by Rachel Hanna
"Fifties pulp sea monster. I can see the zipper." Suddenly very aware of the zipper in the wet suit. The one that zips all the way down…
He doesn't ask if I had fun. I don't ask what he's doing out here. There's so much we're not saying to each other it kind of eclipses what we are saying.
But his mouth has different ways of talking. His kiss is deep and warm even if his lips are cold. I sink against him, now reveling in the cold of his body against my warmth.
"You should come inside," I whisper into his mouth when he pulls away, just a little.
"It's such a beautiful night," he says, and before I can start thinking about all the nights he couldn't be outside, he goes on: "If I go inside, what's going to make it worth my while?" Teasing.
In answer I run my tongue up his flat abs, his strong chest. Kellan shivers. "You do have a way with words. You ought to be a journalist."
I pretend to consider it. "OK!"
We don't go in, though. Just long enough to grab a couple sodas and go back out to the porch, sitting where we can watch the moon as it tracks across the water.
One of the things I love about Kellan is we don't have to talk all the time. We can sit quietly, each in our own head. He doesn't ask about the club and I'm glad. I'd like to be able to share such things with my boyfriend. And I don't want to make him feel bad.
After we finish our drinks he stands, pulls me into his arms, his mouth hot on mine. His arms enfold me. Kellan has a way of making me feel safe. If I let him, I think he might stand between me and the world.
I don't need anybody to do that for me now. When it all comes down, he can't protect me. Not really. Not all the time. And I don't need him to. It's time for me to protect myself.
And maybe him along with it.
* * *
After a few minutes he takes my hand and leads me inside. I figure we'll go to his room, he'll shower, and I probably will too, showering off the club and the adventure afterward, and I might even tell him about it, in the shower with the water running. I'd meant to talk about the station but the night and the moon, the waves and the silence we were sharing, it all washed it from me.
But when we're inside, he kisses me at the door to my room, and walks down the hall in such a way I know there's no invitation to follow. I go in my room, suddenly a little angry. He didn't have to ask for all the details, but he could have asked me at least if I'd had fun. His past isn't my fault, any more than mine is his. Are we going to lead separate but parallel lives just because we can't do all the same things other couples do?
And if I wanted to talk to him? Could I follow him now and ask him to listen?
Probably. But I'm not going to. I drop my shoes, my keys, strip off the rest of my clothes without worrying about sand or mess. Head to my own shower and try to soap away all the things that are bothering me now. The night. Reed showing up. What happened at the station.
Kellan's silence. Because now it seems different. As if I've just reinterpreted it and this time it's not so benign. Not all friendly couples silence.
When I get out of the shower I sit in an overstuffed chair beside the slider that leads to my private balcony. I can hear the surf crashing outside my window. I sit there for a very long time, but Kellan never comes.
* * *
Morning sunlight wakes me. I've got the day off from the station and a load of math homework I have no intention of looking at before Sunday night. Emmy and I haven't made plans. Kellan and I haven't made plans. There's no reason why Reed and I would have made plans. And by the time I get up, mom and Bruce will have already been on the road for hours, heading to Atlanta for Bruce's real estate seminar. Or whatever it is he's doing. I have to admit I didn't listen very closely. And I know what my mother will be doing – shopping, and then meeting Bruce for dinner, a show and a nice hotel afterwards.
When I made my not-really-plans they sounded great. Weekend for Kellan and I to spend together and for me to just kick back and relax. Only now kicking back and relaxing suddenly feels like the hiding out I used to do. And Kellan? Nowhere in sight when I wander downstairs a little after ten.
No problem. I can text Emmy. Only we don't have plans. And I just saw her. And she might be sleeping. And there's no one else. Emmy's a good friend but it makes me realize it's time to get out there and make other friends, too.
I could do some work on the schedules at the station. Only I quickly veto that idea. Both because I don't want to work this weekend and because I don't want to go back there.
