I Hate to Stand Alone

by Casey Winter

  “Let me, Hannah,” he says. “For once in my life, let me be a gentleman.”

  “Fine, fine,” I exclaim. “But please don’t be a gentleman all night, kay?”

  He slaps down a wad of cash, and then stands up, giving me his hand. He’s all smirking allure again as he pulls me to my feet. But I don’t forget about that vulnerability I saw in him, even if it was just a glimpse.

  —

  As we drive back to Little Fall, it’s like I can feel all of my old concerns creeping up on me again. In Lorham, even though it’s only sixty miles from Little Fall, I was able to pretend that we were just two people having fun. But, the closer we get to our hometown, the harder that is. I blink, hard, as though I can calm my overactive imagination that way.

  To distract myself, I look across at Luke. We’re in almost complete darkness, Luke picking his way through the tree-shrouded road with the high-beams, completely secluded from the rest of the world. I think about how vulnerable, and yet how strong, he looked in the restaurant. He looks so handsome right now: green eyes glinting, smirking when he sees me looking.

  “You look like you’re fixing to get into some trouble,” he says.

  “Maybe I am,” I whisper. I’m shocked by how breathy my voice is. I can’t help it. I want him, bad. “Luke,” I go on. “I want you to know, I’m not the sort of girl who has sex in cars by the side of the road.”

  “Okay …”

  “Normally, I’m not that sort of girl.”

  He glances at me. A knot of tension moves through him. Animal hunger enters his expression. He wants me just as acutely as I want him.

  “Are you telling me you can’t wait until we get home for dessert?” he growls. “Because if you are, you should know I’ve been thinking the same thing since we left Lorham. I’ve been thinking about pulling over and laying that seat flat, sliding my hand up your leg, feeling how hot and wet you are through your jeans—”

  I leap forward, brazen, and place my hand on his crotch. He’s throbbing, hard, ready. “Pull over,” I moan. “I don’t even care. Just pull over.”

  Luke glides to the side of the road, and then inches the car into the inky dark as I stroke my hand up and down his manhood. I quickly undo his button and free him. He springs up, pre-come shimmering in the dark. When I grasp him at the hilt, he lets out a strangled moan.

  Unclipping his seatbelt, he pounces on me like a jaguar. We attack each other. The close quarters only make us more passionate.

  Somehow, I get his jeans and his underwear around his knees. It takes way more effort for us to strip off my heels and jeans. I have to awkwardly stand up, balancing on one leg as he peels it away.

  “Goddamn,” he growls. “Are these jeans painted on, or what?”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining earlier, bad boy,” I tease.

  He laughs gruffly. “That was before I found out I was gonna die if I didn’t get them off.”

  “Oh, and what’s the cause of death? These damn pants.”

  I finally get the leg free, and then collapse atop him. I grind my panties up and down his pulsating cock. He groans, finding my lips. We kiss hungrily.

  “Blood loss,” he growls. “Cause of death? Definitely blood loss. Push those panties aside, Hannah. I need to feel you.”

  I try, but it’s difficult, since they’re not exactly thong-like. I mean, they’re not granny panties, by any means. But not porn-star underwear, either. “I can’t—wait a second …”

  “No damn way,” he barks.

  I giggle delightedly when he grabs the panties and snaps them with a fierce tug. I don’t even care that they bite into my skin. “Glovebox,” he moans. “Before I lose control.”

  My fingers fumble, but eventually I open it, and find the condom. I tear it with my teeth, sliding it down his cock. The slickness of the pre-come makes it easier. He’s as hard as steel, veins bulging.

  Finally, he lifts me up by my hips and lowers me down. I prop my hands on the back of the seat, grinding down the length of him. Inch by blistering inch, he fills me, and I forget about everything except the sultry, close wetness between us.

  I bounce up and down on him, helped by his strong hands throwing me up and pulling me down. He guides me to where he wants me, grinding my aching pussy lips down to his balls and then up again.

  We writhe together, joining, the heat rising in the car until it’s like we’re inside a star.

