by Kade, Teagan
“Why?” I ask, still looking around for the source of this sudden change in demeanor.
“Please,” she begs, eyes wide and wet.
I stand and usher her around the side of the bar, heading us toward the exit. The whole time she clings to my side, unwilling to let go.
It’s only when we’re back in the apartment, the door closed and bolted, I see her relax, her shoulder sagging back, color returning to her cheeks.
I stand in front of the door unsure what to do. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”
She sighs. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
CHAPTER SIX
WINTER
“Try me,” says Archer, moving around in front of me. I hadn’t even realized I was standing with my back against the door, blocking it… stopping anyone from getting in.
I take a deep breath and attempt to rationalize this, but my head’s a hot mess. “I thought I saw someone, that’s all.”
Archer is all concern. “I’m guessing it wasn’t Santa Claus. An ex? Old boyfriend?”
I nod, knowing it’s a lie but unable to get the truth out. “Something like that.”
Archer scratches his head. “Jesus, the guy must have really done a number on you to get that kind of reaction. I thought you were having some kind of nervous breakdown.”
I was, I want to reply, because I’m sure of what I saw. It means I’m not as safe as I thought I was, that they’re slowly closing in. Still, I don’t want to leave Archer. “Yes,” I smile, “I just needed to get out of there.”
Archer nods, satisfied, and heads into the kitchen. “How about tea, coffee… something to calm your nerves?”
I don’t want to tell him how shattered and frayed they really are. Given the way he was looking at me in the club, I think he knows. “Yes, thank you.”
His head pops back around the corner. “So, tea or coffee? Which was it?”
Stupid. “Ah, coffee,” I stammer, “strong.”
“One strong coffee coming up.”
It’s with some reluctance I peel myself away from the door and take a seat at the small dining table with Archer. Even sitting there he is the picture of calm solidarity, a rock. My rock.
I take the coffee with both hands and drink. He wasn’t wrong. It’s seriously strong. Even so, my hands shake as I bring the mug away from my lips. It says ‘I love the Hoff’ on it complete with picture of the man in question flashing that famous Baywatch smile.
I try not to laugh, but it’s too ridiculous. I hold the mug up. “Gift from one of your exes?”
He folds his hands on the table, smiling. “Hey, you don’t disrespect the Hoff, especially in our line of work.”
“Is that what you all aspire to be?”
“David Hasselhoff?” he laughs. “Well, the guy holds a record for the Most Watched Man on TV, looks like he’s barely aged in thirty years, can sing like a bird, and is basically a god. Not to mention he got to ride around in a talking car. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t want to be him?”
“I think most cars talk these days,” I correct. “Let me guess, you ride a motorcycle because you’re such a hunky, beefy slab of man meat.”
“You think I’m hunky?”
I choke on my coffee, doing my best to recover. “Did I say that? Sometimes my mouth just kind of runs along ahead of itself when I’m nervous.”
“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about, not around me.”
I know there’s deeper meaning there, perhaps a hint of suggestion, but I hide myself behind the mug, watching him carefully over the top for any kind of reaction, a clue as to what he has in mind. When it’s not forthcoming, I place the mug down and simply stare.
“What?” he asks, a smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, nothing. I was just picturing you pounding the sand to the Baywatch theme, sun in your hair…”
“Sand under my feet?” he laughs. “Trust me. The life of a lifeguard is a lot less glamorous than what it’s made out to be. Not every person I pull from the water is a blonde with double Ds and an hourglass figure.”
He backtracks when he sees my expression. “Not that I’m suggesting… that… you know…” He hangs his head in his hands. “Shit, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
I pick up the mug again, my nerves indeed starting to calm. “It’s fine. You’ve done more than enough for me. You don’t have to add personal linguist to the list.”
I realize how close that sounds to something else and blush.
Thank god Archer changes the subject. “Look, it’s my day off tomorrow. How about we get out of here, go and do something fun. What do you say?”
“What did you have in mind?”
He tuts a finger in the air. “Now, now, that would be ruining the surprise, wouldn’t it? So, what do you say? Are you in or are you out?”
I leave him hanging, letting the silence draw out until it’s almost unbearable. “A mystery adventure with Miami Beach’s finest, how could I say no?”
*
We start with breakfast by the beach and I’m starting to think I could get used to this kind of eating, even if I do feel like I’ve gained a hundred pounds each and every meal. I feel guilty eating so much food.
Under a Technicolor sky, Archer suggests a boat ride, but I immediately recoil. To his credit, he doesn’t push me or ask why not. He simply lets it be and moves on.
Mid-morning and we’ve found ourselves on the other side of the bay in what Archer tells me is Miami proper.
We pass an ice cream store. Archer stops, bringing his fingers to the sides of his head with his eyes closed. “Don’t tell me. You’re a cookies ’n’ cream kind of girl. No wait,” he continues, correcting himself, “buttered pecan,” opening his eyes to gauge my reaction. “Plain vanilla? Surely not.”
I shrug. “I’m a simple girl, but isn’t it a bit early for ice cream?”
