Reckless Surrender

by R. C. Martin

  He’s wearing a pair of cutoff sweatpants that rest low around his hips—so low that I am sure he’s got nothing else on underneath. For a second, I’m so overwhelmed with lust that I just want to go punch him in the chest. It totally sucks wanting something that I can’t have.

  I suppose that might change in a few hours…

  Then again, it might not.

  When he looks at me, does he feel lust? Longing? Desire? I’m not exactly built like my boy-magnet best friend. Although, we did become friends after we both slept with the same guy.

  I shake away the comparison, embracing the fact that Trevor isn’t like that douche bag.

  What if he’s not as attracted to me as I am to him? Sure, he thinks I’m beautiful—but so does my brother. And, okay, I’ve felt Trevor’s arousal before; but the penis has a mind of its own, doesn’t it? Besides, it doesn’t count if he wakes up with a hard cock pressed against my back. I’d say his dreams are responsible for turning him on, not me.

  Ugh. I smack my hands over my face. Shut the fuck up, Daphne. Seriously. You’re not going to talk yourself out of telling him. You’re not!

  I need something to do. Now!

  I turn away from him, take a deep breath, and look around. I smile at the sight of his kitchen, practically spotless from lack of use, and decide that I’ll make breakfast. If I know one thing for sure, his kitchen will most certainly reciprocate all my love.

  When Trevor tells me I should come into the shop with him for a bit, I bite my tongue and hop in my car so that I can follow him back into town. I actually would rather stay at the house all day, so I can freak out in peace, but I figure it’s better that I hang out with him and the others for two reasons. First, because I don’t want him to think something is wrong. Second, because it’s probably healthier to find distraction amongst my friends than to go back and forth with myself in my head for hours on end.

  Turns out, even in the company of friends, I have a hard time being myself. When I decide that I’ve put in enough face time and that I should go to the grocery store and then head back to Trevor’s place, I call Logan along the way. I tell her I’m in desperate need of another pep talk and she stops what she’s doing in order to give me just that.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” she begins to say just before she hangs up. “While you’re out, buy yourself some sexy underwear and a matching bra.”

  “What?” I choke.

  “Trust me! Make a stop at Vicky’s, splurge a little, and then when you get home, put them on. Wear whatever you want over them. I’m telling you, you’ll feel so much more confident in pretty underwear. I promise. Will you do it?”

  “I don’t—”

  “That was a rhetorical question, babe. The answer is obviously yes. Go. Now. I’d say pick something black. You’ll look and feel great. Okay?”

  “Why did I call you, again?” I sigh, raking my fingers through my wavy mane.

  “Because you knew I’d give you the world’s best advice. Now go do it. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I mutter. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “You’re welcome!”

  She ends the call without further ado and I stare at my phone for a minute. I laugh to myself when I realize that I’m actually going to follow her directions. If anyone knows anything about being confident, it’s Logan. So, after adding new underwear to my list of things to pick up, I set out to run my errands.

  It’s after five by the time I make it back to the house. I start preparing dinner right away, too anxious to wait. Once I’ve got the chicken in the oven and my sauce is done, set to keep warm on the back burner, it’s a quarter after six and I hop in the shower. I use Trevor’s bathroom instead of the guest’s room because the shower head is bigger. I take my time, letting the hot water ease the tension from my muscles. The mirror is nice and steamy by the time I get out.

  I slip into my new Logan approved undergarments and then rummage through my bag, looking to piece together an outfit that I can feel comfortable in. I pull on my cutoff denim shorts, a white cami, and my pale orange t-shirt—the one with a faded dinosaur printed on the front; the neck is cut wide and I drape it so that it hangs off my shoulder. It’s one of my favorites in my collection of random tops. It confuses people and I like that.

