Behind His Eyes

by Claire Kingsley

  I picked up the last of my things at my old apartment. It was so surreal. Jason at least kept his promise to be away. He also made no effort to hide the fact that another woman lives there. The pink bottle of hand lotion next to the kitchen sink, the stylish cream-colored trench coat hanging by the door, the new throw pillows on the couch. Maybe that should bother me, but it doesn't. I feel strangely at peace.

  Someone had put my clothes in a large suitcase, and two moving boxes waited near the door, my name scrawled across them in Jason's handwriting. I stood in the center of the apartment, looking around. It still had the same furniture, pieces Jason and I had bought together. I didn't want any of it. I probably could argue to get half, or at least push to split up some of what we amassed over the years. But none of it felt like mine. It was as if it belonged to another girl—a girl who’d lived a pretend life.

  After loading up the boxes in the back of my car, and throwing the suitcase in the trunk, I left. I contemplated tossing the boxes unopened, but they probably contained a few mementos I'd like to keep. And just like that, I closed the book on a story I thought I'd written perfectly when I was seventeen: Girl meets boy. They fall in love. They navigate the trials of early adulthood, get college degrees, start successful and lucrative careers, get engaged, throw a grand wedding, buy a house in the suburbs with a picket fence.

  It was a nice fantasy. But it wasn’t real.

  The speaker apparently makes a good point because the audience claps while he pauses. I flip the papers on my clipboard to the back where I slipped in my to-do list for the Jetty Beach Art Festival. The event is still a few weeks away, and I think I have most of it under control. I have to admit, I’m pleased with myself, and the lack of a real committee has given me a lot of creative freedom. I ordered new banners to replace the old, fraying ones. A graphic designer friend of mine whipped up a great design with a new logo. I have them in the trunk of my car, and I can’t wait to bring them down and show them to some of the business owners. I talked the city into letting me block off traffic to the main plaza downtown so we can set up more tents, and I recruited food trucks to come in for the weekend. Ryan arranged for street performers and a great little local band to come play, and worked with the local shop owners on sprucing up their storefronts with hanging flower baskets and potted plants. All in all, it’s shaping up to be a great weekend.

  "I feel like I've heard this speech before."

  The man's voice startles me and I inadvertently gasp.

  "Sorry," he says, leaning close so he can speak quietly. "I didn't mean to scare you."

  "No, it's fine," I say and I nearly gasp again when I see who it is. Jackson Bennett. I've seen him at a few events over the years, but even if I’d never seen him in person, I would know who he is. He’s literally famous. A local executive, he has a reputation for being a rich playboy. Really rich, apparently, the type that begins with a B. A few months ago, he was on the cover of Seattle Weekly as the Pacific Northwest's most eligible bachelor.

  "This is a nice event, don't get me wrong," he says. "But you attend enough of them, and they all start to seem the same. I keep threatening to just mail in my check, but my assistant claims it's important to be seen."

  I laugh, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. He’s dressed in an impeccable pair of dark gray slacks and a pale blue button-down shirt—no tie, the collar open. He has dark hair and piercing blue eyes. I’m certainly not about to get flirtatious with him, but I can still appreciate a good-looking man for what he is. And this one is something else.

  "That seems to be the way the game is played," I say. "Being seen."

  He puts his hands in his pockets. "I get tired of it sometimes."

  "I can understand that," I say. "At least, I understand what it's like to be tired of going through the motions of your life, mostly because you think that's what other people expect of you."

  Jackson grins. "Yeah, exactly. What are you doing after this?"

  His question catches me so off guard I almost gasp again. "I, um... No, I have to wrap things up here, and I have a long drive ahead of me in the morning. Plus, I'm not available. In general."

  He gives me an easy smile and nods. "No, I'm sure you're not. Sorry, I had to ask. I don't mean to be rude."

  "No, it's fine," I say. "Thank you anyway."

  "So now that we've established I won't hit on you," he says, "where are you headed on your long drive?"