He raises a curt eyebrow. “It is never too early for ice cream.”
One vanilla single scoop and a monstrous, sugary-loaded freak of an iced creation called a ‘killer cone,’ we sit on a bench nearby and watch the people passing. It’s strange, everyone going about their business with no idea what’s happening in the wider world, everyone caught in their own little bubble.
Archer can see I’m lost in my thoughts. His tongue’s being kept busy stopping his ice cream from turning into a puddle. I have to admit seeing it in action has me considering how it could be put to other, more private uses.
I snap my thighs shut to stem off the growing need there.
But you are attracted to him, aren’t you? I ask myself.
At first it felt like a childish crush, but spending time with him, seeing how he interacts with people who others seem too quick to reject, I think I’m falling for him harder than I realize.
He stops licking, the drip-fest abated for now, locking me with eyes the same Blue Moon hue as the scoop on top of his ice cream. “You look deep in thought.”
I smile, delicately taking a small bite of my ice cream. “I was just thinking what a nice day it is.”
Archer leans back against the bench seat. “Somehow I don’t think the weather’s what’s on your mind.”
“You’re right,” I answer cryptically, looking to change the subject. “Can I ask what it’s like, your job?”
He rocks forward, the top of his arms bulging, the poor t-shirt he’s wearing stretching to accommodate them. “Being a lifeguard, you mean?”
“Yes.”
He takes a moment, nodding to himself and holding his killer cone with two hands. “Well, it’s the best job in the world. You’re at the beach. You’re in the sun. You’re saving lives.”
“Like mine?”
He looks down at his ice cream. “Not everyone’s as easy to save as you were. You get drunk idiots out there, huge, aggressive, or freaked-out kids. They’re panicking, trying to pull you under, and they will. Someone who’s drowning loses all rational thought. Their only focus is breathi
ng, getting above water, and if that means pushing you under to get just an inch higher, closer to that sweet, sweet air, they’ll damn well do it. That’s why we’re trained to throw out our flotation device first, swim to help them once they’re calm. That said, there comes a certain point where you have to think about your safety first before you can save anyone, and you can’t save them all,” he adds.
“It sounds intense.” I can see by the look on his face it is, his own thoughts probably turning to the less-successful rescues, the lost.
“Every summer we’re tested. You’ve got to be able to run a mile in under nine minutes, swim five-hundred meters in under ten minutes, though Miami basically doubles that for good measure. We spend an hour each day doing shuttle runs, swims, drilling rescue scenarios. We’ve got this eighty-pound sack of sand we call Jabba we haul up and down the beach. That’s a real bitch.”
“What about sharks?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
“Probably the most misunderstood creature in the ocean, not that we get a great deal of sightings. People freak out when they see a fin, any fin. It’s usually dolphins. Those guys are a blast.”
“You make it sound like they’re friends of yours.”
“I’ve headed out there for a surf early and spotted them. They’ll ride right with you, jumping through the waves, almost taking your damn head off,” he laughs, wide tongue moving out to lap at his ice-cream.
“If the weather turns,” he says, “it can be kind of miserable. You’re cooped up, the beach is empty, and you basically have to entertain yourself in the tower. Let me tell you, yacking away to someone you don’t get along with for eight hours straight isn’t a good time.”
“What if it was me?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I’d happily spend eight hours inside with you.”
‘With’—that’s the key word there. Without it that sentence would have a whole different meaning, but I don’t want to read between the lines.
He chomps down on his ice-cream, demolishing half of it in one bite. “Why do I feel like I’m doing all the talking here?”
“No,” I tell him. “I enjoy it. I like listening to you, hearing about your life.”
“Yet I barely know anything about yours.”
I hold up my cone. “You know I like vanilla.”
“Do you like everything in your life plain and uncomplicated?”
“Plain, yes,” I reply, “though I’m always up for some complication.”
“Chaos?”
“I didn’t say that now, but fun, excitement? Sure. Who doesn’t want those things in life?”
We finish our ice creams and Archer takes my hand. It’s the first real contact we’ve had, but I’m happy to let him do it, to enjoy the feel of his skin against mine even if it is only a couple of fingers twined together.
Walking the streets of Miami, we could be any couple out for the day, tourists even.
We’re stopped at a pedestrian crossing, side by side when a jaywalker shoves into me on their way through the intersection. The jolt knocks me into Archer’s arms.
For a brief moment he holds me there, my face, my lips, so near to his own, so close I can make out the individual pores on his face, feel the warm brush of his breath against my skin.
I find his eyes and our heads move closer together… until a horn blast from the intersection snaps us apart, the moment lost.
Seems the jaywalker almost wound up splattered across someone’s windshield.
We continue to walk until we come to a large area, a square of sorts in the middle of town.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around in fascination.
Ever the eager tour guide, Archer responds, “Welcome to the Wynwood Walls, the most Instagrammed place in America.”
I’m so spellbound by the giant, colorful street art everywhere I look that it takes me a while to respond. “I don’t have Instagram. I don’t even have a phone.”
