by Kyra Whitton
He leaned toward her, bracing his arm on the back of the bench. “Glad to hear it.”
Evie gulped. Was he going to kiss her? He was close enough she could smell the beer on his breath and count the flecks of brown surrounding his pupils. She dropped her gaze to his mouth and swayed toward him, but quickly jerked away and cocked her head to the side. She lifted her eyebrow in question. “You know, if I’m going to make out with you, I’m going to need to know you better.”
Both of his eyebrows shot up. “If I had known that was an option, I would have forwarded you a full autobiography.”
“It’s never too late.”
Had she really just said that? Was she actually flirting? The corners of Iain’s lips twitched. Sure, he was nice to look at, but he was also not her type, at all. And what did she know about him? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
But there was something about him. Something that made her want to impress him, to have him run his gaze over her. His eyes shifted, his stare skipping down her only to flick back up and meet hers head-on. She found a challenge in the dark depths. As if he knew she always met a challenge. Refusing to back down.
His lips pursed.
Yes, he was definitely challenging her. He was challenging her as if he couldn’t wait.
She narrowed her own eyes and turned her body toward him, leaning forward a bit so that the dress tightened against her chest. She knew her body wasn’t anything to envy, especially since it was riddled with scars. She’d always been on the high side of her target weight, her thighs touching, her hips rounded, her stomach a hair away from being flat, no matter how hard she worked at it. Which wasn’t much, lately. But her breasts had always been one of her best assets. They were large without being too large, round, and full.
The move she made had the desired effect. His gaze drifted down and hovered for a fleeting second. He quickly looked back up and she smirked.
“So, Captain…” she murmured sweetly. “Tell me about yourself.”
Evie giggled as Iain lined her up in front of the dart board.
When Evan finally showed up an hour after she had, the dark-haired beauty from the other night in tow, she passed off her warm beer to him and ordered herself a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime. She and Iain spent the evening with heads bent close as they traded likes and dislikes, travel stories, and sarcastic comebacks.
He seemed mildly amused through it all, a hardness reflecting in his eyes, but a slight upturn of his lips. She couldn’t shake the feeling he knew something he wasn’t saying, but she hadn’t had that much fun in over a year, and her face hurt from laughing. She nursed that lone gin and tonic for close to two hours, the glass sweating and the ice melting.
Iain stood close, a hand on each of her hips, bent over slightly, his cheek resting against her temple. “Lift your elbow,” he said next to her ear. “A little higher. Parallel to the ground.”
She did as he instructed, and squared her feet for better balance, but her heart pumped on double time. He was so close, the heat of him seeping through his shirt into the skin exposed by the low straps of her dress. It took just as much focus to keep from leaning into him as she needed to concentrate on the dart board.
“You’re going to throw on a curve,” he murmured. “Not straight forward.”
“Okay, okay.” She shushed him and took a breath before letting the dart fly. “Ha!” she cried in triumph when the needle embedded itself in the cork. “I did it!”
“If you mean you hit the board, then yes. You did.”
She twisted around and stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re just afraid I’ll beat you.”
“Precisely,” he said dryly.
She ignored him and threw her remaining darts. Both hit the board, sticking soundly, and she raised her hands in victory. “Score!” She grinned at him and patted him on the shoulder. “Your turn.”
Evie expected him to hit the board. Of course she did, he coached her through it. What she didn’t expect was all three darts to land squarely in the center of the bull’s eye, all in quick succession, as if he didn’t even have to think about it.
“Holy shit. Did you even blink between throws?”
He shrugged and his face softened around the otherwise sharp edges. His humility was endearing. Sexy. The lust building all evening finally came to a head and she leaned forward, reaching up and cupping his cheeks between her palms, and pulled his mouth down to hers.
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, his hand snaked around the small of her back and pressed her into him. He opened to her, caressing her bottom lip with his. Even his kiss was steely. But it drove away all other thoughts and worries only he remained, wrapped around her if they weren’t standing in the middle of a crowded room.
Just as quickly as it began, it was over and he pulled away, staring down at her with an unspoken question. The niggling ache of the last year threatened to creep in, the pain and heartbreak slithering back. But she didn’t want it. And he had been able to chase it away, if only for a moment. She lifted her lips to him again, and they clashed together, the other people, the noise, everything falling away just as she hoped it would.
“Want to get out of here?” she murmured, not even second-guessing the question.
She had never done anything like that before. She held her breath, waiting for his answer. But she wanted it, if only for a few moments. She needed it. The distraction. It kept the darkness away. And after the year she’d been having, she was going to take it. She wanted to feel good for a change, and she wanted him make her feel that way.
Iain didn’t answer her, just turned away as he reached into his back pocket. He extracted his wallet, opened it, and threw down enough to cover both of their tabs and tips. Leaning over, he said something to one of the other captains. In less than a minute, her hand was folded into his, and he escorted her out into the warm, summer night. They didn’t make it two steps out of the front door before Iain whirled around, his mouth closing over hers once again.
Evie took a step back and hit the brick façade. She grabbed his shoulders, steadying herself, and pressed into him, her breasts flattening against his hard chest. Her fingers tightened on his polo, the fabric bunching into her palm, as she greedily kissed him back.