Not wanting to go there is the best reason I have for doing so. Getting back on the horse and all that. After what happened with my father I had a hard time being in the house alone. Never really got used to it before we up and moved away from Seattle. I can't have the same thing happen at the station.
But it's daytime. And there are sports to be reported and there will be people at the station. So it wouldn't prove anything. And besides, I don’t want to go. Pouring myself a big cup of coffee, I start toward the front door when I hear someone there.
"Carmelita? Is that you?" It's likely Bruce's maid might be here. I wouldn't mind sitting in a spill of sunlight in the kitchen and talking while she works.
But there's no answer. "Kellan?" I'm still sipping the coffee as I walk out of the kitchen, through the shadowy, plant-filled dining room to the living room. I can see a shadow through the screen door. Kellan must have left the front door open when he went out. "Kellan?"
There's a sudden loud bang, something dropped or thrown, and then footsteps, running. Without thinking, I put my coffee mug on the table and sprint to the front door. I'm just in time to see someone disappearing off the steps, onto the beach.
Nowhere to go, here. There'll be people everywhere and it's just houses, and here and there sandy cement steps that lead from the beach up to the lanes, but this house is well between those. I'm out the door before it even occurs to me to be afraid. My phone is upstairs in my purse. No one really knows where I am.
But it's a beautiful day and there have to be people on the beach and I'm tired of this already. Last night and now today? I'm taking my life back, damn it.
The screen door bangs behind me. I tear across the porch barefoot, down into the sand, heading right at the bottom of the steps.
There's no one there.
That’s impossible. Whoever it was was right here. I turn frantically, searching in every direction. There are people strolling by the water's edge, a family of irresponsible blond children and irresponsible blond Labradors, a couple wound round each other, surfers out on the waves. The neighbors aren't out, of course. That would have helped. Maybe someone would have seen something. But everyone is at work or out enjoying the day somewhere.
I start in the direction I think whoever it was went, then stop and double back to the porch.
There's something lying there on the step. A brown paper wrapped package. Isn't that how the Unibomber did his thing? Should I call the police?
Except why would anyone target Bruce? Or is it me? All the same reasons for not calling the police that I had the night before rise up. I don't want anyone going through my history. Even though it's out. The college knows and doesn't know, kind of at the same time. There's been nothing official. I've done the forgiveness thing. But.
But. I don’t need anything getting worse.
I'm not going to call anyone. I'm going to go inside and open this. I take one more look around.
Kellan's coming up the steps. When he sees me he freezes, his eyes going to mine and then down to what I hold in my hands.
"That's mine," he says, holding out both hands for it.
I look at him in confusion, and then down at the box. There's no markings on it at all. "How do you know?" I ask.
He doesn't blink away from me, just keeps walking forward with his hands out. "Because I've been expecting it."
* * *
"I don't know," I said again. "I didn't see what it was."
I'd ended up calling Emm
y because I couldn't think of anyone else to call. My parents were out of town and I didn't want to tell my mother. That would be one more thing she'd have to keep from Bruce when our history had been something she'd kept from him for the first year of their marriage. I don't want to throw anything else up between them; they're having a rough time right now with Kellan just home from prison and mom feeling like Bruce had treated him poorly while he was locked up and since he's come home.
Kellan obviously wasn't going to tell me what was in the box, and I had no right to even involve Reed in my troubles, let alone talk about Kellan to him. That wouldn't be fair to either man.
Logically I'd have expected to talk to Reed about what happened at the station, but since he wasn't there anymore, I'd put it off, waiting to see if it seemed like a good idea later. First I'd sent a series of emails to the team, asking if anything like this had ever happened before. Maybe someone had broken in hoping to find equipment they could pawn for drug money. Or maybe someone had an enemy they'd be happy to report.
So far the emails from those people working this weekend were negative. The only mess was what I'd found the night before and wanted to go through myself when I got back. Dexter asked if I'd mind if he took a look and I didn't. I didn't think either of us would find anything.
