Sweet

by Tammara Webber

  When he smirked, the action always came from his left side. Left eye crinkled at the corner. Left corner of his mouth angled like it was pointing at something. One barely-there dimple in his left cheek. He ducked his chin, staring, and my whole body strained forward, needing his touch.

  “A one-run loss is aggravating, but they lose a lot. Us diehards are conditioned to it. Watching that game live and in person—being there with all the other fans—it was fucking awesome. I don’t even care who won.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Okay, not the last part. A win would have been nice. Shocking and miraculous, but nice. Everything else is true, though.” He angled his head as I put both palms on the bed and then a knee. “Is that… my shirt?”

  I crawled onto the bed, wearing the green-sleeved baseball tee he’d used to wrap that lightning whelk shell in years ago. It hung to mid-thigh and the sleeves—three-quarter length on him—were almost at my wrists unless I rolled them up. “Maaaaybe.”

  He reached for me and I took his hand.

  “I have something I want to discuss,” I said. “It’s about…” The night after. My heart balked and the words jammed in my throat. It had been four years. Maybe I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “About…?” he prompted, pulling me to sit on my knees, facing him.

  “That night, on the beach—”

  “Stop.” He brushed the ridge of my knuckles with one finger, traced zigzags up each digit to the short, unpolished nail and back. “I know what you think you saw that night. No. What you saw.” He tucked a bent finger beneath my chin to coax my gaze up to his and held it there with the urgency in his eyes. “Sweetheart, there was no one but you that day. That night. That summer. And every single day since then.

  “Nothing had happened with that girl and nothing would have. Nothing did, even when you ran off. I was high—we were all high—but I’d been waiting for you, hoping you’d show. I couldn’t see anyone else. I wanted to call, tell you how I couldn’t stop thinking about you. But I was following the stupidest advice guys have ever passed around—don’t call too soon. Don’t look too eager.

  “I thought a little weed would take the edge off. When I saw the look on your face—” His jaw tightened and his hand curled around my chin. “You didn’t see me come after you, did you?”

  I shook my head, forgiveness filling me up, ready to overflow and saturate us both.

  “I don’t know how long I looked for you that night. There were so many people, and I was so ignorantly fucking stoned.” He ran a hand over his face and sighed. “And then it took a few days before I wised up and thought fuck the guy rules—because they could never apply to who you were for me. But by then you’d left town for that internship. When you came back, it was like that morning had never happened. I convinced myself that I wasn’t good enough for you and never would be.”

  My eyes filled. “Boyce—”

  “I hurt you that night, and I’m sorry. I can’t promise you I’ll never be an idiot because I’ll probably be one before the end of this conversation, but goddammit, I swear I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

  He stroked a thumb over my lips and leaned to kiss me. I opened to him, my last fear dispelled.

  “I talked to Maxfield about you when he was here last month.” He slid my glasses off and put them on the nightstand.

  “You did?”

  “I did. He told me if I love you not to fucking give up.”

  Oh. “Do you?” I whispered.

  “Love you? Oh hell yeah. When I pulled you out of that ocean, you woke up and stared up at me like I was worth something. I fell for you right then and there. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, Pearl. It’s you for me or no one.”

  “But I’m leaving in three weeks. I’ll be gone for nine months.”

  He skimmed his warm hands up my forearms, pushing the sleeves to my elbows. “It’s a four-hour drive, baby, not the moon. I’ll go there. You’ll come here. And I’ll wait. Nine months is nothing when I plan to hold on to you for the rest of my life.”

  chapter

  Twenty-seven

  Boyce

  Thanks to our predinner warm-up on that goddamned amazing bed, I figured round two could be unhurried. I wanted to mosey over every soft curve. I wanted savor the taste of her because Christ, every square inch of her tasted so good. I would lay her down and plunder that sweet, willing mouth until she said my name like a prayer.

