Without You

by Brooklyn Skye

  She peers back at me. “You do realize I can’t do that without flashing my ass at you. Or the entire beach.”

  Yep, thought of that already. Though I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. I grin from behind the lens. “I’ll up your two hours to three.”

  “You’re trading sex for light?”

  “Guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.”

  A beat of silence fills the space between us. “How about,” she says, “ice cream and a movie of my choice?”

  I pop my head up, eyes wide. “Ice cream over me? Ouch.”

  She lifts the flashlight as high as she can, directing its stream of light to the top of the shot with a glint in her eye. The edge of her dress, I notice, is clear up to her stomach, a flowered thong staring at me. “You never want ice cream. You always want me. What kind of businesswoman would I be if I bargained for something I’m going to get anyway?” Arm still in the air, she wiggles her tight, round ass. “Deal?”

  “Remind me to take you the next time I buy a new car,” I say and watch through the lens as light starts to fill the frame in up-and-down streaks. Once the light reaches the far end of the frame, I motion her to me. “Can you see the difference?” She leans in, examining the display. A layer of plum-colored purple coats the original picture, deep and rich on the left and fading to a watery, almost-transparent film on the right. It’s perfect. “I think you might be a natural.”

  “Oh, wow. Adding color completely changes the feel of the picture. Makes it more moody. Almost sullen.” Beside me, her body sways and nudges my arm. “I like it.”

  “Ready for the fun part?” I take the flashlight from her hands, switch it on and, since the exposure is still running, quickly step into the frame and write out two words. She watches silently, scraping lines into the damp sand with the heel of her foot. Once the words are finished, I join her behind the camera, stop the exposure, and bring up the picture. Layered like graffiti painted on a wall, the words KISS ME illuminate from the middle of the picture.

  “That is so cool! I can’t believe you just wrote into the picture. How is that even possible?” Careful not to knock over the tripod, she squirms her way between the camera and me, a huge smile on her face. Forehead to mine, she kisses me once then says, “So the answer to my question? About you going pro in crew or photography? We obviously know the answer.”

  ~*~

  After playing with light trails for an hour or so, drawing hearts and stick people and even a few dirty messages, I drag Quinn up the beach to lifeguard tower 12, pull a bottle of tequila from my bag, and hold her close as we watch the glowing orange sun set over the ocean.

  She’s talking about her roommate’s trip to Vermont, how Nikki met some guy or something, but I’m not paying attention because her words from earlier won’t leave me alone. She thinks I should pursue photography professionally. Plenty of times I’ve imagined myself travelling the world, losing myself in the beauty of creating something spectacular with a camera…but not lately. Not since Quinn.

  “What’re you thinking about?” Quinn rolls her head against my chest, looking back at me through her lashes. “You’ve been really quiet since we sat down.”

  I reach into my back pocket, slip out the signed blank check and place it in her hand. “For third quarter. Use it for whatever you need. Housing, books, food credit. My dad said there’s no limit.”

  Hesitantly her fingers curl around the check, and a look like she’s smelled something rancid comes over her face. The deal between our parents—that my dad will pay for Quinn’s schooling until her dad can get back on his feet with his new teaching job—courses through her body like rocks in her veins, stiffening her from head to toe. Stubborn as she is, Quinn doesn’t say a word as she shoves the check into the pocket of her dress.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  No sense in lying about it. I can talk about my future without mentioning the internship. “Just about what you said. Going pro with photography.” Her hands, draped over my knees, slip down my shins and rest on the tops of my sandy, bare feet. “Not sure if it’s what I want to do.”

  “Because you don’t like it? Or you don’t think you’re good at it?” I stay quiet thinking Because I don’t think I can leave you when her head leans back further, face moving closer to mine. “Is that really it?” Quiet again. This time she sits up and turns around. “Torrin?”

  Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. I close my eyes, swallow the clump of sand lodged in my throat.

  Her voice brushes my ear. “You’re amazing, and you know it.”