I still didn't want to talk to Emmy about the night before. Why worry her? But Kellan and the mystery package?
* * *
"Problem is, it could be anything." Emmy is biting a thumb nail. That makes her words unclear. I still understand what she's saying and it's not very helpful, in my opinion. "It could be porn. Are people on probation allowed to have porn?"
I stare at her. We're sitting in The Coffee Mug, the on-campus overpriced coffee place. Before I have to even try to come up with an answer for that the barista calls my name and I head up to the counter to pick up both our drinks. When I sit back down across from Emmy, she's now grinning, and clearly still waiting for an answer.
"I swear you're the one who should be the reporter," I tell her. "You know how to ask the hard questions." Then wince.
She pounces. "Hard questions?"
"OK, OK, Em." Of course I'm blushing. Damned redhead's complexion. "But he's an adult. He can buy porn. He can go far enough from the house to do so. He can do so for cash. I don't know if there are rules about it – oh, shut up, Emmy, what are you, twelve?"
But the giggling is contagious. Even though it isn't funny. Kellan has me, right? Why would he need porn? 'Cept guys do. And it could explain his lack of interest in me of late. Especially when our entire relationship fits into the span of just a few weeks. We should still be all over each other. I definitely want to be all over him. But it has to be mutual.
"So if it's not porn," I say pointedly.
"Not drugs," Emmy continues, and stops laughing. She looks serious about this.
"How do you know?"
"I don't think he would. Not after what happened. And you've seen no evidence of it."
I blink, trying to clear my blurring vision. Have I seen evidence of drug use? We aren't together regularly. Seems like we would be since we're living under the same roof, especially times like this when we have the entire house to ourselves. Mama Lita, as Kellan calls her, is off until Monday evening. We could be having orgies in there.
Eew. No. Just the two of us, thanks.
"What are you thinking?"
"That it could be drugs," I tell her, without going into detail about the sex or lack of it. "But I don't think so. I think he's clean."
"So not drugs. Probably not porn because there are better ways to get it. What else comes in brown paper packages?"
I shrug, staring into my latte. "Lots of things. I mean, some people just use brown paper packages."
She opens her mouth.
"Do not sing that," I warn.
Emmy grins, trying to look abashed.
"Shit. It could be anything, Em."
She nods, but she still doesn't look bothered. "Might not be something bad, Will. Ever think of that?"
Honestly? No. Partially because he didn't want to tell me about it. But what if he had joined some kind of support group? Maybe he was getting info on group therapy. Or maybe he was getting college catalogs. He wouldn't be on parole forever.
"Maybe he's in contact with someone who was – hurt in the accident," Emmy says about the same time I got to that.
"Could be," I agree slowly. Emmy had been with me when I'd done the interviews with David Reynolds, who'd lost his family in the wreck. She'd heard about Kellan and I going to see Jake, Kellan's best friend from high school, and his father, Bill, and meeting Jake's fiancé. He could be in contact with one of them, but what would they be sending?
"It's less about what it is than what he's not telling me." My voice sounds grumpy even to my ears.
Emmy nods, getting up and bussing our table. "Sure. But he's just come from a place where there are no secrets. Where he wasn't allowed to have secrets. He's still on parole, even. Let him have this."
I blink at her, surprised. "I'm not trying to take anything away from him. I'm just worried. What if it's something bad?"
"What if it's not?" she counters. "Maybe that's the part you need to wait and see about."
I stare at her some more. "How did you get to be so wise?"
She looks like she's going to answer, then laughs instead. "Only when it comes to other people's stuff. So if we're through with your stuff can we get on to mine?"
I feign surprise. "You have stuff?"
She pretends to be offended. "Of course I have stuff." Then she giggles. "I think I've met somebody," she says, pulling me to my feet so we can leave the coffee shop and walk as we talk.
"You think you've met somebody?" I ask. "How can you not be sure?"