  I make quick work of my makeup, painting on a cat-eye with a thick line of eyeliner, finishing up with a generous amount of mascara. After I’ve scrunched some moisturizer into my damp hair, it’s time to pull the chicken out of the oven. I set it aside and start a pot of water to boil for the pasta. I try not to think about the fact that it’s almost seven as I set the table. I step back to assess my work and it dawns on me that I’ve forgotten the candles in the car.

  I hurry to the door, my keys in hand. Just as I go to open it, Trevor walks through. I almost run right into him, the only thing stopping me are his outstretched arms. “Whoa, where are you going?”

  Shit. I look up at him and freeze. When our eyes meet, it takes every ounce of love I have for him to hold onto my courage, while my stomach does cartwheels to remind me of my nerves. As if I needed reminding.

  “Nowhere. I’m—nowhere. I thought I forgot to lock my car?” It comes out as a question and I immediately feel like an idiot. He smirks at me as I lift my arm up and point my key fab at the door. When I hear my car honk, signaling it’s locked—which I already knew it was—I force a smile and turn toward the kitchen.

  “It smells really good in here. Did you make dinner?”

  “Yeah. It should be done in a couple minutes. I was waiting for you to get back before I cooked the pasta,” I tell him, opening the box of noodles.

  He comes to stand behind me and I close my eyes and draw in a slow breath when he places his hands on my hips. “You made my favorite,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to greet me properly. He kisses my neck and then whispers, “I like coming home like this.”

  I grip tightly to his words, hoping they mean more than that he’s hungry. He keeps talking but the moment he pulls away from me, I can’t hear a single thing he says. The reality of what I’m about to do feels more and more real with every passing second.

  Trevor and I have been friends in love for over three years. The dynamic of our relationship has worked for us all this time. What I’m about to do could change that. This isn’t my first proclamation of love—he knows how I feel—but it’s different this time. I want more. Asking for that, admitting that I don’t know if I can go on the way we have been, it will change everything.

  I could lose him.

  “Daphne?”

  “What?” I squeak, turning toward the sound of his voice.

  “Are you okay? I called your name, like, three times.”

  “Sorry. I’m fine.”

  “Alright,” he says, clearly not believing me. “Do you want me to open this?” He holds up the bottle of wine and I nod, turning back to stir the pasta.

  As I do, my eyes flicker across the script on my arm. Each one of my tattoos mean a great deal to me; but after a while, they become so familiar that I don’t really think about them. That is, until the moment that I need to remember them and why it is that I got them. Moments like this one.

  Fight for what you want. Cry for what you’ve lost.

  It’s a reminder to myself to be brave. In the past, I wasn’t and I lost pieces of myself for giving up too soon. I can’t live like that now. I promised myself that I wouldn’t. The undeniable truth is, I want Trevor more than I’ve ever wanted anyone—with a single exception I won’t allow myself to think about right now—and I know he loves me. In spite of all my doubts, I know he loves me. I have to fight for both of us now. In the end, if he turns me down, I’m allowed to cry—but not a millisecond before. So I’m going to do this. Now.

  “Pasta’s done,” I announce. “We can eat.”

  We make our plates and sit at the table. I look down at my food while Trevor pours me a glass of wine and I wonder why I took so much. My appetite is
almost nonexistent. I reach for my drink, hoping a sip will help calm my nerves, and notice that my hands are shaking. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who notices. Trevor grabs hold of my trembling fingers before I can reach for anything and I fail at stifling my startled gasp.

  “What’s going on with you?”

  This is it. It’s now or never…

  “I need to talk to you about something. It’s…important,” I spit the words out before I can change my mind.

  He pulls his hand away from me, his brow creasing in concern. “What is it?”

  “This was supposed to be more romantic but it’s too late for that now, so here it goes—”

  Fuck. I feel like I might throw up my heart.

  Then again…isn’t that the point?