  Wow, he’s just going straight for personal, isn't he? Yet his stance is so casual, his manner so easygoing, I find myself answering. "Jetty Beach. It's a little town out on the coast. I grew up there, and my, um, reason for not being available is there."

  Jackson winces. "Long-distance relationship? Ouch. I tried that once. It … yeah, it didn't turn out so well."

  "It has its challenges."

  "Damn it, sorry. My reputation for being a jackass is pretty credible. I'm told some people have this thing called a social filter and they don't actually say everything that comes to mind. I don't think I was born with one."

  "That's all right," I say.

  "So, Jetty Beach. I spent a summer down there when I was a kid."

  "Did you?" I ask. "It's a nice town. I kind of thought I was over it when I moved away to go to college. But it's actually quite sweet. I'm helping them put on their annual art festival in a few weeks. I think it will be a nice event."

  Why am I telling him all this? It isn't like he asked. I guess it’s refreshing to chat with someone without worrying they’re going to have a sudden mood change. Ryan has been so strange the last few weekends—sweet one minute, grumpy the next. I’m never sure what I’m going to get when I see him. Still, it doesn’t excuse talking Jackson Bennett's ear off about something I’m sure he has no interest in. Maybe my filter isn't working.

  "Art festival, huh," Jackson says. "When is it?"

  "It starts on the fifteenth."

  "I haven't been out there in years," he says. "Maybe I'll have to come down."

  Is he still hitting on me? A man like Jackson Bennett might not be too worried about whether a woman says she isn’t available. But he says it with such a nonchalant air, maybe he just wants to visit the beach.

  "Sure, that would be great. Although, don't expect too much. It's a small town, and a small town festival. The art gallery is supposed to be the center of the festival, and it's gotten pretty run down. The owner just retired last year, and I don't think anyone has been taking good care of the building."

  "Huh," he says. "Is it for sale? Maybe I'll buy it."

  I glance at him and must have a confused look on my face. One corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk.

  "Here," he says, pulling a business card and handing it to me. "Send me the details."

  He smiles—he really is easy on the eyes—and wanders back to the luncheon. I tuck his business card in my clipboard, wondering if I'll have the guts to call him. He has an email address at the bottom. Maybe I'll just email him. But my thoughts are already spinning. An outside investor would be a huge boon for Jetty Beach. If someone like Jackson Bennett came in and started redevelopment and revitalization projects, it could bring in a lot more business. I'll have to put some thought into how to approach it, but maybe my random conversation with Seattle's Most Eligible Bachelor can turn into something productive.

  I glance at the time on my phone. Another half hour. The keynote speaker finishes his talk, and the audience starts in with a polite round of applause. Next, they'll get their checkbooks out or fill out donation slips with their credit card information. Some more mingling, sipping of drinks, and back to their offices they'll go. I'll have my work cut out for me, entering their donation information into the database and processing their thank-you letters. It’s time consuming and tedious, more busywork than anything. I swear, sometimes I feel like a monkey could do my job.

  I hope I can cut out of work a little early once things are wrapped up here. I think about doing some apartment hunting, but I can’t fi
nd any motivation. Signing a lease will mean making the weekly drive back and forth to the beach a more or less permanent situation. But what else am I supposed to do? My job is here. I’m trying to rebuild a life. I honestly don’t know how Ryan fits into that, long-term. I miss him terribly during the week. I live for the weekends. But how long can this last?

  I know the strain is getting to him too. As much as I want to ignore the signs, his increasing moodiness is impossible to ignore. We've only been together a couple of months. Maybe he’s growing tired of the back and forth. A hollow pit opens up in my stomach at the thought of breaking things off with Ryan. I don’t want that. I’m crazy about Ryan. I thought I was in love with Jason all those years, but looking back, I realize I was never in love. A teenage crush had simply dragged on too long. Way too long. But Ryan—am I in love with him? My heart beats harder just thinking about him and I think about hopping in my car after work and braving the Friday traffic to get to him sooner. I don’t want to wait until morning.