  “C’mere, you little thief.” I pulled her onto my lap. Her naked backside slid onto my bare thigh and answered my question about what was under that seven-years-missing shirt of mine. “I’m done talking.” I leaned to outline the curve of her ear with my tongue. “Except for a little dirty play-by-play detailing all the ways I intend to fuck you, that is,” I whispered, and her mouth fell open on a soft moan.

  “Wait,” she breathed. “I have one more thing to say.”

  I was gut-kicked when I leaned back and saw tears in her eyes, and I held myself stock-still. If I could have stopped breathing, I would have.

  She took a deep breath. “I love you too.”

  I processed her tears in relation to those words—words I’d been waiting two weeks to hear her say sober. “So this is one of those happy crying things, right?”

  She choked a laugh. “Yes.”

  The relief broke over me and I grinned. “See? Learning.”

  “Is that a Wynn-win?” she asked.

  She giggled when I arched a brow. I’d all but forgotten the dumbass self-pun I’d invented in high school. “You did not just say that. First, though, this stolen shirt you’re wearing. This was my favorite shirt, you know. For shame, young lady. I should turn you over my knee.”

  Her eyes widened. I wasn’t sure which I’d done more—shocked her or turned her on. Hopefully a bit of both.

  “As I recall, Boyce Wynn, you gave this shirt to me.”

  I looked her over—lying back in my arms, her head braced against my bicep. Smirking.

  “I reckon I did leave it on your front porch.” I chewed my lip as if I was considering her line of reasoning. “And it does look better on you than it ever did on me, though I looked pretty damned hot in it, judging by the looks you’d sneak at me from across the lab table.”

  I reached to sketch a finger down the side of her face, skirting under her jaw and down her throat. I traced the line of her collarbone to her arm and down to the ring finger on her left hand. Forever stretched out in front of us in a way it never had. My desire for her, my need of her, had rocketed right past this moment and into the distance as far as I could see.

  I’d seen Arianna fall apart and shut down when we lost Brent, and it took her a while to come back from that dark place. She’d thrown herself into her work, and a few years ago, Buddy, nearing seventy, transitioned ownership of the tattoo parlor to her. She seemed content with her life, though she did tell me once, “I’m probably never going to be a mommy, so I’m counting on you to give me a niece or nephew to spoil someday.” I didn’t even know how the fuck to respond to that sentence. When my brother died, she was only twenty-five, but she had never let anyone else in, and I guess I could understand why.

  As much of a nightmare as Dover’s high school shit had been, Maxfield had gotten over her bitch ass by the time he left for college. But for three years running, he didn’t say much about anyone when he came home. I’d known he had friends there, but he was a natural loner. I figured that damned cat might be as close as anyone would ever get until Jacqueline—the girl who made him smile like a dog with a T-bone at just the thought of her.

  Mateo and Yvette Vega were the real deal—high school lovers made good. They’d been together since a game of spin-the-bottle paired them up in fourth grade. I was close enough to the action to know how close they came to losing it though. Vega had swaggered since he could walk, but he was one loyal son of a bitch. If he’d fucked up with Yvette, he’d have never forgiven himself.

  Along her collarbone,
Arianna had two thinly scripted tattoos. On her right: Life is fragile. On her left: Love is risk. I knew both of these things to be true, but the thought of losing the girl in my arms through my own idiocy outweighed every threat of how life could take her or how she might leave me.

  “Hey,” she said, her hand rubbing slow circles over my heart. “Where’d you go?”

  Her hair was a wild waterfall, tumbling over my arm to pool on the white comforter. She’d given in to the muggy coastal heat and, I suspected, the way I wound those silky coils around my fingers anytime I got the chance. Her eyes gleamed, fastened on mine, dark as night. I stared, and she stared back, her small hand still massaging my stinging heart, like she was bringing me to life. Maybe she was.

  “Nowhere, sweetheart.” I inched the shirt’s hem up and let the fabric catch a taut nipple. “I’m right here.” I made slow loops around that stiff little bud with a fingertip. “I think I could be persuaded to pardon the loss of my shirt on one condition.”

  “Wh-what’s that?” She panted.