  “Trevor, I know you know that our friendship means more to me than—air. There’s no way that I could ever live in a world where you weren’t in it. I love you so much and I trust you more than I trust anyone; with my heart, with my body, with my inner most being. You know things about me that no one else does and I know things about you that no one else does. Our intimacy is crazy intense. But, the thing is, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  He breathes out, the sound implying that I’ve just punched him square in the gut. Immediately, I realize that he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say.

  “I want to be with you. Not like this—not as friends—as more than friends. I know that we agreed a long time ago that we weren’t in a place to be able to offer each other stability in a relationship, but we aren’t those people anymore.

  “I get it that you feel like there’s a part of yourself that’s missing. I feel that way, too! Except, this is who we are. I think we can trust that being together won’t be an attempt to fix either of us—it’ll just be an opportunity for us to make each other happy in spite of all that we’ve lost.

  “I also know that you haven’t forgiven yourself for what happened between you and Crystal—not completely. It’s that regret that makes it impossible for you to trust yourself entirely—but I trust you and I love you and I’m going crazy with things the way they are. I mean, look at my brother and Logan! If they can overcome their past, why can’t we?”

  The words fall out of my mouth too fast, but now they’re out there. I hold my breath, waiting for Trevor to say something, anything. I can’t make out the expression on his face or interpret the emotion in his blue-green eyes. When I can no longer go without a fresh intake of oxygen, he still hasn’t spoken. As I watch him sit there, staring at me, I start to panic. My eyes fill with tears as the prospect of rejection creeps between us. As soon as the first drop spills down across my cheek, I’m up on my feet.

  “Oh, my god,” I manage. “I can’t believe—I’ve got to get out of here.” I sprint to the kitchen counter, where my keys and my purse are, and then head for the door.

  “Daphne! Wait!”

  The sound of his voice breaks my heart. He’s too late. Anything he has to say now will just be an attempt to soften the blow. He doesn’t want to be with me. Obviously, he’s fine with the way things are. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.

  I don’t have any shoes on, a fact I hardly realize as I race my way down his front porch steps to my car. Backing out of the driveway, I catch a glimpse of him running after me. I know, deep down, that I should turn around and go back inside. I should give him the chance to say what he wants to say. I should allow for the two of us to work our way through this. But now I can’t stop crying, so going back isn’t really an option. I don’t want him to see me like this.

  I know that I should pull myself together a little bit. Driving while sobbing is not the brightest idea, but I can’t seem to think like a rational person right now. I prove that theory further when I decide to place a call in my current condition.

  Roman has to work until eight tonight, so I have dinner at Cooper’s and I’m just hanging out until he gets to go home. He thought it was a good plan, seeing as how his roommates aren’t thrilled with the idea of me in their space all weekend. I don’t mind their objections because I know that the only person’s opinion that matters is Roman’s. Granted, I don’t think he’s over the moon about my three day sleepover, but he’s not opposed to it—proof of our progressing friendship. Furthermore, I know that at this very moment, magic is happening for my best friend and my brilliant plan has helped to make it all possible—so, anyone who gets in my way can suck it.

  I watch Roman as he works. It’s a great way to pass the time. There’s something about the way he moves; the way he leans over the counter when he can’t hear someone’s voice with the noise of a busy night; the way he smiles when Eric cracks a joke…it’s captivating. I’m also aware that I’m not the only female who thinks so. Every girl at the bar has flirted with him. He doesn’t flirt back, but they don’t know that. They think his smile is just for them and they either ignore or don’t notice when he delivers the same look to the next girl. It amuses me and it makes me want to kiss him, just to stake my claim.

  He might not be my boyfriend, or even the guy I’m dating, but nobody knows that. I know that I’m completely capable of stealing a kiss. He likes kissing me. He hasn’t said the words out loud, but I can tell—a girl can tell. I wonder if he’s guessed how much I like kissing him back? It’s turned out to be the best perk in this whole scheme and I plan on taking full advantage of my privileges. They won’t last forever.

  Such a shame.

  “Hey, Double-O,” I call out, propping myself up with my elbows on the bar. He looks over and I nod, signaling for him to come my way.

