by E. R. Whyte
23
Gunner
The girl has lost her damn mind.
That’s the one explanation I can come up with. My phone is blowing up with notifications as Brodie sends me text after text and Facebook alerts me that Shiloh has exited orbit and is now entering space cadet stratosphere.
She knows better. Seriously… in what universe did she think it would be a good idea to leave the safety of her house in the middle of the night and approach a stranger hanging around? What the hell is she thinking?
Brodie: your chick is leaving her house, thought you should know.
Me: What
Brodie: She’s walking out. Looks like she’s talking on her phone.
Brodie: Take back. Taking a selfie
Brodie: No. Video
Me: She’s on Facebook Live
Brodie: wtf
Me: B, she saw your mf cig. She is headed your way
Brodie: WTF
Me: I can’t stop her
Brodie: What is wrong with your chick
Me: NOTHING
Brodie: She’s crazy
Me: Good crazy
Brodie: Here she is
The texts stop and I direct my attention back to the live video. Thankfully, it’s still going, and I don’t have to wait for Brodie to text to let me know what’s happening. It’s all right there in front of me, Shiloh slightly out of breath with her hair all loose and sexy over her… was that a Hello Kitty robe? God, this girl. I grab my keys and head for the truck. I can tell right now that Brodie’s going to need rescuing.
As I attach the phone to the magnetic dock in the truck, Shiloh shifts the camera perspective from herself to the scene in front of her and I see Brodie, his back to her. He turns around at her approach, looking big and intimidating, I’m sure, to a woman in the dark alone.
“Okay,” Shiloh starts in her brisk teacher voice. “Just to be transparent, you’re live right now, buster, so no funny business.”
Buster? I comment on her feed as I stop to look before turning out onto the road. Scary, Shiloh. From the corner of my eye I see Brodie’s mouth twitch.
“Who’re you?” he asks.
“I’m a concerned resident!” Shiloh snaps back. “And I know you don’t live here. I want to know who you are and what you’re doing hanging around here at two in the morning” Shiloh’s disembodied voice demands. The phone camera in her hand is still focused fully on Brodie, and he’s peering just past it with a blank expression. Hang in there, man, I silently beg him. Be strong.
“Just needed a spot to rest my arse, ma’am.” Brodie says. I’m at a stop sign and see him gesture toward his bike. He has it parked near a tree, the black and chrome gleaming dully in the dim light of the streetlamp that just manages to caress the metal. I sit for a minute so I can watch.
“Huh. Seems an odd place to do that. Why not a public parking lot? Gas station? Rest stop?” Shiloh’s voice is sweet as sugar with its southern tone but frosty.
“I was just driving through—”
“Cut the bullshit. You don’t just drive through a neighborhood in a small mountain town like this one.”
Brodie seems unsettled and I feel for him. At the same time, I can’t help feeling proud of the way Shiloh is taking no prisoners. Rawr, I comment. Brodie’s eyes flicker to the screen and I grin to myself, realizing that he can see my comments.
“What is this, the neighborhood watch?” He feigns irritation. “What’s a nice girl like you thinking, anyway… coming out and accosting a strange man in the middle of the night? Don’t you know how dangerous that is?” Brodie looks directly into the phone. “What kind of man do you have, to let you do something dumb like this?” I laugh at the challenge he presents.
The picture bobbles, and I realize that Brodie has started stalking toward Shiloh, making her walk backwards in return. His Irish is coming out in his voice, a faint brogue underlying his words.
“I took precautions. Everyone can see you, mister, and identify you—”
“Darlin’, do you think that would keep me from doing anything I chose to?” When Brodie lifts a brow in challenge, the phone rapidly flips around to display Shiloh’s aggravated features.
“Are you guys hearing and believing this cretin? He hasn’t even told me what he’s doing here. Taking a load off… hogwash.”