  I laid her flat and kissed her, wrists caught above her head and that shirt of mine bunched up and out of the way. As I took one rosy nipple in my mouth and inched my hand south at leisurely pace, she began murmuring soft, tempting pleas. I kissed down the center of her chest and dipped my tongue into the tiny hollow of her navel on my way down, parting her thighs and kneeling between them. Her breath quickened when I drifted lower to kiss her stomach. “Now where were we…?”

  “Your c-condition?”

  I shucked my T-shirt and shorts, ripped the condom package open and rolled it on, slowing at the raw fascination in her eyes as she watched me. “Spoke too soon,” I mumbled. I lay over her, kissing her. “No conditions.”

  Her hands skimmed over my hipbones, fingers digging into the flexing muscles, thumbs caressing the sensitive spots she’d located on either side of my happy trail that I hadn’t known existed until she found them.

  “I want you,” she whispered between kisses.

  “Take what you want from me then. It’s been yours all along.”

  She took me at my word, sliding her hands to my hips and pulling me in, hard. When I rocked into her, I was convinced we could’ve powered the whole city of Houston on the surge we generated.

  • • • • • • • • • •

  Monday afternoon, Mom and Riley came home from the title company and packed their shit into the bed of his truck. They hadn’t brought much. They’d sold her coupe to a wholesale dealer for a few hundred bucks because they’d just received a cashier’s check for six figures. Thinking themselves loaded, they were headed back to Amarillo to show off.

  Odds they’d blow through that money inside a year? Pretty damned high.

  Riley leaned on the truck, smoking, while Mom came to talk to me in the garage. Sam had gone for the day before they’d returned, so it was just the two of us.

  “You’re welcome to stay, Mom. He’s not,” I said, qualifying the statement, “but you are.” I forced myself to uncross my arms and hook my thumbs in my jean pockets. My offer was genuine, and I didn’t want my aversion to her taste in men to make it look insincere.

  “I appreciate that, Boyce. But a woman needs a man in this world—or at least I do. It’s too bad you had to meet Riley under these circumstances. I think y’all woulda got along otherwise. He can be nice. He’s just a little overly distrustful and protective is all.”

  Uh-huh. I didn’t reply. Absolutely nothing would ever make me like that arrogant, snake-in-the-grass fucker. If he was protective of anything, it was first and foremost his own welfare.

  “It’s real lucky I got a buyer who’s interested in the garage, you know,” she said then. “So you can keep your job.” As if she’d hunted down an investor herself, making sure he’d look after my interests. Somewhere in her head, she maybe even believed her own bullshit.

  I had no mind to divulge anything about the secondary purchase that would occur in two or three weeks. Dr. Frank’s offer to me was literally none of her business.

  Riley had apparently finished his smoke, because he honked the truck horn. “C’mon, Ruthanne!” he hollered out the window. “We’re burnin’ daylight.”

  She reached to hug me and it was just plain weird. Like hugging a stranger, but sadder. I reckoned I should tell her I loved her, but it wouldn’t come and I couldn’t say those words where they weren’t meant. I wasn’t sure what I felt about her one way or the other.

  “Have a safe trip home—or wherever.”

  “We thought we’d run up to Eagle’s Pass for a few days before we head north.”

  I frowned. “The casino?”

  “Don’t look like that—Jesus H. Christ, you’re as judgmental as your brother was. Riley likes to do a little gambling now and then. So what? We deserve some fun.”

  Because of how hard you both work? I bit back.

  She reached up to lay her hand on my face. “Take care now. I’ll let you know where we land—maybe you can come visit.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I said. I studied her face, tried to commit it to memory, but five minutes after she left all I could remember was how she looked when I was a kid—laughing, screaming, cowering from my father’s hand. Promising my fifteen-year-old brother she’d let him know where she was, right before she walked out the door.

  I wouldn’t be holding my breath for that call. Not this time.

  Pearl

  I’d always scheduled social engagements around academics. While high school friends thought this indicated a harebrained dedication to my education, in college my peculiar lifestyle choice was less peculiar. Most of my friends were either equally studious or they comprehended the reason I was when the term ended and I’d netted another 4.0 semester.