  We lock eyes. He doesn’t look away. He stares right into me. Not to be dramatic, but it’s like he stares right into my soul, whatever that means. It’s difficult to think clearly.

  I just feel.

  “I can feel you getting t-tight,” he growls. “You’re close, Hannah. Let it go. Let it go for me.”

  “Ah,” I cry, collapsing against him.

  Our lips meet in tangled lust. Our teeth click with our bucking movements.

  An earthquake of an orgasm moves through me, tearing me to beautiful pieces, scattering me in a thousand different directions.

  Then Luke throws his head back, veins standing up on his neck, pausing as he groans hollowly, unable to catch his breath. I grab his face and turn him toward me, so that we’re looking at each other again.

  As our shared climax turns us both to hammering euphoria, we stare into each other, and we smile. Just for a moment, among all the carnal mayhem, we smile like one day we could fall in love.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Luke

  I can’t believe how easy it is to just sink into the next week with Hannah. It’s the same way the boys and I would sink into a short break of leave, heading to the bar and drinking and laughing, forgetting all about gun fights and cover-and-move and war.

  That’s what I do, basically. After the date in Lorham, I just behave as though I’m on leave, not letting my mind stray to the war being waged in my mind, with Noah on one side and Hannah on the other. It’s far too tempting to ignore that hell and just be with Hannah instead.

  We make endless eyes at each other across the roller rink, stealing every secret opportunity to sneak away and be together. I learn the landscape of her curvaceous, fine-worked body, all the hidden places I can stroke tantalizingly to cause goose pimples to prick her skin. When I tell Hannah this one evening, sitting up in bed in the cot in Family Roller—goddamn, this cot’s getting some work—she arches a straight-from-the-underworld eyebrow at me.

  “Hmm, so what you’re saying is you know how to push my buttons?” she fires, her night-black hair spilling down over her naked body to partially cover her breasts.

  I’d deserve an award if I resisted the urge to smooth those strands of hair aside to reveal the perfection of her nipples beneath. And I’m not interested in any damn award. Just Hannah. I smooth my thumb over the pertness and watch an answering shiver quake through her. She grabs my wrist, pouting playfully.

  “Luke, I think you might be the very definition of insatiable.”

  “Yes,” I growl. “I am.”

  Later, I grab a beer and sit at the side of the roller rink after hours, watching as Hannah lights up the rink—and, yeah, my world too—with her neon wheels. She spins around so that her ponytail whips and flails and riots like it’s celebrating. She back-skates, swaying her hips side to side, and then slides over to me and rests her elbow on the railing. I’m enthralled.

  “You know, a girl might get ideas if you keep staring like that,” she banters.

  “Please,” I grinned. “Get ideas, Hannah. Get all the damn ideas.”

  Sometimes, after we’re both muscle-sore from our frantic, hungry sex, we lie in the cot and I just let my fingers make patterns in her hair, lifting it and letting it sluice through my grip like precious dark water. Once, as I do this, she giggles and leaps on top of me, bringing her hands to my head.

  “My turn,” she declares, sliding her hands over my scalp, moaning sarcastically. “Ooh, yeah, baby, you like that? You like it when mamacita plays with your hair, bad boy?”

  I laugh so hard I
feel veins bulging in my neck, flipping her over so that I’m on top, our naked bodies infused with each other. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, thundering. Or maybe that’s mine. It’s hard to tell, we’re so close together.

  “You’re a twisted woman,” I laugh. “Here I am trying to do something nice for you, but of course the banter queen’s got to have her joke. Well … how’s this for a joke?”

  I leap closer, finding all the sneakiest places to aim my tickling fingertips. She writhes and thrills, slapping at my hands as her musical laughter fills the room. Musical laughter. I can’t help but think it. There’s something downright intoxicating listening to the way she laughs.

  On and on, the week goes like this, endless moments of bonding that weave a tapestry I can’t ignore. But always, in the back of my mind, I see my little brother. He frowns at me from my dreams. I imagine him on an unbroken sea, crystal-bright, picturing his face when he heard the first crack-crack-crack of gunfire.