That takes him back. He swings around in front of me still holding my hand. “You don’t? But you seem fairly up to date on things. Where do you get your information?”
“I go to the library, use the internet there.”
He looks behind me, between my feet, over my shoulder. “Did I miss the time machine because, girl, you’re living in the past.”
I roll my eyes, tugging him towards a towering mural of a girl with fire for hair. “This is free?”
Archer nods. “One of the world’s great free outdoor art galleries, yes. A complete hipster-fest. But I don’t know. I like it here. There’s a good energy to the place.”
I know what he means. The crowd is young and trendy, the vibe almost overpoweringly cool.
“This area used to be one you’d steer clear of—literally. I’m talking taxi drivers would avoid it. It was all warehouses run by street gangs, full of drugs and crime.”
“Drugs?” I ask, squeezing his hand tight.
“Not anymore. I mean, there’s probably someone running around with a few joints, but it’s been, what do they call it? Revitalized? Gentrified? Look at it now. It’s a tourist hot spot.”
“How long has it been here?”
“Midtown was developed around the early two-thousands, a guy called Tony Goldman—great name—bringing it up to speed, talked about making this American Riviera.”
I’m still taking it all in. The colors are so strong and vibrant. It’s like the murals are leaping off the wall. “It’s extraordinary.”
“The best street artists in the world come here. It’s the place to have your work seen, to be seen.”
“Is that why you like coming here, to show off?”
He lifts up his arm, flexing his bicep. “We’ve got beaches for that.” He stops, pointing through a gap in the wall. “Funnily enough, you move a few blocks south that way and you’re back in the mean streets. There’s a warning sign about it, actually, right there.”
I press down the sudden urge to leave. I don’t want this to end, no matter the danger. Holding Archer’s hand, I feel safe, untouchable.
I think about the almost-kiss. We were so close, his lips almost on mine. A flicker of heat rushes between my thighs, snakes its way up my spine, and explodes in my head like a shower of champagne. That is the effect he is having on me.
We continue to walk, Archer pointing out artworks of interest and proving surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject given his beach bum—albeit a very toned beach bum—demeanor.
We spend almost two hours admiring the art and adjoining galleries and stores. It’s well into the afternoon by the time we finish, the clear sky now blanketed in high cirrus clouds that have swept in from the south.
I never want the day to end. It’s been joyous, nothing short of an affirmation of life, of what could be.
We stand back in the street and I doubt even a sudden rainstorm could wipe the smile from my face.
“Where to now?” I ask.
Archer smiles. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says, holding his belly. “We’re going to eat.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ARCHER
The dream starts off the same way it always does. I’m heading out back, way past the breakers, but the swell’s massive. I see her, struggling to stay above water.
I swim harder, but she only gets further and further away, the shore slipping away behind my shoulder until it’s gone for good and there’s no girl, no land—just the infinite ocean.
There’s a scream, but when I open my eyes I realize it’s not mine.
It takes my sleep-addled brain a moment to work out exactly what’s going on, that my bed’s not empty.
Winter’s tucked up into my back, one hand draped over my side, the other clutching at her pillow. Her face is twisted, eyes moving fast beneath her eyelids, and her mouth caught open.
“Don’t,” she begs, her fingernails digging into my side. “Don’t, please. Don’t hurt him.”
I roll over, also noticing she has a bare leg thrown over my hip. I can feel t
he warm heat of her against my lower back, nothing but boxers separating skin from skin.
I snap out of it, turning and gently trying to shake her awake. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”
“Don’t!” she suddenly screams. “I’ll do it, I promise. I’ll do it.”
I shake a little harder as she starts to fling about, halfway to a full-on convulsion. “Winter, wake up.”
Slowly, her eyes begin to flicker open, darting around the room until they find mine and settle in the dim light.
I can see the way the shirt she’s wearing billows in and out between her breasts, the way she tries to regulate her breathing.
Her mouth remains open. “I, I—”
“Hey, you’re good,” I tell her, trying to keep myself an appropriate distance, my hands up in a non-threatening manner. “I’m here—Archer. Remember?”
She must have sleep-walked right in here again, I realize, somehow lifted the blankets and simply slipped in. God knows how I didn’t notice a beautiful woman basically dry-humping me from behind.
Too lost in your own nightmares, my head interjects.
She’s starting to realize where she is, confused. She pulls the blanket tighter around herself, lifting from the bed and bringing her free hand to her head. “Not again. Did we? This time?”
I sit up on an elbow and shake my head. “Not by my recollection.”
I’m desperately resisting the urge to reach for her. “You okay? Looked like you were having a nightmare. You were telling someone you didn’t want to do it? Whatever ‘it’ is. We can talk about it, if you want.”
And for the first time I can actually see her considering it, but in the end she tucks her head into her shoulder, shaking her head. “It was nothing. No biggie.”
“You sure? I thought you were going to convulse your way right out of the bed for a moment there.”
She bobs up and down, the mattress springing away below. “It is a nice bed.”
You can stay if you like, I almost say, thinking better than to take advantage of a sleep-walking live wire of anxiety. “We can swap if you want.”