  What I know is that I’m not ready to tell her. But as I open my eyes she’s still looking at me. Still waiting for me to say something. I force a smile and take her hand in mine, kissing the tip of her fingers.

  “You better watch out. All this ‘you’re amazing’ talk is going to inflate my head.” I flip over her arm and run a line of soft kisses up the underside. Goose bumps prickle her skin, and it won’t take much more until she’s Play-doh in my hands. Which is good, because I don’t feel like thinking about the internship anymore tonight. My lips continue up her arm, past her shoulder to the irresistible stretch of her neck. Smooth skin. Kissable nooks and crannies. Suddenly, my insides burst into fire… If only she knew what being close to her does to me.

  A quick glance up and down the beach to ensure we’re alone then I drop my mouth to hers. My hands slide down to her shoulders and I finger the thin strap of her dress, sucking in her bottom lip at the same time. Small helpless sounds trickle from her mouth, pushing thoughts of the internship far enough to the back of my mind where I can’t reach them. I roll us over, little by little guiding her head down to the wooden planks of the tower platform. I strip off my shirt and tuck it beneath her head, watching as her eyes—dark in the growing absence of light—rake over my body.

  Damn I love the way she looks at me, like the very sight of my presence gives her life. I kiss her slow and deep and like it’s the last kiss I’ll ever have. Our mouths fit effortlessly together, the way water forms and cradles against an oar. It’s uncanny really, finding a perfect match to mine.

  She fingers the button on my jeans. My hands float down the smooth slope of her legs. The button releases with a pop and as she’s folding the flaps of denim back I take her wrists in my hand, meet her heavy-lidded stare.

  I don’t want to rush this.

  “Have I told you how incredible I think you are?”

  She smiles—not hesitant like she would have in the past. But self-assured. “Maybe once or twice.”

  I nod, dropping a kiss on her jaw. “How about how beautiful?”

  “Earlier,” she says, tilting her head and catching her lip between her teeth.

  I trail the tip of my tongue under her jaw and taste a line to her ear. One of my hands settles on the crook of her waist, thumb grazing close to her bellybutton. “What about that this gorgeous stomach of yours is screaming ‘body shot’?”

  Her chest shakes with a giggle. “Oh, really? My stomach sounds all deep and husky like that?”

  I say it again, high and squeaky, and she laughs, reaching for the bottle of tequila. “I am absolutely okay with that.” She grins mischievously. “As long as I get to go first.”

  Sitting up, she nudges my shoulder with the lid of the bottle until I recline back, stretching out across the boards. With the careful slowness of a cat stalking its prey, she straddles my middle. Quinn taking charge—goddamn the thought, not to mention the heat from her bare legs radiating through my jeans. A smile lifts her lips as she feels me wiggle beneath her.

  “Since there’s no salt,” she says, inching my pants and boxers lower. “I get to lick whatever I want, right?”

  Dear Jesus, I’m not going to make it very far if she keeps touching me and talking about licking. I take the bottle, uncap it, and hand it back to her. “My will is dwindling each second I have to look at you in this dress. Might want to move it along before I end up ripping it off you.”


  She arches her brow, bites back a smile. “Too bad I like this dress. That sounds rather tempting.” Little by little, she drizzles a puddle of tequila into my bellybutton. I hold my breath, stilling my torso completely until she sets the bottle beside us.

  Cautiously she climbs off me and sits on her knees. Looking down at me with a glint in her eye, she whispers, “Anywhere?”

  I suck in a tiny breath and carefully bring my arms up, supporting my hands under my head. “Lick away.”

  Eyes focused on mine, she lowers her mouth to my neck. “Only you,” she whispers against my skin, “would take my body-shot virginity.” A hot, wet line rolls up my neck then she sucks my earlobe into her mouth. The breeze blows. Her long hair brushes my chest and suddenly my skin feels like it’s coming alive, crawling off my body. I don’t answer as she moves her head lower down the length of my body and hovers just above the puddle of amber brown liquid.