  But I ignore it. God help me, I push my little brother down deep, and focus on Hannah instead.

  Sometimes, on the days when she can steal a couple of hours to come and practice, I stand at my window and look down on the rink, watching her with the customers. She’s in her element then, always with a sunny smile on her face. The way she bites her lip really gets to me, a proper sucker punch to the chest. She’s focused. She’s determined. She’s sexy and beautiful.

  She’s everything a man could ask for in a woman, really. Even if I know it’s wrong.

  On and on and on … the days pass by, and we both know there’s this gnarled, tusked, fierce elephant in the room. Noah and Hannah’s romance lurks over our every moment together. I catch it in the way she looks at me sometimes, her eyes hazed over as though she’s half in the past and half here, with me. I know I could ask her what she’s thinking and she’d probably tell me.

  But I never do.

  Because I don’t want this to end, even if defining what this is proves an unclimbable task. I’m fine with that, since labelling our connection isn’t exactly at the top of my list of priorities. But tonight—a full one week after the Lorham date—I sense Hannah shifting beside me. We’re lying in bed together, in the cot in the Family Roller office. It’s eleven o’clock in the evening, the place locked up for the night.

  I pull her close to me and make circles on her scalp with my fingers, making sure to keep my eyes open unless the temptation to fall asleep becomes too strong, which I can never allow to happen. Falling asleep means possibly exposing her to my nightmares. Finding myself all tangled up in sheets is one thing, but what if I lashed out, struck her by mistake?

  Or what if she saw just how messed up I really am and decided to get the hell out of dodge?

  But that’s what I want.

  I almost laugh at that, shaking my head subtly as the thoughts boil through my mind. I don’t think it’s what I want, not anymore, even if confusion grips me and makes thinking clearly difficult.

  I feel Hannah tense in my embrace. I get the sense that whatever she’s going to say is important to her, even if she’ll try and pretend it’s casual, just another aspect of our inexorable banter.

  “Our glorious week of romance,” Hannah jokes. “Who would’ve thought it, frogman?”

  I idly twirl her gorgeous hair around my fingers, loving the smell of her shampoo. The smell of her shampoo. When, and how, did that happen?

  “Or is romance too strong a word for you, huh?” she teases, like she always does. I wouldn’t have it any other way. “Would you prefer to call it crazy, irresistible sex instead? Or both?”

  “I think I’ll leave the labelling up to you,” I smirk.

  I sense that that annoys her. But what am I supposed to do: start putting labels on something that shouldn’t even be happening?

  Because she’s right. This past week hasn’t just been sexual. It’s been romantic, too, whatever the hell that means.

  The evening after our Lorham date, when Hannah showed up at the rink, I thought things might be awkward. But we just fell right back into our easy banter. We ended up around back at closing, talking into the night about Mom, sharing memories. “She was a wonderful woman,” Hannah whispered, falling effortlessly into my arms.

  I pulled her close to me, a surreal feeling taking hold of me as I let my chin rest on the top of her head. It felt right.

  “It was just the way she had of being able to talk to people. Like, she could talk to the richest, poshest person in the universe and then go and have dinner with an Average Joe. Everybody got on with her. She was a chameleon, I guess, but not in a deceitful way. It was just who she was.”

  I kissed her hair. I tightened my grip on her. I thought, This woman is mine. And let anyone try to take her away from me.

  “Maybe that’s why she was able to wrangle my old man,” I muttered. “His mood swings must’ve been a hell of a pain in the ass to deal with. It was as if he had split personalities, the nicest man in the world one second, and the biggest jerk the next.”

  “Hmm,” she said, elbowing me lightly. “Now who does that remind me of …”

  I tickled her right back, which resulted in her swiveling in my embrace, pushing herself against me. I think it’s the life in Hannah that really messes me up. It’s how wide-eyed and excited she looks, how ready to go out into the world and make her mark, vivacious and beautiful, and yet also sexy and dirty and human.

  Complicated, that’s what she is. And I can’t get enough of her.