I’ve heard enough. With Shiloh riling herself up, she’ll be dialing emergency services on a guy smoking a cigarette in a matter of minutes. I shoot a text to Brodie telling him to leave, that I’m already in the truck and on the way. I see the relief on his face when he reads it.
He starts walking towards his motorcycle as Shiloh captures his every move, tossing a leg over the side and pulling a helmet over his head.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, ye little heathen. I’m leaving.”
Shiloh records him pulling away from the lot with a growl that splits the quiet of the night wide open and then turns the camera back on herself. She’s wearing a broad smile. “Ha! Who’s your daddy?” she chortles, preening as she trots back across the road to her house. “This is almost worth the lack of sleep. Night, folks.” Attention split as I drive, I watch the video feed go dark. For such an intelligent woman, I can’t believe she did something so stupid, but it’s fine. I’ll make sure she understands.
24
Shiloh
I’ve just unbelted my robe and kicked off my slippers when I hear something on the porch. It’s a scuff and a thump, quickly cut off. Looking with longing down the hall toward my bedroom, I groan. This night is unending. I just want to go to bed. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be calling in a sick day tomorrow.
Securing the robe back around my waist, I walk to the wide picture window next to the door and flick the drape back to peer out. The shadows are deep on the porch as far as I can see. As I move to return the curtain to its spot, though, I hear it again—a muffled thump and scraping sound coming from the recesses of the porch’s gloom.
It’s bound to be a possum. They are rampant in our area, drawn to scraps thrown out in the garbage, our gardens, and even the bird seed I toss out in the winter. I know it’s not the man from across the road. I think I would have heard his bike if he’d returned. I grab my old softball bat from the coat closet so I can nudge the possum off the porch, or beat an intruder up, if necessary, and open the door.
Stepping onto the porch, I wince as the cold seeps immediately into the soles of my bare feet and steals my breath. I forgot to put my slippers back on. I leave the door open and head for the corner from where the noise came.
I don’t see anything. Ignoring the icy porch beneath my feet, I let my eyes travel the area, looking for anything amiss. The porch swing sways in a light breeze, its chain clinking against its aged wood, but that doesn’t sound right. I put a hand against it to still the motion, frowning. I don’t think I would have heard that inside the house.
I stand, undecided, for another minute. The night is still and quiet around me, everything sleeping as it should be. The bare limbs from the surrounding trees reach for the dark sky as if to say not me. The neatly trimmed boxwoods against the porch shelter no secrets, their tiny leaves no more than unblinking sentinels to a night like any other. Nothing is out of place. There are no strange cars, no barking dogs. And yet… a shiver having nothing to do with the temperature wracks my spine, making me wrap my arms around my middle as I turn and stride back inside.
I’m ready for this night to be over.
Back inside, I shut and lock the door and replace the bat, and then head for bed, shedding the robe as I go. I toss it in the chair just inside my bedroom door as I enter, moving toward the bed.
The knock falls heavy on the front door just as I resettle myself in bed, determined to get some sleep. Judas Priest, is this night ever going to end? I can feel the hammer of my heart in sync with the knock and rise, padding into the hall and looking down its length to the door.
“Who i
s it?” I wait at the door to my bedroom.
“Gunner.” The knocking ceases: now there is only the sound of expectation in the air.
I hadn’t realized until then that expectation has a sound, but it does. It’s the hum of air in the vents, the near silent buzz of electricity. It’s the sound of breathing, in... out. In. Gunner’s expectation, as he waits on the other side of the door, is deafening.
I gather myself and go to the door, unlocking and opening it a sliver. “What are you doing here, Gunner? It’s after two in the morning.”
Gunner lowers his arms from where he’d braced them in the door frame and shoulders his way in. “I’m well aware.” He turns to look at me, taking in my pajamas, open mouth, and bare feet. “Shut the door.”
Without thinking, I do as he says. His lips twitch and he walks into the kitchen. “You got anything to drink? Someone woke me up doing some dumb shit.”
My jaw clenches. “Maybe you should have ignored it and gone back to sleep. What possessed you to come here?”