Out the bell-jangling door into the fall sunlight, still talking. About the guy Emmy met at the club, that he asked if he could call her, and then did call her, and they're going out, a daytime thing first time, and if that works out, maybe a double date with me and Kellan?
It all sounds so normal. I'd love to do normal.
Normal just doesn't seem to know where I live.
Chapter 8
Kellan's on the beach when I get home, laying on a towel down by the water, just looking out to sea. Unless he has eyes in the back of his head, he hasn't seen me as I come from the street, but I still hesitate. I keep trying to give the man all the freedom and room he could ask for. I'm doing it out of respect, or something like that, just because it seems like the right thing to do. But what if giving him space is exactly what's wrong? What if he thinks I'm the one who's not interested?
Maybe he can't tell me what's going on because I keep backing away from him. So even though I'm getting a mega-headache and what I'd like to do is go inside and sit in the cool house and eat something light and maybe nap, what I do is kick my sandals off up onto the porch, throw my purse up after them, and walk barefooted across the sand to plop down on the towel next to him.
Either he really does have eyes in the back of his head or prison made him hyper aware. Or he's just that confident. Or he saw my shadow. Because he doesn't jump at all when I flop down beside him, just rotates his head, chin on one fist, and gives me a lazy grin like nothing has been tense between us.
"Where'd you go?" Those lazy green eyes. And that so sensual mouth, all mixed into the rugged, unshaven guy.
What was the question again? Because it's gone right out of my head. Oh, right.
"To coffee with Emmy."
He purses his lips, nods a little. "Seemed kind of sudden."
Abruptly I'm fed up with cat and mouse. "It was kind of sudden. See, someone dropped off a package in brown paper with no address or return on it. And when I say dropped off, I mean threw it at the door with a bang."
Kellan's looking very cool.
"Then while I'm trying to figure out where the person went, the really hot guy I'm seeing comes along and says the package is his and nothing in it is any o
f my business and I shouldn't worry my pretty little head about it."
"He said that? Tsk."
I sigh at him.
"You're seeing a hot guy?" he says next.
I sigh again, loudly and ostentatiously. "Hot. And annoying."
He nods. "Super hot guys can be that way."
I'm starting to smile even though I don't mean to. "I didn't say he was super hot."
He considers that. "Are you sure? I thought I saw you with him once, and he was – " He reaches out and runs a thumb over my lower lip. "But he wasn't anything close to you."
The sudden emotion in his eyes catches me off guard. "Kellan." It sounds like a protest. "Is anything going on? Are you all right? Because you don't seem like yourself."
"How would you know?" His attention all seems focused on my lips.
"OK, you don't seem the same." How am I supposed to get through to him? It's hard to even think with him touching me like that. I try again. "You don't seem the same as you were when I met you."
"I'm the same. Let me prove it to you."
I should argue. I should demand to know what was in the box. I should point out I live in the house too. If something is putting him at risk, it may put me at risk as well. I should point out if it's something dangerous, it could be dangerous to all of us. And that even if it isn't, we all care about him.
Some of us more than others.
But I can't think and kiss him at the same time. His mouth is sea spray salty, hot from the sun. His hand cupping my face is gentle. I feel myself melting under his touch.
When he pulls back, he says, "Do you want to go in? We have the house to ourselves."
As if I didn't know that.
* * *
We fell on each other as soon as we got through the door. Screen door slammed, and Kellan pushed the front door shut and pushed me up against it, all one smooth move. His arms, tan now from being on the beach, the goofy smiling sun standing out on the right arm, went around me, pulling me hard against him.
His mouth was hot, still salty. Sand grated between us. A shower wouldn't be out of line but we weren't waiting. Kellan wore jean cutoffs, sandy bare feet. His broad strong chest was hot from sunlight, his hair tangled and getting longer. Bruce was after him to get it cut and it wouldn't hurt the job hunt if he did, but just now I liked being able to grab a handful of it.