He tasted like beer and the Scotch he’d been sipping, a smoky malt that burned with the acidic tones of peat. She hummed with desire, wanting nothing more than to strip his clothes off and run her hands over his lean, muscles.
A wolf-whistle sang out behind Iain. She started and he stepped back, offering her only a mischievous smirk. She bit her lip and reached for his hand. She fumbled for it, wrapping her fingers around his long, calloused palm, and pulled him along the sidewalk toward the parking lot, stopping only at the crosswalk for a quick, stolen kiss.
She should have felt guilty for pulling a man into the back seat of her father’s car. But as she opened the back door on the driver’s side, all she could muster was anticipation. Turning back to Iain, she threaded her arms around his neck, and their mouths met once more with renewed ferocity. His lips plucked at hers and then trailed away, brushing her cheek and the soft skin just below her ear. His stubble scratched her tender flesh and a shiver ran over her. She moaned softly.
His hands traveled up from her hips until they cupped her breasts through the thin cotton dress and she arched her back further, allowing him greater access to her neck as he nipped at it. Her legs wobbled and she sank down onto the back seat, fisting her hand in his shirt as he followed. She inched across the bench seat as he clicked the door shut. Hand running up her thigh, his fingers grazing the edges of her long, thin white scar, he settled over her, his lips fingers hers, again. Did he not notice the uneven, puckered skin? Or did he not care?
She shifted and he lifted his hand from her thigh. It skimmed her waist and then his fingers hooked into the strap of her dress. He drew it over her shoulder, and she shrugged the other down as well, exposing her breasts to him. A warm, rough hand cu
pped her naked breast, his thumb rasping over her distended nipple.
She moaned and hooked her ankle around his calf, pressing her hips up into his. His erection was hard and straining against the denim of his jeans, pressing up against the warm, wet juncture of her legs.
He kissed her hungrily and she drew his shirt up just enough his hot skin slid against hers. Her fingers raced back down the smooth muscles until she found the buttons of his fly, and she flicked the buttons through the holes, then dove in, grasping him in her hand. His flesh was hot, and she gripped him gently, running her palm across the head of his erection before pulling back up with more pressure.
In response, he pinched her nipple between his thumb and index finger, rolling it between them. She sucked in a breath, and arched up into him, breaking the hold he had on her mouth.
“Just do it,” she gasped, into his ear as she pushed at his waistband, her breath coming in pants.
He hiked her dress up over her hips and yanked her panties to the side before wrestling them down her thighs and over her knees. She kicked them free the rest of the way, one hole still hooked around her ankle.
Shifting his weight to his knees, he dug into a pocket and produced a small, plastic packet.
Evie plucked it from his fingers, then ripped it until the serrated edge gave way. She fumbled with the condom in the dark and tossed the plastic square to the floor.
“Which side is up?” she muttered, turning it from one side to the other, unable to see it clearly in the dark.
Iain hastily grabbed it back and made quick work of slipping it on.
“Finally. Do it now,” she demanded.
He thrust inside her.
She hummed her approval and closed her eyes, shifting her hips until each stroke brought her closer.
His hands traveled up and down her hot skin as their flesh slapped in turn with her pants and his groans. He captured her mouth once more and quickly brought them both to satisfaction.
Evie relaxed into the leather and took a deep breath. Her pulse still pounded in her ears.
Iain sat up, nudging her legs aside as he pulled his jeans back over his hips, and his fingers deftly pushed the buttons of his fly back into place.
Evie pulled the strap of her dress back over her shoulder and shimmied the hem down. She pulled her panties off her ankle but wadded them up in her fist. She didn’t want to put them back on while he could see her.
Once they were both covered, he opened the door and stepped out. She scooted to the edge of the seat so she sat with her legs hanging through the doorway.
He started to turn away, leaned an arm on the door frame instead. “Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked almost guiltily.
Evie shrugged, but didn’t say anything. She hadn’t expected he would want to leave her so quickly, but she was also awash in awkwardness. She wasn’t ashamed to have had sex with someone she barely knew, and in a potentially very public place. But she was a little surprised by it.
“Meet me at Moon Lake? Around seven?”
She nodded again, and thought he might say something more, but he gazed off into the tree line. She followed the direction in which he stared but saw nothing, only the swaying of the trees in the warm summer wind.
Whatever had caught his attention must have been something of no consequence. He dropped his arm away from the car and raised his hand in farewell, treading backwards for a few steps before turning away.
With the windows rolled down, Evie drove back to her parents’ house. The wind whipped at her dark hair, sending it flying around her face no matter how many times she tucked it behind her ears, and she turned the satellite radio up until the vibrations of the music reverberated all the way to her toes. In the low-growing trees surrounding the criss-crossing rivers, cicadas screeched, almost loud enough to drown out the devastated wails of the newest alternative rock princess.
Arm resting on the sill, Evie swam her hand through the air as she hit the back roads of the base, but she worried her lip between her teeth. She should be feeling guilty, right? She should be cursing herself for being such a bad person, one who would jump into the backseat of a car—literally—with another man without a second thought to her dead fiancé. She wanted to let the guilt gnaw at her, she really did, but then… she couldn’t. She was too busy feeling. Alive and free and sexy and a bit savage.