  I stop breathing, anticipating the moment her tongue grazes my skin again. Slowly she lowers, holding her hair back out of her face. In one unhurried, unbearably beautiful sip, she slurps the liquid from my stomach then swirls her tongue in circles, making love to my stomach with her mouth.

  I close my eyes and choke out, “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

  Her lips slither up my chest and neck, the brush of her arms tickling my sides. She hovers over me, head tilted and eyes lit with the fire of need.

  “How dare you underestimate me…”

  I take her face, bring it down to mine. “Seeing how hot that was, I now feel the ridiculous manly need to show you up.” I flip her over, cramming my shirt beneath her head once again, and position her legs on either side of me.

  She giggles, fidgeting her back to get comfortable along the planks of wood. “You athletes are another species. Competition over body shots?”

  The hem of her dress slips up to her hips, and her flowered, lacey thong stares back at me. Shit. “Be prepared, babe,” I say, coaxing the dress farther up her tiny frame. “My competitive gene can be the cause of some pretty outrageous behaviors.”

  Under my confident words, others linger: like leaving. I push them down as I bury myself in Quinn’s touch. Someday I’ll grow the balls to talk to her about it.

  April 11th

  “The coordinator from Traveler magazine called about the recommendation I wrote,” Professor Williams says as he plops my light painting project on my desk. Attached to the corner, a slip of paper with the words ‘Amazing. As always.’ and the letter A stare back at me. For some odd reason, I was hoping for something lower. Something less perfect.

  I should’ve turned in one of the others: Quinn’s version of male genitalia or my stick figure porno. That might have shocked him into something less than an A.

  We laughed so hard that day, playing with the flashlights under the pier. The knot in my chest tightens. I haven’t seen her since that night, claiming a project for my Fine Art Photography class instead of hanging out with her. Not that it was a total lie; I did have a project, though it was pretty rudimentary—make the familiar strange (“And strangely beautiful!” according to Professor Hill) through angle of view, concentrating on the oblique and the diagonal—which I finished two days ago. And not that I don’t want to see her; it’s just easier if I don’t.

  I blink back to the classroom and look up at him. “Did he tell you I was accepted?”

  Professor Williams nods, his fluffy gray hair bobbing with the movement. The rest of the class, all ten of them, start to talk with each other about their light painting grades. Williams glances around the room, telling the class he’ll see them next week, then back to me. “So when do you leave?”

  “Last week of June.” With the trouble he went through helping me fill out the application and writing the letter of recommendation, I’m not about to tell him I haven’t made a decision yet. I slide my project into my backpack and stand.

  “Well, if you need help preparing let me know. I’ve got some tips for transporting your equipment.”

  “I will. Thanks.” I shoulder my bag and start for the door, but stop.

  When the two of us were filling out the internship application, Professor Williams told me all about the internship he did throughout the U.S. and Canada when he was in his twenties. Studied under Mark Markson, a world-renowned photographer in the seventies. Then went on to become pro himself, spent twenty-two years in the field before retiring and becoming an instructor. I didn’t think of it then, mainly because applying was a long shot and I didn’t actually think I’d get accepted, but that means he left home, too.

  I spin around. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes, I met plenty of girls on my internship.” He winks at me. “Canadian lovelies were very generous to American boys if you catch my drift.”

  I smile at the thought of a young Williams flirting it up with French-tongued girls. “Not about girls. About leaving.”

  A knowing look comes over his face. “You want to know if I left anyone behind?”

  I nod.

  “I was twenty-one, engaged to my high school sweetheart.”

  “And you made it through the time apart? Got married when you returned?” I catch myself leaning forward, hanging on to what he’ll say next.

  He shakes his head, face expressionless. “At first I thought we could do that. But she didn’t take the news of me leaving very well. Thought I was choosing my passion over her. We split up before I left and I haven’t talked to her since. I heard she married and had kids and became a nurse. She’s probably a grandma with a huge, loving family now…” His words, coated in a sadness, trail off. He walks to the whiteboard and erases his notes from earlier. “It wasn’t just the months away during the internship. Photography is a lonely profession, Torrin. Gone for months at a time, sometimes in areas so remote no contact can be made back to the states. But this internship is a door that doesn’t open for many and that could propel you into an exciting, life-changing career.” Turning, he tosses the eraser to his desk and then looks at me. “You need to make this decision for you, not the people around you. Does that answer your question?”