  I don’t know if it’s love. Or maybe I’m afraid to admit that it is. But I know it’s something worth fighting for.

  21

  NICOLE

  I t’s sweet Ryan who greets me late that night when I finally pull up to his house. He meets me at the door with a glass of red wine and a big chocolate brownie. We barely make it inside before we’re tearing our clothes off. He bends me over the velvet chaise, grabbing my hips tight while he pounds into me. I've been so stressed, I want it hard and fast, and he certainly gives it to me. Afterward, we get crumbs all over his couch eating the brownie and finishing off the bottle of wine. I fall asleep tangled in his arms, more than a little drunk, and happier than I've been in a while.

  The next morning, I gather some courage and fire off an email to Jackson Bennett. I remind him we spoke at the luncheon, and give him the details about the art festival and a little information about the art gallery, as well as the town. I don’t expect to hear back from him, but figure it’s worth a shot. Ryan makes us breakfast, and we eat and sip coffee.

  An open window brings in a fresh breeze. Ryan taps his finger against the countertop. It looks like he’s staring into space.

  I sidle up behind him and lean my cheek against his back. "What's wrong?"

  "What? Nothing. Sorry. Just ... something I want to talk to you about."

  My chest constricts and I freeze. He sounds so serious. It worries me.

  "Okay," I say, trying very hard to sound normal.

  "My parents invited me to dinner tonight," he says, turning around. "Would you come meet my family?"

  Relief washes over me and I smile. "Yes, I'd love to meet your family."

  He lets out a heavy sigh. "Good. I'm sorry, this is a big deal for me. I've never brought anyone home to meet them before."

  That’s surprising. I know he had one long-term relationship before. He never introduced her to his family? I wonder why, but I’m not going to ask.

  "Should I be nervous?" I ask. "All of a sudden I'm nervous."

  Ryan smiles, his dimples puckering beneath his stubble. "No, of course not. My mom can be chatty, and she'll probably ask me inappropriate questions in front of you. There might even be baby pictures." He laughs, shaking his head. "Come to think of it, I'm the one who should be nervous. You have nothing to worry about."

  "Are you sure?" I ask.

  "Positive," he says. "They're going to love you just as much as I do."

  My eyes widen and I pull away. Did he just say...

  Ryan clears his throat and walks into the kitchen. He turns the faucet on and washes off our dishes. I decide to let his comment go. I feel like I’m treading on thin ice with him so much lately, and don't want to ruin his good mood. But he did almost say it, didn’t he?

  He rinses off his hands and dries them on a towel, his dimples standing out with his half grin. "You know what? I have an idea."

  "Yeah?"

  "Follow me."

  He leads me out into the studio and picks up one of his cameras.

  "What's that for?" I ask.

  "It takes pictures," he says.

  I smack him on the arm. "I know it takes pictures. What does this have to do with me?"

  "I want to take pictures of you."

  I bite my lip again. "What sort of pictures?"

  "All sorts," he says. "I won't do anything you aren't comfortable with. It doesn't even have to be boudoir shots, although I can do that if you want me to. All this time I've had the most beautiful model I can imagine, and I've never taken your picture."

  "I didn't bring any good clothes or anything," I say.

  He brushes my hair back from my face. "That's okay. I want you just like this. The real you."

  HE TAKES me down to the beach—fully dressed. There’s a light breeze, cool without being freezing. The sun shines overhead and the sky is blue all the way to the horizon. Standing on the flat sand makes the sky seem to stretch on forever. I have on a pair of boyfriend jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a loose-knit beige sweater with a white tank underneath. They don’t seem like photography-worthy clothes, but Ryan assures me I look perfect.

  For a while we just walk. He carries his camera and takes a few shots of the ocean. He turns around once to shoot our footsteps. But for the most part, we wander, our bare feet sinking into the sand.

  At some point I realize Ryan isn't beside me. I stop and look over my shoulder to find him pointing the camera at me.

  He lowers the camera and looks down at the screen. "Don't worry about what I'm doing. Just enjoy a nice walk on the beach."