It was something the therapists, the doctors, the nurses, her parents had all been trying to drill into her head for months; she was alive, and she needed to start taking advantage of it.
But would Calum’s mother see it that way?
Evie groaned. Why even think that? Mrs. Baird had always been a kind, motherly soul, and as far as Evie could tell, had no ill will toward anyone. She hadn’t known the woman well, having only spent a handful of Sunday teas at the North Street Bed and Breakfast Mrs. Baird owned, her son reluctantly glaring at her, one eye on the clock. The relationship between mother and son was forced, at least on Calum’s end, but Mrs. Baird had treated Evie with nothing but kindness.
She once asked him why he wanted to avoid his mother and he gave Evie a long, thoughtful look. “She places a lot of pressure on me,” was his only reply, and Evie was left wondering what his mother expected that he was unable to give. He was an only child. All expectations had ridden on him, alone. And if anything about her current experience told her anything, it was that siblings were a necessary evil when dealing with parental expectations.
Contacting Mrs. Baird was not something she had ever contemplated until that moment, her focus having been on herself and on what she had lost. She worried her lip as a frown replaced the relaxed smile she had worn since leaving Iain. Perhaps she had let Calum down in more ways than one.
She gulped past the uncomfortable lump that had formed in her throat. She was starting to have trouble remembering what he looked like. She could no longer conjure up his voice in her mind. And though she remembered he smelled slightly of bayberry and amber scented soap, even a fresh bar of the stuff didn’t help her memory.
Evie pulled into her parents’ driveway and shut off the engine. But she didn’t move from the seat, instead leaning her head back and closing her eyes trying to conjure up a memory of his lips, his laugh, the feel of his hands as they ran over her skin.
Calum had always been gentle and unhurried. When they shared their first kiss, he leaned over tentatively and brushed her lips with his own. It was she who had pulled him roughly to her. She who screamed “harder” the first time they slept together. She who wanted things faster. Deeper. Intense. More. Calum was always perfectly happy taking his time, gently, worshipping her. She was impatient. She who just wanted to do it. She wished she had taken more time. Slowed things down. Savored them.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out even the little light that glowed from the street lamps. What had his hands felt like on her skin? Soft. Feather-light. But the memory was fleeting, giving way to Iain’s rough, calloused fingers. It wasn’t Calum’s twinkling eyes and gentle brushing of lips that penetrated her memory, but Iain’s hard, angular planes, the rough scratch of his stubble, the fast pounding of his hips.
The quick coupling in the back of her father’s car had replaced the months of tenderness she had shared with the man she loved.
Evie cursed and stepped out of the car. The back of her throat was dry. It ached, a sob tearing through it. She paced, arms wrapped around herself, fighting the tears and the anguish that finally broke over her. Giving up, she allowed the tears to flow freely and gulped at the air.
It felt good, letting go. Of being sad she would never have Calum with her again, her life not what she thought it would be. But guilt at finally moving on? No, she wouldn’t feel that. She refused.
She sniffled and took a deep breath. It stuttered through her but calmed her.
What was that?
She was sure she had seen something move. Across the back alley and in the shadow cast by a small copse of hundred-year-old oaks. She sea
rched the silhouettes, but whatever she saw was either gone, hiding, or a figment of her imagination. Deciding she didn’t want to find out, Evie pulled her purse from the car and scurried inside, clicking the door quietly shut behind her.
****
Golden light flooded a plain of waving wheat, the ends flicking and falling like the undulating rhythm of the sea. The breeze was cool, a nip ruffling her jacket, bringing along the damp scent of dead leaves and crushed acorns.
She kept her pace even but trailed those ahead of her. They were familiar sights. She knew them, their names on the tip of her tongue, their faces just out of reach of her memory. The riot of coppery red hair tumbling down like autumn fire. The silvery white blond, slight and petite, her green dress raw and homespun. The tall shadow of a hooded figure.
She bounded over the swell of grain, her movements free from her injuries, closing the gap between herself and the hooded shadow. She reached out a hand, the silvery scar marring her wrist absent, fingers a hair from brushing the smooth leather at his arm… when she woke.
Dawn had yet to break the darkness, and through the blinds, she could only make out the brilliant cobalt blue of a coming sun.
Evie tried to dive back into her mind, to recapture the images playing through her dreams as she slept and recreate them with better clarity. She wanted to connect what little she remembered, piece it together. Force it to make sense. It was a jagged bit of a large puzzle she began to live since waking in a hospital bed nine months before, one she was desperate to see unfold. But it never came together, just as it refused to do in the first light of that morning. She groaned and gave up.
Flicking on the small lamp an arm’s length away, Evie reached for one of the books sitting atop her bedside table. She had all but abandoned them there after bringing them home from the used bookstore in Manhattan. She came up with the romance; taking in the front cover, she decided she wasn’t in the mood. Tossing it none too gently toward the foot of the bed, she reached for the next.
Sylvia Bascomb-Murray’s Women of Culloden: Taking Up The Tartan.