I watch as he opens my refrigerator and nabs the bottle of orange juice.
“What possessed me? What the hell possessed you to prance your sweet ass outside in the middle of the night to confront some strange man, Shiloh!” He unscrews the top in the orange juice and tilts it toward his mouth, pausing when I shriek.
“What the hell, Gunner! Don’t drink out of the bottle!” Instead of responding, he continues to take a leisurely swallow of juice from the bottle, unblinking as he watches for my reaction.
In spite of myself, I’m caught by the sight of his lips wrapped around the bottle, the flex of his fingers around its perimeter making it seem miniature and frail. His throat works as he swallows, and my eyes narrow on that sight, the movement of his Adam’s apple up and down somehow sensuous.
What the hell. The words echo in my brain and with difficulty I pivot and stumble into the living room. I’ve never been attracted to a man’s Adam’s apple before.
“What are you doing here, Gunner?” I rub my forehead and sink down on the couch.
“I left when you pulled your idiot move of accosting a stranger. Wanted to make sure you were all right.”
I blink at him and cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not your business, Gunner.”
“The hell it isn’t. I think I made it clear at the club how I feel. Do you really think I can just ignore the fact that you’re in danger? So, you had it handled. Great. What if you hadn’t? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that dude probably isn’t the one who’s been terrorizing you. If it had been—”
“Okay! I get it! Sheesh.”
Gunner disappears back into the kitchen, and after a moment I hear the beep of the microwave. When he returns, he’s carrying a mug. He hands it to me, and I inhale the steam of hot chocolate. I blow lightly across the surface before sipping and then place it on the square wooden coffee table in front of us.
I run my hands down my thighs, wishing I had more clothing on. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but as you can see, it isn’t necessary.”
“Not necessary? Shiloh, have you taken a hard look at yourself? You got lucky. You’re chasing strange men down the street at night—after being threatened by a stalker! What are you thinking?”
“I repeat: it’s none of your business what I think or what I do. What are you doing following me on social media, anyway?” I dodge the question.
Gunner shakes his head. “None of my business. Nice, Shy.” I avert my eyes at the hurt in his voice as he sits down beside me. “And I’ve followed you for years. I like your photography. Always have.”
“Oh, yeah?” I eye him, considering. “What’s your favorite?”
“The one of the city streets and the taxi that looks like it’s in motion,” he says without hesitation. I know which one he’s talking about. I took it around four or five years ago, the summer before my freshman year on a trip to New York City, the first and last time I’d ever been. It was early morning, and I was in a cab after hitting Broadway, and rain had started to splatter down. There were still people everywhere… cars… lights… movement… energy. It was exhilarating.
“It was in motion,” I tell him. “I stuck my camera out the window of the cab and framed it so I caught the cab and the street, the lights, the people… all of it… as we rolled by. Why do you like it?”
Gunner thinks for a minute and I like that he doesn’t just throw some bullshit out there. Instead, he leans back against the couch cushions and stares up at the ceiling. “It felt like freedom,” he says after some thought. “Everything was different about it. Angles, perspective, depth. With that difference, it felt like I was pushed out of a box.”
He gets it, a little voice inside me whispers. He gets you.
I push the thought away. He understands a piece, maybe. There is no way, however, that Gunner Ford will ever get me. Not all of me.
I’m turned into him on the couch while he continues to sit with his head resting against the back. He reaches out and grabs for my thigh, the robe parting to allow his palm to settle warm against my flesh. I glance down but say nothing. In this hour, it’s difficult to remember us as teacher and student. We’re Gunner and Shiloh. Man and woman. Skin and soul.
“Shiloh, I’m trying here. You have to be more careful, though,” he says at last, his voice gruff. I flinch and start to pull back, but his hand tightens just slightly, just enough to remind me to give him a chance. “I’m mad at you for going outside like that in the middle of the damn night, Shiloh, and confronting some strange man lurking outside your house. What would your brother do if something happened to you? You had no idea who he was, or why he was there. He could have hurt you. He could have taken you off before anyone watching that video got here. He could have raped you—right there on fucking live video where I’d have had to watch.” Gunner’s voice is shaking, his fingers digging into my leg.