  Unfortunately, yes.

  ~*~

  Thirty-eight days. That’s how long I have left with Quinn if I take this internship.

  Traveling South America. Working under Joel Harrington, one of the most famous photographers in the world. Learning techniques even Professor Williams couldn’t teach me.

  I lean my forehead against the cool metal locker to soothe the thick pain behind my eyes; it feels like there’s a newbie trying to maneuver an oar clattering inside my head. Moisture from the damp towel slung over my shoulder does nothing to unclench every locked-up muscle in my body, relieve the dagger-sharp claws that have carved their way clear to my bones. Insane how one little conversation with Professor Williams can ignite such pain. Steal my happiness with five little words: Photography is a lonely profession. Send my world spiraling into a black hole.

  Had I known this, I would have never applied.

  “You sick?” Andrew rounds the row of lockers and says. “Or do you always look like shit before birthday parties?” Tugging his shirt over his head, he belts out an echoing laugh, his stick-straight black hair glossed under the lights, giving it an almost blue sheen, like a spill of oil.

  I whip my used sweat rag at his head.

  “I’m fine.” I push away from the locker and finish gathering my gym clothes into my bag. At the same time, Brady saunters by, slapping Andrew’s ass on his way out the door. Andrew throws a quick punch to his scrawny arm, and the kid lets out a screech.

  “Don’t be late, pussies,” Brady hollers from the hallway, running his hand through his leprechaun-red hair.

  Andrew grunts. “Is that what you say to your boyfriends when you invite them to your room at night?”

  The door swings shut, and Andrew whirls back to me with his arms extended to the sides. “Seriously? What ever happened to freshman who were scar
ed of us? Like Marsh.”

  Ricky Marsh, across the room, lifts his pointy chin at the sound of his name. “You talking shit, Glaze?” he asks, grinning as he slams his locker.

  “Nope. Just reminiscing about the good ole days when you’d piss your pants every time we’d talk to you.” Andrew looks back to me, ignoring the finger Ricky’s directing into the air. “We’re slipping with this new batch.”

  I chuckle, cringing against the spike of pain it brings to my temples.

  “So what gives, Kingsley? Why do you look like your lunch is about to spew all over the floor?”

  I shrug, throwing the zipper on my bag. “Just haven’t been sleeping much.”

  Andrew slaps my rag over my forearm. “Sorry to break it to you, but I don’t think lack of sleep would turn your face the color of baby shit.”

  No, but the look on Quinn’s face if I told her I was leaving for five months would. Not like I can tell my friend that, unless I want to hear the “you’re pussy-whipped” speech again; I’d rather shove a corkscrew up my nose than hear him blab on about “the single life” and how I’m wasting my “golden years” being tied to one girl. Especially considering he uses TV and tales from the locker room as his sources for that information.

  I tuck the rag into the side pouch of my bag and stand with a forced smile. “Ready for a fun-filled night of burritos, birthday cake, and Sprite?”

  Andrew scrunches up his face, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I don’t know why Coach won’t just buy us a twelve pack. We drink. He knows it. Not sure why he pretends not to.”

  Outside, the wind blasts hurricane strong. Branches sway and crackle overhead as we make our way toward the parking lot. Spending the evening with the team and Coach’s family is the last thing I want to do with this headache, but bailing would send Coach the wrong message...and I’m not certain what message I want to send yet.

  Andrew pulls a cap low over his eyes then points. “Hey, isn’t that your chick?” I follow his finger to where a girl about Quinn’s height slips out of the art building. A burst of wind blows the metal door shut, and then catches her long hair, whipping and churning the strands into a Medusa-like hairstyle. “What’s she doing in the art building?”