  Mel’s questions: “What about parties? College is all about parties.”

  That was one of the things I’d loved about being in a sorority—whole semesters of events were planned in advance. I set calendar reminders for all scheduled events, along with course project due dates and exams. If something spontaneous came up and I could fit it in, great. If it would interfere, I begged off. No one cared.

  “But what about boys?”

  Please. There’s never in the history of boys been a shortage of the ones willing to hook up at the drop of a What’s up? text.

  “Okay, but what about actual relationships?”

  I’d never craved the company of any of my boyfriends when they weren’t around—not Mitchell or Geoffrey or the two or three who didn’t last long enough to become official. I wasn’t impatient for the next text, wasn’t anticipating the next touch. I didn’t get why anyone felt like that, ever. From the outside, that kind of attachment resembled obsession. Like an unhealthy fixation. Like Get some therapy, ASAP.

  Now here I was, utterly infatuated—with a guy I’d known practically all my life. I wanted to spend every waking minute with him. When I wasn’t with him, I contemplated the next time I would be. I daydreamed about him. I had never daydreamed about anyone. In. My. Life. I told myself that this preoccupation was all due to the novelty of it. That it would wear off eventually, and I would be able to get through a few hours in a row without thinking about him.

  And then I wondered if I wanted that to happen.

  I’d worked an evening shift for six of the twelve days Boyce and I had been official. Our first two evenings out consisted of dinner or driving into Corpus to see a movie, after which I would go home so I could study. I knew he wanted to make a good impression on Mama and Thomas—not asking me back to his place to spend the night, or at all. But when he brought me home, he’d lean back on his Trans Am, slide his arms around me, haul me onto my toes and kiss me good-night until I wanted to shove him into his own backseat in my parents’ driveway.

  And then came last Friday. Six days since our weekend in Houston. I couldn’t take it anymore. When I got in his car, I said, “I was thinking burgers and beer tonight.”

  He nodded, pulling onto the road. “S
ounds good. Got a place in mind?”

  I fussed with the seat belt and dug around in my bag, striving to sound offhand. “Maybe Whataburger… and beer out of your fridge?” I felt his eyes on me but pretended I didn’t for fear of blurting out something far too candid. Something like Forget the food—drive straight to your place and take me to bed.

  His hand tightened on the wheel as if he could read the subtext under those words. “All right.”

  When we got back to his place, he switched on the lamp in the living room, dropping his keys and sunglasses on the end table while I went to the kitchen, flipped the switch on the dinette’s light, and pulled plates from the cabinet. Boyce took ketchup and beer from the fridge and reached around me to set the bottles on the table, silent. Inches separated us. I felt the heat of him behind me like a furnace and I shivered, wanting to turn into his arms but frozen with confusion over his six days of gallant behavior.

  I didn’t want gallant from Boyce. I wanted his rough, commanding hands on me. I wanted the boy who couldn’t pass me in our high school hallway without leering. Who’d noticed any sliver of visible skin that was usually hidden. Who’d loved making me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at his outrageous, uncouth outbursts while teachers fumed and well-mannered classmates rolled their eyes.

  When his big hands gently grasped my shoulders, my breath hitched.

  “Pearl?” His warm breath fanned over my ear. His thumbs hooked under the straps of my tank and caressed a lazy line, back and forth.

  A powerful tremor shot through me and he stepped closer, his hands sliding down my arms to press my hands to the table. His body bracketed mine, his boots on either side of my canvas flats, his long legs and arms holding me in place against the table.

  Enveloped by him, I slanted my head back onto his chest and closed my eyes, willing him to continue. His hands left mine and stole beneath my top—warm palms on cool skin. They slid up over my rib cage and my lace-covered breasts. Inhaling slowly, the tip of his nose following the line of my pulse, he kissed his way to the base of my throat. He hummed one sound on exhale, low and deep, lips progressing back the way they came, hands tightening on my breasts.