  “Where are you, Luke?” she asked, when I stared off into the shadowy parking lot.

  “I’m right here, babe,” I said.

  I winced. She seized on it. “So I’m babe now, am I?”

  I tried to look away, but Hannah stood on her tiptoes, found my lips.

  That was it. Once we kissed, once I felt how boiling and keen she was, and yet still holding back enough to make me feel like I was hunting her, willingly … and she was hunting me … once I tasted her, I was lost to the world.

  We only broke off when she placed a hand on my chest.

  “Not here, Luke.”

  “No shit,” I growled. “It’s just, when you’re pressed up against me like that, hotter than a goddamn volcano, I forget. Let’s go inside.”

  On and on and on …

  I booked us a hotel in Lorham a couple of days ago, just for a few hours. After we’d wrestled each other into the best sex of our lives, she lay in my arms, tracing her finger down the scar on my chest. “How did you get this, Luke?” she asked quietly.

  I flinched, and made to sit up. But then she hugged closer to me. It was a silent battle—stay with me, Luke—and she won. I wanted her to win. “War,” I muttered.

  “I know that. I mean, I guessed that. But how?”

  “Just … war.” I sighed. “A scar’s just a mark on a person’s skin. It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I think a scar’s a sign that you came through something and are now stronger for it, right? Both kinds of scars. Emotional and physical.”

  I nodded. “Maybe.”

  “Look at you, all quiet now. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It was a bit of metal,” I grunted. “A grenade blew apart a gas can, and the metal sliced across my chest.”

  “Weren’t you wearing armor?”

  I nod. “Yeah, but the angle it hit me at, it went in through the armpit. It was a one-in-a-million shot. I must be a lucky bastard.”

  “Hmm, that’s crazy.”

  “Yep.”

  A moment later, she asked, “So what was your SEAL nickname? I mean, everyone has one, right?”

  “Not everyone,” I muttered. “But a lot, maybe most, yeah.”

  “Well …” She walked her fingers up my chest, and then grabbed my chin and angled my gaze down, so we were looking at each other. “I’m all ears.”

  “Iceman,” I told her. “My nickname was Iceman.”

  “What?” She sat up,
huddling closer to me. “Okay, I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting that. Why Iceman?”

  “You know I told you about BUDs, our basic training, and how we lie in the water to test who can take it?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Well, when I was in training, our instructor and I had an interesting relationship. Basically, I was a cocky asshole and he was looking for any chance to push me so far that I’d ring the bell. Ringing the bell means to quit BUDs. There’s this actual bell you’ve gotta ring, and then you put your helmet down. By the end, there’s a whole line of helmets, because the training is so grueling.

  “Anyway, when we were doing the water drill, jackass that I am, I told the instructor that he could keep me in there for an hour straight if he wanted, it made no difference to me.” I smiled at the memory, thinking about what a young, arrogant know-it-all I was.

  “So what happened?” Hannah asked, in that quiet, non-pushy way she has.

  “Well,” I went on. “He took me up on the offer. Keep in mind, this water is ice-cold, at least ours was, and you can pass out in twenty minutes or less. I managed to stay in the water for a long, long time. Nobody timed it, but the instructor got everyone out and kept me in there, made a show of it.

  “The next thing I remember, I’m waking up in the infirmary. I passed out. It was a miracle I didn’t get hypothermia. So they called me the Iceman.” I laughed ruefully. “That instructor was a crazy bastard. He’s lucky he didn’t get fired. But I didn’t mind. I liked being the Iceman”

  “Because you’re so cold,” she teased. “Inside and out.”

  But I didn’t take it as a joke. I just nodded.

  —

  Now, leaning up in the cot at Family Roller, I stand up and wander to the window. I look down on the empty rink, wondering if Jock Hanlon will choose tonight to make another sabotage attempt. I still haven’t had a follow-up about that from Coach, and it bothers me.

  “Luke,” Hannah says. I hear her sitting up, the sheets rustling. “Are you okay? You seem a bit … distant.”

  “I’m fine,” I murmur.