”

  Keen looks down at my finger and I can see it happening before I can step back, his arm lifting so fast as he starts to yank me flush against that smooth bare chest of his, but the kitchen door flying open forces him to stop.