“I—”
“No, Shiloh. There’s no way to justify it. It was stupid as hell. And I was—I am—really fucking mad at you for risking yourself like that. You scared the shit out of me.” He stops and looks at me, his gaze holding mine and continuing without words the conversation that we began at the club. A conversation I fled from, a conversation I’m not ready for. I care about you, his eyes say, painfully transparent.
I know, mine returns. But I don’t want you to.
What if you don’t get to choose? I blink and look away, focusing on being mad. I can do mad.
“So, you decided to come over in the middle of the night and yell at me because I scared you.” It’s not a question. He must sense my anger because he takes both of my hands in a careful grasp.
“No. I came over here to watch over you. Maybe after I yelled at you a little.”
I’m quiet as I look at him, my thoughts muddied. I want to hate him. I want to keep him at arm’s length. As shallow as it is, I can’t help wishing he were unattractive. This would be so much easier if I wasn’t attracted to him. But he sits here with his disheveled black hair, clear gray eyes, and Greek god-like looks, and all I can think is that I want him. I need to send him away. I need to make him realize, for good, that he has to be the one to keep his distance, because it is increasingly clear I’m shit at boundaries.
When he’s near me, as he is now, it’s hard for me to remember that he’s younger than I am. Hell, if he wasn’t my student, and I was not in a position of authority over him, those three or so years wouldn’t make such a difference, anyway. I’m overwhelmed by him every time he’s near me, and not just in a sexual way.
Gunner has this ability to soothe me with his proximity that very few others have ever managed. He’s calming me right now. His endless patience and humor stroke against my tendency to dodge and avoid, like the briny waves against our Virginia shoreline. He wears at me, sloughing away at my walls with each of his steady campaigns like the grains of gritty sand.
Where else am I going to find that? Wh
ere else will I find another him? I shake my head to clear it.
“Gunner…” I catch my breath, words trailing away when he catches my cheeks between his hands and captures my lips with his own. It is a dark kiss, desperate and full of longing, as if he knows the words I am about to speak and wishes to stall them as long as possible.
I get it. Me, too.
I return the kiss, my arms creeping up to tangle around his neck. He pulls me into his lap, my robe falling open as my legs straddle his hips. Gunner pulls back long enough to look at me, moving his hands from my jaw to my waist inside my robe, where his thumbs stroke a line of fire across the bared skin of my waist.
“Christ, Shy.”
I look down at myself, at my white cotton boy shorts edged in lace and the cropped tee, worn thin from years of sleepwear. And then there’s him, rising unmistakably hard against his jeans between us, nudging the thin barrier of cotton at my core and setting off a painful, sweet yearning.
It reminds me of how he touched me at the club, the violent jolt at the spark of his fingers on my most sensitive flesh. How I wanted more.
It’s the first time I’ve ever wanted to go further. I’ve had hands touch me before, but it was easy to shift away, to remind myself of my responsibilities and lack of time and turn a date in a more platonic direction.
Gunner, though… he’s not so easily dismissed.
At the thought, cold reality sets in and I bring my hands down to Gunner’s, stilling them as I climb gracelessly from his lap. “We can’t do this.”
He heaves a sigh and scrubs his face with his hands. “Fuck.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach for him, uncertain of my own intentions, but he shifts back, away from my hand.
“Give me a minute.” That minute passes, and then another, while I stand in awkward silence. Then, “Go to bed, Shiloh. It’s fine.”
“I need to let you out.” I turn for the front door.
“I’m staying.” He laughs, short and unamused at my expression. “Here on the couch, Shy, don’t worry. But I’m not going anywhere. There’s some random dude out there…so yeah. Just go get some sleep.”