  I smile and keep walking. He catches up and runs around me, taking pictures from different angles. A few times he asks me to stop, but he never has me pose. The wind blows my hair back and I fret about how little makeup I’m wearing, but Ryan seems to be enjoying himself so much, I don't complain.

  After the beach, he takes me back to the studio. My tummy flutters with nerves, thinking back to Joanna's photo shoot. I've been intimate with Ryan in more ways than I knew were possible before we met, but I’m not sure I want to capture that part of myself on camera. But he doesn’t ask me to undress. He gets me a cup of coffee and asks me to stand by one of the tall windows.

  The bottom of the windowsill is the perfect height for sitting, and wide enough to almost make a little bench. I sit with one leg up, one foot on the floor, and angle myself so I can look out the window.

  "Don't worry about me," Ryan says in that soft, soothing voice he has. "Sip your coffee, look out the window, look at me. Just do whatever feels natural."

  I glance out the window and take a sip from the mug, listening to the click of his camera.

  "How would you feel about taking your pants off?" he asks.

  I give him a little smirk. "Suddenly you have to ask?"

  "I told you I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he says. "I know taking pictures is different. But I think that sweater will just cover your underwear, and that would be sexy as fuck."

  I comply, taking off my jeans and tossing them to the side. I sit back in the window, the long sleeves of my sweater pulled over the bottoms of my hands, and the hem reaching just to the top of my thighs. It feels good—flirty and sweet, like I’m being coy. Hiding the good stuff, giving a hint of what’s underneath. Ryan takes more pictures, some with me looking away, others with me staring straight at him.

  He stops, lowering the camera, and stares at me. "My god, you're beautiful."

  I bite my lip and feel my cheeks warm. "Thanks."

  He puts his camera on a small table, never taking his eyes off me. I put my coffee down as he stalks across the floor, the intensity in his eyes sending a thrill down my back. He grabs me with strong hands, turning me to face him. Instinctively I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him close.

  Leaning in, he trails kisses down my neck. His hands grab my ass, rubbing me against his hard cock. I tip my head back and moan. He knows exactly how to touch me, exactly how to move. I’m coming alive for hi
m, my body tingling all over. I grab his shirt and he lets go of me long enough to take it off. My hands trail down his shoulders, across his chest, to his deliciously defined abs. Leaning forward, I trace the lines of his shoulder tattoo with my tongue.

  Ryan grabs the hem of my sweater and pulls it off. With exquisite slowness, he slides my tank top over my head and unfastens my bra. His hands caress my breasts, teasing my nipples with his thumbs. I moan again.

  "How do you do this to me?" I ask. He doesn’t even have his pants off and I’m already halfway to an orgasm.

  He takes my nipple in his mouth, tasting it with his tongue. His mouth works its way up to my collarbone and back down again while I fumble with his jeans. I plunge my hands into his pants as soon as I get them open, gripping his cock. I slide my fingers up and down, squeezing the shaft.

  I pull his cock out and move my panties aside.

  "Fuck me, Nicole, that's so hot," he says. "Put it where you want it."

  I tease the tip along the outside, up and down, then rub it against my clit. Fresh waves of pleasure roll through me.

  "I love the way you make me feel," I say.

  He licks my nipples again and I rub his cock against me, stroking up and down the shaft. His mouth works its way up to my neck, his tongue dancing across my skin.

  Without warning, he moves my hand away and grips my hips, hard. He drives his cock into me, pushing me up against the window. I cry out, opening my legs wider for him. He holds me up by my ass, working his cock in and out. His cheek is next to mine, his hot breath against my neck. He fucks me with so much urgency, I claw at his back. He moves faster, harder, so deep it hurts. I gasp, suddenly feeling a jolt of fear.

  As if he knows, he stops. He holds still, his cock deep inside me, his chest rising and falling fast against mine. His hands hold my ass so hard it hurts, but his grip slowly releases. He moves his head away just enough to face me, so close our noses almost touch.