  “Double-O?” says one of his admirers, seated a couple spaces away from me. “Is that what we should call you?”

  “No,” I mutter vehemently. “That’s what I call him,” I tell her.

  “Why?” she challenges.

  Once Roman has closed the distance between us, I spot the warning look on his face, but I can’t help myself. I’ll be damned if I let someone call him by my nickname. I smirk at him before reaching for his shirt. I grab a fistful and he follows my tug, caught off guard by the act. I know I’m about to ruin his chances for high tips tonight, but his shift is almost over and I’ll make it up to him.

  “See this face?” I begin to say, looking back at the brunette who, sadly, thinks she stands a chance. “He’s got looks that can kill.”

  “Logan,” he grumbles, attempting to pull away from me. I don’t let him go. Before he can bat my hand from his shirt, I close my mouth around his—that stops him dead in his tracks. He lingers for a moment before parting from me slightly. “If I didn’t know better,” he says softly, “I’d say someone is jealous.”

  “What? No,” I giggle.

  I think about kissing him one more time, but my phone interrupts us. I let him go as soon as I see who’s trying to get ahold of me.

  “It’s Daphne,” I tell him before I answer. Technically, he’s not supposed to know what’s going on tonight, because Daph swore me to secrecy, but I had to tell him. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Although, I didn’t expect for her to call me with the news so soon.

  “Hello?” I answer, covering my free ear so that I might hear her better. My face falls when I hear her crying. “Daphne?”

  “What’s going on?” asks Roman.

  I hold up a finger, impressing on him to wait, and then hurry out of the bar. When I’m outside, away from all the noise, the agony of her tears comes through clearer and my heart drops. “Hey—Daph, talk to me.”

  “He didn’t say anything. Not anything. He just sat there!”

  “Maybe he needed a few minutes. Where are you now?”

  “I’m going home. I don’t know where else to go.”

  “Oh, Daph—okay. Look, Roman and I will come get you. Just drive careful, okay?”

  “Yeah,” she whimpers.

  “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “It will. We’ll see you s
oon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shit,” I mutter as soon as we’ve ended the call. I turn to head back inside, then think better of it and dial Trevor instead. He doesn’t pick up, which doesn’t surprise me, so I try again. The jerk doesn’t know I’m really good at pestering the men who mess with my girl. This time, the call goes straight to voicemail. I’ll have to try again later. For now, Roman and I need to get out of there.

  “What’s going on?” he asks the instant I’m back at the bar.

  “We have to go. She’s freaking out. She’s on her way home now.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “She’s a mess, which means it didn’t go well.”

  “Dammit. Okay. I’m off in fifteen minutes. We’ll ride together.”

  I don’t even lock my front door as I run out of the house and jump into my truck. I have to go after her. She left so fast, I couldn’t stop her! I wasn’t expecting to hear anything that she said. Not a single word. When she said them, when she practically handed her heart to me on a fucking silver platter, I froze. Not because I didn’t want to take it, but because I was upset with myself for missing my chance to ask for it.

  It should have been me. It should have been me who planned a romantic evening. It should have been me giving that speech. It should have been me telling her that I want to be her everything because she is mine. It should have been me—only it wasn’t. It took me a second to get over that. Before I could find the words to say, find the words that she deserves to hear, she was gone.

  I have no idea what she’s thinking, but I can only assume the worst. Whatever it is that she thinks I’m feeling, she’s wrong. Her vulnerability has clouded her understanding of me and I have to make myself just as transparent as she did.

  I drive too fast, praying to the God I don’t know that I believe in, hoping that nothing deters me from catching up to her. I don’t know where she’s going, but my first guess is that she’ll head back home. If I’m wrong, I won’t stop looking for her until I find her. Thankfully, when I pull into the parking lot of condos, I see that she’s already arrived. I park haphazardly and race my way to her front door, pounding with all my might against the barrier that stands between us.